I got the text message last week.

“Do you want to run barrels after you’re done judging the hunter show?” My friend Amy wrote.

I was traveling back to my old stomping grounds of the Crawford County fairgrounds to judge her Denim and Dust Hunter Schooling Show, a part of their Weekend Extravaganza. Hunters on Saturday, Poles, Barrels and Keyhole Saturday night, and all of the normal 4-H classes Sunday.

Amy knew me well, having watched me grow up under the tutelage of her mother Rose from the age of 4 on. She knew that although I had been strictly Eventing for almost a decade, that I had the eye to score the Hunter rounds. That even if my background screamed jumping tables and dropping down banks, I would be fair but tough. And maybe more important, that although my largest claim to fame was in winning a dressage competition, there was nothing more I loved than swinging onto my Billy Cook at the end of a long day.

So I immediately responded with a capitalized YES and didn’t ask any other questions.

I arrived at the judges booth of the Fairgrounds bright and early Saturday morning. I took my seat and surveyed the arena. The jumps were set beautifully, with a rated show feel.

Fellow 2015 AND 2016 RRP TB Makeover competitor Kelly Felician and her 2016 RRP mount 

And for the next 8 hours, I scored everything from crossrails to a Derby. It was such a fun experience, watching the next generation of Amy’s and Carleigh’s while sitting next to my own Amy. She announced, I judged, and we heckled each other back and forward all while giggling over the realization of how old we had become and how far we have come.

And then I changed gears. I took off my khakis and donned some jeans. Unlaced my Merril’s and found my Rod Patrick’s. And I replaced my sun hat with a Stetson.

Feeling western. I would at least look the part!

It was barrels time.

I met my mount and immediately giggled. Beemer was only about 15hh, and looked miniature compared to my thoroughbreds. She had a look on her face that said “don’t even try to snuggle woman” and an ass that screamed V8. Her glossy bay coat rippled over striated muscles, demonstrating hours of time logged in the gym. She was fit, and she was ready.

I swung her rope halter on and led her to the trailer to be tacked. The infinitesimal differences in routine immediately gave me flashbacks to Wyoming.

A rope halter instead of glistening leather and brass straps adorned her face. A 30 pound saddle was swung on her back, along with a large leverage bit connecting a severe twisted wire. No mounting block was offered, and for the first time in years I was forced to reach for a horn, possibly popping a hamstring (and the seam of my jeans) in the process.

And then I was on.

I meandered around the tiny warm up area, trying to remember how to neck rein left and right. Glancing around to see if Beemers owners were watching. Petrified of messing her up, I slowly urged her into a posting jog, and then softly sat before asking her to lope. I expected a willing and eager horse, albeit with some possibly high octane energy, but instead felt a sluggish and somewhat bitter mount beneath me.

Trying to find my cowgirl mojo.

Her back rounded underneath my seat, and I felt the inner workings of a futuristic buck. I immediately pulled back on the reins and begged her to halt, not wanting to risk coming off. And I stared over at her owners, trying to use ESP for some assistance without causing a scene.

Her “mom” waved me over and asked if I wanted to take her into a nearby field, with the option of kicking her forward that I didn’t have in the tiny warm up arena. I breathed out a yes, and we regrouped.

She told me that Beemer was a really good mare, but offered some advice. She said as I was approaching the barrel, I needed to bend Beemers head towards the inside, while using my inside leg to maneuver her shoulder around the obstacle. To keep my eyes up and fixate on the next barrel, and as I “candy caned” around the first, to switch to my outside aids to straighten her through the turn and gallop off.

I was told that before I approached the second barrel, I would need to sit up and “check her” and the repeat the process to the other direction. She asked me to go out into a large circle and practice that–the bending and lateral work I would use in the arena.

And I realized something. Barrel racing is a lot like dressage.

Ok, I get what you’re thinking. What? But hear me out.

They might have different terminology, different tack, and a different scoring system. One might have more screaming and less golf clapping. And one might have a much shorter test, with a better chance of winning some money.

But they are so similar.

I had a comprehension of what she was asking me to do, because I do something so similar before asking Nixon for a trot or canter lengthening. Shoulder in through the corner, and then a few strides of haunches in before asking him to straighten and lengthen across the diagonal.

Nixon’s version of extending towards home…

Just like in barrel racing, you ask for every ounce of contained forward motion that you are willing to risk across that straight line. And then it’s another shifting of the rib cage, increments of shoulder fore and the maneuvering of the haunches. A half halt being just a different term to describe the “check” that we hear screaming from the rails of a barrel pattern.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

I still went into the arena slightly petrified. I didn’t want to make an ass of myself, letting the kids see their “judge” fall off during a barrel pattern. I wanted to prove to the owners of Beemer that they weren’t crazy for letting me ride their horse. And most importantly, I wanted to give Beemer the ride she deserved.

But as I circled to the right, I realized that I was prepared. I had cross trained for years. My dressage lessons would come out, I was sure of it.

