Once Upon a Time, The End

I was so euphoric on Friday when I wrote my last post that I realized later it sounded like a fairy tale and we were at this part:

          They lived happily ever after. The End. 

In fact, we are only at this part of the trail riding story:

Once upon a time, there was a woman who raised a beautiful, brave horse named Tumbleweed. The woman dreamed of someday riding the trails with him, and she spent many days (years) preparing for it (more work on herself than him).  Soon, they were ready to set out.

One day….

In other words, we are at the beginning of this new chapter. 

I am already frustrated that I can’t get right back out and build on what we started Friday. I worked with Tweed at home yesterday and today I am going out of town. The grandson gets home tomorrow and babysitting duties resume. I am going to have to be very creative. 

In the meantime, I am piecing together all my old trail gear:

After my ride Friday, I was thinking how I wished I owned a thin riding halter, just in case I want to hop off and walk him through something or tie him somewhere.

I began researching them and almost bought one, then a light went off —…Um, I own one and used it often with Cowboy. 

Ok. 

But do you still have it?

The picture already gave it away. Yes, I save everything. 

The next thing was finding my packs and seeing what was still in them and what they needed. 

This is what was in them: sunblock, trail maps, roll on fly spray, and hand sanitizer (my last big rides were during the pandemic, and I had a lot of hand sanitizer!)

This is what I added to it: a first aid kit, ice pack, and vet wrap. Then, a utility knife with a hoof pick. (Cowboy had a shoe hang by one nail on a ride and I was only able to get it off because a friend had a similar utility knife.)

Finally, I was remembering back to some particularly buggy rides that inspired me to invest in riding masks. I looked them up on Amazon and saw that I had purchased them in ‘18 and ‘23. I’m sure they’re in my collection out there, but I ordered both again because you can never have enough fly masks. My horses are hard on them.

The visibility is excellent with the Cashel Quiet Ride masks. I didn’t think they created any issues when I rode with them before. 

And last, but not least…

A friend made me a knife sheath long ago, and I have it tied to my saddle at all times. A horsewoman always needs a knife. 

Right now I can’t think of anything else to add. 

How about you, what’s in your bags?

The Way Back Time Machine

On the sidebar of this blog you will find “My Favorite Blogs”-you’re all on there, (many have gone dark 😭), and if you’re a horse blogger and not on there and would like to be, let me know. 

There is also “Popular Posts,” which is generated by blogger stats. Since I took many of my old posts off last year during some weird, wild hair of mine, that section has been more representative of diverse topics. 

Well, anywho, I do peek at that sidebar every so often and today I saw this one “A Sensitive, Neurotic Horse May Be Just What the Doctor Ordered.”  It’s a time capsule that is relevant to my situation yesterday and some of you commented on it way back then. 

Within it there is a link to another post: Equine Anxiety from a Psychiatric Perspective.  It is based upon a conversation I had with my husband about human anxiety and how it can be applied to horses. (Your comments from the way back Time Machine are fun to read!)

Here is the portion of that convo that I find interesting today:

——

“Husband:  Sure. [Seems to be eager to talk about one of his favorite topics.] There are cells, deep inside the brain that release norepinephrine, it's adrenaline, and that is released throughout the brain and affects all the major structures of the brain such as the cortex, which is where thinking goes on. So, people have scary thoughts, it affects the hypothalamus, which is what controls heartbeat, breathing and, of course, those go up in a panic attack. And then, norepinephrine stimulates nerves that go to the peripheral nervous system, which creates the shaking, sweating, and all those sorts of things, as well as the gut which can go into spasms and become part of it. That can go on from anywhere between ten minutes to two hours, and then, those people experiencing a panic attack will be drained, but it will replenish itself in a few hours.

The interesting thing is, while panic attacks usually start in some kind of situation of fear and anxiety, after a while, the thing that's really painful is that people fear having a panic attack itself--they fear the feeling of anxiety, and then they can become housebound.

Me: How do you stop a panic attack once it's started?

Husband: You have to start with a top down approach, so you go to the thinking part of the brain and start to rethink what's going on, re-frame what's going on, learn new ways to relax, learn to control at least one physiological parameter, because in a panic attack physiology is out of control. This tells the brain, I might be partly out of control, but I'm not totally out of control. And, eventually, you have to begin to expose yourself to feared situations, in small doses, so you can begin to re-experience them as more pleasurable now.

