Megan Eaves-Egenes

I can’t forget when I first got thrown. I was just a little girl, maybe 6 or 7, taking the pony, a chestnut called Charlie, for a turn around the arena. The arena was a big, fenced-in rectangle on the south side of our adobe house with a view of the mountains. The scrub, cactus and tumbleweeds had been cleared from it, leaving only fine dust and some rocks. My dad was in the middle, keeping an eye on me and shouting a few reminders. Heels down! Shorten your reins! Pull back to slow down.

Charlie did not slow down. Rather, in the indignant and cantankerous way of most Shetland ponies, he gathered his hindquarters, put his head down, rounded his back and gave his long flaxen mane a shake. It’s an age-old tale. Ponies like this love to mess little girls about. I doubt his hind hooves even took air, but his rump bumped up just enough to unseat my unbalanced, spindly little body. I went flying over his left shoulder and tumbled head-first into the dust and rocks. He cantered triumphantly down the long side, mane and reins flapping, and came to a halt at a tuft of brown grass sticking through the fence.

It was my first fall and I was unhinged. Hot, fat tears rolled down my cheeks. I was sure something was broken, although to my memory nothing actually hurt that much. But it was the first time I experienced a bruised ego. I was mad at Charlie. Mad at him for embarrassing me and showing the world how small I was. I was mad at him for reneging on what I thought was supposed to be an idyllic relationship between a girl and her horse. But Charlie couldn’t give a hoot about my hurt feelings, and that was what hurt the most.

You ok sweetie? Dad asked. He wasn’t the best at being affectionate but he knew what to do with horses. I was too young to understand it then, but he had been dumped, literally and metaphorically, hundreds of times himself in some tight and remote spots. He knew what being bucked off meant, and he knew what having a relationship with a horse meant. And it meant a hell of a lot more than relationships with most people.

I was thoroughly checked over and given a hug. There was a scraped elbow and a little bloody knee. There was a very bruised up ego and I was certainly never going near that rotten horse again.

Charlie just kept munching his grass.

Dad made me stand still while he collected the pony and looked over the equipment. The reins weren’t broken. The girth was still tight. And I was going back into the saddle.

I absolutely was not going back on that pony. He hated me and wanted me dead. Obviously. No chance in hell I was trusting that rotten pony again.

I’m not sure how old I was when I was first put on a horse, but I know that it was before I could walk. My mother used to tell stories about the day they brought me home from the hospital and took me out to the horse corral and put me up to the horses’ noses and let them blow their sweet breath all over me. A strange imprinting ritual that ensured I would never have a moment of peace for the rest of my life, because horses would be a part of my body. The next step was putting me all the way on, and even when I was too little, I’d be held in front of the saddle by someone and get to steer the reins and pat the horse’s neck. Finally, when my legs were long enough to straddle the width of a pony’s back, Charlie arrived and I learned to pull a milk crate up next to his withers and comb the knots out of his mane. I learned not to walk too close behind and how not to get kicked. I learned to communicate, memorising every ear signal, every nostril flare, every shift of weight, snort and nicker. I was a feral desert fairy child with tangled hair of my own and no human friends, who could speak fluent horse.

The first rule of being a good horsewoman is when you fall off, you get right back on again, he told me. Do you want to be a good horsewoman?

I sort of wanted to be a good horsewoman but also never wanted to see Charlie again and hated his guts for throwing me off. I was distressed and crying and absolutely sure he would throw me off again the first chance he got. It was madness to get back on. Madness, and I begged not to ever get on that horse again.

Well, we weren’t going back into the house until I got back on. We could stay out there all afternoon, Dad said. But I was going back on. You don’t have to ride long, but you have to get back on, he said.

I found some courage somewhere in my tiny little wild fairy heart and decided to be the bigger person and accept Charlie’s apology even though it hadn’t been given. Dad brought him over and let us get reacquainted. I was still mad and Charlie’s uncaring demeanour did not help repair our broken relationship, but I was going to be a good horsewoman and get back on.

I’ll give you a leg up, Dad said hoisting me up into the saddle. My arms were smudged with dirt and my knee with dried blood. My hair was full of knots and my nose was running. I wiped it with my shirt and threw my leg up over.

Good job. You okay? You’re doing great, Dad kept me steady and I was actually doing okay. I couldn’t believe it. I gave Charlie a little pat on the neck. Not a big one, we weren’t there yet and I was still pretty mad.

We had to do one circle – a slow walk was fine, said Dad. We did it and I was allowed to get off. On my own terms this time. I took the reins into my left hand, leaned forward and swung my right leg behind me and slid the long way down until my feet touched the ground.

That is the story of my first fall off a horse. Some of the details have gotten hazy and lost to the years. I confess that I considered emailing my dad to make sure of the pony’s name. What I know for certain is that that day with Dad and Charlie granted me the graft and artistry to face my fears and not run for the hills.

I cannot imagine how people without horses learn to get back on.