When I got Rosie, I was just starting to get the hang of things (I think). I had been riding Festus, a horse we had around for about a year, and he had gone home just a couple months before Rosie came along. (In fact, he died in an accident, slipping on ice, right after that. I was heartbroken--had become pretty attached to him. He had a great personality, although he was ugly and ill-built.) I had been riding Festus maybe three times a week, which was the most often and most regular riding I had ever done. Before that, "often" might be once a week.

I had been away from riding for quite awhile, so Festus was an opportunity to try to get back into the swing of things. I really struggled with the frustration of my body not doing what my mind intended. Nothing felt natural anymore. I couldn't get Festus to respond the way he did when Jack rode him, so I knew it was me, not him. He never did anything bad, but I often thought he was going to, when I felt him building up. That feeling scared me so much my knees would turn to water and I would get weak and shaky. I was a timid rider, and spent a lot of time thinking about all the things I thought Festus was "about" to do, so I was always trying to prepare for them.

Just before he left us, I had realized that by focusing on those thoughts, I was inadvertently telegraphing him the message that I expected him to do something BAD at any moment--all the time. I was setting him up for failure. When I realized this, I worked hard at changing my expectations and train of thought. I tried to assume that Festus was doing his best--not trying to do "stuff" to me any chance he got. I tried to trust him.

This was very hard for me to do, but I realized that learning to control my own thoughts and emotions was an important tool to have in my tool belt. I wanted riding to be fun and enjoyable. I didn't want to be a slave to my many and exaggerated fears. I was basically a chicken-hearted person, uncoordinated and unathletic; I had always wanted to ride but had always struggled with riding because of my mixed emotions. Usually I dealt with my fears by avoiding fearful situations, but my desire to ride had always been so strong that I forced myself to continue confronting this fear. For me, improved horsemanship was about being safe and feeling safe. The more things I knew--the more tools I had in my tool belt--the safer I felt. I wanted to feel safe enough to be comfortable riding off aways without needing to have Jack around for a safety net.

When I bought Rosie, I had the advantage of having watched Jack put 60 rides on her for her owner, and I had ridden her during that time about half a dozen times. (In fact, I was getting ready to ride her the last day before she went home, when she colicked severely. Jack got her to the vet in town and she almost didn't make it. Fortunately, she never colicked again.) I knew pretty much what she was like--what she would and wouldn't do. She had never offered to buck or rear, and when she spooked, she didn't spin around like many Arabs do, or fly sideways for 20 feet--she just flung herself around like a crazy thing. She never even bucked in her pen. That knowledge gave me a little more confidence than I would have had otherwise. Rosie wasn't too tall, maybe 14.2, and I had always felt less intimidated by a smaller horse. She was just the right size for me to feel confident on. Confidence was my big issue.

My first decision was to ride every day--actually six days a week, regardless of weather, even if only for 10 or 15 minutes. I did that religiously for the first year. Never in my life had I had the opportunity to ride that often, and later I came to the conclusion that this was one of the most important factors in improving my riding and in overcoming my fears.

Because I was busy with work and also helping Jack, my time was limited, and those first few months we often had very short rides because so much of our time was taken by dealing with her ground manners. She had a pull-back problem, and Jack had seen her break a metal snap when tied at the barn of her previous owner, who had only had her a short time after buying her from the Arab ranch. We had no place to tie except the horse trailer, and at the tackroom we just kept the rope over our arm, or eventually got so we could drop it on the ground. She would constantly back up and had to be brought back. When saddling or unsaddling, she actually ran backwards.

It was very hard to keep her attention. If I was brushing her on the left side, she was staring off to the right like a bear was coming--head high, eyes bugged out. If I brushed her on the right side, she stared off to the left, the same way. There was never anything there--it was just her way of escaping mentally from the human on the other side. I never punished her or jerked the rope. I just led her back to the spot where I had originally put her, gave her slack, and a pet, and said "good girl." Just kept offering her consistency, and made that the nice place. Slowly she got better and better about staying.

Saddling and unsaddling, she ran backwards less and less. After about a year, or maybe a year and a half, she was down to taking just one step backwards when unsaddled. Jack said, don't make an issue out of that one step, she might just always do that. But some time during the next year she just quit, and after that was always great to stand with the rope on the ground. Later we would build on that to work on ground tying in places other than at the tack room.

Another thing she'd do while grooming was to panic when she took her steps backwards and saw the rope move on the ground in front of her--as if she'd never seen it before. Then we would stop and play with the rope around her feet and legs, until she was calm about the rope again. But every so often she would "forget" and have her little panic attack again. Her head would be so high, and she would be tense, ready to move at the slightest provocation. Even when she quit backing up, her head would still be rather high. But over time, she relaxed more and more, and that head came down, down, down. After about three years, she always stood to be groomed with her head below her withers, completely relaxed and soft. It took her a long time to learn that she could be calm and relaxed around humans. Working on calmness was one of my big goals.

In a lot of ways, she was like me. I could see my own fear issues and exaggerations and imaginings in her, and knowing how I had dealt with them and knowing they COULD be overcome, helped me to empathize with her. I believe my empathy was a key factor in her progress--not getting impatient or resorting to frustration or anger at her reactions or lack of progress.

My life had been characterized by fear and worry; even if there was nothing specific to be afraid of, I managed to feel anxious anyway (psychologists call that "undifferentiated anxiety"). I was too often controlled or paralyzed by irrational emotional responses. As a Christian, I tried to trust the Lord, and I thought I did, but I knew I really didn't, or I wouldn't continually struggle with fear or worry. As I progressed in my walk with the Lord and my knowledge of His Word, I slowly came to lose my emotion-based approach to life and replace it with a faith-based approach. With all this in mind, I felt I understood what Rosie was struggling with, and tried to help her control her emotions and help her to have faith in me and our relationship.

I continually marveled at our "parallel journey" in life. I could see myself in her. Sometimes it was almost spooky! I used to tell her we were two gray grannies, trying to make a mid-life comeback. I know that one reason for the struggles God gives us in life is so that we can then later help other people with similar struggles--I had no idea that when I was struggling with life issues, it was partly so I could later help a horse! I was amazed at how God had brought Rosie into my life, when I wasn't even looking for a horse--and she was EXACTLY right for me. It was even more amazing, and humbling, to see the lessons He was teaching me through her, and at the same time, teaching her through me.

A 12-year-old greenbroke broodmare, they had tried to ride her once or twice a year, but apparently she scared them so they put her up. She had learned that that type of behavior got rid of the humans, so was pretty set in her ways. But it wasn't working with us. Every time they had quit her, she got a big "release," which only reinforced her behavior. She was only doing what had always worked for her. It was learned behavior, inadvertently taught by humans.

Her experience with humans had obviously been stressful. She breathed real noisy, and I had figured she had adenoids or something. But one day about four months after I got her I was leading her to the tack shed and noticed she was breathing normally, quietly. I started paying close attention, and she never again breathed noisy. Then I knew that the noisy breathing was from anxiety. I felt so sorry for her. I don't know what had been done to her. Whatever had happened, it had "fried" her--it was more pressure that she could stand.