Me: So, for instance with Cowboy, panicking about water or anything else, how would that apply if they're already at the feared object?

Husband: If they're already there, try to get them to relax without having them go further. Don't let them run away. For humans, you have to get them to recapture some bodily function that they can control. Eventually, you want them to experience the feared situation as a pleasurable situation.”

——

In the follow-up article, I wrote this:

“The things I took from that human/horse panic attack connection were:

1. Control some physiological parameter.
2. Use a top down approach and get them thinking.
3. Do not pressure them forward, but get them to relax and not run away. (In retrospect, #3 should be amended a bit because it’s not real clear.)
4. Help them experience the feared situation as a pleasant situation.”

—-

So, here I am a decade or so later, did it work with Cowboy?

Yes.

When I switched to that modus operandi, Cowboy and I grew into the most exceptional trail riding partnership. I earned his try and his deep trust. That trust (and love) was one of the greatest accomplishments of my life. 

Did he do absolutely everything I asked? No, but he always “tried” to do something towards it and he regularly went across water (which was his worst fear even before I got him.)

Did I feel super safe on his back? Yes, so safe. It was like we were one. 

Did he want to go on rides with me? Yes, and he’d even walk past the trailer on purpose to keep rides going. 

Was he a happier horse? Oh yes.

In a nutshell, I want with Tumbleweed what I had with Cowboy. ❤️ That sums it up best. 

Interesting to hear what all your thoughts are now, a decade later. 

—-

On another note, if you don’t own ZOCKS, you need some. I bought several pair five years ago and they are perfect for summer. Mine are finally getting thin from use, so I had to first remember what the heck they were called (zocks) and then buy them again. Worth the investment. 🙌

I Have a Trail Horse 🥹

(That’s the face of happiness right there.)

Oh my, what a day! I’ll just say it right off the top, the short trail ride with my friend went great! All the work we’ve done was there—from checking in with me to asking which foot to put where, what speed to go, and if I wanted to stop going down a hill or stop going up a hill, walk back to the trailer, be able to stop and pay attention (even when the trailer was in sight), and to lead out with a new a horse following behind.

See that ear turned back to me? That’s what I had the whole way. If I lost it too long, I’d ask for vertical flexion, squeeze him forward if he tried to stop, and then release it. (I also sat deep on my pockets!)

When we got back to the obstacle course we did some light work before the lesson, and these two sweeties came along.

Be still my heart. I joked that Tumbleweed could be their long lost brother since they share the same coloring. 

So, we attempted the bridge again, but he still wanted to avoid it. I accepted a nose touch and a foot on it because he had done so well on the trail (the big prize) I didn’t want to undo everything we gained with a fight. 

The friend I was with (only after being asked by me. I asked, since you just rode with us, what would you suggest I work on during the lesson?) …She wasn’t sure she should answer that trick question, but after some prodding she said she thought I shouldn’t have given up on the bridge obstacle until he went across. She doesn’t think he should get in the habit of saying, NO.

A valid point, although I countered that his heart was beating pretty hard and I could feel it through my fenders. I didn’t want to get bigger, especially after the trail ride and before a lesson. It wasn’t a battle I wanted right then.

When my lesson was about ready to start, I brought it up with Regina—when is it too much versus “not enough?”

Regina said she understood the concept, but with the bridge still being broken, she didn’t want to school him on it and risk him getting injured. She suggested to do the same work, but on different obstacles—the sand pit and the big logs. 

The sand pit obstacle is harder than the bridge, and I’ve added a few stops and turns to it. As we were schooling on the sand pit, and Tweed was doing awesome, my friend called my name. Her horse had broken free and was running across the park to get back to her new boyfriend, my beautiful boy. 

I dismounted and Regina told me to keep my attention on Tumbleweed. We could see the sweet mare running towards us like a heat seeking missile. Tweed didn’t know how to respond and flagged his tail, arched his neck, but Regina’s advice was spot on. I turned my attention to Tweed and he returned my attention almost 💯. He calmed right down. Regina secured the mare and all was well.

We restarted the sand pit obstacle and I worked on sharpening my turn cue.

Finally, we went to the logs. Up to that point Tweed had only accomplished it from the ground, and not with me riding him. 

We did the same thing—got a long straight start, checked him ahead of the obstacle with vertical flexion, sat back on my pockets (it felt super far back, but it works), and gave him the reins. 

