Epiphanies. And Why I Hate Them. Part 4

Smokey was not crazy about his stall. Not. at. all.

"If you are constantly fixing it for him, he'll never learn it." Mark was talking a rider through a transition. "Start small."

Here's the man (who liked to be in control) and his dream horse.

I watched with interest as he peeled away the noise the rider was making, the changing of cues in an effort to get the right response. Instead, just stick with the cue and reward when the horse gets it right, even slightly.

Rescue Mare and her Rider, working on transitions

The rider kept her cue and the next canter transition was smoother. "What you're doing is filling in holes in his foundation."

The Tiny Lipanzzer

The rider noted that she had trouble keeping her horse in the canter. I leaned forward. I have this trouble with Smokey too.

Mark started talking about riding at the canter. He explained in great detail the way the energy rolls off a horse at the canter. There are two energy forces at work, one moving like a pulley coming from the hindquarters going forward and the other a spiral from the bottom. If you aren't moving with the horse, you are blocking that energy, forcing the horse to work through it. A young horse get's blocked, older horses learn to power through it - like the horses that stop when we lean back.

Mark noted the times he's seen riders kick out one leg in front of the other during the canter, almost like they are leading with that foot.

I swallowed. Yup. Guilty. It's what I'd been told to do. He told a funny story about a martial art master who said, after trying to get a group of students to do a move correctly, look in the mirror. "If you look ridiculous, technique is wrong."

That's what I like about Mark. He makes you laugh and he's happy to be the brunt of the joke. Lessens the sting.

"The key is to soften your back. Just think of it soft. Kicking the leg out - it's a sign of a tight lower back," said Mark. "You're a rock in the saddle."

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The day rolled to a close and I was looking forward to riding in the arena and getting up to a canter on Smokey. Maybe we'd manage an entire circle. What would THAT be like?

We saddled up and I tried lunging Smokey on a line. Fogettabutit. We headed out to the round pen - which was really too slick for a decent session. He expressed his anxiety and I let him run it out a bit. Soon I had a horse I thought I might be able to get on.

We did fine in the arena, after a bit, but we had to keep moving. Soon we were cruising right along. The barn owner was anxious to try the trails around the arena, but Stephanie and I wanted to stay in the arena. At home there are plenty of trails, and no arena with incredible footing, lights and walls to contain the enthusiasm of our horses.

So she hit the trails and we stayed in.

---

Later there were adventures with steers, but I'll keep it brief (I will be posting a longer version on crib notes later). Suffice it to say I was hoping to have Smokey desensitized to cows, but got way more than I bargained for when they were tieing steers to tables right outside his stall and grinding away their hooves.

And then one broke loose.

Yeah. I'd say Smokey got some desensitization. If he'd been any further back in his stall, he'd have gone through the wall. But like a rubber necker on the freeway, he was also fascinated by this weird animal that was tied down to a table to get shod. I'm sure he thought what I did.

Can't you just learn to lift your hoof, dude?

I ended up on a pile of hay with a guy who had a bad shoulder (I can't afford to get it banged around, he said wryly. I felt the same), watching as they manhandled one particularly onery steer.

Once again I felt a little guilty about the work that goes into making me the meals I set down on the table. Those cows are TOUGH, but not as tough as the kids handling them.

I promised to remember this night when I cooked up our dinner the next day - hamburger meat.

It was the least I could do.

Epiphanies. And Why I Hate Them. Part 3

There were several more riders, but rather than go rider by rider, and because there was some repetition of things I've mentioned in other clinic posts, I'll instead pick moments along the way.

Several riders rode english, which is different from the other clinics I've attended. The young woman was quiet, it was nearly impossible for those of us in the stands to hear her. She was riding a young horse, maybe 14 hands on a good day. His build was odd - huge head, pony body. He was, according to her, a Lipizzaner.

All of us were confused. This was a tiny horse. Even Mark seemed shocked, kept asking her about his breeding. The horse was well trained but you could see how rigid he was going. I gathered from Mark that she wanted to work on her canter departs. He watched as she demonstrated.

