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Perfect, warm sunshine.

Another day of perfect and warm sunshine here on the coast. Two weeks ago, our toes froze on a one hour trail ride and this week we ride in shirtsleeves and bathe our hot and sweaty horses afterward. I have spent some panicked moments thinking about drought and global warming and what a mess we have created in the environment, that Alaska is warmer this week than Alabama. But then I realized that griping about or hoping for different weather has never changed how or when the rains come. That wiser people than myself have tried to wish the rains to appear and failed. So I decided to get on my horse, head to the woods and enjoy the fantastic weather. Even better, I got to ride with good friends.

As we stand as a nation on the brink of so much uncertainty, as our toes dangle over the edge of the gorge of change and we veer from abject pessimism back to blind optimism, I know that whatever happens, I will know that I have guided 100’s of children through the beautiful forest on horseback and that they have known the joy and freedom that the experience can provide. And for today, this will have to be enough.

Tomorrow we embrace change, invoke history and move boldly forward as one nation. No matter how scared you are, no matter how you voted, you must keep your eyes open and your mind clear and participate in the democracy that our nation was built on. Not just by holding new leadership accountable for promises made, but by being a part of the solution. These crisis’ that we face will take innovation and a new way of thinking to untangle. It means the Square Pegs of the world will be called upon to find the answers that can’t be found in the round holes.

Peace out.


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A Poem for Today

This poem was written by our good friend Lisa Ortiz while sitting in an airport in April 2007. She had just met Hank and I’d like to think that he was the inspiration. It’s a poem that touches me very deeply. I hope you will like it.

Horse
The way the heart is wrapped in blankets
and the world fell; Eden’s long gone
the remnant a weedy lawn at our ankles,
a gown we’ve removed in tatters,
a dream we decide
until a horse appears
not far away in a field
not faded or rusted or ancient.
This horse was coddled in stalls, kept from the eyes of mortals
hidden really like a God,
something they say can’t exist
glitter and prance, muscled with silk
legs in waves, winged hooves, exalted bones,
prairie lightning eyes, and they call that
a star or a blaze.
Oh, reach in your pocket for sugar an apple, a handful of oats,
Open your palm
and all that you’ve held,
the way you’ve asked for forgiveness
turns out redemption is this:
an animal neck that arches
untamed breath on your wrist.


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Welcome To Our World

I’m going to take you to a very special place.
Three miles up a wooded canyon sandwiched between the hills that define the western edge of Silicon Valley and the cold foggy winds of the Pacific Ocean lies a little horse ranch.

Thirteen acres of hilly land sprinkled with horses who needed a second chance. Some because of lameness or lack of talent, some maimed, old or skittish. There’s also a bunch of friendly barn cats, two snuggly hounds and you can always hear the incessent bleating of two obnoxious pygmy goats.

The smallish sanded riding arena lies closest to the canyon road, ringed with purple daisies that bloom year round in the coastal fog. Across the street is a mysterious, gnarled giant cypress tree in shades of blue, green and black. It’s it’s thick, sturdy boughs beg to be climbed and often there is a child in the crotch of it’s first branch, lounging and watching the rest of the ranch.

Behind the arena is a tomato red barn with paddocks that open on either side. It’s the hub of the action as it usually houses the most recent rescues as well as the horses who cannot, for various reasons, live in the pasture with other horses. It’s a noisy barn built recently out of aluminum pipe and tacked with thin wood. The horses bang the pipes and the metal feeders demanding a treat, or a pat or in arguing with each other. But in spite of it’s loudness, it’s bright and airy inside and the lack of seasonal weather near the coast means that simple shelter from the elements is more important that insulation.

Between the arena and the barn is an untended vegatable garden that is haphazzardly planted with carrots, herbs and struggling tomatoes. The kids and the goats, the gophers and the deer all take liberally from the garden. The lawn is peppered with bare spots from grazing horses and hoof prints. As well as soccer balls and hula hoops left out by the children. But surrounding the lawn is a layer of bright orange and yellow calendula flowers, fragrant lavender bushes and hardy purple salvias. In the winter, it’s crisscrossed with drainage ditches to channel the rain runoff from the hillsides.

