“So, do you know how to ride a horse?”

“So, do you know how to ride a horse?” asked my guide. We were setting out on a trip into the Sierras around the village of Mina Clavero, more or less in the middle of Argentina. It was just the two of us; there aren’t many tourists in the area these days, since it’s getting to be winter.

“Well,” I answered, “I’ve been on them a few times. Many years ago.” The truth was I could remember being on a horse twice – once when I was about 9 and we were on a family trip in the Black Hills, and another time at Karen Smith’s farm in Michigan, when I was probably around 8. My cumulative horse-riding experience was probably about 1 hour, most of it with the horse standing still.

“Ok,” said my guide, Gaston, apparently taking my answer for a yes. He directed me to mount.

When I managed to get atop the house, there was no comforting “back in the saddle again” feeling. Rather, I was surprised to find that the thing under me kept moving unexpectedly. Not at all like a bicycle. We started off at a nonchalant walk and I felt pretty in-control. This lasted about a minute, until the horse decided to trot.

Instantly I wished I had eaten less for breakfast. The sensation reminded me of pounding through waves in a small skiff – another activity that looks peaceful and free but leaves you with a sore bottom.

I tried to recall horse-riding films for guidance, and could only remember Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. How did Robert Redford do it? He certainly did something differently. I tried giving up my clenched-body, riding-a-speedboat-in-a-storm technique and relaxed a little. It helped.

Three minutes down. Four hours, fifty-seven minutes to go.

“See that mountain over there?” said Gaston. “We’re going to go up that and over to the other side.”

Then it was time to cross the river. I had the innocent notion that crossing the river would involve my horse – whose name was Pinky – getting wet, and me staying dry. Didn’t Robert Redford stay dry when he bolted through a river? But me feet were hanging in the heavy-duty splash zone.

I gave up on Robert Redford and looked at Gaston, who was employing the ingenious technique of sticking his feet straight out ahead to keep them out of the water. Now why hadn’t I thought of that?

A while later, as the horses scrambled up a slippery rock face where there was no discernable trail, I remembered I had not signed a release form. In fact, the concept of liability seemed to be entirely absent. Not only had there been no discussion of safety, I remembered that the trip coordinator didn’t even ask my name: just the name of the hotel I was in and my room number. Like the Argentine habit of not using seatbelts, this gave me a bit of a pleasant, if false, sense of security. It was as if, by not mentioning danger, it was lessened.

Still, I was glad I had chosen the horseriding and not the paragliding.

After scrambling down the back side of the mountain, only one challenge remained: the gallop. I would have liked to try galloping for the first time in a soft, open field rather than a barbed-wire-lined trail, but that was not in the cards: “”Galopemos!” cried Gaston – leaning over to slap my horse with his whip – and off we went.

Pinky didn’t quite make the transition to galloping right away, but chose instead to canter. This seemed to me to involve the maximum possible amount of bouncing, as if Pinky had decided to move forward by hopping up and down twice a second.

Compared to this, riding a galloping horse was a breeze.

previously there was Getting sucked into April, 1977
afterwards you have Unprocessed past

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