Have you ever noticed that when horse people meet, we often ask, “What type of riding do you do?” And most of us, even Olympians, will answer with something along the lines of, “Oh, nothing too special.”

I suspect the impulse to play down our abilities rather than go the other way comes from experience—many of us have learned the hard way that if you let on that you’re an experienced rider, a host will assign you the barn’s most notorious rascal.

But in a social setting, follow-up questions eventually demand a more specific answer, something like, “Hunter-jumpers,” or “Western pleasure.” These days, I give the most catchall response there is: “Just some trail riding.”

Of course, “trail riding” can refer to a variety of things, ranging from hiring a horse by the hour to competing in endurance contests. But when I use the term, I mean my primary activity with my Paint mare Audie.

On a typical day, we spend some time in the ring—”schooling”—then head out the gate. Some days, we follow bridle paths, parallel to a road or through wooded parkland.

Often, though, I’m not even sure you could call what I do trail riding, which implies the presence of a trail. We just wander around in rolling, open fields.

How it began

This habit began because Audie is often reluctant to head into the woods without another horse along. When she realizes that it’s just the two of us, she whinnies plaintively and takes neat little steps backward, which would be impressive if I had asked for them. Some days I use this reaction as a training opportunity—riding calmly through the Bureau of Complaints—but other days I would prefer just to enjoy her company and not bicker. We’re very lucky in that the boarding farm where she lives has giant pastures, many unoccupied.

That means, we can wander far with-out leaving the property. It’s even possible to walk along the margin of Audie’s own pasture, which makes her feel less alone and aggrieved. As we meander that field, though, she does sometimes raise her chin and gaze longingly at her herdmates, as if hoping they can see the merciless treatment she’s enduring. The other horses eye her indifferently and keep grazing.

I relish even those rides when Audie acts like she’d rather join her buddies. In the fields, I see things on horseback that I don’t when afoot. Trees seem different: less trunk, and more branches and leaves. Once, I looked a surprised squirrel in the eye. I notice footsteps, listening to Audie’s feet hit the grass, her shod front ones landing differently than her bare-foot rear ones.

Deer often bolt when I am out walking with my dogs, but if I’m on horseback, they simply fling their white tails and step slowly away. Audie and I watch them together as they silently disappear into the adjoining forest. Walking the fields allows me the pleasure of just being on horseback, where the natural world comes into sharper focus.

“Riding a fine horse into a new country”

At these times, I think of a favorite line from Larry McMurtry’s 1985 novel Lonesome Dove. “I wouldn’t have missed coming up here,” Gus McCrae tells a young companion as they ride out on a cloudless day in Montana. “I can’t think of nothing better than riding a fine horse into a new country. It’s exactly what I was meant for.”

In these moments—sun playing over the pasture, mockingbirds bouncing from branch to branch—Audie’s always fine, and the country is always new.