Tada!

I am building a confident horse and a partnership! The thanks goes to my trainer, Regina. All those building blocks she added filled the holes. There were times I didn’t know how what we were doing related to trail riding, but it did. She said today that because we worked in all these things, when I ask for them on the trail they comfort him. He is familiar with it and it supports him. ❤️

We have so much more to accomplish, but it is safe to say, I officially have a trail horse now. 

As I write, I am beginning to tear up because I am so happy. The last two years have been hard, but we didn’t stop, and now this. I am deeply, deeply grateful. 

Not least of which, I am grateful to Tumbleweed. I’m not sure if he is a late bloomer or if my life complications slowed down his progress. (Maybe a little of both.) But what he is turning into is a strong-minded trail leader. We’ve achieved that essential quality, togetherness. 

Just wow. Wow. Wow. 

What We Are Training

This week to ourselves has been fun. I forgot what it was like to have so much time to fall in love with my horse. 

Yesterday, we were back to the park, but rode the obstacle course in saddle. Tweed did them all, except the bridge. I could only get his feet on it and have him rest there. 

I didn’t want to take steps backwards when he did all the others absolutely perfectly—one step at a time—stopped when asked, forward when asked. Even at the mounting block, where he is always good, he was better. He didn’t have to be positioned, but instead moved his own body to my sweet spot for me to get on.

After getting his feet on it, I got off and walked him across the bridge, and he did that with no problem, which tells me, at this juncture, it’s more about carrying a rider over it.

I chose to tell myself he was trying to take care of me after what happened the other day. The experience shook his confidence in delivering me safely over that obstacle. Whatever the case, when I looked at it that way it filled my heart with love for him and I hugged him really hard and he melted his head into me. Just melted. That release of tension and lack of any resistance was confirmation I’d done the right thing.

The other day I came across a Facebook post and it said we are always training something—good or bad. We even train confidence. I want Tweed to, first and foremost, trust me and want to spend time with me. 

Today, we’re heading out for his first trail ride with a non-herd horse. A friend invited me, and I feel like I can trust her to give me the time I need to work through whatever comes up. After the ride we have a lesson.

Here’s that post from Tim Anderson Horse Training:

“ Everyone Who Rides Is a Trainer—The Real Question Is: What Are You Training?

There’s this common idea floating around that there’s a line between riders and trainers. Like “trainer” is some special title reserved for professionals, and everyone else is just a rider along for the ride. But here’s the truth, plain and simple:

If you ride a horse, you are a trainer.

You’re either training that horse to be better—or you’re training that horse to be worse.

There is no neutral.

That might sound harsh, but horses are always learning something every time you interact with them. So the real question isn’t are you training your horse, but rather, what are you training them to do?

Training Isn’t a Job Title—It’s a Result

People tend to think “training” is some formal process that happens under the guidance of a paid professional with a whistle and a plan. And yes, good trainers absolutely have a method, a process, and a structure. But the act of training happens every time you swing a leg over, pick up the reins, or even halter your horse.

Every time you ride, you’re teaching. Every time you handle your horse, you’re reinforcing something. And the scary part is—if you’re not intentional about what that something is, it’s usually not good.

You might be teaching your horse to:

ignore the leg,

push through the bit,

lean on the forehand,

avoid pressure,

spook to get out of work,

blow through transitions,

or flat-out disregard you as a leader.

And you might not even realize it’s happening, because a lot of bad training doesn’t feel bad in the moment. It just feels like a horse being a little “off,” or having a “bad day,” or “not liking that one thing.”

But horses don’t do things at random. They do what they've been trained to do—on purpose, by accident, or through neglect.

You don’t have to be a world-class rider to train a good horse. But you do have to be consistent. You have to have standards. You have to be present and paying attention. And you have to stop blaming the horse for things you’ve allowed, tolerated, or failed to address.

You’re training with every cue, every aid, every reaction. If you ask for something and your horse ignores you, and you let it go—you just trained them that your cues don’t mean much.

If your horse gets pushy at the gate and you say, “Oh, he’s just excited,” and you let it happen—you just trained him that excitement is a reason to ignore boundaries.

And if your horse stops listening altogether, but you just keep riding the same way hoping it gets better, you’re not just holding them back—you’re helping them get worse.

That’s training, too. It’s just not the kind that leads to a better horse.

