I Accidentally Manifested
falling off my horse by writing a journal entry and watching Godless.
Last Friday, I typed the following paragraphs into a naked Google document:
The first time I fell off a horse was in an outdoor arena in Sheboygan, Wisconsin. I was eight or nine. It was my first time ever riding outside, and I truly couldn’t bear the excitement. However, I wasn’t on Cutie, my regular lesson horse, that day. I was on some bay gelding instead. But he seemed amicable enough.
We circled the arena at a walk just fine. But when the young woman leading the lesson asked us to trot, the gelding threw his head up and tossed me. I had never fallen off before, and didn’t know I was supposed to roll out of the way. My helmeted head ended up underneath the belly of the horse, and I saw his hind hoof pass over my face with blue sky behind it, coming down just inches from my skull.
I just almost died, I thought. I burst into tears.
“This is the wrong bridle; we’re using the wrong bit for this horse,” I heard the instructor say. It wasn’t me; the horse was trying to run from the incorrect bit’s pressure and removed me from its back in the process. I felt so bad. I didn’t mean to hurt the horse. I didn’t want to fall off; how embarrassing. Embarrassing to cry on a step stool in the center of the arena while my friends trotted in a circle around me.
I don’t remember if I got back on that day or not. I don’t think I did. Either way, I remember walking the gelding back to the barn when the group lesson was complete.
The second time I fell off a horse was in the Appalachian mountains near the Maryland-Pennsylvania border. My uncle’s ex-girlfriend knew I loved horses and wanted to take me on a trail ride. My brothers and I called her Aunt Lumpy, but her real name is Lindsay and she isn’t lumpy by any means. She’s gorgeous, actually.
Shortly after the trail ride began, we had to cross a wide, shallow river. I’m sure the gray dude horse I was on had crossed in that exact location many, many times, but today was different. The horse spooked on the riverbank, swiveled on its hind legs, and bolted into the trees. Hanging sideways off the saddle, I gripped on for dear life as we ran past the pointy remains of recently cut saplings. The sharp, slender stumps could pierce through my ribcage, no doubt. I held onto the saddle horn, my left foot barely in the stirrup, until we cleared of the stumps and I could fall into soft, tall grass. As soon as I was off, the horse halted. I spoke calmly to it, taking the fallen reins in my hands loosely and walking back to the group.
“Where did you go? Why aren’t you on your horse?” said our trail guide. My horse spooked, it ran down there but I got off safely and walked it back, I explained. I remember her looking a bit bewildered, perhaps disappointed that she didn’t notice her client’s horse spooked and, even worse, her client was an underage child. I think her look also told me she was in disbelief that I had gathered up the horse and was unafraid to get back on. I didn’t know what had happened, but I didn’t get the sense that the problem was me. We continued on the trail ride as if nothing occurred.
Since I’ve started this day riding gig, I haven’t fallen off once.
Apparently, the universe took that as a challenge. The next day, I fell off for the third time. Since I already intended to make the day prior’s words into a Substack post, I cranked my sore neck upright and made an edit:
I haven’t fallen off onceI’ve only fallen off once: yesterday.
Here’s how it went.
Jazzy and I were moving cows off of Colorado Parks and Wildlife land onto Bureau of Land Management land. Our day had just started. We’d scooped cows up from a watering hole next to the parked trailer and walked them up a hill to the top of a mesa. The plan was to take the cows east through a pasture called Dead Cow Park, collect whatever cows were in there, then move them all south to rejoin the rest of the herd.
Just like cows do, a pair started hinting that they wanted to sneak away, and they began trending north instead of east. Not so fast, I told them, and I asked Jazzy to pick up the pace. We trotted out to the cows, and we were almost there, when her cadence shifted.
Are we slowing down? No, we’re hopping. Is there something on the ground? Suddenly, my butt dropped with a huge whoomph. Oh my god. Oh no. It’s happening.
The world went silent. Up down, up down, there goes my hat, up down, better grab the saddle horn, up down, up down, I’m losing my grip now, up down. Then, the moment came that I knew I was coming off. It felt exactly like when you’re about to puke, but you’re holding it down. Then, before you know it, you realize you absolutely cannot hold it down any longer and it’s coming out now. Only I wasn’t puking; I was going to hit the ground.
We were on a mesa. Where the hell was I supposed to land safely? I saw a gap in the sagebrush quickly approaching and I took it as an opportunity to eject. The next time she planted her front feet, I dropped off her right side.
Finding the ground happened amazingly fast. Instantaneous, almost. For a flash of time I saw the toes of my boots in the foreground and my horse’s ass behind them, and then I felt the rock. Fuck that rock. I hit it squarely on my hip bone. After my hip made first contact, I realized second contact took place right where my pelvis meets my spine. Sagebrush scratched up my forearms, and they stung.
Stunned, I sat up, praying that I didn’t break my back. My Garmin InReach and whistle were connected to my belt loop just in case. Man, I didn’t want to have to crawl back to the truck, cranking on a whistle. Wiggle your toes, I thought, and I could. Okay, back’s not broken. I felt along my thighs, hips, back, arms; no blood, no bones. Only bruises. Thank fucking god.
I stood up. I can stand. I can walk. I can ride.