Turn and burn…or shoulder fore followed by haunches in?

And off we went. Straight. Shoulder fore right. Haunches in left. And straighten. Forward. Shoulder fore left. Haunches in right. And straighten. Half halt. HALF HALT. Shoulder fore left. Haunches in right. And straighten. And with that straightness ask for the run – go for the 9, not the 6!!!!

Going for the 9!

We got home clean and with a time of 19.2, putting us firmly in the middle of the 2D group, which left me with a huge smile. I didn’t win, but I also didn’t suck.

I heard my friends and Beemer’s owners hooting and hollering as I patted Beemer on the neck and swung off to give her a hug.

Such a good horse. A great barrel mare, and maybe even possibly a great dressage mare.

Because that’s what I learned this weekend. That’s all barrel racing is. A dressage test around some cans. Something that maybe all of us “English” riders need to experience. To cross train. To recalibrate. To experience something new. To keep your brain and your body fresh and excited for the next ride.

And me, well it’s something I would love to do again.

I can remember the woman striding towards me down the cement aisle way, the heels of her paddock boots clinking with each step.  Her bright blue eyes squinting into the dark of the interior of a barn, and her black hair swinging along with her hips.  She pounded the pavement to my location, hovering in my horses stall.

“What are you doing?  Why do you have a wheelbarrow out?”

I hesitated, perplexed at how I was already being reprimanded at this new barn afet having only been here for 12 hours.  I chose my words carefully, and decided that less was more, “Um.  I’m just cleaning Levi’s stall?  Is that OK?”

She raked a hand through her hair and in a louder voice replied, “Mucking his stall is something that you’re paying us to do.  Thats my job, not yours.”

I was stumped.  I had arrived at Kerryman Stables in the summer of my 15 year old year.  My parents had told me weeks earlier that we were going to spend two weeks at our lakehouse on Chautauqua Lake, New York.  Devastated over the thought of taking that long of a break from riding, and desperate to keep my competitive edge for the events and shows that were coming up, I asked if Levi could possibly vacation with us.

I promised to get my riding done before family activities begun, and negotiated with them that this wouldn’t interfere with their own time.  I found a barn that accepted seasonal boarders with abbreviated stays, and calculated the distance to our house.  Kerryman was only 5 miles away.  I told my parents that I would bring my bike and get myself to and from.

So on August 2nd, 2002 Levi was loaded into a friends trailer and hauled an hour away from my hometown and the barn that I had boarded at since the ripe young age of 5.  The consummate pony clubber, I had my tack and trunk packed meticulously, and my stall card printed.  His feed was portioned out into labeled zip lock baggies, and his bandages wrapped tight. We were on our first truly solo adventure.

I arrived at the new location in the evening, as the sun was setting over the lake and the horses were being turned out into their paddocks.  I was only briefly introduced to the owners and operators of the farm, Marian and Jeff Colburn, before thrusting Levi’s stall card and list of supplements in their face.  I would learn years later that the two had exchanged looks, grimaced, and acknowledged that they had a terror on their hands.

Overzealous teenager

So it came as no surprise that I was already annoying Marian within hours of arriving.  I had never kept my horse at a full care facility, and was uncertain as to how to relinquish his care to others.  I was perplexed by their eye rolls when they saw his hyper-organized feed and supplements.  And I was confused by their evening trail rides which left the safe confines of the arena and adventured out into the wild unknown.

My fifteen year old self only knew one way with which to react – I held firm to my course.

I arrived every morning at 7 am and carefully groomed and tacked Levi, hacking to the outdoor arena and putting in 45 minutes of flatwork.  I hosed him off, meticulously picked the knots out of his tail, and left him drying in his perfectly cleaned stall for the day, one that I chose to clean instead of allowing the owners to do their jobs.  I would ride my bike back to my family’s home and partake in wakeboarding and tubing, bocce ball and fly fishing, and then navigate back to the beautiful red barn at night for a final check.

When I arrived, I would find Marian in the barn blowing any lingering sawdust while Jeff belted show tunes as he mended a fence or fixed a waterer.  A mini fridge was located in the maintenance room, and an open beer would be sitting on the bench in the aisle.  Happily in charge of their own farm, this had been a lifelong goal of theirs, and the intrusion of a bossy fifteen year old was not high on their list.

But we began to talk.  They heckled me for my pony clubbing ways, and shook their heads as I reached for the pitchfork time and time again.  They mocked my matching saddle pads and polo’s, and harassed me each time I mentioned my ribbon’s and trophies.

And yet I persevered.  Day in and day out, I showed up and felt my horses legs.  Tacked him up and swung on.  I got braver as the days rolled by, first leaving the ring to hack around the farm, and then further exploring into the miles of trails that surrounded the farm.  And as the days passed, the glances that they shared became less.  The head shakes were fewer.  And I began to be greeted with a smile and a headlock.

