Bolting

Icelandic horses have a low center of gravity, wide loins, and have a higher than average level of endurance. These characteristics, combined with willful dispositions, make them what they are, superior riding animals. These attributes can also be detrimental, as when a stalwart companion decides to bolt. The incident that I write about here took place on February 26, 2009 and was published in the Icelandic Horse Quarterly. The illustrations were drawn by Chris Romano.

Bolt. I’m not talking about when an Icelandic does what I call the Tinsy shuffle, that is, blasts forward for five seconds, settles down into a brisk three-beat canter, and then slows to a near manageable tolt. I’m talking here about the real thing, as when said horse explodes into a two beat gallop, picks up speed, gathers momentum, and then revs up into a higher gear.

I’ve experienced both, and I much prefer the Tinsy shuffle, though the first time thishappened, I, a returning rider, was a bit unnerved. The Raudhetta runoff was way scarier, and I hope to never again experience it. The odds are that I won’t, not because Raudi is bombproof but because I’m now better able to read my horse, and beforehand, take the steps needed to prevent this. A part of the process involved abandoning an old image, which was that of an out-of-control horse and an overly tense rider, and embracing a new one, which is an image of a forward moving horse and a calm, confident rider.

Here’s (briefly) what I first thought happened: it was a warm, sunny, February afternoon. I’d been out riding the mile loop that circles ours and neighboring property, and was about a quarter of a mile from home. Out of the blue, Raudi spooked, took the bit in her teeth, and headed, hell bent for leather, down the road. There was a turn up ahead, and it was downhill. I screamed “whoa, whoa, whoa,” and gripped her sides hard, with my legs. My treeless saddle slipped, and the next thing I knew, I was on the ground. I tried to stand up, but could not move my left side. I yelled for help and my neighbor Jim, who was heading out for a walk, came running. He asked what happened and I blubbered something about coming off my horse. I extended my arm, and he pulled me up onto my feet. Right then I knew that neither my leg nor hip were broken. Raudi was nowhere to be seen; I presumed she’d run home. Two cross-country skiers, coming up the road, handed me my stirrup irons. I made a joke about these being the ears of the bull, so as to convince everyone that I was okay. I’m never one to draw attention to myself, and didn’t want to do this now.

Jim and I parted company at the turnoff to my road. Pete, Raudi in hand, was heading in my direction. He’d removed her saddle, she was prancing and her nostrils were flared. When we were within hearing distance, I told him what I’d told Jim, that Raudi was a “dangerous animal” and that I’d have to “find her a new home.”

“You need to get back on her,” Pete said.

“I can’t, I’m too sore,” I wailed.

Pete, knowing better than to argue with me, offered to cool Raudi down, and put her gear away. I handed him my helmet and crop, limped back to our main cabin, took some arnica and climbed into bed. It was then that I began playing and replaying the above-mentioned event in my mind. I’d come off both Raudi and Tinni a few times before, and had immediately remounted. This may have been why I then didn’t have to deal with this reoccurring image.

The next day, I felt better, good enough in fact, to go to Pilates class. My ribcage was tender to the touch, so I couldn’t do roll ups or abdominal crunches. But the day after that was another story. I woke up and remarked to Pete that I felt like I’d been in a train wreck. Pete went to work, and I tried, but was unable to lift the manure buckets. My side hurt like hell, this was made worse when a neighbor stopped by, and observed me milking Peaches the Goat. Peaches had just had triplets, and had gunk coming out of her back end. Her comments about what she called the back end business or B.E.B. were so funny that tears came to my eyes. At the same time, I felt a sharp stabbing pain on my left side. I bit my lower lip, grabbed my ribcage, and asked my friend to help me back into the house. Sneezing, coughing, and laughing were now near-impossible. I made an appointment with my chiropractor, who said that my ribs were bruised and my spine was out of alignment. He adjusted me, and said that putting a pillow to my chest would enable me to cough. I was relieved to hear this; I’d feared that I might choke to death in Pete’s absence.

