2006 - Vol. 3, Issue 7

It was a perfect day for a horseback ride. The air was warm for that time of year. The sumac blazed crimson amid yellow foliage. Trigger was at the far side of the pasture, so I whistled for him.

The gelding lifted his head, turned and faced my direction, twitching his ears. Trigger wasn't a registered American Paint, but that didn't matter to me. The way he stood in the pasture, his black, white, and brown coat shining in the sunlight, made me think he was the most beautiful animal in the world. He was just the right height — tall enough for my dad to use for herding cattle and short enough for me — a five–foot–two teenager, to ride.

I whistled again, but the horse did not move. I filled my pockets with cracked corn and dragged the saddlery across the field, the bridle flopping against my shoulder. Trigger turned and faced my direction, head high and ears erect. As I neared him, I twisted my ankle and fell, got up and limped in his direction.

I fell a lot because I had polio when I was little. We lived in Detroit in 1942 when an epidemic struck and I caught the disease. After a year of therapy, the partial paralysis in my back and legs improved enough for me to walk. However, the doctors were not impressed. They said I was "trick walking," because I couldn't use the muscles on my right side. I couldn't run or jump, but I could walk up to a mile if I didn't hurry. My father had taught me to be proud of what I could do.

In 1948, we moved to the family farm in the Midwest. My parents wanted to escape the "creeping urban sprawl of the big city." I learned to climb on a horse by standing on one leg and pulling myself up.

I missed the city sidewalks. They were easier to walk on than the farm's rocky ground. Uneven surfaces caused me to fall and skin my knees. I missed going places in the city alone or with buddies. It was lonely living in the country, and I missed my city friends.

My unhappiness, combined with my quick temper, worried my folks. Daddy felt I got mad too easily. He told neighbors that I, his thirteen–year–old daughter, had to learn self control.

"She has to learn to allow for other people's limitations," he would say.

His solution was to buy me a blind horse, Trigger. He became my teacher. Dad insisted that I could be Trigger's eyes, and he could be my feet.

My father taught me how to handle the horse in our fenced–in barn lot. Learning how to handle him was easy, but then my father had me dismount and put Trigger into the stall. I practiced bridling and saddling him while he was confined.

Mounting him by myself was more difficult. Most people mount their horses on the left side. I couldn't put my weak left foot in the stirrup and use that leg to swing myself into the saddle. My paint had been trained to be mounted from either side. I was glad, because I could get on Trigger from the right.

The animal couldn't step away when I climbed on if he was in the stall. Horses are trained not to sidestep, but Dad worried about how Trigger might react when I mounted him out in the pasture. Still, I was sure I could handle the horse anywhere.

In spite of my disability, I wanted to climb on Trigger's back that afternoon and go for a ride. The animal had turned and walked away. I dropped the saddle, sighed, and followed him to where the fences crossed. After I cornered the creature, I grabbed the rope halter and pulled the bridle over his ears. "Here, have some grain," I said as I thrust some under his nose. When he opened his mouth, I slipped the bit between his teeth.

"Good boy!" I cooed.

After positioning the bridle and buckling the straps, I took the reins in hand and led him up the fence to the saddle. "I know I can saddle you, Trigger, but can I mount you out here?" I had never done that.

If I'm going to ride, I have to learn how to get on his back no matter where we are.

"Don't let your horse side away from you as you mount," I remembered hearing my father say, "Keep his left side against a barrier."

With Trigger's side against the fence, I put the blanket on his back and positioned the saddle. I reached under his belly, grabbed the strap, pulled it around, and cinched it. Then I wrapped the reins around the saddle horn and thrust my right foot into the stirrup. I grabbed his mane and used the saddle horn to pull myself up. But the saddle slid around his belly with me clinging to it upside down. Plop! I landed on my backside in fresh manure. Trigger backed around me with his head pulled down to my face. I still held the reins.

"You stupid beast!" I yelled. Trigger laid back his sensitive ears.

My foot came out of the stirrup as I kicked and pounded the ground. I slapped at Trigger, missed and hit the saddle horn. My hand stung. He jerked his head back.

"Oh, Trigger, I'm sorry." I reached up and wrapped my arms around his neck and cried.

I stood up and unfastened the saddle, repositioned it, and pulled the cinch taut. Once I was secure in the saddle, I gripped the reins tight. The horse pranced a few steps, settled down, and cantered out of the field to the creek–gravel road.

He slowed to a walk when his feet hit the rocky road. Trigger picked his way over the rocks. The road's surface was creek gravel, a mixture of rocks and mud common to waterways of the area. It was passable in most weather, but that day truck wheels had cut ruts in it. I had difficulty walking on uneven ground; this horse could not see the road's surface, so I understood his need for level footing. I guided him to the smoothest side of the road. When a truck came into view, I brought Trigger to a halt on the shoulder of the road.

"Drivers may honk their horns and frighten your horse," Dad had cautioned before we set out. "Be safe; make him stand on the side of the road until they pass."

Trigger was well trained in this practice — too well. After the truck was gone, an airplane flew overhead. At the sound of the plane’s motor, Trigger stepped to the roadside and stood motionless. I kicked my heels and flopped the reins.

"Oh, come on, Trigger! That airplane won't hurt you. Let's go!" I yelled and pulled on the reins.

In response, he reared, came down, and reared again. Shaken, I waited until the engine noise faded. I decided since Trigger was unable to guide himself in a sightless world, he could pause at the sound of an airplane motor. After the plane was gone, we rode on.

Cows in the field raised their heads and horses whinnied as we trotted the roads. Hay stacks and corn shocks dotted the fields. My mount and I were in great spirits.

When we came to where a split–log bridge crossed a stream, Trigger slowed to a walk. He stopped when his foot touched the plank. I urged him onward. He shied, stepped sideways and almost fell into the water.

"Whoa, Trigger, back." I pulled on the reins: "What's wrong, Boy?" He stepped backward until we were safe on the road again.

I studied the bridge. There was nothing wrong with it. I tried to guide him forward, but Trigger balked and shied.

"What's the matter?" I kicked his side.

He reared. I slapped his flanks as he raised again, danced, then came down on all four and up again until I slipped off his backside. I hit the ground, rolled out of the range of his kicking feet, and lay there, bawling in frustration and imagined pain.

I sat up, wiped my eyes on my sleeve, and realized neither of us were hurt. Trigger stood at the roadside. I got up and walked over and petted him while I considered my plight.

Now, what will I do? A horse has to cross bridges. I am not about to stop coming this way just 'cause he doesn't like the sound of his own footsteps.

I drank water from my canteen while Trigger munched the grass.

"It's your job to train that horse. You've got to teach him what you want the minute you spot a problem," Daddy had said. "You can't wait until later — not if you want him to understand."

My father would have expected me to teach Trigger to cross the bridge, and to do it without delay.

After I poured water into my cupped hand and offered it to Trigger, I took the reins and led him to the center of the road.

"OK, Trigger, here we go," I said, tugging on the reins as I walked ahead. "One step — that's right. Now another. See? That's not so bad. Take your time. Now your hind foot. A little further. Good!" The hollow sounds of the boards grew less ominous as we crossed and our feet touched solid ground on the other side. We crossed the bridge again, back and forth, until he no longer resisted my lead.

I led him through a ditch and into a field and positioned him against a fence so I could mount. Then I guided him back to the road, speaking in a soft voice and patting his neck. My horse took slow even steps as he walked to the edge of the bridge. I let him choose his path as we crossed to the other side. We turned and crossed the bridge, then turned again. Leaving the bridge, we trotted all the way home. Trigger and I were one again.