I blinked around, my prescription sunglasses somehow still on my face, looking for my hat. Upside down, its golden liner glimmered in the strong sunlight, and I picked it up and put it on. Then, I looked at my horse. She grass hung out of her mouth as she eyed me, alert as hell. You. I wobbled up to her as calmly as I could, my dog Rosie following closely behind. I nabbed the reins dangling from her face and gently walked her to a flat, open area nearby. I lifted the reins above my head with my right hand, and slapped my left hand against my thigh as I told her to run.
You want to move? We are going to move, I thought, having absolutely no idea if this was the right thing to do or not. Move, she did. For five minutes, she ran in one direction, dizzying me as my eyes bore a hole into her right shoulder. She ran counterclockwise for five more. By the end, she was sweating, breathing hard, staring straight at me. The cows watched curiously from 100 yards away.
As much as I wanted to turn around, go home, and take some Advil, I knew I couldn’t. I couldn’t teach this horse that she can buck me off at the beginning of a work day and then we turn around and go home. We needed to finish the job. I had to get back on.
Coincidentally, Dan and I watched an episode of Godless the night before. In it, a fugitive named Roy Goode taught the son of the woman harboring him to ride. A saddled stallion, recently captured from the open range, stood in a round pen. Roy and Truckee stood in the middle, and Roy encouraged the young man to get in the saddle. Truckee did and promptly fell. He laid facedown in the dirt.
“Get back on,” Roy said through his teeth. Truckee was reluctant at first, but when Roy turned his back, Truckee remounted. And fell. And got back on. And fell again. Again. And again. Eventually, the boy and the horse cantered in a circle together, and Roy said, “He’s your horse now.”
She’s my horse now.
Get back on.
Disclaimer: This YouTuber seems to have some gross generalizations about women engrained in his mind, but you can at least view the scene I’m talking about in his breakdown.
I eased my left foot into the stirrup and lurched into the saddle, my lower back screaming in protest. For an hour, we fought those 11 pair on top of the mesa, eventually convincing them to travel downhill towards Dead Cow Park. Once they laid eyes on the pasture’s bright green grass, they trailed out easily.
Willow Creek runs straight through the park, and it runs ice cold this time of year. I hobbled Jazzy and she was more than happy to graze with the cattle as I peeled off my jeans and lowered myself into the cold water. I stayed there until my back was numb. My legs dried off in the bright sun, and I put my underwear and socks and jeans and boots back on. Only four more miles to go.
Admittedly, I was scared to ask her to trot again. If she bucked and I fell off a second time, my body would be royally fucked. It really wasn’t an option. So, slow and steady, we walked those cows back to the rest of the herd and then we walked the three miles back up the road to the truck.
Dan was building a barbed wire fence at the top of the hill Jazzy and I started our day on. I waved to him as I drove the rig south towards home, hoping he’d get my text and know that I wasn’t blowing him off. He didn’t, but it the message pinged him as soon as he got home. I’ve never heard him stomp through the house faster than he did when he thought I was severely injured, which, in a way, was very sweet.
“I’m okay, don’t worry! Just sore!” I shouted from bed. “I’m in here icing my back.”
In the doorframe, big-eyed, he stared at me, “Why are you smiling so hard?”
“Because I’m a real cowboy now.”
The last few days have kind of sucked. I have whiplash for the first time. I’ve got a nasty bruise on my hip. My spine aches and I must’ve hyperextended my hamstrings or something, too. Since I’ve never had a surgery or broken a bone before, this is probably the most injured I’ve ever been. Luckily, it’s really not that bad. Just inconvenient. Plus, I’ve already scheduled a full-body massage two weeks from now. I plan to give my chiropractor a call, too.
Dan, being a nerd, did a little math. We had joked that falling off was basically like getting in a car accident, but we wanted to be more certain in our assumption. He explained that that gravity pulls you towards Earth at 22 mph, so we guesstimated that I hit the ground at 25 mph given that there was some energy behind the fall. That’s essentially like getting hit by a car driving down any neighborhood street in Gunnison. And I landed on a rock.
The one thing I wish I understood better is why Jazzy bucked. I really can’t put my finger on a specific trigger. I wasn’t in her mouth, I wasn’t spurring her hard, Rosie didn’t heel her, a bear didn’t burst out of the bushes. We were merely trotting out like we have in the past. But, for some reason, this time was different.
I ordered a new bit for my bridle, so we’ll see if one with a roller helps. More strength training and yoga couldn’t hurt. More groundwork is always a good idea, too. Like one of my friends recently said, “It’s always stressful when you’re learning a new horse. It makes me jittery when you have a reaction and don’t know what button you pushed or what environmental trigger did it.” She’s so right. I’ve been pretty spoiled by Walter, our amazingly rock-solid gelding. We love each other very much, though he’s quite the opposite of a young mare with personality.
Even though my body aches, I feel so grateful for the opportunity to learn a new horse, especially a new horse that also happens to be mine. It’s likely she’ll send me to the ground again someday, but that’s okay. We’ll work our kinks out together and we’ll both be better for it in the long run.
Until then, if anyone has some advice for dealing with whiplash or communicating more clearly with the universe, drop your tip in the comments.