My novice eye only saw a bumpy ride, very little flow to the horse's gait.

"Go ahead and stop," said Mark. "How's your shoulder? Have you injured it?"

She said it was sore. It wasn't clear there had been an injury. It reminded me of the time I told my mom I broke my thumb hiking when I'd actually fallen from a cliff while rock climbing.

I wondered if her mom was among the auditors.

He had someone hold her horse while he took her through some physical therapy. Using a lead rope he had her do long stretches for her shoulder from three angles. Then he had her do it on the other side.

When she got back on her horse, it took just a few strides and the ride became more fluid. We were stunned.

"If there is tightness in your body, the same muscle will be tight in your horse," said Mark.

The little white Lipizzaner made it's fluid canter circles, moving into each gait softer every time.



A tiny bit of dread was dogging my heels. In another day we'd break camp here and the trainer wanted to hit the trails. I was looking forward to camping, but not to riding.

Not on the trails.

Every now and then over the span of the arena I'd see Smokey rearing in his stall, trying to see his friends. Pretty soon we'd be riding in the arena, this long, deep, glorious arena. I figured I could handle that without too much of a problem.

At least I hoped I could. I thought of the tiny Lipizzaner, his quiet, careful rider, her fluid movements. She had started that horse herself. Even in his rocky gait he was willing and quiet. And well trained.

"You did a real good job starting this horse," Mark was saying as the pair rode a slight diagonal. "Real good job."

I couldn't hear her, but saw her smile.

Epiphanies. And Why I Hate them Part 2

The man laughed awkwardly. "I've been told I'm someone who likes to be in control."

"You can't control your horse until you can control yourself."

Mark was still talking to the gentleman on the buckskin Andalusian. The man was an excellent rider, from what I could tell, but after noting the things Mark had pointed out I could tell what he was talking about. Years of instruction about leaning back to stop your horse, pushing out your stirrups, all of it was muscle memory for this guy. Hell, it was muscle memory for me, until that clinic in Sante Fe a year and a half ago. And still I would find myself doing the same thing - leaning back if my horse didn't stop, pushing into my stirrups as if they were brakes.

I wondered at the first horse who learned to stop when the human on him instinctively "applied the brakes", leaning deep into the small of the horse's back. That horse must have thought "Okay, I *think* he means to stop despite the fact that he's doing all this leaning thing" and managed to fight against his own balance and stopped. And was quite relieved when the leaning and pressure stopped.

Darn that willing and forgiving horse. He taught that human that you could overcome a horse's sensibilities. You could teach it to overcome our odd leanings, and stop.

But it would be tough. Tough on the horse.

Slowly the man gained control, but he realized this would be a longer journey, not something he could get done in 45 minutes.

I thought about Smokey and I. I've been troubled about my reluctance to take certain leaps with him. Sure, I'm not leaning back any more, but there are certain areas I just can't seem to move forward either.

It had been a year and a half since I rode in a clinic with Mark. We had fixed our brakes, come a long way. He is a fine horse.

But I've been at the limit of what I could do with him for some time. I've not been able to overcome my reluctance to go out on trail. To get out of a very very small box with him. How much longer was I going to go this way, standing in the way?

He's almost six. This is when he should be... doing a hell of a lot more.

"You need to get out of the way of your horse," Mark was saying. "It's like we yell at them in German. Sure, they don't speak German, but we think just by getting louder..."

We all laughed. I knew for me I wasn't yelling in German. But I wasn't keeping a conversation going either. Instead we were trodding over the same ground, over and over.

And not getting anywhere.

Maybe this just isn't a time of my life to get anywhere. Maybe, with everything, this is a time in my life to be still.

What does that mean for me?

And for Smokey?

Epiphanies. And Why I Hate them Part 1

Have you ever had one of those epiphanies that part of you wishes you hadn't had? One that is so crystal clear it can't be ignored - even though part of you wants you to do just that...