Her attitude was so bad that it showed even when she was in her own pen. She looked sour and bitchy, extremely unhappy. When winter came, with freezing temps, bitter wind, and snow, she appeared indignant, humiliated, and furious at the world. I'm sure that at the Arab ranch, she had a stall; here she was just treated like most other horses on Nevada ranches--it's called a "winter coat." If she had to have a roommate, she was even more unhappy. I figured she must have been kept in a pen by herself and had never learned to socialize with other horses. She would kick other horses that came near, whether loose or being ridden. Jack said this was probably more from lack of confidence than aggression. I would watch her standing in her pen and feel so sorry for her. I wondered how many months it would take to start seeing changes in her attitude.

The really amazing thing was that as she finally began to change, her whole demeanor changed. A year or so later, she looked completely different in her pen. Instead of looking like the bitchiest horse on the place, she always was the sweetest-looking horse on the place, even in the snow. Other people would comment on how sweet and happy she looked, people that hadn't known her before, even non-horse people. I was amazed to see how her change in behavior and attitude affected her entire life, even when she wasn't around humans. Over time, she got so she tolerated, then even enjoyed, roommates. She eventually quit kicking, as her confidence grew. Jack suggested we use her to pony other horses and to work some colts in the round pen, so she could see that she could exert some control over other horses. That did seem to help her confidence and her attitude to other horses. There was one horse she wanted to kick in a clinic, her last year, but that horse also really wanted to kick her, so maybe it was just self-defense.

Getting on her initially involved the same problems she had on the ground--head high, eyes bugged out, body tense, constantly taking off. I wouldn't get on her when she was moving, so we went in lots of tight circles to the left on a short left rein while I stood in the left stirrup. But when I got my seat into the saddle, she would again try to take off. I would stop her and put her back where I had her, ask her to drop her head and give to my hand--give me a soft feel--THEN we would walk off together. And that meant WALK, not run. Those first weeks, this process had to be restarted every few steps. By the time we dealt with all this every time, we often had time for only 15 minute rides or less.

I thought it kind of funny that she would always stop and shake when I was riding her, at least once. She would shake so hard that I would have to grab my sissy strap; I'm sure she could shake you off if you weren't paying attention. But as two or three years passed, I began to notice that she would shake on fewer and fewer rides, and not shake as hard. Eventually it became a rare occurrence. I realized that it had something to do with the changes in her, either mental softening and relaxing, or physically getting in shape.

When I first got her, I was very conscious of the fact that she had been living for 12 years as a broodmare, not a riding horse. She was not athletically conditioned. Her third baby had just been weaned and she looked quite pregnant. I couldn't expect her to act like a horse that had been getting regular exercise and riding. Her muscles were probably soft. The daily work she was required to do was a big change for her, physically and mentally. Her expectations about daily life had been radically changed, against her will. Her attitude showed she was not a willing participant in our daily endeavors. She was the equivalent of a middle-aged lady who had always been a couch potato, who had been yanked out of the house and made to start working out against her will.

So I tried to take this into consideration and not work her very hard. Of course, she put herself into such binds that she would bring on much unnecessary work herself. I couldn't help that. But I didn't push her to trot for extended distances unless she insisted. Loping, or rather galloping, was so out of control that I seldom asked her to lope. When she did, she felt extremely awkward, not at all smooth. We would only gallop for very short distances because she would try to take over. She felt like a fat lady trying to run barefoot across gravel--stiff, kind of ouchy, out of balance, uncomfortable, completely on the front end, almost feeling like her legs splayed out a little. Again, over time, this slowly changed, due to improved muscle tone, daily workouts to build stamina, and daily exercises to improve lateral flexibility.

She was quite stiff, especially to the right. She had a large roundish scar on the right side of her back in the middle, a couple inches down from her spine. I could only speculate what it was from. I always wondered if she had had some accident or injury that contributed to her stiffness to the right. For the longest time we could hardly get her into a right lead (we both tried). When she did take a right lead, it was shorter in stride than her left lead, and she would quickly switch to the left. If given her choice, she always took a left lead, even in her own pen. We worked and worked on improving her flexibility to the right, and I eventually could get her to even take a right lead on the straightaway. We worked at simple lead changes, with just one trot or walk stride in between, but she never got so she could do flying changes. She could be forced into one by turning her hard at a fence, but I couldn't see making an issue of it since I wasn't planning on showing her. Eventually after a few years her right lead felt almost as good as her left. But I always suspected a bit of stiffness in her movements. I noticed that if I warmed her up in the round pen and asked her to trot or lope right off the bat, her strides were short and choppy. But after a few minutes, they smoothed out and lengthened.

Surrounded by sagebrush, anywhere from one foot to four feet high, plus thorny buckbrush here and there, we had a ready-made obstacle course that I put to good use. We did little going down the road, and lots of winding through brush. I would set it up for her to go around one way, and if she chose to ignore or take over, and if she ended up scratched by brush, that was her choice. I always tried to set it up with my focus, body position, and legs, and use my inside leg to get her attention to the side I wanted her to turn to. I would use reins if I had to. Interestingly, I found she was much more responsive in the brush than going down the road. There was more to keep her attention, and more incentive to follow my body. It amazed me that we could trot through the sagebrush quite early in our relationship, when she was not always under control. If she wanted to build up, I just aimed her around more brush in tighter patterns and made it harder for her to take over.

As I worked on improving how I used my body, to set up better responses, I discovered something interesting. At first I had wiggled or bumped my inside leg to get the attention that way, or moved it in rhythm with her stride, while I applied some amount of pressure with my outside leg. I got to thinking that when I am on a horse, if I am one with the horse, we have one body but four legs on the ground. What if I move my legs just like I would if MY two legs were on the ground? What if I place my feet in each stride right where I would want to place them on the ground, at whatever speed or direction? As I played with this idea, I found that my leg position then set her up to either find a closed door or open door, pressure or lack of pressure, without me exactly APPLYING pressure. It seemed like a more subtle or indirect way of using pressure and release.

I went where I wanted to go, using focus and body position (eyes, hands and bellybutton all lining up), and my feet took me where I wanted to go. I made the plans; she carried them out. This seemed to work really good for both of us. I quit thinking "inside leg, outside leg, left leg, right leg," and was much freer in my thinking. Less focused on technique and more on overall intent. This even helped me in stops, turn-arounds, leg yields, side passing, and backing up. The other interesting thing about this was, when I finally told Jack about it, he had been playing with a similar thing with seatbones. He agreed that what I was doing was good, and was better than what I had been doing, but that seatbones was even more subtle. I didn't "get" that yet, but discovered it later. And yet I still often think in terms of putting my feet where I want to go. Both are good, and go hand in hand.

I rode Rosie for four months, six days a week, before she was able to walk home without me having to hold her back or remind her to keep walking. Leaving home she would walk just fine. We often rode around the square of the road, 1/2 mile on each side of the square. The first two sides she could walk, but the instant we rounded the corner onto the third side of the square, in her mind we were going home, and she started cranking it up into high gear. It often turned into a contest to keep her from running home, and she was pretty determined.

