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A Test of Trust
an excerpt from Chapter 1 of The Power of Positive Horse Training
One day after a storm, I was riding Star, my
6-year-old
thoroughbred-appaloosa event horse, on the trails. The storm had
brought down a large maple tree, and an inviting section of heavy trunk
lay about three and a half feet off the ground right across a flat
section of my trail.
Although the upper branches of the tree were sprawled across the ground
in a forbidding tangle to the left of the main trunk, the trail beneath
it offered good solid footing and a nice straight approach. All we had
to do was jump clean through the middle section, and we’d be fine. My
horse was a bold cross-country jumper who’d tackled far more difficult
obstacles on some tough New England courses. I was wearing my helmet,
Star was wearing his protective galloping boots, and this nice new
cross-country obstacle was just begging to be jumped.
Our approach was straight but perhaps I was the slightest bit
unbalanced, or perhaps Star decided he could brush through the bushy
tree branches instead of jumping the solid trunk. The branches were not
“brushable.” He caught a front leg on an inflexible branch, and we
somersaulted over the tree.
I found myself lying in the dirt on the far side of the tree, staring
at the underside of Star’s girth and the soles of his front feet. He’d
flipped completely over and landed flat on his left side. Both of my
legs, from mid-thigh down, were firmly wedged under his barrel. His
front hooves were inches away from my right ear, and his hind feet were
resting against my left shoulder. For a few stunned seconds, neither of
us moved. Then my horse tried to rise, but he couldn’t—my body, pinned
beneath his, prevented him from rolling up onto his sternum and getting
his legs under him. And I was stuck under him.
Four size-six horse hooves, complete with steel shoes and bell boots,
were waving in the air just inches from my head.
With no real plan in mind, I grabbed a front foot in my right hand and
a rear leg in my left, and talked to him in a reassuring, authoritative
voice. I have no idea what I said, but the tone must have been right
because Star looked at me lying beneath his legs, heaved a big sigh,
dropped his head and lay quietly. He seemed to be saying, “Oh good,
there’s the boss, she’ll know what to do.” And for the next several
minutes, while I developed a plan to get us untangled, he simply lay
there and waited for directions.
I decided the only way to get this big horse off of me was to use his
legs as levers, roll him onto his saddle, and try to crawl out from
underneath. I took a firm grip on two of his legs, front and back, and
heaved him up onto his back. Star allowed himself to be rolled almost
upside down, then settled back onto his side, legs outstretched. I
scrambled backwards, stood, and walked all around my still-prostrate
horse, checking for injuries and reminding him with a quiet voice to
remain still. Then I gave a gentle tug on the reins and said crisply,
“Up, now.” He rose and shook himself, and I led him slowly home,
patting and talking and reminding him of what a wonderful horse he was.
We were both stiff for a few days, but otherwise uninjured.
What was so remarkable about this incident, aside from the fact that we
were tremendously lucky not to break both our necks?
Simply this: Caught in a similar situation, the average horse would
have descended into pure panic. The first instinct of a trapped prey
animal is to struggle blindly, to get back onto his feet at whatever
cost and flee to safety, or to strike out if he can’t get free. Nothing
triggers a horse’s survival instinct more than the feeling of being
caught and unable to run away.
Why didn’t Star panic? It wasn’t as if we’d rehearsed that scenario.
I’d never asked him to lie down or get up on command, and I’d certainly
never trapped myself under his legs on purpose. He was certainly not
dull or lethargic by nature, nor was he the most intelligent horse I’ve
ever trained. Throughout his training, however, I’d always worked to
develop his confidence in humans. I’d raised him and his dam and his
grand-dam from birth, and I’d spent countless hours encouraging their
trust and helping them face and overcome their instinctive fears.
Star’s early training had included many carefully structured hours of
low-threat "combat training" (see Chapter 14) which introduces and then
defuses many common fear triggers.
We had developed behavioral patterns for dealing with unexpected
situations that required mutual trust and confidence. The habits of
obedience and trust were strong enough to overcome instincts and fears.
That’s why we were both able to walk away from that fall.
And yes, we returned two weeks later and jumped that tree trunk with a
lot
more focus and care. He never hesitated, but cleared it by at least a
foot and a half.
© 2005 The
Power
of Positive Horse Training by Sarah Blanchard. All rights
reserved.
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