By Cara Stolen
@carastolen

Maggie, my almost-five-year-old daughter, walked as fast as her little legs would carry her, her horse’s lead rope slung over her right shoulder. Her hair shone in the morning sun, and from where I stood across the pasture—knee-deep in an irrigation ditch—her blonde French braid looked almost iridescent. It was cool, but the early morning July sun already carried with it a hint of the forecasted 100º high. Over the hum of the four-wheeler motor idling beside me, I heard Maggie laugh at something her brother, Royce, said, and watched as her horse, “Big Jake,” flicked his tail at flies I couldn’t see. 

The night before, after a full day of riding with their dad, I stood in more or less the same spot and watched as Royce and Maggie unloaded their horses from the horse trailer. Actually, it wasn’t so much that I watched. I was just aware. I was in the pasture, changing my irrigation water, but, as is always the case when my children are nearby, half my attention, half of my senses, really, were focused on them. I heard the trailer door swing open and saw my husband, Levi, hand each kid the lead rope to their horses. I caught the movement of saddles and saddle blankets sliding off out of the corner of my eye. I swatted a mosquito on my arm and noticed the distinctive thud of horseshoes on dirt as the kids led their horses toward the gate into the pasture. I turned to grab my shovel, but even with my back turned, the clang of the gate chain told me the kids were leading their horses out into the pasture. Then Maggie let out a yelp that became a wail, and I whipped around to find her sprawled face-first in the dirt about 10 feet outside the gate. 

Jake trotted toward me inside the gate, his lead rope dragging behind him in the mud. Royce meanwhile, stood in the open gate holding his horse’s lead rope, looking back and forth between his sister and her runaway horse with a bewildered look on his face. My breath caught in my throat, my mind immediately conjuring worst case scenarios. Could she get up? Was her arm broken? Did she have a concussion? Thankfully, as I stood frozen in fear, she picked up her head and pushed up to her feet. I fought the urge to run to her, knowing Levi would reach her first anyway. Instead, I walked slowly to Jake where he now stood grazing and took off his halter—giving myself a minute to breathe—then made my way toward Maggie. 

She clung to Levi, tears streaming down her face. “Are you hurt?” he asked her calmly. 

“Maggie, sweetie.” I said when she wouldn’t respond. “You have to answer us so we know you’re okay. Are you hurt or did it just scare you?” 

Finally, barely above a whisper, she said “It just scared me.” 

Though I had my back turned when she fell, I knew what had happened. Royce, his legs two years longer than his sister’s, had reached the gate first. Jake, with an empty stomach and an open gate to green grass in front of him, had stretched out his stride just enough to pull the lead rope out of Maggie’s hand, yanking her forward and throwing her off balance enough to plant her in the dirt and scare her. 

But the next morning she woke up asking to ride with her Dad again. Despite having every reason to refuse to lead (or ride) her horse that day, she looked calm and confident leading “Big Jake” toward the truck and trailer.  

A few years ago, I got kicked by a horse. I grew up riding recreationally, but marrying a rancher made horses a part of my everyday life. They play as big a role in our day-to-day operation as pickups and four-wheelers, and I’m comfortable with horses now the way most people are comfortable with their minivan. But this was a horse Levi was riding for someone else, which meant I didn’t know him or his temperament the way I know our horses. 

It was hot, the air thick with smoke from area wildfires that summer, turning the setting sun an apocalyptic red. Levi had worked late and missed dinner, so when his truck and trailer bounced up our gravel driveway I pulled his plate from the fridge and set it on the counter. Then I slipped on sandals and offered to put away his horse so he could go inside and eat. I unlatched the trailer door, unloaded the buckskin gelding, and led him toward the pasture. I didn’t notice anything out of sorts—the horse seemed calm and tired from a day’s work—so I untied the halter and stepped back to grab the gate, my mind already onto the next chore of the evening. 

Then searing pain shot through my elbow and up my right arm as the horse wheeled around, jumped, and kicked with his hind legs. 