I never pulled back on two reins; first I tried one-rein stops to control her. I quickly learned that they had little effect on her. She could swap her butt around so fast that we would go around and around, and about the fifth circle I was getting dangerously dizzy. I came up with the idea of changing directions every circle or even half-circle. I got pretty good at handling my reins--lengthening and shortening quickly on alternate sides. Eventually I got so I could do this pretty much by moving her hindquarters and hardly any rein; my goal was always to stay off her mouth as much as possible. It was just like what Bill Dorrance describes in his book about his Beaut when he first got her.

My goal was to feel the slightest softening in her push, and to release instantly, letting her find the soft spot. I often only got one or two slower steps before she started rampaging again. This process made our return trips so time-consuming that on days I had to go to work, I couldn't afford to be out for a couple hours so we just didn't go too far in the first place. It might take us 45 minutes to go that last half mile to the house. Now and then she would get so strong and so wild that I would be afraid; I tried to remind myself that I had never seen her buck or rear even in her playing. But when she got to plunging around with me like a crazy thing, I would lose my nerve and want to get off. I never did, but many times I was very close. Once when riding with Jack when he got way ahead and she panicked, I admit I actually had a mane hold with my left hand and had shifted my weight to my left stirrup, but about then he started coming back and she let up enough that I stayed on.

Not only was coming home a problem, but also falling behind the other horse(s) coming home. So I asked Jack to help me gradually work on this. If he wasn't needing me to support him on a colt, I would often ask him to ride ahead, but keep an eye on us. I would keep her back, rubbing her and giving her slack, and when she got to the point of taking over, I'd pick up one rein and move her HQ over with my leg. Sometimes we had to go in circles, but sometimes she'd soften as soon as I picked up that one rein, and I'd immediately ride her ahead on a loose rein, rubbing her while she was calm and telling her "good girl." Over time, we got to where he could go farther and farther ahead of us, but if other people came over to ride with us, she regressed pretty badly. If we rode somewhere else, she couldn't do this at all. Once while purposefully falling behind Jack and Autumn, she got plunging and humpy, and she actually took a jump with me. (I was quite proud that I stayed right in balance and never grabbed leather AND that they had both seen it--hahaha). The last year or two I had her, the few times she got that way, I had the feeling she COULD buck or rear if she wanted to because she was so much more athletic than she used to be.

Another thing I would do when she was trying to charge home was ask her to stop and stand and relax. She didn't want to stand for long, and insisted on standing with her head high, tense, eyes bugged out. I did not accept that. I asked her to drop her head, which a horse can't do without relaxing their neck muscles a bit. She would stiffly bob her head down and right back up. We might spend 5-10 minutes doing this in one spot, until she could lower her head, for which I instantly gave her slack. I would ask her to leave it there for a short period. THEN I would ask her to walk off. The relaxation effect might wear off in just a few steps, so we did this many times. Because she could not relax on her own, I had to help her find that softness--I had to almost "take" her and show it to her. When she did lower her head, I rubbed her neck and said "good girl."

I've never been big on voice communication with a horse, but I heard someone say that if you always say "good girl" or whatever, every time you pet them, they come to associate the two, and the words come to have the same calming effect as the rubbing. I didn't know if this was true, but I thought it was worth a try. I needed every bit of help I could get, to get through to her.

Now that I understood about the proper use of pressure and release, rewarding the slightest try, making the wrong responses "difficult" and the right one "good," I realized that for years I had been doing just the opposite. When a horse was excited and acting up, I used to continually murmur softly things like "good girl," and totally release all leg and rein pressure, so as not to upset them more, or so I thought at the time. Now I see I was giving a release for the wrong behavior, thereby reinforcing wrong behavior. I think many people do this. Now I know that the safest thing is to start asking them to do more things, because that directs their mind and feet, instead of letting their mind and feet go undirected. This is hard to learn at first--it seems the opposite of common sense.

I can remember the day she first walked all the way home on a slack rein. It was March 13, four months after I got her. I was so excited! I wondered if it was a fluke--maybe the next day she'd be back to her old self. Or maybe if we can home from a different direction, she'd be different. But she walked home the next day and the next, from any direction. She not only walked--she walked in a calm relaxed manner, not that fast walk she had always done before. From then on, she always walked home relaxed.

Then I began to suspect that the fast walk Arabs are known for is actually an adrenaline thing. The longer I worked with Rosie, and from my previous experience with other Arabs, the more I began to suspect that perhaps Arabs have more trouble handling adrenaline than Quarter Horses. (I recognized that I too had had a problem handling my over-reactive adrenaline; in my case it showed itself as chronic stomachaches and diarrhea all my life, which gradually disappeared as I got more control of my emotions.) I suspected it even stronger when, later, I began asking Rosie to walk home fast when it was MY idea. I was shocked to find that I had to really push her to get a fast walk. That snappy walk had all but disappeared. What had changed? Only her attitude, her emotional state. She had discovered that she COULD walk home calmly, and she liked it. I had the distinct feeling that she was relieved to learn that she could walk calmly and relaxed. She hadn't known before that, that she could. Everything that she learned to do calmly, like stand for grooming and saddling, seemed to affect her this way. She seemed so relieved, as if one more burden had been lifted.

One day a few months after I got Rosie, Jack was watching out the window and saw us coming home through the sagebrush. I was fighting her as she tried to take over. I had shortened my reins, and was not pulling, but letting her run into my right hand and my left. She was hitting the bit and throwing her head like mad. When I came in, he suggested a different approach. He told me, next time ride her home on a slack rein. Very slack--long. Every time she speeded up, just pick up one rein and take her around as far as it took until she walked, not really a one rein stop. The next day I did this and he watched. I couldn't believe it--it worked better than trying to ride her with shorter reins. The long reins allowed me to stay off her mouth, which relaxed her so much that she actually lowered her head. Every time she speeded up, I reached down one rein about half way and just shortened, didn't pull. It was so exciting to walk her home with her head low. No, it didn't stay that way every step, but the overall picture was way better than what I had been trying.

Giving that much slack goes opposite our instinct when a horse is being pushy, but confining with two reins makes the horse even more upset, adding to your troubles. You can't believe it until you try it, but making yourself try it is scary at first, a real step of faith. Knowing that I could slow her down with one rein was a revelation. After awhile, she realized what was coming when I reached for that rein, and often I had only to partly pick it up. Eventually, over time, just touching it or reaching for it was all it took to settle her down. This has worked great on many horses in clinics, and riders are just flabbergasted to find they can control their pushy horse better on a slack rein than a tight one.

Many of these things I talk about were happening kind of at the same time, and over time, not necessarily in order, as I've described them.