Training Happens In the Small Things

It’s easy to think training only happens when you’re working on something obvious—like leads, stops, or lateral work. But training happens just as much in the boring stuff:

Does your horse stand still when you mount?

Does your horse wait until you ask before moving off?

Do they lead respectfully, back when asked, yield their hindquarters, soften when you pick up the reins?

Those little things are where all the real training lives. That’s where your horse is learning who you are, what you expect, and what they’re allowed to get away with.

Good training isn’t flashy. It’s not about spinning fast or sliding far. It’s about the small habits that build a safe, reliable, responsive horse. That’s what real trainers focus on—every single ride.

You’re Either Teaching Good Habits—or Reinforcing Bad Ones

Horses are pattern learners. If something works once, they’ll try it again. If something gets them out of work, they’ll remember it. If you let them drift to the gate one day, you’ve just taught them the gate is an option. If you bump the reins to slow down and then let them blow through that cue because you’re tired—that becomes the new standard.

What you allow is what you teach.

What you ignore is what you teach.

What you’re inconsistent with is what you teach.

So if your horse gets worse the more you ride—don’t look at them. Look at you.

Because whether you meant to or not, you trained that.

The Best Horses Aren’t Born—They’re Made

People love to compliment good horses. “He’s such a nice horse,” they’ll say. And that might be true. But behind every “nice” horse is someone who made sure that horse learned the right things. Somebody held that horse accountable. Somebody didn’t excuse away the nonsense. Somebody trained—every ride, every day, every moment.

And here’s the kicker: if you’re not training your horse to be better, you are leaving a blank slate open for them to teach themselves—and what they teach themselves usually involves shortcuts, resistance, and ways to avoid pressure.

That’s not a flaw in the horse. That’s just a horse being a horse. It’s your job to teach them better.

So… What Are You Training?

You don’t have to call yourself a “trainer” to be one. The horse doesn’t care about titles. The horse only cares about what you’re teaching them today.

So ask yourself:

Am I training my horse to soften, or to brace?

Am I training my horse to listen, or to tune me out?

Am I training my horse to be confident, or to be anxious?

Am I helping them progress, or letting them stall out?

Because like it or not, you are training your horse every time you’re with them.

That training can build a better horse, or it can break one down.

It can build trust, or it can create confusion.

It can build habits that last a lifetime—or habits you’ll be fighting for the rest of that horse’s life.

Final Thought: Own the Job You Already Have

You don’t need to be a pro to train your horse well. You just need to take ownership of the role you already have. Be aware. Be consistent. Be intentional.

Because every rider is a trainer.

And every horse is the product of that training.

What kind of horse are you making?

 

🚫 Auto Pilot

The work we did the other day was all about 🚫 auto pilot while riding and working together. Some obstacles are so easy for Tweed that he can do them while thinking about something else. On the trail, however, that can be a bad thing. 

For example, once we were going down a steep hill with loose rock and Foxy got way ahead of him. He thought he could walk down the hill and think about Foxy, but it felt very unbalanced and dangerous to me riding it. (It was.)

Today was about facing the bridge and waiting, at every obstacle, for next job. 

We did a couple easy obstacles to start, then went straight to the “broken” bridge. Tweed hesitated for a second, but then walked on with me, pretty relaxed, but walked off of it half way. 

I considered that a big win, made a big deal of him, and went off to a new obstacle where I could put more pressure on him than at the bridge. 

Tweed was feeling pretty good about himself (and his ability to say NO) so he said no. 

I put pressure on him to face it. He backed away. No. No. 

We spent a little time doing that and then he jumped it. I made a big deal of him. We did it again. He jumped a little less dramatically. I made a big deal of him. Eventually, he walked over it, which is all I had been asking. We went on to other obstacles. 

The car wash. He had to walk in and stand and wait.

The log obstacle. He had to stand half way over it and let me take a photo. 

A few more obstacles, yay Tweed, you’re a rockstar! Then back to the bridge. 

First pass, up he went and stood for me. Second pass, other direction, same thing. Third pass, fourth pass, fifth pass. Yawn. 🥱 boring. 

And just like that, we were done. In all, maybe 15-20 minutes. Then back home before the unbearable HEAT. 

There was no need for more. He checked in. He waited. He went where he didn’t want to go, onto the bridge. I forgot to say, he even stepped onto the teeter totter bridge, which will be our next goal.