Because epiphanies, especially the important ones, involve letting go of what you thought was true and facing what is actually true. Dropping your illusions. When you have them you can't go back. "Back" disappears and all there is is the next step, waiting, as it has been all along, waiting for you to finally move forward.

A little deep for an opening of a blog post. Let's reel it back a bit.

Let's start with the clinic.

Three of us - Steph, Me, and Donna (the BO and trainer) - took the trip in the Donna's Taj Ma Haul, thrilled to be going on a trip away with our horses. We arranged for stalling at the clinic and were given the go ahead to ride our horses in the huge covered arena when it wasn't being used. Given our modest arena back home, the facility was nearly as much of an attraction as Rashid.

Auditing with benefits. What's not to love?

The stalls, though, were different. Don't get me wrong - they were beautiful. Deep shavings, cedar and pipe. And completely boarded from floor to over horse height. This meant that the horses stalled next to one another couldn't see each other. Not. At. All.

This wasn't a problem for Apollo, the trainer's latest acquisition from the Arabian racing farm. He was quite comfortable there, leading me to believe this was the kind of stalls they had at the track.

Cibolo and Smokey, on the other hand, found them completely disturbing. As far as I know, this is the first time Smokey has been cut off from herd mates visually - other than a few trail rides. He reared over and over, trying to look over the wooden fence at his friends.

"Wow." The trainer and I watched as he stood up on his hind legs like a trick poodle. He learned quickly to stand a bit away from the wall so he wouldn't bump his knees. "He's very athletic."

That's one word for it, I thought.

Cibolo called and called, pacing his stall.

There's nothing much to do. I noted that Smokey stopped rearing when I was close by. But I knew he just had to cope, something he wouldn't do if I baby sat him. We left them to work through this new experience and went to watch the next rider work with Mark.

It was an older gentleman, the only man in the clinic. He was riding a striking buckskin Andalusian gelding, just turning five. The horse was his gift to himself, his "second childhood," he said. His dream horse.

The horse was very willing and he rode very well. The gelding was in a bosal mecate set up with a beautiful head set.

But you got the feeling that the horse was tense. Nervous. Mark watched as they rode, the gentleman noting that he was hoping for a better stop.

The thing about Mark is he can see so well how we get in the way of our horses. How we are reflected in everything the horse does. In the case of this gentleman he was over cueing - leaning back in the saddle and pushing his feet forward as we are so often taught. I've seen that over and over, done it myself on occassion.

With great finesse and sensitivity Mark peeled away the gentleman's cues. In the space of an hour the horse softened, relaxed, and his stop became as simple as a sense that the man himself had stopped.

Mark joked that this probably sounded like a bunch of zen horse stuff, but he's found that horses are reflecting where we are, they are mirrors. We use a ton of cues because we don't let the simple things work first. Whether it's impatience, the tradition of others, or just our nature to be much more physically "loud", we inadvertently make it harder for our horses to respond. And then we up the pressure because they aren't responding. And they end up having to over compensate just to do the first thing they asked us for.

A tiny grain of my epiphany was planted in that moment, but I couldn't see it, not yet.

But in a few days I'd see it.

Anyway, by the end the Andalusian was stopping on a cue so subtle, I couldn't see it. But we could all see the horse relax, the man smile, and the stop become crisp.

I couldn't wait for the next set of riders...

Guess who is coming to Texas?!

Mark Rashid!

More news to follow, but I'm definitely planning on going... To audit, unfortunately, but auditing is better than nothing!!!

Clinic Photos - Found at last

Finally I found my pictures - and Lisa, from Laughing Orca Ranch, sent me several (they must have gotten trapped in some sort of internet trap and I missed them earlier. All the good ones are from her in this post). So here's a bunch with semi amusing and/or informative captions.

Mark's horse: Surely we aren't going to stand here all day.

See those reins? They weren't broken in and it
was like riding with chopsticks. So I soaked them
in peanut oil for three days. Now they're soft but
smell like a jar of stale JIF.