After about a year, I realized that fear was not controlling me any longer. If we would have a close call--stumbling to her knees at the lope, or a spook that almost unseated me, or she would go ballistic on me--I realized that my knees did not turn to jello nor did I feel shaky or like getting right off. I had finally gotten my own adrenaline under control! This was SO exciting to me! (In fact, I noticed that some of my other fears seemed to be evaporating also, such as heights--ladders and roofs--and flying. I guess I have Rosie to thank for that!) I began to toy with a thought. Jack had been less and less interested in getting on colts for those first rides as he was getting older, and tried to find a young guy to help him out now and then. It was hard to find someone. I realized that I was confident enough to help him start colts, if he'd care to let me. I remember bringing it up while we were driving in town one day. He didn't say a thing. I wondered what he was thinking.

Next colt that presented the opportunity, he asked how I'd feel about sitting on the colt before he rode it--he would control it with the lead rope, and would tell me exactly what he would do and what I should do. I agreed. The more skillful person needed to be the ground person; I was just the passenger. He was handling the horse. I trusted his judgment, and knew he would not carelessly get me hurt. He always talked to me about being ready to get off on him or on the fence and not having my feet very far in the stirrups. Before putting me on, he would get the colt up to the fence, touch it all over, hang and swing a rope all over, and put weight in the saddle. He always got on from the fence, but I never did, so wasn't comfortable with that. With my longer legs and longer stirrups, it was pretty easy for me to get on, and that way the colt would learn to accept ground mounting too, while Jack steadied him.

I would get up and down several times before getting on, then get right off as soon as I sat down. I'd get back on, rub, wiggle the saddle around, pet everywhere, get off. Then get on and pet while Jack moved him a few steps. Sometimes we'd quit there, sometimes a little more. We did lots of short rides, never more than 15 minutes, with him moving the horse around him on the lead rope both directions, in a pen smaller than the round pen, often just 4-6 panels. Then he would have me start adding leg and body energy. Then he'd tie the rope to make reins, give me the rope and he'd help from the middle, maybe holding his lass rope or flag. Then we'd gradually enlarge the pen. Finally he would ride while I helped from the middle. Over time we got to working together this way pretty good. I never felt afraid--I would say, "If only my mother could see what you had me doing!" (My mother was NOT a horse person, and was also the fearful type.) And we would both laugh!

We continued to work on calmness in everything we did. The faster the gait, the harder it was for her to find any calmness. I learned that with a horse that has trouble handling adrenaline, you can't always just "set it up and wait till they find it" ("it" being a soft spot, a try at softening or relaxing or looking for what you want). Rosie could go on and on, or if in the round pen, around and around, and never find it or appear to be even trying to find it. I've seen other Arabs act like this, as well as some non-Arabs that also were very reactive (had problems with adrenaline). I discovered two ways to deal with this. One, sometimes I had to physically SHOW her the soft spot, that she can slow down or stop or relax. Setting it up is not enough. Waiting for her to find it on her own, or allowing her to search, just didn't cut it. Two, try to not let the adrenaline come up and take over in the first place. Again, this may mean physically not letting her get started.

An example is, asking her to accept a loop of rope draped over her hindquarters and dragging on the ground. Rosie could tear around the round pen for half an hour and not soften in the least. She would get so worked up, she would be lathered and in a panic. She would zone out, stop thinking. When this happened, I was not comfortable with waiting, even though this is the approach I had heard from many. I wondered what would happen if I put her halter on and led her slowly, one step at a time, physically stopping her every step or so and letting her see that nothing bad was happening, that she could stop and stand and be calm, then walk calmly for a step or two again. As she accepted this, then I could lead her more steps at a time, until we were walking, slowly, calmly, steadily, together. I would rub her neck while we walked, telling her "good girl." I wanted her to know this was a pleasant and safe thing to do. Eventually I could let out the lead rope so she was walking around me in a big circle, calmly dragging the rope. Working up to this in small increments was what she needed to build her confidence.

I found that with her, this approach worked much better than just exposing her to something and letting her "work at it." If I was riding, this was better than getting myself in a bind where I wasn't sure I had the confidence to handle my fears and support her at the same time. I had to accept that there were things Jack could try on her that I didn't have the confidence to try. He had to understand and accept that too. There were times he pushed me to try things which did eventually build my confidence, but sometimes he pushed me and I froze up instead. He had to struggle with learning where that fine line was, by trial and error, and I struggled with wanting to trust him and try things and overcome my fears, while not always being confidant that everything would be OK.

At first I lacked the confidence in my horsemanship to ever question (at least out loud) anything Jack told me. But as I began to learn to listen to Rosie and learn from her and make some of my own discoveries, I found that I actually disagreed with him sometimes! At first I kept my disagreements to myself, being sure that I could not possibly be right and him be wrong. Then I got a little more confidence and disagreed with him verbally, and eventually even refused to do some things he insisted I do. He wanted me to learn on my own, but there was a bit of "friction" when my learning did not follow his exactly! I don't know if I was always right in the things I thought I was, but just developing the confidence and independence to disagree and stick to my guns was a step in my personal growth.

Eventually, we got to where we could sometimes agree to disagree and let the other person just do their thing their way. Sometimes it even happened that much later, the other person would come around to our way of thinking after "discovering" that way "on their own." Funny how it all works. We also discovered that when there are two different ideas, it wasn't always a matter of one being wrong and one being right. Maybe both worked. Maybe one worked a little better. Maybe one person could relate to one idea better than the other, at that particular time. Maybe one horse responded better to one version of the same idea than another version. There are many right ways. Lots of times the problem is just egos vying for the high ground, for a "win." It was sometimes frustrating, but at the same time I was so thankful I had a husband and riding partner with whom I could discuss and kick around these ideas. Many riders are going this path alone. I am SO lucky!

Rosie and I spent a lot of time on the circle on the back of our place, walking and trotting. It took months of just trying to get around the circle one time with her attention and her bend to the inside, without her bracing and pushing to the outside, or lugging in with her shoulder, keeping an even cadence. This was a major project. Her attention wandered freely, and I wouldn't be surprised if her stiffness made her uncomfortable when I asked her to bend and continue bending. We made slow progress, and of course we also went out through the sagebrush and sometimes down the road. I found that sometimes after working on that circle, she would get annoyed, but a quick detour out through the sagebrush and back to the circle helped. These sessions helped get her more solid on listening to my body. Like many horses, she initially thought leg only meant speed up, so it took quite a while to replace that idea with leg meaning lateral response without more speed.

When we headed down the road, she always tried to turn back, for maybe that first year. As soon as we got past the corner of our place and she realized we were going further, she began her routine. I tried not to fight her but let her apply her own pressure. My strategy was to take a hold on the reins, short enough to where she would run into the bit if she tried to go left or right. I tried hard not to add any extra pulling on her mouth. The hard thing was, she was so determined that just trying to hold my hands steady while she fought herself was hard on my wrist and elbow joints. She was quite strong. I was already having wrist and elbow problems, and I believe this aggravated them. I began to use elastic braces.