The pasture is at the back of the property. It’s too hilly for the older horses, but a gang of young and hearty horses enjoy thier own steep and verdant world on the hill. During the day, they like to stand where they can see all of the activity at the barn. But after dark they head for the meadow that lies deep in the pasture. Sometimes at dusk, they thunder along the side and sometimes over the biggest hill, just for the excitement of it. It never ceases to stop my heart. The image of horses galloping not to or from anything or anyone, but just for the sheer joy of being built to run, is something that strikes hard at the soul of every American who ventures Westward.

The ranch has been described as “story book” “cute” and lovely. But mostly how it’s described by the people who visit is: Magic.
I think they might be right.


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Guest Blogger: Genna Gliner

Patience is Key

Every weekend I see Jill* running to our tack room with a smile stretching from ear to ear, her riding helmet resting on her head, and her eyes brimming with anticipation. Her legs transition to a walk as she approaches us and she begins to rattle off all the tasks she wants to accomplish during her lesson; graze the horses, braid ribbons into their tails, play in the arena, and feed buckets full of treats.

Jill resembles our other students in her appearance and demeanor, but when I see Jill my eyes brighten and I cannot wait to get her horseback riding lesson started. Jill took extraordinary steps to become the child who runs to me every weekend. Jill’s excitement and ambition allows me to see the how the companionship of horse can increase a person’s confidence and sense of self.

Teaching Jill challenged me. When I first met Jill she did not run to us with a smile, instead, she hid behind her mom with a looks of either apathy or fear. Although Jill longed to come out and show us her personality, her shyness, due to her autism, left her incapable of connecting with the rest of the world. When the barn was full of people or the lesson became too exciting, Jill would shut down. If I gave her instructions she seemed to ignore the problem even more. If I told her to turn her thumbs up they would turn down, or if I told her to keep her horse on the rail I would find them in the center of the arena. I could not find a way to teach Jill without scaring her. She had trouble communicating what was wrong and I was lucky to get a feeble mumble from her attempting to explain her feelings. She was shy and indecisive, but my teaching style was to push. Whenever I was with Jill I tried to make the lessons fun and exciting with lots of turns and trot work, but I found she would sit atop the horse frozen and terrified. Our attitudes and personalities clashed.

One day I realized Jill was not bound to become a Grand Prix show Jumper or even an old school cowgirl; her only desire was to interact with the horses. When I found my connection to Jill, our shared love for the well being of the animals, I was able to teach Jill on a different level. We spent the majority f the lesson grooming the horses until they sparkled from muzzle to rump. I saw the same sparkle in Jill’s eyes as she admired the results of her tender and nurturing brushing. During the lesson we worked on the comfort of the horse instead of focusing on the correct posting diagonal or canter lead. We chatted about the how the horses ear movements reflect their temper: ears back meant angry, ears forward meant happy, and ears opening toward the rider means you have their attention. As Jill began responding to the horses her riding skills developed right before my eyes. She is able to trot and steer her horse independently, plus she can ride the trot with no hands.

Jill opened my eyes to a world not fill with anger an ambition, but one that is serene and beautiful. Jill’s simplicity fueled my connection to the minds of the horses instead of their ability to carry me around on their backs. Jill’s strength and perseverance came from the horses that were always patient and willing, and Jill has inspired me to look to them for my own strength. The horses always look to me with love and kindness even when I doubt my importance. I am inspired to look to the horses for motivation and confidence..

* Name Changed


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More on Horse Names…..

He pranced into our lives on his tip-toes dazzling us all with his velvety sheen and bright eyes.

The story was that he raced successfully for four years – a long career for a thoroughbred, broke his ankle and rested for a year after surgery. In his first race back, he was far from the horse he was before the injury. The jockey jumped off his back and explained to the owner that he horse had lost interest in racing and deserved a new home that would love him and care for him. Actually what the jockey said was something like:
“Get him off the track, he’s running like a bum.”

On the next day, we got a call: “I brought you something, it’s in the third stall in your barn.”

The last time I got a call like this, there were two pygmy goats tied to my tack room. Naturally, I was suspicious. What we found in that third stall took our breath away. We gathered ’round him, myself and my cadre of teenaged girls as well as my husband. Watching this beautiful creature prance around his new home, we were mesmerized.
“Is he mean?” The girls wanted to know.
“Nah, he’s just got some steroids and some pain killers in him. Give him a little bit of time and he’ll be easy.” I assured them.