Luckily, all I ended up with was a nasty bruise that turned yellow as the days wore on. But I’ve thought about that night, that horse, that kick, every single time I’ve turned a horse out to pasture since. It isn’t even really a thought, more a feeling—a tightness in my chest, a pit in my stomach, a deep reluctance I feel in my bones. It’s about getting kicked again, about getting hurt, but it’s also about control, and how little of it I have over an animal 10 times my size. 

I don’t think that horse actually meant to kick me (he was likely stung by a wasp from the nest we found in the gate the next week), but still—I’m cautious now, and whenever Levi hands me a horse to lead, or asks me to put a halter on one of the kids’ horses, I hesitate, momentarily conscious of my fear. 

Having felt their strength on my body, I’m acutely aware of how big and powerful our horses are. And Maggie, at almost five, is too. 

Maggie fell off a horse for the first time two summers ago, on her 3rd birthday. While she was thrilled to get to ride for her birthday, her riding that day was more circumstantial than anything. We needed to move pairs (cows and their calves) down the road to the pasture we would wean the calves in, and since we didn’t have anyone to watch the kids for us, they came too. Big Jake is an exceptional kids horse, but he does have a tendency to shake, hard, at dust and flies and whathaveyou, and though we’d warned Maggie again and again to hold on tight to her saddle horn when he shook, she forgot, and as he shimmied his body she slid off his left side and hit the ground with a thud. 

She was just fine, but it scared her enough that she shook her head no when Levi asked her if she wanted to get back on. 

He scooped her up and started petting Jake, which made her screams subside and her tears stop. She started petting Jake too, her tiny hand next to Levi’s workworn one. Together, the three of them worked through her fear on Jake’s soft neck. Before too long, Levi boosted her back up into her saddle and led her around in the grass beside the hay barn. By that afternoon, she was ready to be ponied again; Jake trailing behind my horse, the lead rope of Jake’s halter clasped tightly in my right hand.  

We’ve never insisted our kids ride or forced them to get on a horse, but horses are part of our lifestyle and family culture. Royce and Maggie are around our horses almost every day. And so far, they prefer riding a horse to a four-wheeler or pick-up. So—just like we would teach our kids to swim if we had a backyard pool or lived on a lake—we teach our kids about horses. We tell them to never wrap a lead rope around their hand (in case the horse pulls away) or spook a horse by running up behind it. We teach them that horses, like most animals, can sense emotions like fear. 

Though Maggie rode independently for most of July and August last summer, she was reluctant and clumsy, quick to pull Jake back from a trot. But this summer, while I resigned myself to Royce calling my horse his horse and made reluctant peace with driving the four wheeler with the baby, Maggie graduated to her brother’s horse and learned to run. 

She’s confident now. But her confidence isn’t blind faith or fearlessness—she knows enough to be scared. She just doesn’t let her fear stop or slow her down. Instead, she conquers it. 

She rides anyway.      

We got home late last night and Levi asked me to turn his horse out. Feeling the familiar clench in my gut, I hesitated. 

I almost said no. I almost told him I needed to feed the baby or unload the pickup or go start dinner. Then I pictured Maggie, braid glinting in the sun, leading Jake toward the gate. 

Taking the lead rope from Levi, I walked toward that same gate. His horse surged a bit, anxious to get a full belly, but backed off easily when I shook the slack in the rope at him. I unchained the gate, led the horse into the pasture, and slipped the halter off his head. Bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun, I ran my hand down his smooth neck. Then I looped the halter over one arm and walked back through the gate toward my family. 

Cara Stolen is a ranch wife and work-at-home mama of three who lives in rural Washington state. An avid runner and outdoor enthusiast, she loves exceptionally early mornings, pushing the limits of an acceptable day hike, and backpacking or horse packing with her husband, Levi. She believes words have the power to buoy us through the hardest of times, and hopes to make other mothers feel seen with hers. You can find more of her work on her website.