It’s 9:30 a.m. It’s late November. The sun’s early morning rays are lighting up the peaks of the nearby Chugiak Range. I button the top portion of my storm coat, stomp my feet, and shudder. I could be inside, where it’s warm. Instead, I’m outside, where it’s cold. I scan the third of three small horse pastures, and do a headcount. Yep, all seven Icelandic horses are within hailing range.

I cup my hands around my mouth and yell the sought-after horse’s English name. Gerjun, in Icelandic means “illegal distiller of alcohol.” The stocky chestnut mare lowers her head, and ambles over to where I’m standing. I bury my face in her long flaxen mane and choke back tears. She is in the process of being sold. Gerjun belongs to Virginia and Ben Crawford, the co-owners of Alaskastadir Farms. Four months previously, the pair purchased the 100-acre farm where Gerjun and her herd mates now live. The mare’s sale will enable her owners to make an upcoming mortgage payment.

I consider Gerjun to be the Crawford’s best riding horse. At 47, I’m what Virginia has referred to as a returning rider. When I was in my early to late teens, I owned a standard bred mare, which, like Gerjun, was a riding horse that inspired confidence. My long-range plan was to ride Josie cross country. To this end, I enrolled in the Equine Science program at SUNY Cobleskill, a small two-year college located in mid-state New York. Josie died three days before graduation. The cause was presumed to be parasite related. Then 19, I temporarily lost interest in riding. I say temporarily because over the years, I did ride some; however, with age came fear. The larger the horse, the less inclined I was to enjoy the ride.

Gerjun and her herd mates had since rekindled my long-smoldering love of horses. I step inside the electric fence gate. Gerjun lowers her head. I fasten her halter strap, and then snap the lead rope to the metal ring. Together, we walk over to the temporary saddling area, the far side of a metal pen. The wind chill temperature is -30. I fumble with tack and grooming equipment, and stuff my mismatched fleece gloves in my pockets. Gerjun, who is also eager to get on with the day, snorts and paws at the icy ground.

After a slow once-over with currycomb, brush, and hoofpick, I remove Gerjun’s bridle from the front part of my coat. Gerjun drops her neck, opens her mouth, and takes the now-warm snaffle bit. I slip the bit in her mouth, raise the headstall over her ears, and fasten the chin and cheek straps. There is always time for one last tack check. Yep, saddle, saddlepad, crupper, and girth are in place. I mount up.

Our destination is the outdoor riding arena, which is a 100 yards distant. I pitch from side-to-side as the broad-backed equine gamely punches through the knee-deep snow. Every few steps, she stops, enabling me to regain my balance.

We sidle up to the purple rope that encircles the oval perimeter. Gerjun jerks her head upward. I glance to the left. A female moose and her calf step out from behind a pile of downed spruce. Her eyes bulge. My shoulders stiffen. Her ears go forward. My mouth grows dry. Gerjun stands as still as a statue. Maybe, I think, this is because there are no equine predators in Iceland. The long-legged moose again seek the shelter of the tree-laden landscape. I relax, as does my faithful steed.

We enter the arena and begin work. We do circles and serpentines at both the walk and the trot. I’ve been told that over time such exercises make equine athletes like Gerjun, who tend to be a trifle stiff, more supple. The cold sharpens my senses. The wind has blown the previous day’s snow covering off the open field. The ground crunches under the Icelandic’s hooves. Gerjun’s thick winter coat smells like wet wool mittens.

The snow circles round and round, as do my thoughts. This past fall, I attended a two-day clinic, which was hosted by the Alaska Icelandic Horse Association. It was held at the Chamberlain Equestrian Center, in Anchorage. Our instructor was Icelandic Native Gudmar Peterson. I committed to long-term memory much of what this terse individual said. The tolt is a four-beat, diagonal gait that resembles a fast walk. While the speed varies, horses doing a fast tolt have been clocked of up to 30 miles-per-hour. I will be happy if on this day, Gerjun moves at one-third this speed. I’d prefer urging her on to holding her back. It’s too cold to do otherwise.

“When in tolt,” Gudmar said, “Collection is everything.”

I gather up the reins, drop my weight into my heels, lean back, and squeeze my butt muscles tight. Gerjun raises her head, pulls her hindquarters beneath her, and shoots forward. I mouth the words that accompany the mare’s footfalls – black and decker, black and decker, black and decker. Gerjun chuffs like a locomotive. We circle the arena a half-dozen times, and then do the same in the reverse direction.

This gait requires considerable energy. This is why, after 15 minutes, I loosen up on the reins. Gerjun slows to a walk. A mental transition follows on the heels of the physical one. I first fell in love with Gergun when the Crawfords were living in Chugiak. I was then Icelandic Horse shopping. Because I couldn’t afford this, a well-trained, older horse, I instead opted to purchase Raudi, her more inexpensive yearling. The only drawback was that I’d have to wait another three years before breaking Raudi to saddle; because Icelandics, unlike other horses, are slower to mature. The only time I had any regrets about this, was, of course, when I rode Gergun.

My spirits are buoyed by the fact that I know Gerjun is going to a good home. Her new owner, Mary Wheatley, has spent considerable time getting to know Gerjun and learning as much as she can about Icelandics. Mary’s also a vet tech, who on a near-daily basis, tends to the aches and pains of innumerable animals. She’s arranged to board Gerjun at a local Anchorage stable. It’ll be a tradeoff. Gerjun will no longer be in the company of her Icelandic peers. Rather, Mary and Chip (her old horse) will be Gerjun’s herd mates.

I remove my feet from the stirrups, drop the reins and think some about Gergun’s history, which Virginia has imparted to me in bits and pieces. In 2002, Icelandic-born Gerjun came to Alaska via her first U.S. home in Ohio. In 2002, Virginia and Ben purchased her sight unseen, in part because of her exemplary breeding. She’s from the Kolkousi line. Her dam is Baronessa Fra Stockholm and her sire is Logi fra Skardi. I’d seen pictures of Logi in Tolt News. He is a compact, four gaited chestnut horse, with a white blaze.

Gergie came to Alaska via her first U.S. home in Ohio. According to Virginia, she hadn’t been handled much. On the fall trip west, she’d been so intractable that the shipper had dropped her off in Montana. She was transported to Alaska the following spring. Virginia related that on the trip up from B.C., Gergun fell in love with a co-shipper, Meagan, a mule. The transporter, recognizing this, kept the pair together for an additional three days. This was much to the dismay of Kelsy, another herd member, who made it clear that he thought mules were inferior to Icelandics.

Initially, the new addition to the Alaskastadir herd was timid and gobbled her food. However, she liked Alaska’s cold climate and her new cohorts. And she was, in her own way, an exemplary teacher – she reaffirmed what Virginia and co-trainer April Arseneau had come to believe – that when training horses, patience yields the desired results.

“She taught me that all horses are individuals and in order to train them well, you have to figure out who they are,” Virginia said, adding, “I knew that I could trust her. She wouldn’t do anything stupid. She would be as steady as it goes.”

I first rode Gerjun in July, 2004. Virginia was then using her as a lesson horse. This bit of information, as well as her easy-going mild disposition, gave me what over time I’d lost: confidence. What she reaffirmed then, and in subsequent rides, was that I was no longer a returning rider. Rather, I was now a lifelong rider. Past and present shook hands and said, “Culhane, get on with it. This is something that you did once and again can do well.”

I have learned from Gergun what she has to teach me. I can’t say for sure, but I suspect that she’s ready for her next life challenge, which is to be Mary’s teacher.