Skylar and I exploring during our “Wild West Ride” to the lake.

At the end of the week, Marian sat me down and asked if I wanted a job.  They were looking for a new “barn girl” for the following summer, and since I seemed to have such a connection with my pitchfork, would I want the title?  I had never worked at a farm before, having only ever being a paid boarder, and I jumped at the chance.

The following summer, I worked morning chores six days a week.  The summer after that, Marian became pregnant with her first child and asked if I would take over the entire farm, hiring me as her Farm Manager.  I was seventeen years old, and it was a dream position.

Farm Manager?  Or girl at the barn who can watch the child while the owner rides?

My time at Kerryman was idyllic.  I not only went from obnoxious boarder to paid employee, but I also became family.

Kerryman Family

The summer after I graduated college, I moved back to my families lakehouse to take care of my brother, and earn some money before moving to Lexington, Kentucky.  By this time, Kerryman Stables had been sold and Marian and Jeff owned their own smaller farm outside of town.  I saw Marian and Jeff rarely, as I kept Levi at a friends private farm, and worked as a waitress and bartender to support myself.

Only a few weeks before Labor Day, with the soft deadline for the termination of my waitressing job approaching, I received a phone call from my mother, telling me to give my notice and come to Pittsburgh. My father was not responding to his treatment, and the doctors thought it would be a matter of days before he was gone. I hung up the phone and climbed into my car. I didn’t know where to go, but felt myself steering towards Marian and Jeff’s home.

I let myself into their back door and just pulled on Marian’s sleeve, leading her out to the barn.  I told her what was happening, and she simply sat there and listened.  She held me as I wept and then continued on with her evening barn chores as I raged. And as I stared at her in confusion, I watched as she handed me back my pitchfork and nodded.  We picked the stalls and fed the horses, swept the aisleway and topped off buckets.  And by the end, my eyes had dried, and my life felt intact.

I am still close to those two people who guided me into this world.  Who took on an obnoxious teenager and gave her a job.  Who took a chance on a young woman who had never held a real job and entrusted her with their livelihood.  Who supported a college student as she tried to pave her way into the world.  And who now, can crack open a beer with an adult me and share stories into the night.

I hope that you found a Marian and Jeff. A role model.  A boss.  A friend.  And at the end of the day, a barn family.

I’ve never met her, but I know him.

I don’t know if she likes vanilla or chocolate ice cream.  Or if she prefers rap music over country.  I have never asked her if her parents are married or divorced.

But I know that he hates flower pots.  I know that it took two weeks to convince him to eat sweet feed.  I know that his white legs get irritated by wet ragweed.  I know that he spent the majority of his time in the back ring of Keeneland on his hind end.

And I know these things, because he was mine.  Not on papers, not in money, nor in actual ownership.  But in the metaphorical way that the staff of a breeding farm becomes the responsible parties of the horses that are in their care, “Spring” was mine.

I was hired as the yearling manager the year that he was going through the sales, and I’ll never forget my first day on the farm.  I was driving around with their Sales Director and observing the ins and outs of the farm.  We drove up to Barn 6, where the colts lived, and began watching as the staff lead the horses in from their paddocks.  One by one, the bays passed me and I stared at each to detect any lameness, any swelling, any abnormalities or ailments.  And each passed with a strong walk and a desire to get into their stalls where the feed was awaiting them.

Watching yearlings come in.

And then came the last one. But I didn’t have to wait for him to get to me before being alerted to his presence.  This stunning chestnut colt was walking on his hind end from the bottom paddock to the barn, while I heard profanities uttered from his handlers mouth.  When his front feet finally did hit the ground, he just floated across the grass with ease.

I turned to Ben with wide eyes and a dropped jaw.

“What is THAT?”

He chuckled and told me that this was our Malibu Moon colt out of the Wild Rush mare Spring Rush.  He explained that this was probably the sales topper of our consignment, and that the farm had pretty high hopes for him.  And I nodded as he spoke, agreeing that this horse was cool.  He was athletic.  He was, quite simply, sexy.

And to me, he quickly became known as “Spring”.

But Spring was tough.  Never in a malicious way, but he let you know that he was the Big Dog on campus.  He spent quite a bit of time on his hind end.  He would buck and fart on the walker.  He spent the majority of his hand walking time with his groom’s arm in his teeth. The gates around him were always kept closed, as he consistently attempted to get a leg over a shank.  He was exuberant for life.  He was exuberant for everything.

And I fell in love.  He became my favorite of the crop, and I took a few special moments out of every day to just sit in his stall and stare at him.  There was nothing flawed in his body – he was beautifully put together, and I just prayed that he would make it.

Because that is how our world works.  We breed the best to the best, raise them with loving care and the best veterinarians, farriers, and nutritionists that the world has to offer, and we pray.  We pray they don’t colic, we pray they don’t get kicked, we pray they don’t run through a fence on the 4th of July, and we pray they don’t abscess a week before the sales.

