It was a dark and stormy night...
Okay. No.
It was a Saturday afternoon, and the sun was out. It was one of those days that seemed to ooze perfection; the sun dripping energy into every cell and the wind breathing them to life. I had just made the hour and a half drive home, slept for twelve glorious hours, and was geared up to ride more ponies.
Because, you know, working students don't have enough to do.
I caught old faithful Chunky, an appendix who we bought after a trip to Tractor Supply. (Talk about impulse buy..) He's not much to look at, and he looks better than he rides. But Chunk's got something going for him: You could tie a peacock to him, take him to a screamo concert, and let Charlie Sheen rope rabid reindeer off him, and he'd still look somewhat drowsy and unimpressed.
In other words, he's a saint.
But every saint was once a sinner.
And Saint Chunk was bad, bad pony.
We tore off into that day, galloping through fields and up hills and around hay bales. Now, when I say we tore off, you must understand that Chunk doesn't 'tear off' anywhere faster than a 1950's tractor. But that's okay because he makes me feel invincible.
...... Wait.
I'm already teenaged.
And invincible, right?
So, he makes me feel like I'm invincible, times 10000000.
......
You see where this is headed?
He pushed through the grass, snaking his nose out to grab some as I plucked the furry tips off the ready-to-be-cut grass. The fur on his neck was already stiff with fresh sweat, The back of my tee shirt clung to my skin. And it felt like heaven. My feet dangled from the stirrups, and my reins looped as we meandered through some hay field, a pair of lost but nontragic Steinbeck characters. (But as all Steinbeck tales, tragedy would strike. No worries though; no ponies were harmed in the making of this story.
Just my ego.)
He snorted, which I interpreted as an indication of his relaxation. (In hindsight, he probably had something up his nose.) I took this relaxation as a sign we should head to the creek.
Younger, more irresponsible Me spent tons of time wading through said creek. Splashing friends, swimming. So, responsible Me would have NO trouble.
Right?!?
And of course, I didn't. Because as previously stated, Chunk is a saint and I grew up in them there backwaters. (.. Yes, people talk like that where I'm from. I seen it with my own eyes!)
I crossed the creek and hopped off my horse, who stood still as a statue while I stripped off my tall boots and crash through the water like a labrador retriever. He calmly munched the grass on the bank as I played and complied when I hopped back up to ride him down the creek. When we returned, damp and dosed up on summer, he closed his eyes while I dried my toes and tugged on my socks and shoes.
I stood up from the bank and wrapped my fingers loosely around his rein.
You would have guessed I was an electric eel.
He sprung to life, splashing across the creek. The water soaked me again; he hit the surface like a 400 pound man belly-flopping. (Approximately.) I stood dumbfounded, watching my ride peel across ground at a speed I thought only NASCAR drivers could accomplish.
When he hit the other side of the bank and the first thundering stride struck the ground, my senses returned to me.
I was stranded.
On the wrong side of the creek.
A half hour from home.
With no cell phone.
Watching my horse gallop away from me.
Toward an open gate.
And a somewhat busy road.
I yelled after him, knowing it was no good. My yells turned to curses as I watched his fat bay butt disappear beyond the tree line. I could still hear his gallop minutes later, and I swear I could feel it in my bones for much longer.
Swallowing my pride, I removed my boots once more and sloshed across creek. My tall boots cried when I stuffed my soaked feet back into them. (I heard them.) It wasn't an option though. Crossing into the hay field, I realized it was up to my waist, and it still was a struggle not to be taken on barefoot.
He was gone. The only trace of him was a path cut haphazardly across the field that I followed with the diligence of the old trackers.
I don't know how long it took me, but by the time I emerged from that god-forsaken hay pasture, climbed the hills we'd galloped, and panted against the hay bales we'd dodged (Oh, Southern summers), I was covered in burrs and stickers, sweat and disgust.
I learned later that my pony had arrived home long before me. He had galloped his way home without a single detour or spook and had let himself into a stall, where we found him eating hay with a non-plussed expression.
And me?
I smelled like the creature from the black lagoon for a week.
Nothing new, I guess.
--Girl
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