Life in the "ManeStream"

“My horse hates to longe … detests dressage … loathes lateral work … can’t stand circles … grinds his teeth over groundwork.”

I can’t tell you how many times over the years I have heard someone tell me how much his or her horse hates some basic exercise. And I always think to myself, “Your horse hates it, or you hate it?”

Of course free longing isn't fun for a horse who is allowed to be heavy on the forehand, slamming into the ground at every gait.

Why in the world would a horse dislike any exercise he was carefully and respectfully taught to do? If the human thoughtfully plans and competently executes a progression of training exercises designed so each skill builds from what has been mastered before, most horses are pretty happy to play along.

Of course some skills will come more easily for each horse, depending on breed, conformation, temperament and experience. The build that makes rollbacks and spins a breeze might render extensions more of a challenge. The horse who loves to gallop cross country might find quiet, collected work more mentally difficult. But there’s no reason for any horse to take special exception to being asked to trot a correct 20-meter circle, to walk quietly when being led from the off side or to canter in civilized fashion over a pole.

In my own experience, my horses have only balked at doing what I ask in a few situations:

•    Instances when I got in a hurry and didn’t teach the mechanics of the movement well enough in an orderly sequence. I hit the ground a few times from horses who had natural talent but who hadn’t mastered the mechanics of jumping well enough to help them problem solve in less-than-perfect conditions.

•    Times when I didn’t adequately prepare my horse physically to accomplish the task without discomfort. It took several years before I could school lateral work with my long-backed race-bred Quarter Horse without his loin are getting really sore, but eventually I figured out the combination of conditioning and bodywork that let him learn lateral work happily.

•    Situations when imbalance, imprecision or incomplete understanding of my own biomechanics meant my body was moving (or not moving) in a way that either confused the horse or actually prevented him from doing what I thought I was asking him to do. Not long ago I had to apologize profusely to a very frustrated horse after a session in which I was trying to work out the “geometry” of the seat aids to transition from leg yield to half pass.

Teach the horse to balance and move with ease and comfort, and the same exercise becomes fun and beneficial for horse and handler.

I’m working with a couple of horses now whose posture choices and balance habits mean one “hates the round pen” and the other “kicks out a lot, so be careful of him on the longe line.” Both of them exhibit some combination of classic bad carriage on a circle – head high, hollow back, hindquarters disengaged and nose tipped out, shoulder dropped in, hindquarters disengaged. And both display the discomfort of their lack of balance on a circle quite similarly – they careen around at top speed, slam on the brakes unsolicited and try to cut across the circle or turn without being asked. Hyperness, histrionics and generally much ado about nothing. Walk/trot/canter/halt/turn on a circle is not difficult, advanced work. But those skills do form the basis for advanced work, so it’s important for both horse and human to find a way to practice and perfect them happily, completely and with confidence in their abilities.

I’m betting that after I invest some patience and time, a little bodywork and a lot of miles of groundwork, both of these horses will be converts and will enjoy learning new, fun exercises in the roundpen and on the longe line. I like it! And I’m betting so will they.

Thanks to plentiful winter rains, spring has well and truly sprung in southern Arizona.

I had a good conversation the other day with a colleague who was voicing her frustration with clients who don’t seem to want to put in the time and effort to really learn about their horses, to do more than sit on top and steer and do the fun stuff like jump high and go to shows.

We talked about all the hours we have spent in our lives just watching how horses move and studying how good riders ride. About what fun it is to see how horses interact with each other and what their bodies can do and how they react in all kinds of situations. And about how we watched and pondered and figured out stuff and then went and tried it out with actual horses over and over and over until we started to learn how to accomplish goals and master skills and solve problems.

She referenced an article she’d read in which hunter/jumper guru George Morris wondered where the next generation of good horsemen and horsewomen were going to come from. A little hunting on the web brought up this Morris quote on the subject in a number of places: “We have a problem today and that’s called horse show, horse show, horse show, horse show, horse show, horse show. That’s competition. That’s competitive education. That isn’t basic education. That isn’t necessarily horsemanship or horsemaster education.”

It’s hard when people are so busy, trying to cram so many responsibilities and activities into each day. Horse time for many riders – adults and children alike – is confined to the lesson period and the tacking/untacking routine surrounding it. They don’t spend hours at the barn just hanging out and soaking up information. They don’t read and study and think about better riding and good horse care when they’re not at the barn. I’m not sure how these people, even if they want to, can become horsemen and horsewomen in the traditional sense. I do believe, though, that at least some of them would like to, would value that depth of knowledge and understanding. And I’m lucky that some of them are my students and friends and fellow explorers.