I healed fast, in part because I’d been judicious about working out. The previous fall I’d joined a local health club, and since had been taking Pilates and yoga classes; and in addition, running, bicycling, and doing strength training. As for mental healing, well, this took a bit more time. I decided to sell Raudi to a friend. This wasn’t a spontaneous decision. I’d been harboring the belief that my horse would fare better in the hands of a more experienced rider, which is one who’d bring out her full potential. This feeling was affirmed when I recalled reading an article in a back issue of Horse and Rider. The writer explained that parting with horses with bad habits, too much spunk, or aggressive tendencies can be like parting with an incompatible mate, hence the term divorce horses. Pete talked me out of giving up Raudi by being the much-needed voice of reason. I finally agreed that yes, in our five years together, Raudi and I had both come a long ways. She was still young and green, and no, she wasn’t a chronic bolter, nor was I a quitter. And no, Pete said, she was not at all beyond my level of ability. Most of the time, I felt comfortable on her, and in fact, the previous year I had taken her on some challenging trail rides.

Life without Raudi was after all, unimaginable. Like it or not, since day one, she and I had been joined at the heart and the hip. She’d chosen me, and I’d bypassed her dam, Gergie, a horse I’d immediately fallen in love with. I taught her to do all the clichéd things one sees in For Sale ads, the one’s that read “Goes willingly into trailer, bathes, stands quietly for farrier.” I also taught her to walk, back, whoa, stand, turn left, turn right, and accept the saddle and bridle. And Raudi taught me to be cognizant of my many limitations, one which was acting impulsively. And so, I began the long, slow, arduous process of putting together a more useful mental picture than the one described above. This was not as it appears in writing, which is something that happened in a logical order or in a linear manner, because I was (as usual) all over the cognitive map. This was in hindsight, which is always a more tidy and comprehendible deal. Writing just made what was messy states of affairs seem more comprehendible.

What one can glean from this, the last part of my essay, is that a new and more workable visual image came about over the course of time. This was partially due to luck and happenstance. Over the past five years I’d developed a close network of knowledgeable Icelandic horse friends, all of whom had contributed to my knowledge base. I was too sore to ride, so I emailed Alaska Icelandic Horse Association and United States Icelandic Horse Club owners, and told them about what happened. I also reread portions of Linda Tellington Jones’ The Ultimate Horse Behavior and Training Book, Steven Budiansky’s The Nature of the Horse and an article in the Tteam Connections Newsletter on the subject of bolting. In a nutshell, I learned this: I was dealing with a mare who momentarily thought that I had checked out. I needed BEFORE the bolt, to be the one in charge, to take matters firmly in hand, to be ready for what might happen, to stay balanced, to do half halts, and if necessary, to get off Raudi and walk.

One of the most insightful comments came from TTeam Clinician Mandy Pretty, who, in addition to providing some very sound practical advice, mentioned the issue of betrayal. I privately admitted to myself that she’d hit upon something big here, something that I alone had to grapple with. Yeah, I was bothered by the fact that my pal had acted in her own self-interest. But acknowledging this self-shortcoming better enabled me to put what I was dealing with into a more realistic perspective. Raudi has been and will always remain the apple of my eye, but she is also just a horse, and as such, has species characteristics, one of which is that she’s a prey animal, and therefore has a strong flight instinct. She’s also a mare, and they do tend to be more excitable at times.

When I could finally cough again, I attempted to ride Tinni, my steady eddy older horse. I say attempted because we only got a few hundred feet. He saw something out of the corner of his eye, and did the Tinsy scuttle. I tried to do a pully stop, and saw stars. (Pully stops involve letting go of one rein, and tightening up on the other. Using your shoulders and elbows, you pull and release on the contact rein. The horse, which can’t pull against the release, immediately slows down to a controllable speed.) I dismounted and walked; I would not have been able to do anything had Tinni kept going because I didn’t have the strength to stop him. But I had, by getting on him, taken the first step, which made the next easier. When I could both breathe and laugh, I again rode him. Over the next few days we progressed from a walk, to a trot, to a tolt. And when finally I could again sneeze, we moved on to cantering.

