The episode on that hill had finally made a dent in my confidence about my ability to survive Feather. Luck had played too large a role in keeping either of us from getting injured. I still didn’t want to tell Nancy, my trainer, but at least Sharon, who had seen me handle all sorts of terrain, knew I could ride. She was also unlikely to chew me out.
“Feather… isn’t steering well,” I told Sharon. “And she’s running away with me. I’m having a little trouble.”
Sharon looked skeptically at Feather and asked a few more questions about the issue. I could see her assessing the small, round chestnut mare and comparing her to the monstrous warmbloods she’d regularly brought through horsey boot camp. “I’m sure you can handle it,” she said.
I squirmed and gave her a watered down explanation about the episode on the hill, following it up desperately with, “Could you show me what you’d do?”
Sharon’s eyes narrowed as she listened. “Sure,” she said. “Let’s take Feather into the roundpen.” A roundpen, Sharon explained as we led Feather over, was the first step in handling a difficult horse. Basically, the fenced-in circle limited any shenanigans a horse might try, since the horse couldn’t get up the speed or space to become really unstoppable. We went in, and I stood in the middle, arms folded tightly across my chest. Sharon swung up onto Feather.
Feather has smooth gaits even for an Icelandic Horse: a beautiful flat-footed walk, a soft, floaty trot, and a rocking-horse canter. Sharon put her through all of them without any trouble. Feather, made cautious by the new rider and the new setting, didn’t put a foot wrong. Sharon’s skeptical look was returning. “She’s a nice mover,” said Sharon, “and very responsive to shifts of weight.”
“Try turning her some more,” I suggested. “She doesn’t like to turn.”
Sharon shrugged and put Feather through a few sharp turns. By now, Feather’s breathing had begun to quicken with the exertion. She wasn’t tired yet, just realizing she needed to work. Sharon asked her for another tight turn. Feather braced against the pull of the rein and took off at a brisk canter, head in the air. I’d only ever felt her do it, so it took me a moment to realize that not only had she taken off with Sharon, she’d gotten away with it.
“Huh,” said Sharon, as she experimented (unsuccessfully) with asking Feather to stop. Feather kept right on cantering, neck braced and jaw tight. “This is a really dangerous trick.”
Sharon got her stopped, eventually, through a combination of Feather having no where to run and rollbacks. She rode her another few laps, and Feather took off again. Unlike me, Sharon didn’t get angry and shaken. Instead, she looked thoughtful and a little grim by the time she finished and stopped Feather beside me.
“You can’t ride this horse on the trail. You’re going to get hurt. You have to tell Nancy about it.”
Sharon, far from thinking I was making a fuss over nothing, actually thought Feather’s behavior was legitimately dangerous. I absently ran my hand along Feather’s cheek, a weird mixture of stunned and relieved. “All right,” I said. “I’ll see what she says.”