His papers were tacked to the wall and my husband was studying them.

“Well, first we have to give him a new name.” He said.
“Why?” chorused the girls.
“Because his registered name is “Wegottohaveharte.”

They all agreed that we needed to turn him out in the arena and see him move and play before we had any ideas. And play he did. Anyone who has watched a mighty thoroughbred race knows about the raw power and speed of the animal. But it’s not until you see them play unfettered by a rider or tack that you can fully appreciate the grace the joy and the stupendous fragility of 1100 lbs. of muscle and sinew.

This horse was almost perfectly balanced. Beginning from his chiseled face, to the way his arched neck flowed into rippling shoulders, a short and strong back, a perfectly rounded hip and then trickled down to shapely legs. But then the flow stopped when it reached the ruined ankles swollen to the size of small grapefruits. But this horse wasn’t thinking about his ugly ankles. He was focused on being free to roll and jump and play. All of the girls recognized the gleam in his eye filled with mischief and they squealed each time he galloped past.

Meanwhile, my husband was still reading his papers and I could tell he was impressed. It seemed this horse not only exuded class in his body and movements but this horse was also the grandson of the famous Seattle Slew and had himself won over $300,000.

Right away, the girls came up with names related to his racing prowess, his obvious love of speed and his forever running engine; Hot Rod, Indy, Speedy. Nothing stuck. My clever husband pointed out that this horse was smooth rhythm, grace itself, jazz-like and just plain cool. His name could only be — Coltrane.

The name stuck.


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What do you call that horse?

Atherton eyed the carrot with a disgusted look.  Implying that I could leave the carrot in her feed bin, she might eat it later.  Her servant beamed and lovingly stroked the mare’s immaculate coat.
“What’s her name?” I asked.
“Atherton” came the proud reply.
“What do you call her?”
The servant blinked as she tried to figure out why I’d asked the same question again and answered
“Atherton.”
Atherton is the exception and not the rule.

Because most of us give our horse a barn name.  Something we call him in lieu of his registered or given name.  I mean, you can’t just waltz into the barn and call out “Hello Dox Ruby Red Design” or croon “Easy there Admiral Winston ZX. ” Can you?
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I’ve learned that the barn name can tell you a lot about a horse and his owner. 

For instance, cowboys are practical and thrifty.  There is a “Red” at every ranch, as well as a “Grey Dog,” a “Blackie” and the inevitable “Spot.”  The one exception to this rule is the horse named “That-Big-Good-Lookin’-Horse-I-Got.”  This horse packs around this huge moniker no matter what his registered name is.  The cowboy can be heard telling tales of his favorite mount:  “So I’m in the box on That-Big-Good-Lookin’-Horse-I-Got, and the steer…….”  Or “I had to go out and gather cattle with Jim, so I load up That-Big-Good-Lookin’-Horse-I-Got…………….”  Or “hey Jeff, get your mangy butt off That-Big-Good-Lookin’-Horse-I-Got……….”  When you ask the cowboy the actual name of this horse, he’ll scratch his head and say “I dunno, but my wife calls him Meat-head.”

Pony names are great.  You know what you’re up against just by the barn name.  For instance; Gus is a packer, and Button is as cute as one. Otis and Bart will buck you off.  Ernie is terribly mischievous and Tess could probably terrorize a snake.

Endurance horses are cool.  There’s always a Star, a Flash, a Magic and a Zephyr. These horses invariably earned their name and are easy to identify.

The Eventing crowd are more reflective than descriptive. They  dub their horses according to the aspirations they have for their mounts.  There’s always a King, a Champ, a Victor and a Princess. Well then there’s Crash, whose name just stuck.
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In the dressage barn, things get loftier.  By naming your horse a foreign name, he automatically becomes more elegant.  Joe is Johannes, Henry is now Henri, and Jack becomes Jacques.  There’s Bella, Beau, Enrique and the flaming chestnut in the corner stall is (of course), Fabio.