Jack reminded me that Tom Dorrance said to ride the hindquarters, that most steering problems were really hindquarter problems rather than front quarter. She would push right through my legs, so I wore spurs. I didn't apply the spurs. I kept my legs in the position of going straight ahead, and I let her apply them by running into them as her butt swapped this way and that. The more I worked at this, the more I could see that indeed it WAS the hindquarters that were the key, although it seemed like you should address the reins instead. I always tried to do everything possible to stay off her mouth, so that the only pressure applied to the bit was the pressure SHE chose to apply to herself by not following my body.

One of the most things exciting things I learned was that I could discover things for myself by listening to Rosie, instead of always depending on Jack to tell me what was going on, what might work better, to give me insight, to translate horse language so I could understand. At first it was very disconcerting to go off with my problem horse without Jack, because I had not learned to listen to HER. I had always listened to Jack. But I began to realize that every time he told me something ("translated"), by the time I heard him, it was too late, and by the time I tried to react or do what he said, it was REALLY too late. He kept telling me I was late, and he would get mad, and I would get mad. I finally figured out that the reason I couldn't do what he said and not be late was that we were having a three-way conversation, and I was "out of it." I realized that I would have to learn what she was saying for myself so we could start having two-way conversations. I could speak HORSE a little but not fluently, so it was scary. But each time I came in and told him something I had learned or felt that day, I was SO EXCITED! He would grin and give a BIG nod--he was excited for me too! This was a BIG step in my progress in horsemanship.

Jack would suggest that I be very particular with her. Don't ask vaguely for vague responses. Have a definite plan. If I don't have a definite plan, how can I reward her response with the release that rewards her? As I played with this idea, I found that the more particular I was with Rosie, the better she was! Like so many things about horsemanship, this went counter to my gut feeling of being more lenient as a reward. This works with humans, so we think it must work with horses. So often we humanize the horse and work with him on that basis. Instead, it is often just the opposite.

My tendency was to ask nicely, and if I didn't get the response I wanted, ask nicely again, then again, etc. (This was the same problem I had had with raising kids--I didn't know how to firm up quickly enough, and that this was a good thing, not a bad thing!) It took me a long time (of being told over and over by Jack!) to learn that actually this was nagging, and nagging annoys a horse and makes him act sour. How do you NOT nag? You ask firmly. How firmly? As firm as it takes. Do as little as possible, but DO what it takes. I always shied away from that idea of firmness, thinking that asking lightly produced a light horse. Instead I was getting a sluggish sour horse. When I had been riding Festus, I had this problem in asking for a lope. He wouldn't lope and wouldn't lope, and his ears went back, and I couldn't figure out what I was doing wrong. I figured I must be asking too crudely, so tried to ask lighter and lighter. When Jack asked him to lope, even from a standstill, he loped instantly and cheerfully.

When I watched Jack or Ray, I saw that firming up enough to get the response might mean a slap with the stirrup or leg, but it got an instant response. THEN, next time you ask, the horse is ready, understands what you want, and knows you will firm up if he does not respond. Therefore he responds more quickly and lightly, so that you CAN ask more lightly next time. You reward that response by asking even more lightly the next time, and again, he is ready and even anticipating your request. Not in a dreading frame of mind, like you might think, but almost eagerly, willingly, almost like they enjoy the challenge of trying to read or anticipate what you might ask them next. Again, it's the opposite of what you might think. It's hard to understand unless you are willing to try that firming up.

Firming up is not the same as forcing a horse. I didn't understand how it fit with "natural horsemanship." The horse is free to act any way he chooses; you are not forcing him to respond, just setting up situations. But if he chooses to ignore, he WILL run into more pressure than if he chooses to respond. It is his choice. He learns from that experience. You find that when he responds next time, it is NOT from "fear." It's like a little kid who is testing you to see if you really mean it. If you don't, he will push farther next time. He just wants to know who is really in charge here. If you DO mean it, and are willing to back it up, he is quite satisfied, even happy, to cooperate with you, now feeling more secure in his relationship with you and confident of your leadership. Learning this made a big improvement in my horsemanship.

The more I asked of Rosie, the better she got with me mentally. Sometimes I would ask her every few steps to change something--speed, direction, the shape of her body. You'd think this would annoy her, but it did the opposite. She got so soft and responsive and willing; it was almost as if she saw this as a game (like Simon Says?) and enjoyed anticipating my every wish. It blew my mind.

On the other hand, if she had been extra good, or worked extra hard at a clinic, I would think I was being nice by asking less of her. She would quickly take over and things deteriorated rapidly. I don't know if this is true of every horse. This is something I will have to learn in the future. How much of what I learned from Rosie applies to every horse? How much of it applied just to her because of the kind of horse she was? Maybe some applies in different degrees on different horse. I know that she liked having a job to do.

One job that really helped us was our main job--babysitting on colt rides. Sometimes our job was to stay in front, while I kept my eyes on Jack. I had to trust her enough to be able to ride ahead, maybe at a trot, while constantly looking over my shoulder. Sometimes our job was to stay right beside him. This meant that no matter what his horse might unexpectedly do--shy left or right, stop or take off--we had to instantly move that direction without any warning. If we were beside him, I often kept her butt slightly cocked to the side, by riding with my body in that position, because if the colt shied toward us, the most important thing was to get her butt out of the way so no one would kick or get kicked. This readiness really helped us both on our lateral moves and being able to instantly move. She got so that when the colt trotted or slowed, she was starting to trot or slow down before I even started to ask her. But if our job was to stay behind them, or let them go on in front of us, she had to read my intent and NOT follow that colt's movements. This kept us both on our toes and helped us both immensely. This served the same purpose for us as cow work, which we didn't have much opportunity for. A few times I worked colts on her, turning them like you would a cow.

Another job with colt-starting helped her a lot. When Jack would first start riding the colt in the round pen, I would come in on Rosie. We may go in front for awhile, or we may stand in the middle, acting like a magnet for the colt, hopefully having a steadying influence. Sometimes colts charge around, or refuse to move and need a lass rope flapped on them noisily. At first Rosie would get spooky when these things happened, but over time, she figured out that she was with ME, not with THEM. Their noises had nothing to do with us; it took her awhile to sort out that when my body energy was zero, hers should be also. This was before I started helping start colts, and my confidence was not very high yet. It was hard at first for me to "help" when my horse was not exactly "with me," but again, this was part of my confidence-building process. Actually, before we got to the point where Jack wanted us in the round pen with him, I gradually "desensitized" her to the noise or movements in the round pen--the movement of the colt, lass rope swinging through the air--by bringing her closer and closer, whether riding or leading. She wanted to reflect their energy. I remember standing right next to the pen one day holding her lead rope, while she flinched and flinched, but I rubbed her and talked to her and she didn't move her feet. That was a big deal for her!

I began to make up imaginary jobs. They could be lines I planned to travel: serpentines of various shapes and sizes, square corners, stops, backups, patterns around sagebrush, choosing a rock or weed to be the exact spot on which we would make a transition of speed or direction. I found that focusing on exact things helped ME to be more definite. If I was definite, then she was more definite. Sometimes the job I imagined wasn't to transition at a definite spot, but to see how smooth we could make a transition, or how little I could do to get a transition, regardless of where it took place.

