Lee McLean - Horse Woman: Notes on Living Well & Riding Better

HORSE WOMAN

HORSE WOMAN

Notes on Living Well
& Riding Better

LEE M c LEAN

Author of the acclaimed

Keystone Equine blog

CONTENTS

SAFETY DISCLAIMER

Please note that by taking part in horsemanship or any of the suggestions herein, you are agreeing to not hold liable Lee McLean, her family, Keystone Equine, Red Barn Books, or employees thereof, should any misfortune occur as a result of your training or actions. We recommend that you seek the help of a professional and use an approved helmet and correct riding footwear when working with any pony or horse. Archival photos used in this book may predate modern safety standards. The content herein is anecdotal. Your own common sense and safety must be uppermost. Horses can be dangerous, handle them at your own risk.

INTRODUCTION

Where did this journey start?

While I always loved horses, or more rightly the idea of horses, I was sent to the hospital after a hard fall from a pony at the age of four. I still have the scar on my chin, a reminder that the love and courage possessed by young children is precious. Difficult to replace, this invincible spirit needs to be kept safe.

At the time that I was starting school, I kept Walter Farleys beloved book, Little Black, A Pony, at my bedside. In an unusual twist, the small pony was the hero of the story, doing something that Big Red, the beautiful horse, could not. Afraid to ride but still wanting to, I fell hard in love with Little Black.

When I was six, I went with my father to an auction sale held just outside of town. The barn was well-known to me, a place where shadowy men did horse deals by the lights of their pickup trucks. Arguments were solved with the brandishing of knives and the local police were often there, asking questions. Still, this a place where I somehow felt at home.

The day of the auction was very cold. Frozen sap of the jack-pines cracked like gunshots. I had a fur-trimmed hood on my parka and wore new sealskin boots. I remember this because my clothing, along with my small stature, caused a great commotion among the assembled sale horses. Many of the local ranchers added to their winter income by chasing and capturing wild horses in the bush. Most of these had been run into the corrals only the day previously.

Few of the horses in the pole corrals, judging by their frosty snorts and restless movement, appeared to be broke. Except one. She was a black pony with such a hair coat that she appeared truly round. She had four white feet and these were festooned with balls of ice as she walked up to me and nuzzled, first my parka hood, then my fur boots. She picked me out before I picked her. It was love at first sight.

One of the old ranchers showed me that the black pony was broke because when he pulled on her forelock, she gave with her head and led right alongside him. I tried it myself and excitedly called to my father.

Dad, the black pony! I kept suggesting but my father was not one to brook childish interruptions.

He was talking business amid much loud laughter. My dreams for the pony didnt stand a chance. Watching the auction through the bars of the corrals, I stood silently while the pony entered the ring and was sold. I knew that my father had not even put in a bid.

I was spending a rare good day in the cold, with these men and horses. I tried to be happy. The day passed and the men, one by one, left to start their trucks and head home. As Dad and I were leaving, we were approached by one of my fathers old friends. Quietly, with a wink for me and a handshake for my father, he handed us a bill of sale written out on the back of a Christmas card.

Sold for full value received, one black Shetland mare with four white feet. Signed, Hank Rudosky. I have the document still. With that, my father wrote out a cheque in the amount of $27.50 for the pony that would change my life. We named her Flicka, after the Mary OHara story. She carried me safely for hundreds of miles through the Cariboo bush. When it comes to understanding my lifelong love of horses, this honest, black pony is the one I must thank.

I know this now. I was born to ride, I was born to write.

As a girl, even when I was in trouble, the voice inside me was rising above, turning it into a story. The worse things got, the more worthwhile my suffering because it would make for a better read. But dont get me wrong. I did not grow up in a life of hardship. My days were filled with all the senses of a budding, lifelong love affair with horses. Like so many of you, they were somehow a part of who I was.

First, though, a word of warning. This is not a manual on horsemanship, philosophy or the state of the world.

Forty-five years of journalling, along with the best of the Keystone blogs, has been boiled down into one year in the saddle. Just one year, made up of many, in the life of a woman who eats too much, rarely darkens the church or gym door, sweeps her crumbs under the rug, lies about flossing and beds down with any one of her husband, cat or dog. She collects old clocks and horses, working well and otherwise.

These photographs and stories reflect a life spent among horses. And, like life, they jump around a bit.

Since age eight, I have ridden and observed during the day, then at night, Ive written it all down. The pictures have been generously shared by friends or pulled from the far reaches of my sock drawer or the boxes under the stairs or even the door of the fridge. I hope they sit well with you.

I urge you to make this book your own! Mark it up, fold back the important corners, add your own doodles and notes. Let Horse Woman become a journal of your own time in the saddle. If you have questions or are ripe for a debate, I invite you to become a Keystoner a Keystone Equine Facebook follower and send me a message there. Join in on the comments and discussion that are a hallmark of our online group. Your voice matters and you will be heard.

WINTER

Hope

One of the comforts after many years in the saddle is that the seasons come around, seemingly without change. This lends a stability to how we handle the highs and lows of horsemanship but the sameness can have its drawbacks.

Those of us who live in the northern reaches find this time of year to be slim pickings. The days are filled with long, slow hours of darkness. We are not riding. Depression comes a-creeping. Our time with our horses feels like stolen moments, fiddling with sti ff straps and frozen fingers, paying bills, cleaning stalls, mending blankets and throwing hay.

I am no di ff erent. Each year, it seems harder to get back into shape, to keep my chin up when the clock is ticking, or when its been weeks since Ive ridden. Instead of focusing on the lack in my winter existence, I have learned to love the glimmers of hope the dreams I allow myself for the summer to come the making of plans the exercises I can do with my horse and with my own body, to help transition into spring.

So, dig in. Read, enjoy, think of the future but dont be in too much of a rush. The winter months are all about self-care, rebuilding the relationship we have with our horses, seeing to all the little details that get lost in warm weathers grind. Stay cozy, take the time to read and absorb this wisdom and while youre at it, put on a good pot of soup.