I have to say that I don’t think all the blame rests with the students, either. Several times recently people have lamented to me the things their trainer “wouldn’t let me do” or “never taught me.” And these were skills I consider pretty basic – grooming and tacking a horse, longing on a line or at liberty, giving a bath. Any true horsewoman or horseman should certainly be able to do these things with competence and confidence. But every riding student might not.

I get it. I really do. It takes a lot longer to teach a new student of any age how to groom and tack up than it would for me to do the same task. But, if I spend the time up front, later on the client can do that work on his or her own, leaving me free to do something else. And, much more important, the student gains all that lovely time to get to know the horse – how sensitive he is, where the good scritchy spots are, what mood he’s in that day, what kinds of things do and don’t bother him. All that insight helps a rider be more effective and compassionate. If the professionals don’t allow, and encourage, their students to make the most of the time they do spend with horses, how can we expect people to learn the subtleties of horse communication and the requirements of good horse care? Taking the time to teach riders the broadest possible range of basic horse management skills is akin to taking the time for horses to learn and master their basics. (And both of these seem to be getting more and more rare in the horse world.)

Even though I get frustrated with my fellow professionals, I do understand the reasons behind the choices they make. It’s not easy to keep clients happy in this instant-gratification world. Yes, there are still people who really love horses and want to learn all they can about them. But then there are the rest, and it seems to me they are becoming the majority. These are our local “weekend warrior” riders whose idea of fun is to go tearing down the sand washes for hours on unfit horses and are surprised when they turn up lame. And the teenage girls who get pissed when their instructor won’t let them take the weekly jump lesson unless they’ve shown up to do their flatwork the rest of the week. It’s the “can’t you just bute him because I already paid my entry fees and I want to go to the show” crowd. And the “school horses are always stiff/cranky/bored/marginally sound” people. And the “I just need a different bit/bigger spurs/more aggressive trainer” folks.

For many people, riding, riding, riding is the be-all, end-all activity. They don’t understand the satisfaction – or the important insights – they can gain by working with horses on the ground, by exploring all the nuances of movement and balance and communication from every perspective they can. They just want to ride, or so they think. So the instructor can go along with that (and keep the client happy, but ultimately dumb) or she can insist or cajole or entice the student into taking a broader view of the whole horse experience (and risk possibly losing a paying customer.) It’s a philosophical and moral choice and it’s a practical and financial choice. One takes more time and maybe is more fiscally risky; the other serves the present but doesn’t do much for the future of the industry, the person or the horses.

I got out of the horse business once and only got back in because I felt I could help make the world better for horses by educating people, even if I had to do it one at a time. I have stayed because I have found people who do take the broad view, who want to be good horsemen and horsewomen and who will put in the time and effort that takes. They inspire me to put in the time and effort, too. To do what it takes, for as long as it takes, to help them learn and explore and grow. It’s not an event, it’s a journey – a lifelong one for me.

… or Longeing Without Getting Dragged Through the Mud

I know now why I spent so many hours helping my horses learn to balance and move correctly and happily on a longe line. After enduring what the National Weather Service recorded as the fourth driest year (since 1895!) in 2009, we have now had the eighth wettest January and eleventh wettest February on record. That has meant mud, mud and more mud and a lot of days with marginal footing. The main roundpen at the barn where my guys live turns into a bit of a lake and has been unusable for days on end.

Meanwhile, both of my horses – both the old and potentially stiff and the youngish and mischievous – still needed to get out and engage brains and bodies.

Once a horse has learned to carry himself well on a line, I generally prefer to free longe. That’s because, no matter how light and connected and careful I am, having me on the end of the line changes things for the horse. The balance and movement are slightly different, less likely to be straight and correct. My presence can cause a horse to lean a bit on the forehand or go ever so slightly crooked. At liberty, he has to make all his own choices about posture and carriage without having me hanging on the other end of a line for an excuse.

Both of them have done an admirable job of holding the circle at all the gaits that were safe on the day, done their transitions up and down in balance and pretty much on request and both have remembered how to relax and stretch on the line just like they do at liberty. And they have been very easily controlled, except for one anomalous spook by the old man.