Because if you can breed the best to the best, and can check the boxes off for their care, their safety, and possibly most importantly, their luck – you can get them to the yearling sales.  And if everything has been done right, and the luck has held up, you can get them to be bought by a good guy.

Spring at the Keeneland sales

And thats what happened for Spring.  He was purchased for $160,000 in the 2010 Keeneland September sale by the de Meric team – a group of 2 year old trainers that I had always admired. I was devastated to be selling my favorite boy, but thrilled that he would be going to a good home.  His superb care and development would continue, and he would have a shot.  At good training. At a good career.  But more importantly, at a good life.

The de Meric’s fell so in love with him, that they decided not to resell him at the 2 year old sales, and instead placed him in training for a race career. But that career just never unfolded.  Spring was named Excess Liquidity and would run a total of 10 times – only hitting the board twice, with little earnings of $25,000.  He never became the “big horse” that we had expected him to be.

So, that is where the story ends, right? Wrong.

Because two years ago, I was perusing the horse listings at New Vocations Horse Adoption Agency and saw him.  In all of his gorgeous glory, there was Spring as a 4 year old.  Magnificent.  Beautiful.  Still full of future possibilities.

I contacted everyone that I knew who was horse shopping.  I told them that this horse was an ATHLETE.  And although this athleticism might not have transferred over into a lucrative race career, that didn’t mean that his life was over.  Someone that I knew needed to get him.  So that I could consider to be a bystander into his life.  To follow him. To make sure he was ok; that he was safe.

But that didn’t happen. He was gone.  Within hours of his posting being listed, he was adopted.  And I was petrified.  I had followed this horses life up until this point, always having a connection to him.  I had always known he was being cared for; that he was ok.

But that relationship ended here….or so I thought.

Because only a few weeks later, a message was sent to the Hinkle Farms Facebook page. From a girl named Lauren Sumner who said that she had adopted this horse Eddie, and that his papers said that he was bred by us.  Did we by chance have foal photos? Did we care to watch his future unfold?  And although I no longer worked on the farm, they were quick to send her name my way – knowing how much I adored this horse.

Lauren and Eddie prancing in the dirt box. 

So for the past 2+ years, I have gotten to be a bystander to this endeavor.  I do not know Lauren.  I do not know if she likes dogs or cats.  Or if she is a chicken or steak kind of girl.  But I know that she loves “my horse” and that he is receiving the world’s best care.

In such a short period of time, they have already accomplished so much.  From starter to training level, clinics taken and lessons learned.  And through Facebook and Instagram, pictures, posts, and videos, I have gotten to watch it all unfold from afar.

Eddie’s new life.

I hope one day that I will be in her neck of the woods, or she in mine, and I will get to walk up to Spring, now known as Eddie, and wrap his neck in my arms.  Whisper into his ear stories of the bruises he once inflicted, or tell his mom of the days where he would shadow box his own shadow. So full of potential, so full of possibilities.  But more importantly, so full of life.  A life that is still unfolding, and a life that I am so excited to witness.

So run on Eddie.  But this time, don’t just run.  Jump.  Bounce.  Prance.  And keep doing you – you always have, and I know you always will.

I was meandering down the lane-way, sitting astride a pony that I didn’t own and didn’t particularly care for, when I looked up and smiled.  Because what I saw was a testament to so many things. Friends on friends.  Good horses that persevere.  Humans that persevere for them.

A good ride with great friends

My girlfriends had asked to go for a hack, and I quickly agreed – acknowledging that I could get all of my horses ridden at once.  And when the Weather Channel app predicts a high of 94 – you agree to that.

Kaitlin and Amy are the yin to my yang, and yet somehow, amazingly, we get along so well.  Amy has been there from the age of 5 until present day.  She has stood by my side.  Through the highest of highs to the absolutely crushing lows, she has held my hand, held my hair, and held me high.  We live 500 miles apart, and yet know that we are only a phone call away.  A drive through the night.

She comes to Lexington twice a year, and I travel back home another once or twice.  And during those brief moments that we are together, life settles in just like we had never been apart.

And Kaitlin is so similar and yet so different.  She lives here in Lexington, and yet our schedules tend to keep us apart.  There will be weeks where we see each other constantly, and then months where we just can’t find a way to pencil it in.  And yet each time we are together, I laugh at how different we are.  Her organic salads and perfectly manicured hands. Her pristine 4Runner and running shoes. Her weekend consumed by 5K’s and wine, while mine are spent galloping XC with my airvest specially formatted to hold a beer or two.

But when the stars aligned, and she asked if she could come ride – I was quick to say yes.  She had only met Amy briefly in one of her previous visits, and yet I knew they would get along fabulously, and that the hack would be a giggle fest.

For what ties these two together, and separated me out, is that they are both true hunter riders.  And how they both somehow chose me as their “person” – this grunting, screaming, leg swinging, hair flopping disaster – I’ll never know.