I imagined coils of barbed wire suddenly appearing on the ground in front of us, or a badger hole, or a rattlesnake. Because these were things that you definitely would need to miss, I was VERY definite in my asking. She HAD to miss them! So I did whatever was necessary to make SURE she missed them! That might mean a spur in her way, or letting her run into the bit big-time. But one day, her quick response might save our lives. I couldn't accept a sluggish response to these "dangers." Did it matter to her if they weren't really there? I realized that a horse was incapable of knowing that a snag of barbed wire or anything else you might suddenly come across in the brush might be dangerous. Her response to it would be based on MY understanding and MY reaction and how definite "I" was.

When I became convinced of this, I even began to imagine working imaginary cows. I wondered if this was going too far, but from time to time I would read or hear of someone else who did similar things. Ray Hunt advocated imaginary jobs. I would imagine that we had to trot fast a long way to catch up with some cows we needed to bring home, or I would imagine a cow alongside us as we were going down the dirt road. I would arrange her body so she was looking at the object of my imagination, and I would imagine it walking, trotting, pausing, stopping, turning, and we would mirror it. We would block it and turn it. We would box it or work it down the fence (we didn't have many long straight fences, so the fences were often imaginary too).

In all my imaginings, I kept up a steady stream of talking to myself, narrating what I was seeing, what was happening, what we needed to do. This made my plans more concrete in my own mind. I would tell Rosie what she needed to do, not because she understood, but to help ME. Naturally, I usually only did this when I was riding alone, although I did tell Jack what I was doing and how I thought it helped both me and Rosie.

When she had gotten over her need to rush home, I began playing with trotting her home now and then, at MY request, thinking that someday I might WANT to trot home quickly, like if I saw a car driving up to our house, or Jack was in the yard yelling and waving for me to hurry because there was a phone call for me. So I tried to focus on WHY I was hurrying home, hoping she could sense my focus, that we were not just racing home because she would like to get home. I did the same thing when I started riding her farther and farther away from home without Jack going along. She would get antsy about how far from home we were, but I would focus on pretending to ride for the doctor like in the old days, or something like that. That would keep my mind off HER and on a job. It was so gratifying to eventually get where I could ride alone for maybe 8-10 miles with total confidence in her.

The farthest we went alone was to Susie's house, up by the highway, maybe 12-14 miles roundtrip. I did have trouble getting there--the first time I ever had to swat her numerous times with my McCarty to make her go! About a mile and a half from Susie's house, she finally decided that was far enough! I couldn't keep her walking forward, but if I could get her to trot and keep trotting, we were OK, because she couldn't back up at a trot! Going past a huge haystack was a bugger, and she almost blew her plug going by the end gun of a center pivot (we went through or by several farms). We had to make a few big detours around those items. Coming home, she trotted like a race horse, and never even looked at the haystack or the pivot! That was interesting… I ended up with blisters inside my knees from posting so far and so fast.

I also used my talking out loud for another purpose. I often hear others talk about the importance of remembering to "breathe" when you get nervous or tense. I never have that problem, even though I struggled with nerves, and in trying to figure out why, I realized it is because when I am nervous, or think I might get nervous, I talk to myself and Rosie out loud. I have always tended to talk to myself, and when riding, I use it to stay focused on what I want to happen, rather than focusing on my emotions. I rattle on and on, kind of quietly under my breath, talking to Rosie about what I want her to do, reminding or gently scolding her if she isn't cooperating, noticing and praising her for any little try. I know a horse can't understand, and I don't believe in "voice commands," but I do hope my voice is a soothing influence, and if nothing else, I know it helps ME so it is a useful tool in trying to stay calm.

This was a big discovery for me also, learning to focus on a plan and not just ride around thinking about riding around, and thinking about what my horse was doing, and wondering what I should do. I wondered how people managed to ride without problems in the "old days" when everyone rode, and I realize that they didn't ride for fun--they rode because they had to get somewhere. Again, I kept coming back to words like "plan," "focus," "definite." This really helped my riding. I always tried to have a plan when I went out the door, but I discovered that my plan could change at any moment, sometimes changing many times to fit what was going on, but that was OK; I never rode purposelessly. I never just sat like a sack of potatoes, for the purpose of enjoying the day, or chitchatting with a friend. Those things might also take place, but were never the purpose. I would ride with people who chitchatted constantly, and realized that they were not communicating with their horses. It would be like asking two friends to take a walk, then only talking to one. The other would naturally begin to tune out. No wonder people's horses take over or get resentful when suddenly the person tells them something to do, after sending loud and clear messages that the horse had been in charge of this ride! That's why there are only a few people I like to ride with. With those people, our visiting is about what's going on with our horses. The horse is included in the conversation.

All these things that I learned were more tools to have in my safety belt. Each one made my rides safer. The safer I felt, the more confident I felt, especially when riding alone. I was so excited that I felt safe riding Rosie alone, even far from home. I had always been such a timid, non-confident rider. Seeing the many changes in myself was very gratifying. I'm sure I got excited about many things that, when I told them to Jack, looked like very little things, but to me were huge. I also found that many times "little" things turn out to be the missing piece in the BIG picture, and aren't really so little! It also showed me the importance of becoming more and more aware, so I COULD be aware of those "little" things.

As I began to experiment more and more with the use of many transitions, I saw how transitions of any kind helped Rosie to focus her mind and pay attention. I became convinced that of all the things I worked on, getting and keeping the horse's attention was THE most important thing. So anything I could do that helped with attention was important. In fact the more I thought about it and analyzed lessons and clinics, the more convinced I became that this was true for all riders and all horses, yet was perhaps one of the least talked about and worked at. We talked about this at our clinics, but from my observations of other clinics and clinicians, this is not addressed a lot. It may be one thing that sets apart our approach in our clinics. Many other clinicians DO things and have the riders DO things that improve the attention, but don't talk about or draw attention to the subject, or perhaps just aren't aware that that is what they are showing.

As I saw the benefit of frequent transitions, I wished I had noticed it much sooner. I believe focusing on this earlier would have helped Rosie improve much quicker than she did. We did lots of transitions of both speed and direction. Not only walk/stop, stop/back, walk/trot, trot/canter, but also stop/trot, walk/canter, stop/canter, walk/back, back/trot, back/canter, etc. Our canter departs improved a lot after working on changing gaits RIGHT ON a certain spot on our circle, maybe even four times within one circle. I got better at asking, or maybe I should say preparing, and she got better at listening and responding. Lateral transitions included as many variations as I could think up. Bending and changing bend while going straight, turns on HQ and FQ from stop, from one step to a full turnaround or more, displacing HQ or FQ at walk or trot, walk or trot to turn on FQ or HQ and then bringing the other end across, riding squares or rectangles or triangles of specified numbers of steps by varying the turns on the HQ or FQ, doing squares etc. backing, backing in circles or figure eights by moving only the shoulders or only the haunches or both equally, doing the John Lyons clock exercise, rollbacks, diagonals (leg yields), attempts at shoulder in and haunches in (we didn't get too good at those), etc.