Smokey: Yes, I can move sideways without even LOOKING!
Eat your heart out Fred Astaire!

Smokey: Hmm. Is that alfalfa there on the ground?

Me: Good boy, keeping his head down.
Mark: Goofball

You know, my horse and Mark's are the same color. In August.

Me and Val (this time I had my eyes open)

Me and Lisa

K and her gelding and Mark counting the collected strides.

K and her sorrels' apparently underdeveloped hindquarter.

K and her gelding (and that dreaded stereo/static generator)

Mark's horse: We're never moving, are we? How come
all the other horses get to go around? Seriously.

Mark's horse: Do you think he'll notice if I move my hoof just a smidge?

Thanks again to Lisa for these photos (there are several more wonderful ones on her blog) and Val for the ones I used earlier (she posted some to) and for Trail Rider's (I used his in the beginning) and for everyone's tremendous moral support. Thank you for being part of my journey.

Ride on.

Day Four - 3rd day in the saddle part 2

Thanks again to Val and Trail Rider for the photos in this post.

This will be my final post on the clinic - and I'm leaving so much out, I feel terrible about it. But realistically I only have so much time to write and I'd like to start talking about where we are now, 10 days past the clinic.

Couple quick notes - KK asked about my saddle. Crissie checked it and it fits Smokey fine - although it may not in a few months, she said. It's an old big horn barrel saddle, via ebay. Light, sturdy, leather is not exactly in good shape (not even leather CPR made much of a dent). But the tree is solid and it fits.

I sold my other saddle (sob) at the clinic - to Robin. Her 45 pound roping saddle was hard on her older mare. She moved out much better with mine. Not knowing if it would ever fit Smokey, I couldn't justify keeping it and was relieved to find someone it could make happy. Not to mention that when Robin lifted it, she couldn't believe how light it was and nearly threw it over her horse completely.

Robin is on the right in this photo, and she's in the saddle in this picture.

Smokey and I discussed the options for our last day. To be honest I really didn't have another idea. I'd ask about collection.

I decided to ask largely because of something Mark said to K about her sorrel gelding. He noted that the gelding had underdeveloped hindquarters and riding more collected would help him use his body more effectively.

What could I do, or should I do, to ensure that this didn't happen with Smokey? Mark, gratefully, kept it simple. "Decide where you want his head and keep it there."

"Won't I be in his mouth all the time?" I asked.

"Isn't he in your hands?" her responded.

"Well, it's both, isn't it?"

Mark explained that I have to set the parameters and as long as I was fair and consistent - where he would find relief in carrying his head correctly, then he'd learn to use his body well.

So we got started. I was back to staring at my horse's ears, and quite quickly he was dropping his head and keeping it in the right place at the walk.

We headed out to practice under Crissie's watchful eye (she'd also helped us with standing still when I got in the saddle and our stops).

Pretty soon we were solid at the walk. So we stepped it up to the trot.

All of this was done with reins. Maybe because that's all Mark feels newbies can handle, maybe because he keeps things simple.

By the time we came back up to show Mark, we were cookin'.

The only thing we hadn't worked on at the clinic was cantering, but we'd come so far, it was time to take a collected victory lap and call it done.

So we did. At a trot.

We've had our adventures back home, where Smokey wasn't sure if all that stuff just applied in New Mexico. That first day riding at home we rode into the bushes. But that was the last of it. Smokey get's that this is the new normal. We're back to turning - as requested.

We still have a good bit of work to do to cement the clinic world although most everything is at the place it was when we left (after just a bit of regression).

Mainly we've got some speed issues at the canter - which turned into a gallop today ( more on that later, I'll be looking for advice).

But I'm not worried. I see our work coming together, our understanding growing and my ability to handle what gets thrown in the mix better than ever. I'm becoming the leader that's needed for this horse. I can breathe from my belly, ride with intention, feel my horse and, on occassion, stop with a mere thought.

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If you get an opportunity, see Mark in action. Ride one of his clinics. Read any of his books (I have his latest Whole Heart, Whole Horse and got it signed by the clinic participants - it's great). He's not just an amzaing horseman - he's a great teacher, solid guitar player, and someone you'll be glad to share some time with.