Wherever you are, I hope your winter has been friendlier (or you have a nice, snug indoor arena to work in). But if you’re having to do the longe-line thing and your horse hasn’t quite mastered the art of going around quietly in balance and self-carriage, it might be time to do some remedial work to correct his postural choices. Here’s why I think it’s important to longe horses with intention and how I go about helping them work better in all kinds of situations.

Through the wonders of technology and social networking sites, I have been reconnecting with some of the people I knew during my exchange year in Norway. Fun, and I have found I can still read and understand Norwegian, albeit quite slowly. Remembering the people I knew naturally led me to think of the horses I rode while I was there. Actually, my first months in Norway marked the first time in my life I ever went more than a few days (or maybe weeks in the coldest part of winter) without riding. While I was living with the first of my two host families, there were a few horses in the neighborhood – not riding horses but trotters, by far the most popular and commonly found horses in that area. Friday evening at the travbane (trotting track) was a popular family outing for many.

I didn’t have the opportunity to ride until spring, when I moved to a farm with my second host family. The neighboring farmer found out I had ridden at home and asked whether I would be interested in exercising his mare, a retired Standardbred who had been imported from the United States (which made her quite the big deal.) Sure, I said I would try her out. When? Ah, well, there was a little problem. She was at another farm, just a couple of miles away, and would have to be fetched home. Okay, let me know when she gets here. Well, just another little problem. The horse trailer had been lent out and wasn’t due back for a while. Maybe it would be best if I just rode her home.

I had some reservations about that, thinking that riding along a road wasn’t necessarily the place where I wanted to get acquainted with a new horse. But, in my youth and fearlessness, I agreed. So one day after school we loaded up an English saddle and a bridle and drove to meet the mare, Miss Go. On the way the neighbor’s son told me she had been sent where she was to be get back into shape for eventual breeding, but that the person who was supposed to ride her didn’t get along with her. Oh, great. And just what did that mean? What exactly had I gotten myself in for?

I found out pretty quickly after we had the rather overweight bay mare saddled and I headed her toward home. Belying her name, she would not go. No way. No how. Every time I would ask her to move off forward, she would either balk or back up. I guess I know why the other rider hadn’t gotten along with her. Stubborn mare. Bad luck for her that I had owned and retrained the queen of all stubborn mares when I was 12. So, Miss Go, I do know this game. Meanwhile, her owners had blithely driven away to await her homecoming. Hmmm. What to do? I could get off and lead her home, but I had very little desire to walk that far. Plus, it had been pretty soundly drummed into my head as a kid that if you get off without making the horse mind, the horse has won and you have created yourself a problem for another day. (Not necessarily my philosophy today …)

So, if the mare wanted to back, we would back. All the way home, if need be. Which wasn’t a speedy trek, as you might imagine. Her owners got concerned when we didn’t show up in good time and did come looking for me. And laughed. And drove away again. It seems to me now that it took a couple of hours to get the mare back to her home stable. But after that, I went many fun and happy miles (forward!) on her without any problems. I thought at the time that she just needed to find someone more stubborn than she was. I earned her respect that first day and then we had a great time riding the forest trails. I adjusted to strange rocking-and-rolling of the Standardbred trot and even taught her to canter in relatively civilized fashion.

Later I was asked to ride Miss Go’s offspring, a two-year-old gelding, to get him legged up before he went to the track to start his training in the fall. Walking and trotting only, though; canter absolutely forbidden. His name was Ami and I remember him as a sweet and biddable youngster with none of his dam’s penchant for testing a rider. I did see him a few times as he started his training in the sulky, but never saw him race.

Those two horses gave me good insight into the “correct” movement of the breed that has come in handy with the few other Standardbreds I have encountered over the years. Tusen takk, Miss Go and Ami!

I recently attended a horse event in a very, very nice area of Phoenix at a very, very high-dollar facility and experienced some very, very appalling behavior by an alleged professional adult person who is a trainer there. Even weeks later, I’m still stunned by the way this “man” behaved.

It all started off well. The place was beautiful and full of high-quality horses. The accommodations for our horses were quite good and the barn staff was friendly and extremely helpful. The boarders in the barn where our horses were housed were welcoming, initiating conversation and generally being super nice. Great. And then came the downside.