Along these lines, my biggest challenge and frustration was trying to get a clean turn-around keeping a hind foot planted. We were at a double disadvantage; I was not skilled at this maneuver so was on a learning curve rather than being a supportive teacher, and, Rosie seemed to physically have trouble doing this, because Jack had almost as much trouble getting her to do it as I did (which I found quite gratifying!). She did better to one direction. Jack always thought it was an Arab thing, because they were so limber in the butt; their natural thing was to swap ends instead of plant. After I had been working at this quite a while, Jack got Duster, a QH, who naturally planted a hind foot from the very first time Jack asked him to step over with the front. So it seemed that different horses have different movements they find natural or find unnatural. Because I worked at it so long, and tried so many ways to vary what I was doing, I think I learned a lot. I even spent time on Duster and other horses just turning, trying to feel the feel, so that perhaps I would know better how to duplicate that move and that feel on Rosie.

Jack suggested I try a certain maneuver as a means of feeling how the seatbones worked in communicating with the horse--making a tight circle around and around a sagebrush or barrel. This maintained forward motion in a tight circle while continually crossing over in front. This was the beginning of my feel and understanding of seatbones. It also helped me start to really feel her crossing over in front. We did this often during our traipsing around through the brush. She would move perfectly with me, and my inside and outside seatbones both moved with her and at the same time signalled her of my intentions. But then she would either guess and try to pivot on one end or the other, OR, those were moments when I inadvertently used my body wrong and confused her. When I learned that with my seatbones, I could not only indicate left or right, but also indicate movement of front quarters or hindquarters, this was another major breakthrough in the development of my feel. This helped me keep her from suddenly changing direction on me as we tightly circled a sagebrush.

I also felt that another reason Rosie had trouble stepping across with the front legs was her stiffness, which I always suspected had to do with that scar on her back. Because of this, I never made a major issue of things she had trouble doing, because I always suspected physical issues, not just mental ones. And that is also why we did a lot of these exercises regularly, to help strengthen those weaknesses and hopefully slowly improve her flexibility. She did make much improvement. It's hard to know if the horse is just testing your will, or actually having a physical issue. But the longer you ride a certain horse and get to know them, I think you get a feel for this, and I felt she had legitimate physical issues to take into consideration.

One of the funny things happening during this time was frequently telling Jack I finally learned something that I had thought I knew before, but now I REALLY understood. I don't know how many times that happened! And so often my discoveries were seemingly little things, yet to me they seemed huge. They were often so little that I was almost embarrassed to tell him I had discovered or felt them. Yet he could relate to the fact that these very little things were often the key to something I had been missing. He had had many similar experiences over the years.

As we got over more of Rosie's problems, we could begin working on refinement. This was also quite exciting to me, as I had never had my own horse to bring along, and I didn't think that I personally could get this far with any horse. When the challenge of her "problems" diminished, the new challenge became, seeing how far along we could get in refinement and feel.

My goal in groundwork and in riding was to have Rosie reflect my body energy and direction. What little time we spent in the round pen, my approach was to ask with my body and add as little as possible with rope, flag, or whatever. I would always hold something in my hand, so I could reinforce my body cues if needed--like the idea of wearing spurs even if you didn't think you'd need them, just in case. I didn't want her to think that entering the round pen and being turned loose meant going into a "routine" like we have seen with some horses that have come here. I wanted her to just stand around until I brought up my body life.

Jack had started playing with the idea of looking where you want them to go, just like when riding, rather than looking AT them in the round pen. I looked in the direction I wanted her to go, opening my shoulder in that direction, just as I would in the saddle. If my body energy was slow, she would walk, but to ask for a trot, I would pick up my energy slightly, and if she didn't respond, move the halter rope in my hand a little (the hand that was toward her butt, not head--I change hands whenever she changed direction). To ask for a lope, I would try doing just what I did in the saddle, bring up the energy from my pelvis, in the motion you would do in a swing. I would stay with her with a livlier energy, then drop my energy which she would reflect by dropping to a trot, walk or stop, as my energy indicated. It was so neat to see how sensitive she was to these small changes. If I stopped still, so would she, almost instantly. This could certainly reinforce what we were doing while riding.

Along those lines, I saw on a TV show that some horses that seemed a little cinchy were less cinchy if moved around for 5 minutes before saddling. I found this was true for her so I started warming her up in the round pen. One day Jack was using the round pen, so I decided to do it in her pen. Then I wondered if I could do it without putting her halter on. Her pen was long and rectangular--could I get her go around me in a circle by keeping her attention to the inside? Yes! Wow, what an experiment! What a fun discovery! I could get her to change gaits, change direction, even do a figure 8. Sometimes I DID lose her attention and she would go "off pattern" which I tried to counteract by REALLY going toward her butt to put pressure there, thereby bringing her head more toward me. I also sometimes did something to help bring her attention to me, like move my hand, kick at the dirt, little clucks. It was a great experiment in body position and getting and keeping her attention.

The whole point of doing groundwork in this way is to parallel what you do in the saddle. The horse should reflect your own body position, focus and energy. I always tried to see how much more I could do with subtle body language rather than with reining or legging. Jack always says, seat first, then legs, then hands. I feel that seat includes position, focus and energy--it's not just your seatbones but includes your pelvis, which is where I think the body movement begins. (I played with this a lot while taking walks, trying to imitate things I did on horseback. The similarities are amazing.) Two experiments were exceptionally fun.

One was weaving home through the sagebrush, maybe the last 1/4 or 1/2 mile, with the reins dropped on her neck. The first time I tried "reining" her without the reins, I had folded my arms across my chest or rested my hands on my thighs. I only got about 50% accuracy, even when I really worked at focusing and using my seat and weight shifts. I would pick up the reins, try to see what was different, then try again. I finally noticed that when my arms were stationary, they were not in the same position as when reining, nor did they move with the horse like when I was reining. Nor was my upper body able to move with the horse like when I was reining. So I hit on the idea of holding imaginary reins, and using my hands, arms and torso exactly like I would if I was really holding reins. That was the answer! In fact, I found that if I aimed her around a sagebrush and she started to miss it, all I needed to do was just what I would do in that situation with real reins. I would really bring my "leading rein" out to the side, and really push on her neck with my "supporting rein." She wasn't usually "with me" mentally enough to do this when leaving home, but at the end of a ride when she was "with me," we often did this, sometimes making sudden changes of direction or even full turn-arounds! Talk about a "giggle-butt moment"! I would laugh out loud and rub or even hug her! We had many moments of oneness, of such subtle communication that it was like mind-reading.