(Auditors were invited to demos and dinner, by the way - pretty cool.)

Day four - Third day in the saddle part 1

By the end of the afternoon, Smokey and I were turning well and it was taking less and less tilt to get the turn to connect. I was relieved. Already I felt like Smokey was stepping up to these dramatic changes and we were actually moving together as a team with me as the (gasp) leader, not heading off in our own directions.

In fact I wasn't sure if there was much left for me to work on. I felt Smokey had come such a long way I didn't want to overwhelm him. My support crew (Donna and Trail Rider) came up to me, clearly brimming with ideas. I could see that they had that fever in their eyes - auditor fever. The fever that had them thinking of what they'd want to ask if they were in the arena.

Both of them had the same suggestion. Collection.

"Do I even do that at this stage with a baby?" I asked. Heck, I just got my horse to stop and turn. Now we were getting all dressagey all of a sudden. I tried to ignore the panic in my stomach. I wasn't a good enough rider to start trying that!

"It'll be a good question," they said, smiling.

"I'll think about it."

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That evening several people gathered for dinner at the home of E & J with Mark and Crissie. You know how you think you like someone who is teaching you, but you wonder if in real life they are really, actually, not so great to be around?

This was not like that. Not at all.

It was a great dinner, Mark played guitar, the group sang along, food was great, we shared stories about our trials on trails. Mark and Crissie were as easy going and accessible just as they were in the arena. I felt I had grown an entire group of friends that night. I didn't want the night to end. Donna and I headed out for the long drive back to the East Mountains, songs still soaring in our heads.

But the many late nights and early mornings caught up with us and we opted to sleep in a bit.



(Thanks to Val at Fantastyk Voyage for these photos)


When we arrived, things were well underway. The palomino was back, still in too much discomfort to do saddle work, but working on ground work.

K was tearing around the barrels in a collected fashion on her sorrel. I wasn't sure exactly what they were working on - I got the idea that it was shoulder control and getting off on the correct lead after the first turn. But there was much cheering going on.


But here's the last team I wanted to talk about. Patricia and her mare.



Patricia had come to the first day of the clinic a big fan of Mark. She didn’t have anything in particular she wanted to work on, but rather was just thrilled to be there. Still, even though she was possibly Mark’s biggest fan, it was ironic that they had the hardest time communicating at first. He was trying to get her to see that her focus was on the things that upset her horse, she was trying to finish telling him about that, he was moving past it and trying to get her to work differently, she was really unable to hear him.

Then, on the last day, it all came together.

One thing Mark says that really resonated with me is that someone has to be the adult. Maybe because this applies to my workplace too (frankly every workplace I’ve ever been in), but I found this to be a nice clear way of summing up all this work and talk about leadership.

Pat’s mare would get worried about something – the fire extinguisher. “It’s like the 500 pound gorilla in the room. You decide you aren’t going to worry about it,” said Mark. “Then you say ‘I’m not worried about that 500 pound gorilla. No, sir, that 500 pound gorilla is no big deal. We are just riding past that 500 pound gorilla. Nothing to be scared of a 500 pound gorilla. Yep. We are not worried about that 500 pound gorilla!’ and pretty soon that the only thing in the room.”

Instead you acknowledge and move past. Oh yeah, I see that, but we are on our way over here, so let’s just get that done.

That’s being the grown up.

But Pat also made a mistake I’ve made on many of my other horses. Not being understanding. It’s as if the pendulum swings in our mind and we decide if we just have them confront the darn thing they will get over it. Well, you don’t get someone over their fear of tarantulas by dumping a bucket of them on their head.

So much of our mistakes with horses, or at least mine, come from seeing the goal and presuming we can get there by merely going from A to B. But for the horse we are really going from A to Q. We either don’t handle the situation in a way that builds confidence (dumping tarantulas on the person’s head while others hold them in place is just force and probably increases fear of the next thing – including those who took this approach in the first place), or we handle it through subtle and ongoing avoidance (can’t go outside because I saw a tarantula there last week and she freaked out, remember?).

