Summer presents days of heat and sunny skies. Yet summer storms happen. They can be sudden and ferocious. Summer storms can also be exciting and refreshing. Often they are memorable.
I associate summer storms with gaited horses, especially Icelandic Horses, those amazing stout little animals with the remarkable tolt.
My story begins years ago, when I was starting my training as a TTEAM (Tellington TTouch Equine Awareness Method or Tellington TTouch Every Animal Method) practitioner. I might have been the first TTEAM clinic I had attended other than one I had hosted. At the time my goal in taking part was not to get certified myself. I was with a younger friend who had been an employee of our farm, long before our business was a nonprofit. My friend was exploring the possibility of become a TTEAM practitioner. I would continue on to become a low-level practitioner myself. She dropped out. (Life takes strange turns.)
We were in my birth province of British Columbia, although we were on the eastern side of the Cascade mountains in Vernon, not on the coast where I was born. Storms can vary, depending on the side of the mountain where they are formed.
I was marginally familiar with the storms of the eastern side of British Columbia because as a teen, my parents and I spent our summers on the Shuswap Lake where my folks had purchased a cabin with a little acreage. When storms came they were unlike the steady drizzle of summer rain on the coast. They were wild and fierce, and short-lived. I especially remember one that caught me in the freshly mown field of alfalfa. I could see the clouds coming with a drenching rain like a moving curtain slowly marching toward me. I stood in the sun watching the moisture advance, but I discovered I could jog ahead of it, staying completely dry. Finally, I allowed it to catch me. I stood, delighting in the water cooling my skin. The clouds passed in minutes, and by the time I arrived back at the cabin, I was almost dry. I pressed the experience into my memory.
That summer, in Vernon, I was about to experience another unique storm.
The TTEAM clinic was on the final day of the week's training. Many of us would be traveling home the next day, although some of us would stay for a Centered Riding clinic. Most of my training was done at the farm of Linda Tellington-Jones' sister, Robin. Robin ran one of the largest Icelandic Horse farms in North America. She is an accomplished TTEAM teacher, but she also raises amazing horses.
She has 65 acres. Besides the pastures, home and arena, there was a full race track to train the Icelandic Horses.
Now, Robin wanted to give us the gift of experiencing her wonderful horses before we left for home. At least a half dozen of the animals were saddled, and I know my friend was one of the first to enjoy a ride around the track.
I don't remember why I held back. Was I nervous? Why? Sometimes I overthink and indulge in needless worry. I have often found myself stepping away from what I want. Am I afraid because I'm wimpy, or because I'm afraid the experience won't live up to my expectations? Probably both conditions figure into my emotions.
Meanwhile, beyond the track, off in the distance, the sky had become black velvet. Jagged swords of lightning slashed across the dark background. Rather than hearing the thunder, we could feel it. However, the storm was miles away. It could dissipate before it reached us.
The riders completed their circuit. My friend was exuberant. The other riders were equally as ecstatic about their experience.
Robin quietly approached me, "Cone on, Laverne. There's time. Go."
"But you're ready to unsaddle."
"You can do it. This little mare is ready for another round. She's gentle, but anxious to move. You'll enjoy her."
My young friend approached, " Here. My helmet will fit. Have fun." She grinned encouragingly.
I put on the helmet and mounted the bay mare who didn't seem the least upset that she was the only horse left on the track.
Off we walked. The storm ahead darkened. Lightning flashed. Now I could hear the bass notes of thunder. The air was filled with electricity.
Was it the storm - or the horse?
Suddenly, I felt wonderful, confident. I lightly squeezed my legs and the little horse sprang into a ground-eating tolt. We were racing; racing the storm. It was wonderful!
Alone I rode around the track, racing, racing and happy. We rounded the oval, and the storm was behind us, racing to catch us, but my horse was too fast. I knew I would never forget this ride.
I haven't.
I don't think any of us got wet, and even if we did, the worst of the storm happened miles away before the clouds reached us.
Summer storms are like that.
This summer, for the first time, I have the opportunity to ride another gaited horse - my own. She is not an Icelandic, but a Kentucky Mountain Pleasure Saddle Horse. Coincidentally her name is Summer. I haven't ridden her yet.
Perhaps, we're waiting for the right summer storm to race.
