Good Horse

I went to Mongolia by myself to ride horses for my 40th birthday.  While I was there, I accidentally set myself on fire, possibly permanently damaged my ankle, pooped in the woods a bunch, cried about beauty a whole lot, and rediscovered a self I'd misplaced for a long time before that.  I wholeheartedly recommend a similar trip to anyone (though I suggest you give the stovepipe some distance, if you do), and this will be the first of a few posts in which I try to tell you about what I did and saw and why I liked it so much.

I didn't start out with a grand idea to visit Mongolia because I've always dreamed of it--I honestly didn't know if there was much there to see there, and I was thinking more along the lines of yoga retreats in Bali for my big birthday trip.  Lazy naps in the sun and lots of tropical fruit seemed to be on order for a celebration of one's 40th.  Since my children were born, I'd never gone away without them for more than a long weekend, and I thought it would be a treat and a challenge for all of us if I took a longer trip for a milestone birthday.  In the course of my search Google unexpectedly showed me people on horses, together but separate in a line along the ridge of a mountain under a sky so blue it was sharp, and suggested I might like to take a week-long horse ride in Mongolia, instead.  I blame that sky.  I was born in the mountains and skies like that speak to my heart.  I also blame the horses.

You should know that I'm not a horsewoman.  I like horses, of course, a lot, but I haven't been on more than a trail ride since I was ten and very briefly took riding lessons in Dallas on a very large horse named Velvet.  I didn't take much away from those lessons because Velvet, who was also openly called "Satan" by the instructors, had thrown all of the other students in my class and was selected for me because he was the only horse available and, evidently, when I'm afraid for my life, I have quite good grip strength and was able to cling to his mane while he flung me around the ring as the other students learned to control their horses and rise in their saddles while trotting.  He never did throw me, but I didn't retain many skills from my few hours with that devil, if I learned any to begin with.  Nonetheless, my grandmother rode horses her whole life, and because of that I've always believed that if I wanted to ride I probably I could--I'm certain (in same way you're certain you put your car keys in your pocket despite the plain fact that you can see them sitting on the drivers' seat of your locked car) I possess some kind of innate genetic horse-sense.  In my head I see myself connecting with my horse immediately, like twin souls, then riding off, looking from afar like one of those motivational posters with the sunset and the horse with no feet on the ground.  However, I also firmly believe that because my dad is an amazing skier I have innate genetic skills that would allow me to whisk down snowy slopes, but six or seven years of skiing as an adult and I'm still weeping and cursing my way down the greens once or twice to collapse at the bottom, kick off my skis, and clomp inside for cocoa, or something stronger. In reality, I'm good at faith, you see, but not much else.

I do think I have some kind of innate love of horses, as many people do, if not any actual skills with them.  They're so lovely with their large eyes and soft velvet noses, and when you're near a horse, no matter how much you notice their grace you also can't help but be aware of their power--it's thrilling.  Horses are so large, up close, and their muscles are as clear under their skin as their expressive ears are atop their heads.  The strength of a car engine is expressed in "horsepower" still because that idea is immediately meaningful.  The horse I rode in Mongolia was called Brownie, because Mongolian herdsmen don't typically name their horses--they call them "the brown one" or "yellow spots"--but names are important for the people who come to ride them, so we had Brownie and New Brownie and Blackie.  I think the number of horses is more important than the value of any individual horse for Mongolian horsemen, except for the very best ones, and that's the excuse I'll use for not having been able to distinguish my own horse from the other brown ones until about day 3.  If I could watch them a bit, I could certainly pick out my Brownie--he was the one heading off by himself, looking for the chocolate cake of the mountain grasses that would be sure to give him gas for the rest of the day, or he was the one trying to kick the other horses in the head.  Couldn't miss him.  Because here's another thing we love about horses--they have personality.  Some horses are sweet and gentle and do anything you ask of them, but some horses are like Brownie--they're big buttheads.  Some horses, like my Brownie, know exactly what they want, and they know they're large enough to ignore the silly human flapping leather things at their neck or tapping them lightly in the ribs with bootheels.  It's charming, in a way, the way that a small child being naughty is cute in his obvious flouting of the rules.  Cute and charming until their stubbornness and refusal to do what you ask sends a naughty child running into the street or a horse's mulishness endangers your life.

The four other riders on my tour and I met our horses on a sunny morning the day after a big snowstorm, and the horses were gathered under a group of pines outside the cabin where we met our guides and stuffed our things for the week into saddlebags.  They were pawing the snow to uncover grass beneath it, making the snuffling noises of happy horses, eager to set out for the nearby hills.  It was beautiful, and I may have cried a little as I tromped around in the snow taking pictures, basking in the crisp air and the gorgeous scenery and congratulating myself prematurely on having discovered such an exciting voyage.

