It's Getting Dark, Too Dark to See

It was the middle of the afternoon when the sun disappeared. One moment it was there, clear beams warm on my skin, and the next moment it was gone. Somehow, in a span of time so short it seemed immeasurable, life had drained from the day, as though the world dropped into a shadow. 

We were on a narrow section of the trail, narrow for being on horse back that is. The lean strip of trail looked exactly as expected; a couple feet wide, dirty, dusty, meandering, hugged by patches of coarse sagebrush and odd shaped rocks. The trail wound up through a thicket of trees; a forest of firs, silver and grand, western hemlocks, and an oddly placed constellation of aspens, their leaves only just beginning to turn that unmistakable yellow gold, an ode to change, the first wink of fall. 

When the sky turned dark I kept the reins gathered in my left hand and wrapped my fingers tightly around the smooth leather horn of the saddle. Then, without hesitation, I pushed my feet down into the stirrups to straightened my legs and lift my rear off his back, then I leaned forward to reach my free hand towards his thick white neck. My tattered fingers, riddled with scabby knuckles, blood dried cracks, and dirty fingernails, were a stark contrast to his powdery coat, a juxtaposition that set the record straight on which of us belonged to this wild place and which was the more fragile visitor.

He was fragile in his own right, sensitive and needy, but his skin was thicker than mine.

My zombie-like fingers tenderly combed the arrant strands of his mane that fell to the wrong side of his neck. Each strand of hair, as thick as fishing line, snagged on the hook-like calluses that spread like a boneyard across my working man’s hand. The wind picked up, and the aspen trees danced against the gusts, their leaves waving good-bye like different kinds of hands. I flipped the unruly strands of his hair back to the other side of his face, where the majority of his eggshell colored mane cascaded, neatly and naturally, down his long neck. 

Another big gust flew down the mountain like an invisible ghosts. The thick bands of muscle along his neck bulged against the chill of the wind and angry looking veins, pulsing with wildness, rose up beneath his skin and puckered his fur, more and more with each passing moment.  

I rubbed his bare neck firmly, confidently; or perhaps it was he who was seething firmness and confidence beneath my tattered hand. It was impossible to know which it was, because like most of his equine ancestors, Knocker was deftly smart, emotionally sensitive, witty, and, for the record, more than a little stubborn. 

The line between who was taking who for a ride was a mirage; which is to say, there wasn’t a line at all.

“It’s okay, boy.” I said in a soft and low voice, “We’re going to be okay.” The warmth of him felt like a hot breath on my frozen fingertips. He jerked his caramel brown eyes to the right, to the very edge of their periphery, in an attempt to see me as I spoke. As if he’d somehow forgotten hat I was on his back. The whites of his eyes looked bloodshot with instinct. I continued to stroke his fur and offered calm encouraging words. I could tell he was listening to me by his right ear; it stood up tall, eager to hear, like a soldier standing at attention, reporting to for duty. But his left ear betrayed him, it bent back and down, forlorn and droopy; wounded, as if he’d already been to battle and come up short. 

His ears always told his truth. That he was both ready and unsure, both prepared and unwilling.

And as I sat on his back that afternoon the sun disappeared, his surly thousand plus pound body beneath me, between me, with my feet hooked deeply into the stirrups, connecting me to him, and the reins of control resting lightly in my hand, I felt exactly as he did. I too was both here and somewhere else; both nearby and faraway; both ready and not; both dead and alive; prepared to move forward yet unwilling to move on. 

He was not the horse I’d expected, but he was the horse for me nonetheless. Stubborn, irreverent, sensitive, with spontaneity that aired on the side of unpredictability, and solitary to the point of being misanthropic. He would bite, kick, maim, and refuse, both horses and humans alike. 

Out in the pasture back at the ranch he’d often stand alone, 15 or so hands tall, the vibrant grasslands of Wyoming swirling around his hooves, his powdery grayish white coat luminous against the big blue of the open sky. He had a scatter of dark gray spots sprinkled around his shoulders, hips, and face, which allowed him to blend in with the boulders in the distance. And when the light was just right, the jagged mountain ridgelines would be reflected across his rugged and wild eyes. 

Him and the land are the edges of beauty, and both hold secrets to the things lost that are impossible to forget.  

Knocker was part Appaloosa and part Paint, which gave him an almost comically short tail and very thin hair and fair skin. His coat was so fine in texture that his tender pink skin was exposed to the elements in big swaths around his nose, legs, belly, and tail. All of this made him prey to saddle sores. 

By the time I met and partnered with this kooky Appaloosa, the week before we be headed out to ride into Wind River Mountains, he already had substantial saddle sores spread across his exposed skin, like a strawberry patch across his belly. 

In my effort, and promise, not to cause him any more harm or pain on our impending journey I learned to center-fire my saddle rig, a technique that placed the girth cinch a little lower on his belly where it wouldn't further irritate his sores. I also learned to have quick reflexes, because each time he caught me reaching for the girth cinch, he’d l swing his head back in single jerk and try, in what seemed to be his best effort, to bite me straight to the bone.