In mid-March, I went for a walk, one in which I tried to see the world through Raudi’s eyes. I began where I usually groom and tack her up, and recalled that previous to our ill-fated ride she’d been jumpy when I both tacked her up and rode her. Her excitability coincided with the arrival in our yard of three moose; one’s Pete named Jackson, Mama Moose, and Tinkerbelle. Additionally, countless ungulates were roving around the neighborhood. This could have contributed to her sense of unease. And as I reminded myself, she’d done the Tinsy skuttle in areas where moose had been loitering.

I additionally recalled that I had not checked the girth prior to leaving the yard, which is something I always do. And Raudi had repeatedly attempted to canter, by throwing her left leg way out when I asked her to trot. The ground had also been icy in spots, and slushy in others. Could it also have been that this, the terrain, was not to her liking? I stopped where Raudi had taken off, and I saw things that could have rattled her, a phone box with a yellow post, and a maroon floor mat hanging on a brush included. It could also have been that Jim’s walking down the road startled her.

Working with Raudi came next. I began by doing what noted trainers such as Robyn Hood suggest. I chunked down, way down. I mean, way down. Over several days, I did the following: I TTouches, and walked Raudi around the pen, over obstacles. I did Peggy Cummings Connected groundwork exercises. I took her for increasingly longer walks up and down the road. I rode her in the pen. I took her out on the road, and alternated walking and riding. I did this all solo; I would like to have had someone accompany me on Tinni, but at the time, I could find no takers.

The first part of April, I had my veterinarian, Dr. Sandi Farris, give Raudi a careful look-over when she came to give spring vaccines. She said Raudi needed to have her teeth floated, but it seemed unlikely that this was the problem. She was not sore or tender anywhere, and most definitely, not lame. Having been assured that Raudi was physically okay, I resumed taking lessons with Dottie Kallum, a local dressage instructor. In our initial lesson, we worked on walk, trot, transitions in the indoor arena. And in our second, we worked on bending. Dottie asked me to have Raudi circle to the left by lengthening my left rein and using my left leg to disengage her hindquarters. Raudi complied, not willingly, but she complied. Working with Dottie was a further confidence builder.

After, I rode Raudi a number of times around our mile residential loop, and headed down the road. The thought of riding made me nervous, but not as much so as before. When I grew tense, I relaxed by breathing deeply and singing stupid songs. My theory about this is that it helps to relax stomach muscles, and assures the horse that things are okay. Some might scoff at this, but I have and continue to use treats in combination with the clicker. The clicker is a bridge signal; it lets the horse know when a reward is coming. I have never treated gratuitously; rather, the horse must earn it. For instance, I rewarded Raudi for doing serpentines correctly, and for halting when asked.

Raudi turned six on April 11th. In past years, Pete’s taken a photo of her, me astride, holding up four, and five fingers. This year I held up six fingers, which meant that I momentarily had to let go of the reins. Raudi stood quietly, and I smiled and held up both hands. I then went for a short ride; Raudi moved in a collected fashion, past the place where she’d previously bolted, scarcely giving it a glance. (I did, for safety’s sake, do as Dottie had suggested, and turned her head the other way.) All was right with the world because my mental image was not one of helplessness, but rather, one of connection and control. I was the one in charge and both she and I knew this.

It’s now Mid-May, and I’m again riding Raudi on a regular basis. Yesterday we did a short trail ride, going over culverts, around brush, and through some snow berms. Near the top of a rise, I asked for, and got, a nice trot. It was then that I started to cry, unashamedly, because Raudi and I are again one. I well knew that it would be some time before I fully trust her, but we are on our way. Right then, as Raudi responded to the request for a half halt, I realized that this particular story would have a happy ending.