Confidence building takes time and patience mixed with firmness and kindness.

On this, the last day of the clinic, things clicked for this team. Mark got Pat to stop over thinking and just DO. She had never cantered on her horse. So he did a game with her, sending her to different areas of the arena. She had to just respond and go. At first they were off at a trot, since that’s generally what she’s asked from her mare, but he pushed them to pick it up an GO.

When it was over, Pat was breathless and beaming. I was beyond thrilled for her. She had gone from being disenchanted the day before to having he entire experience exceed what she thought was possible. In three days they had worked on collection, confidence, and cantering.

And they had been transformed.

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I was really looking forward to the afternoon. Especially since Val and Lisa were there to watch and provide moral support.

Lisa, Smokey, me, and Val

Leftover from Day two - First Day in the Saddle

I can't believe I forgot to talk about the Static Attack!

We'd had our turn and were busy working on our stops when all of a sudden the batteries on Mark's wireless mic went out. For those of you who never have to deal with this, what happens is the speakers are suddenly pouring out very loud static.

Smokey decided this was way too much. First I dragged him into this place with no sky, then he had to do all that grown up horse stopping, with all those people watching, and now the entire world was HISSING!

We surged forward at a somewhat controlled trot around the indoor arena, round and round the other horses. I never tried to stop him completely, but was somewhat dismayed to be on the only horse reacting this way.

But I decided what was best was letting him trot this out as long as he stayed in my control. We were turning well, no bucking, no rearing, but head pretty high. Finally, after four days (okay 2 minutes), Mark SLOWLY put his new batteries in (why no one turned down the volume is beyond me) and the static went away. We came to a halt and I shouted "Thanks a lot!"

There was much relieved laughter. Or was that just me?

Later I asked if I did the right thing by "riding him out" and Mark said that usually that's what he recommends; however since so many of his students these days are backyard horseman they can't always ride things out, especially when it's a much bigger reaction (full gallop, I presume).

I spent a good portion of the next two days praying that he had longer lasting batteries in that mic.

Day two - First Day in the Saddle part 2

On my way back to practice I thought about what Mark said about working with young horses, or more specifically, babies.

Here's an embarrassing confession. It hadn't really clicked in my head that Smokey was a baby - I thought of the whole "baby" thing as a term of endearment. Not a literal description of what he is.

Over and over people would tell me how cute my "colt" was.

Colt? I didn't have a colt. This is a colt:

Smokey, to me, was not a colt. He was a horse.

But of course, he is really a baby. Mark explained that for the first three + years of a horse's life he can do whatever the heck he wants. Eat when he wants. Run when he wants. Pester when he wants. Then, at 3 or so the other members of the herd put their hooves down and the baby has to toe the line.

Smokey, like all babies, needed to grow up and realize that he had a job. That there were expectations that had to be met.

And it was my job to do that.

I need to keep my signals simple and clear.

The next time I came up we worked on stopping without the turn. That's when Smokey got his new nickname from Mark.

Goofball.

It took a while, but we got to a nice, clean stop without turning.

By the way my phrasing was off in my last post. The idea was to focus on a spot where I was going to stop and just keep that spot. Not compromise. We had to stop when I was facing the spot I was looking at, period.

Whew. That took a while.

Being compromising by nature was not a good thing. But we got it done.

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We left the clinic to jet down to the East Mountains of Albuquerque to pick up my niece and drop off Donna who was looking forward to a quiet evening. My niece and I went to meet bloggers!

Justina and Don, from Morning Bray, Val from Fantastyk Voyage and a surprise from Lisa from Laughing Orca Ranch!

It was a bit of a wait for dinner, but the food was great and the company even better. We laughed, shared stories, learned top secret answers to questions we always wondered about (See? this is why you have to go to dinner with bloggers. Ply them with food till they talk!).