Their hair was tucked away in their hair nets, while mine was falling out of a bun down my neck.  Their GPA’s were wiped of dust and stored in helmet bags, while my skull cap was tossed into a pile of bandages.  And their tall boots glistened while my half chaps seemingly unstitched themselves.

But the most obvious difference between them and me – is that they love the arena…and the arena gives me hives. So I kicked them out of it – and off we went into the wide unknown.

And as we meandered through the trees and up the hills, I started to giggle.  Because just like the opposites had somehow attracted to bond us all together, so had the horses underneath the two of them.

Nixon and Kennedy might seem so similar on paper, but they are so different in personality.  They might both be thoroughbreds, both be a staggering 17hh+, and both be graded stakes winners, but that is where the similarities end.

Nixon is fierce and aggressive, while Kennedy is meek and mild.  Nixon is alpha, while Kennedy is beta.  Nixon’s version of cuddling is a bite and a kick, while Kennedy loves nothing more than to scratch his forehead in your hands.  And Nixon thinks that the perfect day is a swift 10 second clip, while Kennedy would rather stop and take in the scenery.

Nixon is the eventer – he is me.  Kennedy is the hunter – he is them.

And both make me so happy.

I have already explained my love for Nixon – he is my hope for the future.  He is a Ferrari mounted on four size 3 shoes. He is the most athletic, scopey, brilliant horse I have ever sat on.  And each time that I ride him, I dismount with either the biggest smile of my life, or blood coming out of my eyes.  He is polarizing.  He is quirky.  He is strong.

A Ferrari

Kennedy is different.  Kennedy is kind, he is easy. Like my truck, he is dependable.  He does exactly what he is asked, and is there in a pinch if it snows.  He is the horse I can pull out of a field after two weeks off and put anyone on.  The most beginner of riders, or my vet who wants to go jump some cross country jumps.

When your vet asks to come play, you say yes.  And you give her Kennedy.

And the smile on my face as I dismount him is a different one. Because every day I swing a leg over Kennedy, I acknowledge the tears, the anxiety, and the stubborn desire that it took to get him here.

The bond I have with him is so strong.  I have known him practically all of his life.  I remember walking into the stall at the Stallion Barn in June of 2009 and staring up at his massive frame.  I remember driving back to the Office and telling Drew with a straight face that this horse would be mine one day.

Baby Kennedy and Baby Carleigh

I can still see the other grooms wide eyes as I took him for his first walk hack after 2 months of stall rest in a cotton shank.  And I can still feel the heartbreak that I experienced when he slipped through the cracks and out of my reach.

…and I can still remember exactly where I was, what I was doing, and who I was with when I got him back.

But just like Amy and Kaitlin and I, these two opposites have attracted.  The unlikeliest of friends.  The positive and the negative somehow attracting.  They have become as thick as thieves, and best friends.

The day that I brought Kennedy home, Nixon immediately whinnied at him from his stall – and I stared perplexed.  How did they know each other?  Were they in the same barn at the same time?  These two winning stakes horses had had long storied lives, with many trainers between the two of them – so where did they overlap?  I’ll never know, but maybe someday I’ll find out.

Double Trouble

And every day, I watch as Nixon brings out more in Kennedy. I stare at these two monstrosities as they colt-box in the field, nearly 3,000 pounds of muscle and bone climbing up on top of each other.  And where Nixon brings out the youth in Kennedy, Kennedy is a calming presence for Nixon.  Yin and yang, positive and negative, proton and electron.

And I smile, knowing how lucky I am to have these two.  Just like me and my girlfriends – opposites attracted.  Hunter and eventers.  Vegans and steaks. Nixon and Kennedy.  And at the end of the day, all of us united by one thing – a love of the horse.

Enter a caption

So an eventer, a dressage rider, and a hunter walk into a bar….Just kidding.  It was just me.

I walked into the bar.  Only the bar was my home, and the bartender was my boyfriend.  Too broke to afford a real drink, or a designer beer — the money had been drained from my account into the pockets of Hunterland.

And as I grabbed the Bud Lite from his hand, I sank into the couch. Exhausted, covered in dust and quiksilver.  Wearing a ball cap, with perfect hand prints on my brand new Tailored Sportsmans.  And I turned to him, and tried to explain my day.

I had just completed my first recognized hunter show at Country Heir I – at the world renowned Kentucky Horse Park. In true Carleigh fashion, I decided to go big.  Who needed the local schooling shows to be my entryway into Hunterland?  Not me.  Let’s do a AA show as our first.

It will go well — it will be stress-free, my eventing brain reasoned. It’s only a few “stadium” rounds and a “miniature dressage test”.  This was my rationale as I entered a 3′ division on my training level eventer.

Training level eventer?  Or 3′ hunter?

