Adventure: riding my fiery steed

Yes! I rode my fiery Morgan – well, my fresh, not-worked-for-months Morgan – okay, my laidback, yeh-whatever Morgan. It was a mild soft day not long ago (for February, anyway), so I figured, what the heck, just pop on his bridle and hop on bareback.

Yup, bareback on a horse that hadn’t been worked for at least a couple of months. Bareback by a mostly sedentary over-60 rider whose primary exercise comes from mucking and wheelbarrow pushing. Who hasn’t been on a horse for at least a couple of months, and hadn’t done all that much riding for ages before then.

This is, shall we say, not exactly the smartest move one could make, eh? Indeed, my knees were a bit weak as I got going on my folly.

Commander wasn’t thrilled to be taken away from his hay but he submitted to being bridled with patient good humor. He led quietly to the mounting rock, stood quietly next to it as I slung my leg over his broad back, and stayed quietly still as I lunge-leaped the few inches required to heave my body far enough across said broad back to get aboard. He actually waited till I was more or less centered and upright before moving off at a sedate walk. I tell ya, if he’d wanted to dump me he’d have had no trouble; if the rock had been an inch or two lower, or his back an inch or two higher, I’d never have made it, and I am very glad there was no one there to point and laugh during the mounting scramble.

So, off we went, me grinning with silly triumph, Commander no doubt wondering what he’d done to deserve this. We ambled up around the barn to say hello to Noah, farm-son (Maria, farm-wife, was out for the day; Peter, farm-husband, as it turned out was inside and watching with bemusement), who was busy cleaning out the chicken house, and to let him know that he need no longer be alert for any screams for help or dull thud followed by appearance of riderless horse. Then we headed down to the outdoor ring.

We trotted! Okay, we jogged. Short distances. Commander has the most wonderful tiny jog-trot; it pit-pit-pits under you while you just sit there gliding along. It makes a riding lawnmower look like a bronc. When I’d tired of ringwork (ha! more like ringputter) I rode back up around the barn, jogged a bit in the driveway, then ambled back to the paddock gate and slid off, praising my magnificent steed mightily.

Said steed took it as his due. He cheerfully followed me back into the paddock, amiably stood for the removal of his bridle, then went back to his hay – Well, no. No, actually he stood facing the gate, looking at me expectantly. Waiting. Beaming a simple steady message at me: “I worked for you, now you reward me.” Apparently neck skritches and verbal praise don’t qualify. Fortunately, I had a stash of what would qualify in the barn, and once he got his horse cookies (Meadow Mints, to be exact) he decided the deal was complete and went back to his hay.

A couple of days later it was another soft warm day, so I decided to ride the little guy again. This time when I entered the run-in paddock, bridle in hand, Commander looked at me, looked at the bridle, and made a slow-motion escape attempt. Ha! He’s figured me out. Since he had nowhere to go (the run-in paddock being rather small, and the fields beyond being shut off as too muddy to let the boys out onto), his half-hearted rebellion fizzled out fast, and he resigned himself to his dreadful fate.

I got him to stand on a lower patch of ground next to the mounting rock this time, so the boarding process was somewhat closer to graceful than the last time. We did a bit of ringputter, then I dared to take him out into the wilderness. Yes! Out into the great beyond!

We headed out from the ring, out along the farm lane, out across the culvert, out past the knoll to the rise of ground on its far side. By golly, I believe we travelled as far as 60, maybe even 80 yards away! Commander was dubious about this mad venture into the unknown, what with the narrowing of the lane over the culvert, the water puddled along it, and the evil-looking grubby swathes of snow flanking our path, but when I refused to accept any sucking back he bravely went on. In fact, by the time we turned around he seemed relaxed and even intrigued by the new stuff to look at. I’ll give him his due: He didn’t try to rush when we headed homeward into safe familiarity, just pattered along on a loose rein at his usual rate.

Commander’s a bit of a lazy boy, and would rather not work, if you don’t mind; but if you do mind, he says okay then, I’ll do it, and does it. I love my Thoroughbred Ben dearly, but he’s a lot more work, needs a saddle, needs a warmup, and needs effort to ride his big elastic gaits. Commander’s a no frills, no effort quick spin. If you’ve only got a few minutes to spare for some riding fun, he’s perfect for it.

He’s also polite about taking his Meadow Mints from your hand afterwards.

This guy is a hoot.

:smiley:

:slight_smile: A very enjoyable read, thank you.