Although we were told we would have “half” the arena to ride in, we kept being warned that “the reiners have the right of way.” Clearly that was the party line on the property; I asked one of the boarders who was also riding in the clinic why that point was made so many times. “Surely they wouldn’t ride right through a clinic or deliberately get in someone’s way, right?” The answer was a wry smile and a repeat of the mantra: “the reiners have the right of way.”  Hmmm.

Well, our “half’ of the arena turned out to be a very tiny corner, which had the benefit of an open, raised area where chairs could be placed for the auditors. For some reason, that remote corner, farthest from the gate, seemed to be a magnet for one “reiner” (not multiple reiners) who was a complete and utter jackass. Apparently his idea of necessary and appropriate training and arena etiquette included the following activities:

• Riding along the rail into our little corner, getting between the auditors and the clinician so that everyone photographing or videotaping ended up with his head bobbing through the shots. One day he spent the best part of two hours galloping one horse through that area over and over and over with no regard for the clinician or the riders. Rude, annoying, unsafe.
• Running at speed from the far end of the arena into a space just outside our little circle (except when it encroached into the space) and sliding his horse over and over and over. He could just as easily have moved over and slid into an area closer to the other corner, or chosen to go width-ways and stay out of our space completely. At one point, he slid his horse to a stop about 20 feet from our clinician. Rude, inappropriate, unsafe.
• Doing obviously deliberate “fly-bys” of the clinic riders as they were trying to warm up and cool down their horses outside the clinic area so as not to interfere with their fellow riders. At one point he stopped his horse right off my left flank and then yee-hawed to a gallop so close to me that if I’d had the presence of mind to stick out my elbow I could easily have knocked him off his horse. In any discipline, that’s a deliberate attempt to get someone dumped. I’ve done it myself, but not since I was about 10. Rude, immature, unsafe. I wonder what his liability insurance carrier (or that of the owner of the multi-million-dollar facility) would think of the risk he represents?

To make matters worse, he seems to be teaching his young students to be just as awful as he is. The second day of the clinic, the arena emptied out completely in the afternoon with the exception of the clinic riders, the jerk and two of his students, both young girls. They had the entire rest of the 150 x 300 arena in which to work, but he kept sending them right into our little corner. During my lesson, I was riding a 20- to 30-meter circle around the clinician and these girls kept getting in front of me. My horse had settled in by then and didn’t care, so I just held my line and made them move. One of the girls had the good grace to look a little sheepish, but the other had a nasty little sneer. Trainer’s pet, no doubt. Appalling, horrifying, unsafe. And what are their parents thinking?!

I don’t know whether this guy thought he was intimidating the clinician in breeches or showing off for the women auditors and riders. But he should have noticed that the very poised and confident young man from Vienna wasn’t the slightest bit perturbed by or even vaguely interested in his antics. And someone really should tell him that even women who don’t do reining (or haven’t done it in years, but used to!) can tell bad riding at a glance and are not impressed by it.

Sitting so far to the left that your poor horse nearly runs into the wall every time you go careening around the corner is not impressive. Dozens of crooked stops during which you are whacking your horse between the ears with a big stick are not impressive. Spins where the hindquarters end up moving faster than the front are not impressive. A young student with a horse cranked down in drawreins and a curb bit is not impressive. Oh, and I believe the conventional wisdom among real reiners is that a horse only has so many spins and so many slides in him, and when they’re used up the horse is no longer competitive. This guy seemed to be doing his best to use up his horses as fast as possible. Perhaps the conventional wisdom is different in his specialty, Arabian reining.

Frankly, all he did was make a complete fool of himself, make the facility that was apparently catering to him seem poorly and unsafely managed and spark a spirited debate among the participants about what specific physical inadequacy he might be compensating for. Hmmm … what do you think?!

For years, horsewomen I like and respect have been telling me my teaching approach is very “classical.” I like that notion, because I have always been more attracted to the baroque than any other equestrian tradition. But after spending a weekend watching and listening to clinician Florian Zimmermann, a bereiter at the Spanish Riding School, I guess they must be right.

Those three days were a breath of fresh air for me as a teacher and a rider. The methods used and theories presented just made sense to me, right down to my core. Much of it fit into what I already do with my horses and my clients, but with some variations that I will enjoy exploring. Still more showed me that I have gotten a bit lazy in my own riding and in what I ask of my own horses, so it was inspiration to work harder. But in general it was very restful and familiar and clear. I never experienced a single moment when I didn’t understand what the clinician was trying to accomplish or why he was asking what he was of horse and rider.

