I recall riding a beautiful, brown horse through the mountainous slag heaps that were piled up around the coalmines of Lancashire County, England. It’s something of a miracle that I remember anything at all about that grey, drizzly afternoon when I was only twelve years old.
I had been taking riding lessons for several months, and had learned to ride English saddle. How different it felt from the large, secure Western saddle with its comforting saddle horn to cling to. The English saddle was small and streamlined by comparison and seemed more like a leather blanket with stirrups, and it provided absolutely nothing to hang onto. We were instructed to hold the reins in our closed fists, palm side down, and place them on the horse’s shoulders, just in front of the saddle. Good form to be sure, but precarious!
I remember the tack room where we assembled to wait for the riding lessons to begin. The heady scent of leather and sawn wood permeated the small space. Bridles, reins, ropes and other equipment hung from large hooks on the rough-hewn boards that made up the walls. Saddles and brightly colored blankets were draped over the railings. We had been taught how to outfit our horses, and when the stable hands brought them around from the stalls, we knew what to do.
When all was ready, we set out in single file. A tall girl with a blonde ponytail was in the lead, and I was second. There were five or six other riders behind me, and the instructor was bringing up the rear. We began at a slow walk, but quickly transitioned into a trot as we left the riding school grounds and crossed the road. The trot was my least favorite pace, as it required a good deal of effort, and caused considerable jostling.
Soon, the trail opened up into a wide expanse and the horses were allowed to break into a canter. I loved this pace, as it was smooth and easy. My body fell into sync with the liquid movement of the horse, and the wind in my face felt exhilarating. My short wavy hair bounced in the misty breeze.
After awhile the drizzle that had been with us from the beginning intensified into a steady rain. We had traveled a good distance from the riding school and the scenery had changed. We were heading into an area of coalmines, where both sides of the trail were lined with ugly, grey slag heaps. It was raining harder, and the trail had turned into a muddy quagmire.
All at once, something spooked the lead horse, and he took off at a full gallop. My horse, following closely, took off after him. The other riders were lagging behind far enough that they were able to slow their horses to a walk. The instructor, seeing our predicament, came galloping after us.
Great globs of mud churned up by the lead horse peppered my face. My memory of the ensuing moments is a blur of nightmarish images: The thin grey light of the soggy afternoon, the flying hooves of the lead horse, the tall girl’s wind whipped ponytail, a shower of muck that steadily bombarded me, the towering dark heaps of coal residue, and the mud, the mud, the mud.
I lowered my head onto the horse’s shoulder to keep the flying mud out of my eyes, and wondered how he could possibly see where he was going. A few more seconds passed, and I felt him begin to lose his footing as he went into a skid on the slippery layer of oozing mud.
The horse went down hard. With a shriek, he plummeted onto his left side, his hooves flailing. I sailed through the air as the slushy trail rose to meet me, and my head came to rest against a flat rock.
Darkness swallowed me, for how long I do not know. When consciousness began to creep back, I was aware of a blur of faces looking down at me. I was unable to hear what they were saying, and I wasn’t sure where I was, or even who I was. My world seemed to consist of nothing more than a circle of silent, foggy faces in the rain.
After awhile my hearing returned and I found myself standing, but the process of getting up off the ground was lost to memory. The instructor had managed to help the lead rider get her horse under control, and all the riders had dismounted and gathered around me exclaiming about the horror of it all, and expressing great concern for my well-being. They told me later that my first words were “Is my horse OK?”
He was. He stood before me dripping with mud and wild-eyed from the trauma, with his reins in the hand of our instructor.
After checking me over for broken bones, and examining my eyes for evidence of concussion, the instructor pronounced me fit enough to ride back to the stables. I hesitated and stumbled backwards. A wave of nausea swept over me and I felt a rush of the same wild panic that I had seen moments before in the eyes of my horse.
The instructor was resolute. He insisted that if I did not get back on the horse right then and there, that I would most likely never ride again. I knew he was right. I mounted up, and rode gravely back with the instructor at my side.
We arrived at the riding school long after the other riders had unsaddled their horses and led them to the stalls. My friends were sitting patiently by the bus that waited to take us home. No one questioned the cause of my delay. No one complained about being late for dinner, or needing to get back to finish up homework. They understood that both horse and rider were numbed by the violent event of that afternoon. They understood my need to keep the horse at a slow and gentle walk for the entire distance back to the barn.
Although a stable hand was waiting to take care of my horse, I asked permission to personally lead him to the stall. I felt that we needed a few moments alone together. Once inside the stable, I placed my arms around his neck and cried softly into his mane. We were survivors. I knew the terrifying accident could have ended differently, even tragically. I also knew that neither of us would ever forget this day.
This event occurred in England
Probably in1956