The hunter/jumpers of the world are the Jet-Set.  They tend to name their horses for places they have been or want to go.  There’s Indio, Culpeper, Cairo and Montana.  You might find Prauge, Perth, Peoria.  and Martinique (sometimes referred to as Martin, sometimes known as Eek!)  Woe to the poor creature who gets dubbed Winnemucca.
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But racing takes the cake.  With scores of horses coming in and out bearing official titles like “Classy Son By A Lot” or “Zam Zam’s Martini” the rule is that the name must be a single syllable title that somehow describes the horse. Naturally, Frog is the 2-year-old filly that tries to jump out from underneath you at the quarter mile mark and Grunt is the beautiful mare with an attitude she doesn’t keep hidden. Bob is the lanky black colt that’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer and Ike is the trusty gelding you can count (and bet) on. Needless to say, Pat is the horse whom you just can’t tell or remember whether he is a she or vice versa.
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When choosing a barn name for your steed, remember the wise words of my dear friend to her students:
“Don’t ever call your horse something you don’t want him to be.”
This includes Dork, Bucky, Snort or Squirrel.  Bear in mind of course that the lady bestowing this advice was mounted on a horse we lovingly called “Land Mine.”

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Face to Face With Your Hero

(Here’s another story that I wrote years ago. I hope you enjoy it – Joell)

On a perfect Indian summer morning, I walked to the corner coffee shop for my morning joe before a 9:00 am lesson. My eyes glanced over the headlines of several newspapers sporting more ridiculous news of local political scandals and horrific information about the continuing struggles in the Middle East. Somehow my eye caught the sub-headline that announced the quiet death of a hero and friend. My heart broke wide open.

I read the story while waiting in line for coffee with my eyes full of tears. I needed to run away, get to my car and drive, and cry. Bill Shoemaker is dead.

The article said that Bill had died of natural causes at the appropriate age of 72. The article also told the story that Bill had been a quadriplegic for the last 12 years following an auto accident. Also cited were the amazing numbers; that Bill had been born 2 1/2 lbs. That he grew to a height of 4’10”, had won an amazing 8,833 races and over $125 million dollars for his owners. That he is survived by his only daughter Amanda.

But here are some things that the article didn’t say, didn’t know and needs to be known.

For the record, Bill Shoemaker was my hero. I grew up watching him ride races on television. He rode with the Gods named Angel Cordero, Bill Hartack and Eddie D. He was my favorite until Steve Cauthen arrived on the scene with his 17 year old baby face and unbelievable talent. But Steve faded, the victim of a 5’5” frame and Bill rode on. Bill threaded the needle on a huge Ferdinand to win the Breeder’s Cup Classic for Charlie Whittingham. Bill piloted Spectacular Bid to 11 victories out of 12 rides. Bill hand rode horses to the wire, head down, small arms pumping and accepted victory with his shy smile that gave credit to the beast and its trainer.

In 1997, I got the chance to meet Bill. Not just meet, to hang out with Bill, to honor him among his peers. I was the Special Events Planner for Golden Gate Fields racetrack. Having just recently given up on the notion of being a jockey myself, I put my heart and soul into promoting racing to the general public for a living. With the help of our Marketing Director, I contacted the Shoemaker Foundation and we began to plan a benefit dinner and dance at Golden Gate Fields as a fundraiser for Bill’s charity Foundation. Bill’s first win of his career was at Golden Gate, so I thought that this might be a perfect venue to honor him.

Moreover, Bill had just that month sent up a horse to run in the California Derby, our track’s signature race. Bill became the only person to win the California Derby as a trainer and a jockey.

I met extensively on the morning of the event with Rodney Pitts, executive director of the Shoemaker Foundation and with Chris Lincoln of ESPN to discuss details of how to get Bill and his special sip-and-puff wheelchair from the airport to the Turf Club. It was decided that I should go to the airport to meet Bill. 

Both Rodney and Chris were long-time friends of Bill and all of them were big fans of a good joke. The boys decided that we would make a huge sign that said “Bill Shoemaker” and that I should parade around the airport lobby and pass him a couple of times. As if I didn’t recognize his famous face or his tiny frame in the huge wheelchair.

I knew I couldn’t do it. I was too nervous and too excited to be in his presence. So I left the sign in the van and trotted to the airline gate with my heart pounding.

Bill and his longtime assistant and friend, Wendy SooHoo were the last off of the plane. Bill’s chair had to be secured to the floor of the plane and it took a bit of maneuvering to extricate him from his bindings. Bill looked tired, but game as I approached.