Watching Florian ride was like listening in to a very respectful and entirely focused conversation between two intelligent beings working together to solve a problem. He exuded calm and, of course, his seat and hands were impeccable, but he also was clearly in charge, the undisputed leader in the dance by mutual consent, which was sometimes challenged but was never enforced with, well, force. The horses interjected their own “opinions,” and suggested courses of action that were quietly shaped and guided, never rejected or punished. The message stayed consistent, the energy stayed consistent and I could see the horses visibly relax, breathe and gain confidence.

The same was true for the riders, who also visibly benefited from his calm but uncompromising approach. The horse would fall out of the gait. “It doesn’t matter. Do it again.” The rider would lean forward and drop the horse in a transition. “It doesn’t matter. Do it again.” The extremely rude reining guy (more on him later) or his students would blunder right into the rider’s path and break her concentration. “It doesn’t matter. Do it again.” All the while he was quietly pushing each rider to pay attention to every transition, to ride every step, not even to slump in the saddle when we were walking on a long rein or resting and listening to critique and instructions. An interesting combination of aiming to make every movement as good as it could be, but not getting hung up on any individual failure. Stay in the present. Get on with it and do it better the next time.

Florian talked a lot about “showing the horse” what to do, never about “making” the horse do anything. He emphasized the basics – straightness and throughness and straightness again. Transitions, transitions, transitions. Help the horse do what you want, and when he does something else, no big deal. Show him again. Pet him and tell him when he does well. The single most uttered word of the weekend was “connection,” which was presented as the absolute and necessary basis for everything else. Those of you who know me and have worked with me or heard me teach know that is a word I use again and again; it is the overarching goal of everything I do with horses.

I generally glean some useful bit of information from every clinician I see, but the sorting out process always seems to include some squinched-up-forehead-incomprehension time and some outright winces when horses and their riders are asked to do things in ways I know are either biomechanically impossible or that seem unnecessarily harsh to me. I inevitably come home with a body sore from “feeling” tightness and bracing and pain from the horses. This time I came home relaxed and certain that my theory is sound even if my execution is less consistent than I would like. No aches and pains, only the inspiration to keep exploring and working. Whew.

For much of my life there has been a “there but for the grace” person in my world, someone whose goodness and determination in the face of adversity could inspire me and provide some healthy perspective in my own tough times, great and small. And this influential person was never just a generic “starving people” in some third-world country, but a real, live person whose example jolted me a bit when I was feeling sorry for myself or whining about my life or just generally not doing my best.

For the past few months, this role has been played by a horse, an Appaloosa gelding named Chester. At 24, he was retired from a long and happy career as a trail horse, crippled by founder so bad that one of his front hooves looked like it had been twisted a quarter turn. Every time I interacted with this horse I marveled at his spirit, his calm acceptance of his lot in life and his unwavering good humor. Was he in pain every day? Absolutely. Did that stop him from enjoying his life. No way.

He was always bright eyed and inquisitive, interested in everything going on in the barn and, most of all, he was  very, very sweet. I got into the habit of dropping by for a visit most days I was at the barn, and I always got a happy, eager greeting. If he was lying down, which he did quite often to take the weight off those feet, he would roll to sternal position and reach out his nose to greet me. If he was standing, he wouldn’t usually walk to me, but he always made some gesture – a shift of weight or turn of the head to face me right on – to draw me to him.

For a horse who could barely move, he engaged his world quite fully and he certainly didn’t spend a single moment feeling sorry for himself. He’d stand in the corner of his run and play games through the fence with his neighbor, sometimes nuzzling or just touching noses and then a few minutes later engaging in mock battle, with ears back and snaky neck and all manner of threats. He loved his food and waited just as eagerly as all the others for his lunchtime pellets and supplements. He would stretch out flat on his side in the sun, soaking up the warmth while giving his feet a rest and enjoying the extra-fluffy shavings his owner bought to keep him from rubbing sores on his bony prominences.

And even though he could no longer do the job he had loved, carrying his human on miles and miles of trails, he still had plenty to contribute. The afternoon I met Chester and his owner, she had him outside the barn grazing and as I passed back and forth it became obvious she was upset about something. I made some banal comment about the horse enjoying the luxury of grass in the desert, introduced myself and talked with her long enough to find out that she was grieving the loss of a beloved pet dog and dealing with the stress of a husband deployed overseas. So where did she go for comfort? To her horse, of course.