Our guide introduced each of us to our horses, and with help, we saddled them and tied on our saddlebags.  Mongolian horses are not as tall as the horses you usually see, so I was able to mount Brownie with the help of a little hummock of earth, and I was very proud, though I sat up there waiting for the others quite a while because I wasn't sure I could get down again.  I was able to direct him with the reins a little as I waited, feeling very accomplished in doing so.  The books all say that getting an animal to obey you is largely a matter of conviction--you have to demonstrate to the dog or the horse that you're the boss of him, that you rank above him in the hierarchy of animals, and that you're a creature worthy of his respect.  When I was able to hold Brownie back from trotting across the field or to turn him so we weren't looking into the sun, I thought I had demonstrated mastery of his will, that he and I had an understanding of who was boss.  I know now that I was like the intern in the office that comes sweeping in with new business clothes, a degree with the ink still wet and what she believes to be revolutionary ideas; Brownie was the veteran of the business who has seen hundreds of similar tykes come and go and knows how things really work.  Let's be clear: Brownie was always the boss.  He waited for the other horses because they were his friends, his herd, because he knew what was really going on.  He turned for me when I waved the reins around because it was less annoying to just go along with it than to bother fighting me when he didn't have a preference anyway, but in the end he did what he wanted--he just agreed to take me along.

When we set off, Brownie and the other horses set the pace.  We were a real herd:  five tourists, five guides, and ten pack horses and spares carrying tents and food and other supplies.  In riding lessons, you learn to walk, to trot, and to canter, and each pace has a set rhythm.  I took a few refresher classes in Singapore before my trip and had mostly learned to trot respectably, but I had never in my life purposefully gone any faster on a horse.  When you go on a trail ride at a camp in the United States, those venerable horses take you on a slow walk through woods or along a canyon, giving you plenty of time to take lots of pictures and providing a comfortable seat even on a hard saddle.  It was clear pretty quickly that my trip with Brownie would not proceed at the comfortable pace I had expected.  Mongolian horses make good time with their shorter legs by moving at a fast walk, and that fast walk makes a very bouncy ride.  I was quickly less concerned with the scenery than I was with trying to stay on my horse--I was trying to remember my lessons and how to grip with my knees and keep the balls of my feet in the stirrups so I could rise and fall with the horse, but honestly, I didn't have the muscles to do that for long and was thankful to have a well-padded rear.  I was wearing gloves against the cold and to protect my hands, and I tried to keep the correct amount of tension in the reins, but Brownie kept reminding me he was in charge by tossing his head and I was remembering the usefulness of the death grip on the saddle horn I had learned with Velvet.

We rode across a plain at the base of high hills that led into the mountains; the horses' hooves kicked up the fresh snow, and the gold leaves of the autumn trees shone against the clear sky.  Despite my already sore bum and my clenched fists, I felt wonder and joy at being able to experience this.  Our guides began singing together, for their own pleasure, in strong, clear voices which carried through the cold air, and I remember thinking that this was an unmatchable experience, that I could leave now and be satisfied.  I relaxed a little and my seat became easier, and some of the doubt I'd had that I could ride another three hours today eased.  I think it's possible that my relaxed posture helped spark a bit of mischief in the guides.  I also think it's possible that the air and the sky and the path into the mountains before us finally did their work on the horses and the guides, or that they considered we'd had plenty of time to warm up, but either way the quick rhythmic crunchcrunchcrunch of the horses' hooves on the snow behind me turned suddenly to thunder.  Byambaa, the lead horseman, flew by with a shrill whistle and a wicked grin and swung the long rope he carried at Brownie's heels.  The horses knew what was happening, even if I didn't--they took off.

I forgot everything I knew about knees and feet and grips and posture and rhythm and held on.  My sturdy little Mongolian horse flew on short legs, and I felt air beneath his hooves more than I felt the ground.  We were on a hillside, and though a broad valley opened to one side, my eyes were streaming from the cold wind and fear and I could see nothing.  I was certain each time Brownie's feet did hit the ground that this step would send me flying off his back and down the hill.  All I could hear was the rumble of the herd and possibly, Byambaa's laughter.

But Brownie is a good horse.  Byambaa later told me Brownie's real "name," such as it is, among the guides--cahn murr,  Good Horse.  That good horse didn't let me fall.  I can take no credit for it; it's a wonder, really, that my flailing and grabbing didn't fling me into the wind, and it's a testament to Brownie's goodness that my clutching his reins and wrapping my legs nearly all the way around his belly didn't induce him to dump me and leave me behind.  We flew along, and I'm still such a novice that I couldn't really tell you if we were cantering or galloping; I don't have the experience to know what our pace was.  Brownie ran, his blood quick in his veins with the cool air and the great sky and the love of his herd, and he kindly carried me with him.  As we ran, by force of will and some miracle of the Mongolian air, I relaxed a little.  I opened my eyes and stopped thinking about falling off, and I felt the earth speed beneath us as a wonder rather than a horror.  We slowed eventually and went back to our fast walk, and we rode several more hours that day.  When I slid off the saddle successfully at our first night's camp my legs shook and my hips ached, I was grateful for the medicinal qualities of the whiskey the guides offered to add to our cocoa, and I was deeply happy.  That good horse had carried me into land I couldn't go by myself, and he had let me run with him.  I think Brownie was happy, too; his fur was drenched with sweat despite the cold, but he had a snuffly roll in the snow and found a patch of moss by the frozen river to munch he evidently found deeply satisfying.  In the coming days we had a few more discussions about who exactly was in charge, and I was slow to learn.  We had adventures, but Brownie never did let me fall, and he continued to share the thrill of the run with me.

Here's why I'd recommend a similar trip to anyone, horse person or not, outdoor person or not:  there's a part of my heart that's still there, running with my Good Horse, and always will be.  There's much more to Mongolia than this, and I hope to tell you much of what I've saw and felt and heard, but the heart of that place for me is the song of the horsemen in the cold air and the drumbeat of horses running for joy.