For whatever reason, I have always resorted to wise cracks when nervous, and this may be one of the best/worst wisecracks of my professional career:

“Well Mr. Shoemaker, I’m Joell with Golden Gate Fields. I can’t believe that you sent a horse up to our fair track to steal the biggest race of our season and don’t show up for the race, but if we throw a dinner-dance for you, you manage to come. I didn’t realize you were that fond of dancing.”

I STILL can’t believe I said that. Bill processed my comment for a second or two, glanced up at me with clear blue eyes and said

“Kid, you get the first dance.”

We spent the trip from the airport to the track chatting. I told him that an old riding buddy of his is my great uncle and we laughed and exchanged stories of riding and racing. Bill was very tired and uncomfortable from the trip, but he never complained and was charming, graceful and kind to me.

I remember him as a little bit shy, mostly quiet and always the gentleman. Except of course, when he had the chance to crack a joke, most of them quite blue. He was quick with a smile and laugh.

Bill started the Shoemaker Foundation to assist families in the racing industry with financial support, counseling and resources when affected by catastrophic illness or injury. As you can imagine, working around racehorses is very dangerous and some of the injuries are horrific.

So often when you meet your hero, you find them to be merely human or worse. This was not the case with Mr. Shoemaker. The hero of my childhood was a true giant of a human being. My life is honestly better for having admired and known him. I hope he is riding Ferdinand across the finish line again and again somewhere in heaven.2CD03985-B931-4FAD-96BD-B491DCACE3C8.jpg

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Things are not always as they seem (or should be). A success story.

Last October, we were helping fund raise for the Jane Goodall Foundation.  Dr. Jane was coming to our ranch to do a trail ride in the woods.  Her supporters were paying a fortune to go with her.  We were to provide the horses and the supervision.  I was a nervous wreck.  The last time I was that nervous, I was supposed to meet the great Willie Shoemaker at the airport for an event.  The kids, the volunteers and I worked for months to make sure that the ranch was ship-shape and that the horses looked their best.

On the morning of the day of the event, our neighbor brought down one of the horses from his pasture, to the paddock right next door.  We knew that he had three horses and that they were in a large pasture that had been seeded with good oat and rye grass.  We couldn’t see his pasture very well from our ranch.  Our neighbor is a local business owner who doesn’t live on the property, but keeps his toys such as his boats, motorcycles and fancy cars there.  We hardly had any interaction with him.

Well, back to the horse.  This poor animal, I’ll let the photos speak (see photos before and after).  To make it worse, a friend of mine had sold the guy the horse years ago for his daughter, so I (kinda) knew the animal and I certainly knew and thought the world of his previous owner.

I panicked.  This animal, in his new pen adjacent to our ranch, would be in full view of the Jane Goodall party, and he was at death’s door.  I wanted to call the SPCA, the police, SOMEONE.  I called my friend who had sold this guy the horse.  I wanted her to come with her trailer and rescue him – NOW.  Certainly she owed her old horse as much? Instead, she told me what a nice guy the owner was and that I should just call him or go and get the horse myself.  Okay, so this was the biggest afternoon of my entire career.  Dr. Jane Goodall and a cadre of her biggest supporters were due to arrive in a couple of hours and I was supposed to clean up this mess, caused by people who can’t manage to take care of their own animals!  I was hyperventilating and imagining what a cruel, awful person our neighbor must be.  To let this sweet animal starve to death while he polishes his fancy motorcycles and boats.

But I let reason and hope get the better of me, and I found the number for the guy’s business and I just called.  He was indeed a nice guy.  Didn’t know squat about horses and looked up to check on his three and found that one “had dropped a lot of weight”, so he had his guy go up and bring him down into the barn to feed him up.  I told him that he needed to let me help him with the horse and that I would probably have to bring him into my barn.  He gave me the code to his automatic gate and told me to put anything I needed on his account at the local feed store.

We brought him into the barn and fed him 2 or 3 handfuls of wet feed every 90 minutes round the clock for 3 days. We wormed him when he was strong enough and increased his feed intake steadily. We treated his brittle skin with salves and blanketed him with the softest blankets we could find.   He put on weight quickly and seemed to appreciate all our efforts.  The day we turned him out into the arena and he rolled and got up bucking, we all laughed until our faces hurt.

