When I was very young, my newly single Mom owned harness racehorses, the kind that pulls a cart. This impressionable time in my life frequently runs in my mind, like a movie reel that keeps looping the same images. The playback zooms in on me riding in a two-wheeled cart with a horse in front of me and bright lights overhead, illuminating the race track. Someone behind me yelling in my ear not to tell the horse to ‘giddyup’ because it will go too fast. My heart, thumping in my chest from the thrill of the ride and the fear of being thrown off the cart. Then I’m sitting on a hay bale in a low lit barn, and I can feel the straw poking through my leotards and making me itch. I’m watching handlers leading horses to their stalls, and I feel the awe inside of me as I watch the impressive animals rippling with muscle and coated in a lather. Then I feel a pang of jealousy towards the jockeys who get to drive them anytime they want. My Mom finally sold her horses because it was an expensive business, and jockeys can be challenging. But the damage was done; that time in my life was imprinted on my heart.

Not too long after my Mom sold her horses, I went to live with my Dad and my Stepmom in a rural area outside Vancouver. The houses in my neighborhood had around one acre of land, and some were hobby farms. One of the neighbor kids kept a horse on her property. Anytime she was out walking her horse around the block, I ran out to join her. She never let me ride it or even lead it, but I could pat its neck. Afterward, I would return home and beg my Dad for a horse. He didn’t take my request seriously because his reply was always the same joke about getting a pony so I could braid its hair and even bought me a hobby horse to stick it home that I was never going to get the real thing.

Growing up, the only time that I spent on the back of a horse was when I visited my Mom. Her days of owning horses were over, but we’d visit horse ranches and go on trail rides. I would always walk away from those rides promising myself that one day I would own a horse. When I started traveling in earnest, I visited places where I could ride a horse. I’ve ridden around active volcanoes in Hawaii and Costa Rica, ruins in Mexico, Texas longhorn roundups in Colorado, and up to the Hollywood sign in Los Angeles.

When I moved to San Francisco and had some discretionary money, I decided to take horseback riding lessons. Most of the barns were for dressage and jumpers and too fussy for me - I wanted to ride on the trails. I found an old cowboy giving lessons on a rundown property without any special attire or pretense required. Every new person had to start riding bareback wearing shorts and with bare feet regardless of their experience. I immediately felt welcome, and I was at the barn all the time hanging out with him and the other riders. We had potlucks and rode around at night in the pitch dark to build our confidence and our seat. I had found my community.

During one of the barn’s shared meals, someone mentioned that there were foals in Canada that needed new homes; otherwise, they were going to slaughter. My family was always adopting dogs and cats from the SPCA, and this was an opportunity to save a helpless animal and get my very own horse. Within a couple of months, I was officially a horse owner. I had never owned a horse before and had no idea how to care for or train a foal that had not been handled by humans before, so I bought many books, watched a lot of videos, and got tips from the cowboy. Tippy was a draft horse cross. He had a dark brown coat with white spots and had one blue eye and one brown eye. His mane and tail were black and very coarse and bushy. I loved that horse more than anything. I visited him every day, and in the early days, on the advice of the cowboy, I slept on the ground in his outdoor pen so he could get used to me. Eventually, I could lead him around and pick up his feet, and he would come when I called him. But the problem was, I couldn’t ride him. And really, what I wanted to do was to ride a horse anytime I wanted. So, I bought another horse.

Now I had two horses, but I was having trouble with my new “rideable” horse. I determined that I needed to spend more time with my horses because commuting to the barn took precious time away from them and their training. So I left the Bay Area, and I bought a small farm outside of Seattle and closer to my family. Now I had a barn and pastures and time and space to spend with my horses. I was just getting everything set up when I received an email that more foals needed rescuing. So, I adopted two more babies.

Now I had four horses, and I couldn’t ride any of them. I attended lots of workshops, and my skills improved; and eventually, I was able to ride Bandit a little bit, but we were just not clicking. I decided that I needed a more seasoned horse. I heard about discarded older horses bound for slaughter, so I went to the feedlot, and I rescued Mister Ed. He was old and skinny, and I could only ride him a little bit, but it was enough.

My Dad and brothers came to visit me regularly and help me get the “ranch” setup. My Dad was probably the most excited because, as a family, we would gather around every Friday night and watch a TV show called Dallas, and the main character, JR Ewing, was his idol. He thought my place was the best decision I ever made in my life.

As much as I was happy to care for the property and the animals, I was exhausted. The time I thought I would gain owning a mini ranch was lost because I worked a full-time job at Microsoft to pay the bills. I ended up having to hire someone to help me look after the animals. And through all of this, my personal life was in shambles. My (first) husband was miserable on the property because it was remote and rained all the time, and he wanted nothing to do with the animals or the mud. We were on the verge of separating, and I was overwhelmed and sad. This whole dream that I had pictured in my mind about how I was going to ride my horse all the time had not manifested the way I wanted, and instead, I ended up face down in the muck.

I made the heart-wrenching decision to sell my little ranch. I found homes for my horses with more experienced owners. My first horse, Tippy, went on to win dressage competitions, Zeddy ended up being an incredible endurance horse in northern California, and the rest went on to be trail horses. Mister Ed died while happily grazing in his favorite spot.

My Dad was disappointed in me. He thought I should have booted the husband and stayed with the animals. He refused to speak to me for a very long time, and our relationship never entirely repaired after that. It was like I had crushed his dream rather than respecting that I was sorting mine out. It made me question what I was interested in versus what I thought I was interested in or who I was trying to make happy.

It’s been years since I rode a horse. The Tokyo Riding Club refused to let me join because I wasn’t proficient in Japanese - they tested me on the spot and then said, Sayonara. It was a blow because I became obsessed with Yabusame - traditional Japanese archery on horseback. I even took archery lessons in anticipation of it becoming my next sport. I found out that live horses from Canada are shipped to Japan to become basashi - horse sashimi. Still, again, the language barrier and concern for being kicked out of the country stifled my protest and rescue efforts.

When I look back on this time in my life, it seems like a complete and utter mess. But, I did rescue some horses from slaughter, and they went on to be well cared for and make some people very happy. Now, I find myself home again, and my love for horses is still strong. I am not in a location or a situation where I can buy a horse, so my options are much more limited in terms of how I can interact with them. And maybe that’s a good thing. I need to ask myself how this interest fits in my life now. Maybe I’m OK with going to a horse ranch once a year to get my fix and helping rescue organizations raise money and awareness. Try out a few things that are low commitment and time. And maybe if I’m patient and pay attention, the answer will present itself.

The Cart Before The Horse

POWERED BY SQUARESPACE