But it wasn’t.  It wasn’t stress-free.  It wasn’t just some stadium rounds.  And it wouldn’t have been plausible to survive if I had not had a handful of amazing friends who calmed my nerves, polished my boots, and answered my questions.  So I feel as though I should pay it forward – to the thousands of (a HA, lets be honest  – the three) eventers who want to journey off into Hunterland, and provide the answers that I received.

1.  What should I wear?
   • Well young one, you can wear whatever you like – we are so accommodating to unique styles and fun colors. Oh wait, no?  That was barrel racing I was talking about.  But us hunters are also “hip” and “cool” – trust us!  
     • You can wear any jacket, just as long as it is either black, or a navy dark enough that it looks black.  Your breeches can be one of 30 shades of tan Tailored Sportsmans, and please, please, please, make sure your black custom made hunt boots come exactly 0.4 up your knee cap.  
     • Your shirt must be white and a wrap around, and your helmet must be Samshield.  You could possibly wear your Charles Owen Ayr8, but don’t you dare have any of that fancy schamcy piping. 
     • Do you have pearls? No?  Does your grandmother have pearls?  GREAT. Wear those. Both in your ears AND around your neck.
     • Put on your clothes early in the day so that you can walk around with a floppy hat and look cool, but make sure that your groom is the only one who touches your horse.  Stand at least 12 feet away from all equus caballus until 30 seconds before you get on. Put your hands into latex gloves so as not to touch your clothes.  Smudges are not cool.

     • 

       Look like this, even if every article of clothing besides your thong is borrowed.

2. What should my horse wear?
   • Ahhhh, great question.  Your horse should be adorned with just enough tack that it looks as though you are ridiculously wealthy, while at the same time not standing out from any other horse on the grounds.  Here is what you should have:
     • A CWD/Devoucoux/Antares saddle of a specific hyde (preferably buffalo skin) and shade of brown, with a pristine white cut out pad.  If said pad has a tint of off-white, throw away immediately.
       • Don’t even think about using your monoflap.  I repeat, don’t even think about it.  You’re still thinking about it. Stop. Seriously, stop.
     • A finely stitched bridle with plain noseband.  Bridle should be adorned by a D ring, but if your horse could possibly top 7.6mph, add a pelham.  Regardless of bit, always have a standing martingale attached.
       • Regardless of horse, bit, or speed, draw reins should be attached at all times up until the moment in which you enter the arena.
       • Speaking of draw reins, make sure that they are on while you jump.  Because nothing tells your horse to jump well more than having his eyes directed downwards towards the jump while going over it.
   • Moving onto braids.
     • The horse should be braided with at least 727 braids.
     • They should be perfectly spaced, and sewn in with so much strength that a gorilla cannot rip them out.
     • Use an entire bottle of either hairspray or quikbraid to ensure that they will not move in even gale force winds.
     • Stare at your (best friend) braider’s hands to try to learn how said braids go in so evenly and to tightly. Take 2 Advil after your eyes cross.

     • 

       The tiniest braids in the world.

     • Be convinced that your (best friend) braider is actually an alien.  Or a Stepford wife. No one else could create such perfection.  Unless they suffer from OCD.
     • Speaking of gorilla’s – find one.  You will need him to get the braids out at the end of the show.
3. When should I get ready to go the ring for my class?
   • The answer is never. But always.
     • Always be near enough to the ring to know exactly when you need to get tacked up.
     • Never actually tack up.
     • Check with the ring steward.  Get a growl and a glare.
     • Don’t tack up.
     • Text your friends that you won’t ride for at least a few hours.
     • Check with the ring steward again.  Get a deeper growl.
     • Play on Facebook.  Play on Instagram.  Watch Ellen on Youtube.
     • And then, TACK UP. OH MY GOD. NOW. GO GO GO GO.

     • 

       Getting to the arena as quickly as possible!

4. But then, how should I warm up?
   • Well, dear friend.  This is where the fun really starts. First off, find a friend.  Or, if you don’t have and friends who are willing to show their face in Hunterland, pay a homeless person to stand next to a jump.  Because you are not allowed to jump anything until someone or something that shares a closeness to you has claimed a jump.  It’s kinda like a dog peeing on a fire hydrant.  Your space must be claimed. Mark that territory.
   • Pick up a canter.  Jump a crossrail.  Jump it again.  When you are bored with jumping off of your left lead, get confused.  Because your homeless person had chosen the jump closest to the right side of the arena, you are unsure how to jump said fence off of your right lead.  Stand in the middle of the ring looking perplexed.  Finally voice your confusion. Let a nice trainer tell you that you can just change directions and jump the crossrail in the other direction.  Stare at the standards to check for red and white flags.  See none.  Jump the crossrail quickly and while glancing off towards the in gate, waiting to be eliminated for jumping it backwards.  Relax once you see there is no such thing as a ring steward.  It’s literally a free for all.
     

     Scare everyone but your homeless person when you take a long spot in warm up.