The story ends well. King has terrible teeth and my miracle dentist, Ben Koertje did the best he could but informed us that we would have to soak his food for the rest of his life.  He was standing shin deep in good grass in his pasture, but couldn’t chew or digest the food he was eating.  His owner was not hoarding or purposely starving the horse.  He believed that the horse was doing as well as the other two older horses who were thriving on the pasture grass. Yes, the owner should have checked on the horses more.  But he had invested in good pasture, good fencing and relied on advice from horsey friends as to when to worm and vaccinate. He had simply forgotten about the animals after providing acres of grass and adequate shelter and water.

What looked like a terrible case of abuse was more complicated than met the eye.  Had I acted on my first impulse and called animal control, I would have alienated a neighbor and lost track of the horse.

In closing, it’s important to me to mention that this neighbor beats a path to my door with a check whenever I give him a bill for his horse’s care.  He has donated hay to our ranch and always has a smile and a wave when he drives in.  Whenever I see him at a restaurant, he sends over a drink or dessert to our table (he’s in the food service business).  We have Thoroughbred’s from the track and fancy retired dressage and polo horses that came from some extremely wealthy barns.  They were donated and we never heard from their owners again.  We try to send updates, but often get no response. We send donation requests and are met with radio silence except for the occasional call requesting a home for another one of their horses.

Things are not always as they seem.  When it comes to suspected animal neglect or abuse, be mindful, be thoughtful, but do something.

Oh, and by the way, Dr. Jane Goodall is as amazing as you could ever imagine.  Wow.

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Choosing a Horse off the Race Track: The Facts

Photo caption:  just some of the OTTB’s, past and present at Square Pegs

[This is something I originally published about eight years ago. In light of all    the thoroughbreds that are needing rescue from slaughter lately,it seemed to merit re-posting.]

Somehow, the story always goes like this; “Poor Champ was skinny and abused when I bought him off the track for $200. I worked with him for 3 years and now he’s the loveliest horse in the world.”

So you think to yourself “Maybe I need to go to the track to get my ugly duckling to make into a swan.”

A word to the wise: Caveat Emptor.

Let’s look at the facts:
– Thoroughbreds are arguably one of the most athletic, versatile, beautiful horses around.
– They are also bred to run, prone to injury and thin-skinned.
– Imported European Sporthorse prospects are commonly priced at $15,000 and up, so a *free* thoroughbred sounds like a great bargain.
– At your local racetrack, there can be as many a 1200 horses stabled on the grounds, a veritable smorgasbord of horse shopping!

So you want to go shopping for an ex-racehorse.

First things first. Bring your trainer or another trusted full-time horse professional. This person will be able to assess confirmation, attitude and soundness better than if you go alone and fall in love with the first 17-hh dapple-gray 2 year old filly that you see.

Next, learn the following common racetrack terms that you will encounter.

Bleeder: a condition that indicates the horse has demonstrated internal bleeding in the lungs when racing or training. It is estimated that up to 80% of Tb’s racing in North America exhibit this problem. While a bleeder will not usually show complications of the condition when used for trail riding or lower speed sports, it can be a problem if the horse is intended for upper level Eventing or other long distance disciplines.

Bowed Tendon: This is when the tendon fibers of the lower leg are torn or inflamed. . A compromised tendon will never be as flexible as one that hasn’t been injured. General rule of thumb for a tendon is 6 to 12 months lay-up before returning to regular work. However, many horses with healed bowed tendons compete regularly.

Chipped Knee or Chipped Ankle (aka “bone spur”): as the term implies, this indicates that a bone chip is present in the joint. It often means that the animal should undergo orthoscopic surgery. Lay-up time can be 2 to 6 months. Ask to see x-rays and share them with your vet.

Take into consideration your goals, riding level, budget, facilities and time-frame. Be realistic about what you are looking for. It’s very easy to fall in love with a beautiful 2-year-old filly with a tendon problem. But unless you are prepared to wait two years before your first show, she probably isn’t an option.

Former racehorses are some of the most sensitive, intelligent and versatile animals around. Be patient and practical about your riding goals and abilities. Do your homework and you may find your next superstar and/or equine companion at the track. Never forget a thorough vet check is a minor investment in a long-term relationship.