I was also party to a small miracle, initiated and brilliantly executed by Chester, that drew out a young girl who had been traumatized by some awful, insensitive treatment by a teacher. She had withdrawn from the activities she once loved and refused to engage with any new people. But Chester, while standing innocently getting a massage, pulled her right out of that shell and got her involved in the massage process. She turned out to be a model bodywork student – bright, curious and with a talent for “feel.”

Anyone who knew Chester realized he wasn’t going to get better; in fact, he was steadily failing physically in spite of his bright spirit. His vet had recommended he be put down before the stress of summer heat took its toll, and his owner was slowly resigning herself to that plan. But suddenly last week the tendons in the worst of his forelegs started to shorten, causing him to knuckle over pretty severely in the fetlock. Nothing was going to fix that, and the risk of a traumatic injury was just too great. (Here’s where all us horse people cringe a little, imagining the painful mess that leg could become pretty easily.) So, Chester’s friend and caretaker of 22 years made the decision to end his pain, and he died very peacefully after a day of treats and loving attention and tearful good-byes from his many friends.

Rest well Chester, and thank you for cheering me up on many sad days. I’ll miss your bright eyes and sweet presence.

Horse people can be so impatient. They want their skills and their horses’ training to progress on a predetermined schedule, often based on a competition calendar or a chronological list of some kind.

This is a mindset I used to endorse, but which now just makes me smile. (Sometimes grimace, sometimes chuckle.) Why? Because I know that developing a physical, mental and emotional partnership with a horse is a process, not an event. You can’t just complete a set number of lessons or schooling sessions or shows and then declare that you are “there,” that you are now an accomplished horseman or horsewoman.

You can try, of course, but I’m betting your horse will have something to say about your personal milestone. And it might just not be what you want to hear.

When I ran a traditional lesson and training barn years ago, prospective clients almost invariably asked during our first conversation, “How long will it take before I can jump?” That usually came after they had told me at length how many lessons they had taken with which trainer or how many times they’d been on a dude-string trail ride or some such. At first I made the mistake of trying to give them an estimate based on what they had told me about their past experience. (This was before I learned that almost everyone inflates his or her experience at first!)

After I wised up, my standard answer was, “Anything from six lessons to six years.” That tended to be followed by a moment of mutual silence, which I generally followed with a laugh and the statement that although I was joking, I was also serious. This led to an explanation that every rider and every horse progresses at a different rate, and that my focus was on teaching good basic skills to keep both members of the partnership safe, sound and happy. The people who just wanted to run fast and jump high never called back. A good number of the sensible folk who actually wanted to learn to ride as well as they could showed up and generally did stay safe, sound and happy. Seemed like a fine business model to me, and it still does.

This approach does, however, present more of a challenge than you might think. Over the years a number of older riders, those lovely folks who take up riding in their 40s or 50s or even 60s, have lectured me about my firm insistence that they practice and master all the basic skills. One particularly prickly older gentleman got quite heated during a session in which I was focusing on improving his abysmal sitting trot despite his wish to lope circles at varying speeds. He informed me in no uncertain terms that at his age he didn’t have time to trot around and around until he was no longer bouncing on his poor horse’s back like a sack of potatoes. (Okay, my words, not his!) He was only interested in practicing the skills he needed to go work cattle. I was being unfair to him, wasting his precious riding time on things he didn’t like to do.

My response was that while I understood his sense of urgency, it wasn’t really relevant. The one who was putting up with his rotten seat was his horse, and she didn’t care how old he was. In order to work with her, instead of hindering and annoying her, there were certain things he needed to learn. And he couldn’t learn the advanced skills without mastering the basics any more than he would have been able to read classic literature without first learning the alphabet.  “See Spot Run” before “War and Peace.”

Your horse doesn’t care that a month from now there’s a show, a cattle drive, a group trail ride or your 50th birthday. All he knows is that today, in this moment, you and he need to come together – body, mind and energy – to build on what you learned yesterday and the day before and the day before. Learning is a progression – one thing leads to another leads to another. That’s true for horses and for humans.

And it’s not a straight line, either, no matter what some calendar or checklist might indicate. During the good times, it’s one step forward at a time. In challenging times, it’s one step forward, three steps back. It takes as long as it takes. And if you skip a step along the way? You might get away with it for a while, but I guarantee holes left in the basic skillset will come back to haunt both rider and horse one day.