   • Because you don’t actually have a trainer, be forced to scream at your friend, or homeless person, to raise the jumps as you go.  Get stared at for speaking.  Rider’s should never speak.  We are supposed to be robots.  Trainer’s and homeless people speak.  Remember this.
5. OK, I’m ready.  Can I show now?
   • You had your homeless person put you down in the order of go? Right?  Oh, didn’t?  Then no.  You don’t get to show.  You get to sit under a tree and drink a bottle of water. 
   • You tell the ring steward to add you to the order of go.  She says you’re 11th.  Great.  You can handle that – 2 minutes a ride?  Thats like twenty minutes. Sure.
   • You count 11 rides.  Start walking to the in gate.  The ring steward growls again.  Whats wrong?  Oh. Wait.  You’re 11th in order of go, not actual rounds.  People get to do both rounds back to back?  Oh, Ok. Sorry.

   • 

     Can we go yet?

   • Back to the tree. Let the tree become your friend.  Name it Fred.  Fred is nice.  Fred gives you shade and a friendly face.
6. Oh wait, 837 is my number?  I just heard it called!  Now! Now I ride!
   • Yes!  That is correct – you hunter you! Now is the time to strut your stuff.  So you know how to jump a hunter round, right?  You learned your course.  It’s soooooooo easy.  Outside line, diagonal line, outside line diagonal line.  Jump all the jumps – WHOOOOOO!  LET’S DO THIS!
   • Wait. One second. You want me to do what? You want me to get how many strides in that line?  FIVE? HAHA! What?  It walked in like 5.5!  Oh, you not only want me to get a five in a practically six stride line, you also want my horse to still *appear* to go slow.  And his head can’t come up at all?   
   • Oh, thats not all that matters?  I need to go in and immediately do a walk canter transition?  Right THERE. No no, not two feet after the second fence, THREE feet after the second fence.  Calm now, calm down.  WHOA Mak.  No.  Not a 13′ stride, a 13.6′ stride.  GOODNESS.  Don’t you know what you’re doing?  I thought I had trained you!
   • Push!  Leg!!!!!! Whoa, not THAT much leg.  Calm down.  God damnit this is harder than stadium
   • Pace. Pace.  1, 2, 3, 4….1, 2, 3, 4…..1, 2, SHIT, 4. Whoops.
   • Get in your corners.  Deeper.  DEEPER.  Oh crap, no Mak, don’t jump the arena.  We’re not heading for cross country.  Shit.  He’s going to jump out.  The brush is there for decoration, not a ground line!
   • No. No.  I didn’t want you to angle that fence.  Just go straight.  STRAIGHT.  Why don’t you know what straight is?
   • Ok, only one more line.  There’s the first fence. Great, perfect distance, and 1, 2, 3, 4……..f*$k.  Huh.  Was that 5?  Did I count the first stride?  Or was it 4? Humph. Whatever, he left the rail up.
   • Oh yay, are we done?  Thank god.  Walk Mak, we good. Get me out of here before I mess up.
   • Oh. Wait. We were supposed to circle at the end. Damnit.  We messed up.

I left the arena on a loose rein, and hopped off.  My homeless person came up and gave me a massive hug and fist bump.  We had done it.  This ranch worker, turned eventer, sometimes prancing dressage queen, but mostly bumbling idiot had completed a AA hunter show.

We didn’t even place, and yet you couldn’t wipe the smile off of my face.  I had begged, borrowed, or stolen every ounce of clothing and equipment on my horse. I had paid for the worlds best braider (Kaitlin) with a hug and a cup of coffee.  I had found the best homeless person/trainer (Alexa) to set fences and polish my boots.  I had the best videographers (Jeff and Courtney) who stood there with smiles, calming my nerves.  My vet even showed up and offered me calming acupuncture….again. And at the end of the day, I accomplished my goal – I fit in.

And all jokes aside, it was a great experience. The show was run amazingly, with friendly office staff who answered a million questions, amazing ring crews who worked efficiently and with a smile, and a beautiful course.  I met numerous trainers and competitors who offered a helping hand, a golf cart, and their own warm up fence, and I forced the other grumpy ones to smile.

And at the end of the day, I conquered yet another goal on the bucket list.  Right there next to “play hunter princess on a thoroughbred you brought along yourself” I get to put a big fat check mark.

And lets be honest, thats all that really matters.  My pony was phenomenal.  My posture didn’t suck.

And my pearls, well my pearls are placed safely back in my jewelry box – polished and glistening, ready to play another day.

Until then, Hunterland, until then.

I just turned 30 this year.  And yet 30 – while it sounds so old — feels so good. When I was 15, I thought that by 30 I would be an accomplished veterinarian, a phenomenal and competitive rider.  Married with two kids, and a mega mansion with a 15 stall barn. I thought that I would be married to Leonardo DiCaprio, and that he would be both beautiful and supportive as he gave up his Hollywood career to travel around the country to my horse shows.

That didn’t happen.

