The first part of this story was blogged on February 28, 2015

It was during our second year together that the change I longed for in my diminutive bay mare was finally complete.  It showed itself in subtle ways: sometimes there was one less worry line above each eye, sometimes she was curious, and often she had a good, clean-horse smell. It was as if she were saying, “OK, I’ll come out, but please don’t hurt me. I’ll do anything you ask as long as you just don’t hurt me.” We still weren’t out of the woods by a long shot: if something bad happened — she got kicked by another horse or tripped or, worst of all, was victimized by some unthinking carelessness on my part — she would disappear inwardly again, her eyes a deathly dull, the worry lines written again in triplicate. Gradually, as I learned better to understand her need not to be rushed, to be coaxed gently back into this world, those absences grew shorter and less frequent. I knew we’d turned the corner when one day she pulled back against her tie rope in response to some dumb thing I had done and flipped herself over onto her back while saddled.  She struggled to her feet, trotted a few strides away, and stood stock still, looking at me. She was not going away this time her look said; instead she was waiting for me, not to fix things but to be with her while she recovered herself. I walked to her and cradled her head in my arms, which I could not have done had she not arched and lowered her neck to receive my touch. For several minutes, we soothed one another, she forgiving my carelessness, I forgiving her panic.  Sahara, no longer Sarah, had been re-born.

Even after that time, however, I still felt a distance between her and me, a separation I did not feel with my other mare.  Despite the commercial practitioners of “natural horsemanship,” who say they can get a horse’s respect in two hours, I have come to understand that with horses like Sahara (perhaps with all horses) one has to earn a partnership over time. The more intelligent and wary they are, the longer it takes for us to prove our worth to them.

Sahara let me know I’d finally gotten her approval during a trail ride early in our third year together. I went with some friends into the mountains in late spring. Our “guide” got us lost and chose a way out through snow four feet deep in places. I was worried about Sahara, who stands just a little over fourteen hands, so got off whenever I could manage the snow myself. After several hours of rough sledding, we came to a spot where we could see a plowed road. The only way to it was over a deep berm where excess snow from the road had been piled. It was powder in some places, ice in others. My friends’ horses, larger and more powerful than Sahara, refused to traverse it.  I dismounted and tested the snow with my weight, plowing a little path to the road, about ten feet away. I didn’t want to lead her through the narrow opening I had made, as it is easy to get in the way of a struggling horse, to which many can attest with broken bones. I remounted and directed my little mare toward the gap in the snow. Without hesitation she took my lead, surging powerfully under me though the snow, widening the path in some spots, breaking a new trail in others, hurtling the deeper drifts.

At last! I wasn’t riding a pitiful abused little mare any more, I was riding an ancient Arabian mind, confident in herself and in me, knowing I wouldn’t ask her to do anything we couldn’t manage together. From my vantage point on the road, I called — a little smugly I admit — to my companions to follow. To my amazement, the other horses still refused to attempt the berm. One rider had to lead his horse through the gap Sahara had created. The last rider could not even lead her mount to its edge. Finally, I urged Sahara back through the opening, wider now that another, larger horse had gone through, advising my friend, now on foot, to remount and follow me back. Sahara turned to make a third crossing; the last horse, not wanting to be left without companionship, followed close behind.

And that wasn’t the only thing my pony-size Arab showed the bigger horses that day. The final leg of our trip required us to cross a long, flat field, three feet deep in powder snow. All the horses were tired as were their riders. We had been fighting snow for about four hours. Too exhausted to dismount and lead her, I gave Sahara her head, hoping she had the stamina to carry me to the end of our journey. She did a lot more than that!

Bill Dorrance, called “the horseman” by those to whom he and his brother Tom taught a new kind of horse training, writes in his book “True Horsemanship through Feel” that when horses achieve perfect balance under saddle, their riders can feel them lift themselves into their seats, filling them up, so to speak. I didn’t quite understand what he meant until Sahara started taking that snow field at a huge, rocking trot. She tucked her delicate nose, arched her neck, and lifted herself and me — and this old gal ain’t no lightweight — over the snow in rhythmic, powerful strides. For the first time on horseback, I became one with my horse. We floated across the field, in divine harmony and balance, followed by our mortal companions, who managed only to plod doggedly in our tracks.

Sahara hasn’t taken a false step since that day she proved herself in the snow. She’s still afraid of things — water, crinkling paper, plastic bags — but she’s willing to tackle them as long as I give her the time to choose her own path. This winter, she’s been present every day, a light in her eyes and only one wrinkle above, just in case. Because she is fully there, now, the gap between us is no longer apparent, to me, at least.  I suspect she’s put her hoof print on that $600 bill of sale. And I know I belong to her, heart and soul.