  I’d come to learn quickly that we’d be saddling each other each day. And while I cinched the leather and held the physical reins, he had me cinched in and on tight reins in his own way. And while my saddle for him had western tassels, brass buckles, and was a heavy load to throw up and over his big back; his saddle for me was invisible, but heavy with the truth that he was in charge of this outfit, and he could, and very well would, take charge at any moment. 

Each morning we’d do our little dance; I’d throw the saddle load on his back, he’d throw his head back and try to bite me; I’d coo at him, pet him, esteem him, he’d stand patiently; I’d loosely center fire his saddle, he’d throw his head back with more fervor  in a greater attempt to bite me; I’d coo at him some more, tell him he was pretty, thank him for his service, promise to do him no wrong. 

We’d do this little dance for several minutes, and by the time I’d finally get to the serious work of cinching the saddle to ride tight, he’d already outsmarted me once again by ballooning his belly full of breath like a child throwing a fit, making it impossible for me to get it ride tight no matter how much strength I used; and if I dare try, he’d vehemently throw his head back in one final gesture of outrage, bare his big chicklet teeth at me like a lion, before forceful side stepping towards me to push me out of his way.  It was then that I’d realize that we were both saddled, but only one of was ride tight, and it wasn’t him. 

As I sat on his back on that dark late August afternoon, and rubbed his burly neck, I felt his belly slowly deflating. I made a mental note to tighten my saddle when I got the chance. A few beads of water dropped onto my dry hands. I looked up towards the gloomy sky and felt a few more drizzles drip down onto my face.  I lifted my palm to the air. Is it raining?

Both of Knocker’s ears arched back sharply now, telling me he was grumpy and uncomfortable, worried by the energy in the air, no doubt.

A storm was afoot.

The clouds overhead swirled and turned the sky steely gunmetal gray as the thick of the storm settled down on the surrounding tree tops. I watched the muscles around Knocker’s beefy shoulders quiver. He exhaled more air out, his belly shrank, the saddle loosen. He took one slow stomp backwards. This is not good.

“WHACK!”

A loud blow of a sound shot through the air. At first it sounded like a tree trunk splitting in two, but I knew better. It was the sound of a lightning electrifying in the sky. It was the sound of the sky colliding with the earth. 

“One. Two.” I heard PeeBee counting from her horse’s back up ahead, “Thr-”… 

“BOOM!”

An erratic, boundless sound interrupted her calculated voice as an explosion of thunder hit. I could feel the sound descend upon us. The ground shook; and it seemed that everything rattled, everywhere. Before the thunder was gone, rain began to pour from the sky like a waterfall, drenching the earth in an instant - me and Knocker included.

I pulled Knocker’s reins tight, held onto the now slippery horn of the saddle; then I flung my right leg over his backside and jumped free from him, landing in a fast forming puddle at his side. In the time it took me to move my legs from his back to earth, torrential rain had given way to heavy hail.  Moving frantically I pulled out his lead rope and tied him to the sturdiest tree branch I could find. His wild eyes, once again bloodshot with instinct and impulse, bore intently on me as I double and triple checked the knot I‘d just tied. I hoped and prayed that his fear of the storm wouldn’t be stronger than the branch he was tethered to. Soaked to the bone, I searched through my soggy saddle bag for my rain jacket, a futile effort by this point. Once I retrieved it, I stood before Knocker and look him in the eyes. His hot breath and mine mingled in the cold air between us.

“I’ll be right back. Okay?” I said quietly. “Don’t be afraid. We’ll be okay.” I said, and pulled my hand down from his forehead to his muzzle in one long stroke, before I ran away into the trees to wait for the lightning to pass.  

It was not likely that any of us, horse nor human, would be struck by lightning, even though it was striking in the very patch of forest we stood in. However, the sound of the thunder would possibly scare the horses, and in their rush of fear they could bolt and trample us fragile humans in the process. 

I stood there in the trees, dripping wet and shivering from the cold, confused as to why this wasn’t a terrible experience for me. I wondered, as I do from time to time, why I felt so much joy in experiences that for so many other people would be absolute hell. But I fell short on an explanation for my own wildness, as I often do. The truth is, I don’t know why I find joy in storms, or gratitude in challenge, or peace in my own suffering, or a sense of belonging in these wild places that are far away from the beaten paths of the society I was born into and expected to belong to. But as I watched Knocker that day from between the trees, standing there in the distance, completely still against the rumbles of thunder, brave beneath the sky as buckets of water then hail poured from the pearly gates of heaven down to the ash and bones of earth, all I could do was smile with joy.

There we were, taking what nature offered, no fear, no preference, no exclusion.

“Knock, Knock, Knocking on heavens door,” I sang under my breath. The white plume of my warm breath wafted through the cold air, punctuating the lyrics. “I feel like I’m knocking on heavens’ do-or.” I continued sing as I watched on, both a voyeur and a participant; both in and out of the game as Whitman once wrote. 

The rain, the hail, the lightning, the thunder, the mountains, the horse, it was a beautiful sight to behold.

Words and Photos by Erin Cookston