The other thing was using my body position to bring her into a collected, on-the-hindquarter gait and then back to a relaxed, on-the-forehand gait. I had started riding her in the spade, which I'll talk about in a minute, and had found that carrying the bit seemed to encourage her to carry herself more collected. Besides the small circle on the back of our place, we had a large circle we had made out in a meadow about a half mile south of the house--almost arena-sized. It was actually two circles that we used for figure-eights, or could use as an oval track. It was a good place to lope circles or work on lead changes. By the time we were riding in the bit, Rosie had quit charging at the lope, and we could work on slow loping, extending her speed or stride, and collecting at the lope. I have always had to work a lot on my posture (riding or otherwise); and one day while trotting or maybe loping I noticed that as I concentrated on really sitting up, keeping my ears over my shoulders, and looking out instead of down, Rosie responded by noticeably collecting. I thought that was interesting, so then I relaxed my posture, let my lower back cave in a bit, and let my chest and shoulders slightly sag. Her gait became more on-the-forehand. I found that even though my hold on the reins never changed, she would reflect my body carriage at all gaits! I added to it by "playing" with my seatbones. If I moved them barely forward and back, but more up and down, while using them more toward her butt, she shortened her stride and lifted her shoulders. If I moved them more forward and back, not up and down, and focused their feel toward her front end, her shoulders dropped and she went on the forehand. I couldn't always do this with her, but it was very cool when we did!

Rosie was not exactly ready for a spade bit, and I never made a spade bit horse out of her. The only reason I started using it, after several years, was because I intended to sell her someday and start over with another horse. Many people ride in curb bits, and I wanted to prepare her for this possibility, but we did not own a curb bit, just snaffles and a couple spades. I could neck rein her with the snaffle fairly well most of the time. I was kind of afraid to try this, but Jack said just give her slack, ride with your body, and don't ask her for anything more with it than you would in the snaffle. At first he said just let her pack it around and try not to do anything. This is why it's important to have the horse working off your body pretty well before you start the bit. I thought I did, but after experimenting with the bit, I found that I didn't have the control I thought I had. So we would go back and forth from the snaffle to the bit, sometimes not using the bit for months while I worked at my problems. It was a learning experience for both of us; mostly I learned more about using my seat and legs better. One of the hardest things for me to learn was not to correct by taking the reins to the side or back--your hand goes UP, in rhythm with the horse's feet. I don't know why that was so hard, but once I got that, it became pretty easy, and I find that I do that more with the snaffle now too. Also, I was so afraid of pulling on her mouth that I seldom took the slack out of the reins, so I probably didn't support her like I should have. I often rode them two-handed so I could wiggle one or the other. I never used them if I thought there was the least chance we might get in a "situation," like going someplace different or riding with other people or if there were cows involved.

Along the lines of thinking of selling her, I wanted to prepare Rosie to get along with someone who may not ride like me. As she got more and more solid and dependable, I began to experiment with riding her in different ways. Sometimes I just plain rode sloppy, sometimes with meaningless leg movements (like people who flap their legs constantly), sometimes just reining and trying to not ride with my body at all (like so many do), sometimes with lots of leg pressure, and sometimes just sitting slouched like a sack of potatoes, not moving with her or giving her any direction, just being a passenger, to see what she would do. By this time, she was working on "feel" enough that she seemed to sort out my "intent" enough to work through these little exercises without getting upset, drifting too much or taking over. However, I also know that if ridden that way for a period of time by someone who doesn't "know," she would know that they didn't know, and she WOULD start to act differently, even though she didn't for me.

Another way of preparing her for someone else was, after a couple years, to start letting other people ride her to see how she'd act. She needed to accept that everybody offers a different feel, so she wouldn't be crushed if her next owner wasn't very thoughtful. I worried a lot about selling her--sometimes not wanting to consider it, then sometimes feeling it would be best for me not to become a one-horse person. So I dealt with my feelings by doing my best to prepare her for the future. In the process, she became a great lesson and clinic horse. In a controlled environment, she was extremely solid and dependable with a beginning rider. In spite of all her initial jumping around and excess energy, she was not the type of Arab to be skittish. In fact she seldom spooked after the first year, and when she did, it wasn't much, and she seldom did the typical Arab whirl-and-spin. She was always pretty good on a windy day.

She could get pretty crazy with a bunch of cows moving out in the sagebrush, especially if they started trotting, wanting desperately to get to wherever the other horse(s) was instead of where she was supposed to be. But I worked her on cows in pens half a dozen times and she was OK with that. Because cows were turned out in the sagebrush where we lived, during the winter, we had opportunities to be around them. A couple instances she did great; one was when we slowly snuck up on a mother and baby on the far fringe of a bunch, and started slowly pushing them away from the bunch and toward the house. The other was when about half a dozen were bunched up at the cattle guard, where there was a fence along one side of the dirt road. My goal was to move them slowly along the fence back toward the bunch without starting them running or letting them cross the road and escape into open sagebrush. It was great! And Jack happened to come driving home about then and watched us, and he was pretty tickled too! The three times I took her cowboying with Jack were total disasters. She had herself not only dripping with sweat--the sweat was like great gobs of shaving cream dripping from her underside. She made such a scene that I was embarrassed and humiliated--no help at all, we were so close to out-of-control. I decided I wasn't enough of a rider to be able to deal with that. If we had the opportunity to do it every day, she probably could have got over it, but it just wasn't worth it to me, so I turned down the few opportunities that managed to fit into my work schedule, and spent my time riding her in ways that could set her up for success instead.

For the first two years my goal was to offer her slack as a reward, and to be able to ride her with slack without her feeling the need to take over. Then I began to start mixing in contact, a little at first, alternating with slack, then more and more. I did this for two reasons. One, again I was thinking of other riders who often don't ride with slack but with constant contact or pressure. I wanted her to be able to survive if she ended up with someone like that. I also see value in riding with contact, as in English and dressage, and wanted to play around with more collection and basic dressage-type moves. My goal was to have her collected on a slack rein by following my body, so I worked on making sure my body reflected my desire for collection or relaxation. This was an interesting, ongoing endeavor.

Surely Rosie was not the most wonderful horse in the world--but there were several things that made her so special to me. First, she was my first horse. All my life I had wanted a horse, but I never got one, so instead I rode many horses, which turned out to be a blessing in disguise. I rode lesson horses, kids' horses, show horses, troubled re-starts, colts, dull horses, hot horses. I see many people who ride one or two horses for many years and think they can ride, but on a different horse, they can't ride at all. All they learned to do was to get along with that horse, who also learned to get along with them and put up with them. I had actually given up on the idea of having my own horse, and it was no longer an issue in my mind when Rosie came along. I feel so strongly that God dropped her in my lap--that He picked us especially for each other because she was just what I needed, and I was just what she needed. She taught me many lessons, not only about horsemanship but spiritual lessons also.

Second, seeing how a troubled horse can change is so amazing that it's hard to believe unless you saw her that first year. I've seen Jack get changes in troubled horses in a month or two; she was very slow to change, and I was discouraged a lot that first year. But Jack reminded me that she was 12, not 2 or 3, and her problems were much more deeply ingrained because of the years that had cemented in her mind what worked for her. To see her packing beginners around at a clinic was so gratifying to me. Perhaps the most amazing thing of all was to see how her personality changed, how she looked and acted out in her pen--from a sour, crabby, kicking, loner to the sweetest-looking mare that could get along with any horse. It's almost miraculous how a horse can change when presented with those all-important concepts--feel, timing, balance, empathy.