And yet although my true 30 is different, it is still great. I am finally comfortable in my own skin.  Confident in my relationships.  Confident in my life path.  Confident in my daily habits.  My skin is clear, my biceps are toned, and my clothes finally fit.  My bachelor’s is complete, and my doctorate is on the way.  My Leo is actually named Luke, and my babies are actually labradors.  And yet I wouldn’t change any of it for the world.  So here is a letter to my 15 year old self:

High school sucks.  Kids are mean and boys are cruel.  But you still have to get through it.  Stop begging your parents for boarding school.  Stop responding to the bullies, further encouraging their offensive reactions.

Riding is a sport.  You don’t need the hockey team to acknowledge that, the judges on Saturday are.  But stay in school.  Those experiences will train you for the bullies of the real world.  It will give you tough skin.  It will give you broad shoulders.  And most importantly, it will give you the social skills needed to navigate the world.

Stop fighting with the girls at the barn.  The rat race is irrelevant, whether you are riding for the Erie Hunt and Saddle Club end of year awards, or the Maclay’s.  These girls that you are crying over will eventually become lifelong friends, and the boys that you are fighting over will come out as gay in 5 years.

Sisters by barn

Hug your horse.  He might have bucked you off, or stopped at the water….again, but when you look back, you will realize that he was truly your first love.  He might have given you some insecurities, but he also taught you how to ride.  How to bandage.  How to load a difficult horse.  How to treat a colic.  He showed you where a vein was, and let you stab him 50 times to find it in a panic.  He is your best friend, your love, and your trainer all in one.

And speaking of trainers — give your trainer a hug.  Apologize for turning your riding lessons into therapy sessions.  Tell her you don’t actually blame her for being eliminated.  Or for buying a horse that was so tough.  Let her know how much you appreciate her letting you crash on her couch when you’re fighting with your parents.  Let her know how well you are listening when she tells you that the boy you brought to the barn is bad news.

A trainer = a lifelong mom and friend

Get rid of the boy.  If the boy can’t come to the dusty showgrounds on Saturdays, or if he says he’s scared or allergic to horses, he isn’t worth it.

Keep the next boy.  The boy who comes to every show, who polishes every boot.  Who shows up with a camera and takes pictures and frames them for you on Valentine’s Day.  This boy is teaching you that good relationships exist, and every man in your future should treat you as well.

Send your mom a text message saying how much you appreciate her.  Let her know that you understand the sacrifices she has made for her own riding career to produce you, raise you, and get you to the barn every day.  Tell her that you love her cooking, and don’t understand how she gets a homemade casserole dished out to three different kids in three different area codes.  Let her know that you scream at her not because of any hatred for her, but rather insecurities with yourself.

Tell your dad that you love him.  Even when he is screaming at you for wrecking his car on the way home from the barn, or exasperated by you spending more of his money, grab him in a hug. He doesn’t understand these ponies, and this makes you so mad – but he keeps paying for them, something he doesn’t have to do.  And that, while not obvious to you, is his way of being supportive.  So hug him – you won’t have many opportunities to do it again.

Go to college.  Take a break from the horses.  Learn how to set an alarm and study.  Learn how to do a keg stand.  Go on spring break.  Date a senior.  Make out with someone in the back corner of a bar.  Dance on the bar.  Wear heels instead of boots.  Do your hair so that it doesn’t always cover your ears.  Wake up late.  Watch the OC all weekend in your pajama’s with your head in your roommates lap.  Eat pickles. Eat ramen. Get your heart broken.  Fail a class.

Move to Wyoming. Ride in a western saddle.  Learn how to gallop on ground that isn’t manicured.  Learn to ride for the love of it again.  Rope a steer.  Circle a barrel.  Get bucked off.  A lot.  Realize you’re not as good of a rider as you thought you were.  Fall in love with a cowboy.  Realize cowboy’s shouldn’t be loved.  Fall in love with a rope horse.  Realize horses are safer to love.  Move back east.  Feel your heart break for a place instead of a person.

Life will continue after all of that. Move again. Meet new people.  Feel insecure.  Feel poor.  Find a job.  Learn how to set up a credit card. Max out the credit card.  Pay off the credit card by mucking stalls and bandaging legs.  Thank your first horse for teaching you how to muck stalls and bandage legs.

The horses will always be there.  And the horses will always change.  But the experiences are irreplaceable.  Realize that being an Olympic medalist isn’t the end-all be-all.  Learn that your love and appreciation of horses is more important than the ribbons they’ve won you.

Listen to your 30 year old self.  The one who tells you that you mom threw away the majority of your ribbon’s when she moved 8 years ago.

New ribbon’s that won’t stay unwrinkled the entire way home…

The bullies have shifted, but you know how to react.

The friends have changed, but the good ones have stayed the same.

The boyfriends have come and gone, but taught you what it means to be respected and loved.

And the education, the experiences, and the endurance ride will never leave you.

And most importantly – the ponies have come and gone, but the ride has always been there  – and always will.