Sometimes I go window shopping for horses and I often find myself wondering about Morgans. I’m small enough that we’d be a good fit, I think. I’ve never met one, though, and I’m not really shopping for real though. Is this your first Morgan?

I’d love to hear more about him when it warms up and you try a saddle on him.

It’s my first Morgan, yes, having owned a Quarter Horse and a Thoroughbred before. I’ve ridden him saddled and he’s fine under it – has a little rocking horse canter that’s as easy to sit as his wee trot. I’m 5’8" and his former owner is over 6 feet tall, but he’s big-bodied enough that we fit just fine.

He’s an old-fashioned sort of Morgan, not the more modern saddleseat type, which can be hot. He’s definitely very smart! (Morgans tend to be smart.) He’ll test you, on the ground and under saddle, to see what he can get away with, but when you let him know you’re wise to him, he does what you ask.

Here’s my blog posting about him coming to live with my Ben. Commander’s foundered in the past and can’t be jumped, which is why his former owner wanted to find him a new home. He’s thrilled that his boy is now living in the next town over so he can come visit whenever he likes.

Here’s a blog post about the boys romping in fresh-fallen snow.

Where are you located, Merneith? There are Morgans all over the country; in fact there’s what’s called the Western Working Family of Morgans, bred by ranchers from several Eastern bloodlines to produce good cowponies. Yup – the Quarter Horse isn’t the only stock horse that ranchers developed.

sigh I miss lazy rides like that a LOT. Commander sounds like my kind of boy.

I know. That kind of no-brainer quick spin is such fun, isn’t it? My old Quarter Horse Nick was like that too. I could clip a lead rope on his halter, hop aboard, and off we’d go. Bareback, atop his turnout rug, or just throw a saddle pad over his back – he was a peach. Great with kids, too.

that’s how my old mare used to be. I could take her over jumps bareback with just a halter. Maybe this new mare will be the same way.

In other news, Nakota is in heat right now. That hopefully bodes well for her fertility in two months.

StG

Yay for Nakota! Fingers & toes crossed for fertility!

My first horse Star was like that, I could just clip lead ropes to his halter and off we’d go on a long trail ride. I could ride him all 3 gaits & jump bareback. I felt like I was a part of him.

There is nothing like the feeling of galloping bareback; you can literally feel all your worries draining out, down thru the horse’s legs to be left far, far behind. Best therapy in the world.

Yay indeed for Nakota!

Heh. Ten, fifteen years ago, I’d canter bareback. Now I’m content to walk and at times enjoy Commander’s tiny jog-trot.

Although, if I get my riding muscles back in shape in the next couple of months, I might just try a bareback canter on him. Wouldn’t dream of trying to ride Ben bareback, though – totally aside from his kissing spines, and high withers, and energetic gaits, he’s just enough of a spookhead that I wouldn’t feel safe. Also, he’s 16.1 hands, which is quite a bit farther to fall, somehow, than Commander’s 15 hands.

But then, I may be doing Ben a disservice. After all, he cheerfully packed a pack of little girls around bareback one day, in a small paddock, under adult supervision, controlled only by a sidepull.

Kid’s pony Ben

He seemed to enjoy it

Mostly well behaved

Even trotted!

Mugged the kids afterwards

I love Morgans----my 21 year old grade Morgan is one of the apples of my eye. What a great writeup about your adventure today, and what a handsome fellow he is!

Wow, speaking of grade Morgans, you reminded me of the first horse I came to know and adore, waaaaayyyyyyyyyyyy back must be almost 20 years ago, when I first started riding as an adult after more than 20 years away from it. Her name was Bridget, she was probably a (grade?) Morgan, she was well into her twenties (if not edging into her thirties), and she was a much-feared schoolie at the barn where I started back into riding. Feared, not because she was scary to ride, but because she was the rock-bottom beginner’s horse, and if you didn’t give the aids as correctly as she deemed proper, she’d ignore you and do whatever she pleased, which mostly consisted of standing in the middle of the ring or walking Very. Slowly. wherever she pleased. She could reduce a less than competent rider to tears without flicking an ear.

But here’s the thing – if you asked her correctly, and she came to know and trust you, you could do anything with her that her ancient body would permit. I rode her bareback, and could take her into the corner of the ring, halt, and strike off into a canter. A canter! On the schoolie who made it plain to most of her burdens that anything faster than a tiny jog was simply impossible! We even hacked out bareback on what passed for trails at that place, and she never spooked, not once, not even a tiny twitch.

Damn, but I loved that old girl.