And we celebrated Don's and my birthday! Yep, we're just a day apart.

Here's my rather cloudy cell phone picture. But the memories are as clear as a bell.

Val, Me, Justina, Don, Lisa. And a pretty ravaged meal. Yum!

Wish I could have bundled them all up and brought them home with me. But in some jurisdictions that's considered kidnapping.

Shame, really. :)

Day two - First Day in the Saddle part 1

Warning. Ridiculously long.



We arrived on Friday morning bright and early. I'd been up for hours, unable to sleep in because of the excitement. Smokey apparently felt the same.

Oh, wait. That's his "whoopee grain!" face.

It was surprisingly cold, and I was grateful for the layers I had on. Unfortunately I had underestimated the power of the wind and I was one freezing Texan in New Mexico by the time things were getting started. I pulled out some blankets and snuggled in, ready for the clinic to start. My rides were scheduled for the afternoon so I could settle in a bit and see how Mark worked.

Rain, Mark's unbelievably cute, intensely trained dog.

We riders had elected to change formats from the one on one hourly format to the "group" format.

The "group" format - or what I'd call the double one on one - is the only format they do in Europe now. And I can see why. Having done both, this is far superior.

The one on one hour format is just that - you work with Mark for an hour, then leave the arena. In this double one on one you work with Mark on whatever it is you want to work on for anywhere from 30 minutes to an hour. Then you ride off to the back of the arena to practice. In the back of the arena Crissie is there watching you ride and giving you feed back, or helping you get unstuck. You know how it is, you're there with the instructor and everything seems very clear, then when you're on your own it slips through your grasp? This fixes that part completely.

Then, after you've practiced and everyone has had their round with Mark, you come back up to check in, work on something different or fine tune what progress you made. Due to this format I won't have much to report on the riders I rode with because I was too busy working. I'll just cover a few highlights, posting on a few other riders throughout. For this post I'll talk about this team.



First up in the morning was this woman and her palomino. They had ridden together for a year but things that had started well were starting to go not so well. At first they checked saddle fit. That was a problem so they got a new saddle on the horse - no more pinching shoulders (I had an empathetic flashback on that one).

Still the palomino mare was still not feeling well. She was sensitive to the touch at her jawbone. She mouthed the bit constantly. They switched bits, and it was marginally better. They managed to do some work on "softening." But by the next day it was clear. This mare had severe TMJ - caused by power floating.

Mark said they are seeing more of this kind of problem. A previously easy going horse will become resistant as a result of TMJ. The changes take place slowly, over months, eventually getting to the point where this mare was. The new method of power floating - using power tools - can result in the tools heating up to the point that they actually melt the enamel. In some cases the back teeth become smooth as glass, making it very difficult to grind. The increase in effort required causes the TMJ and often results in trouble throughout the body of the horse.

Mark noted that he was going to be going to "dental school" next year with Spencer LeFlure, a dentist who has taken the entire concept of equine dentistry to a different level. You can learn a whole lot more at this link. He even fixed Pat Parelli's horse, apparently (it's on the website).

If you have time, watch this video (skip the first 2 minutes, it's just a long intro).




I would like to note that during this entire clinic Mark never says "you need to buy this bit" or use "this dentist." He's not a marketer of anything. He's willing to tell you what works for him and what he's seen in other horses. But there's no sell in this guy.


Over the next few days the woman and her palomino worked on ground manners - her mare was walking right into her - and ground tieing. While they didn't quite get to do what she had hoped, they did find out that what was going on wasn't likely to be an issue of training. It was pain.

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The temperatures kept dropping like prices at a garage sale after lunch. A wonderful woman, Jenny, who had been on a clinic auditing tour for 10 days (boy, can I get that kind of job?) offered me a down coat - which I borrowed for the next two days. I was toasty warm and able to focus.

But dropping temperatures meant we'd be going indoors.

Smokey had never been in an indoor area. And most of my challenges with Smokey have been in just a regular arena, where his stops, his turns, and his steering all seem to come apart.

Donna encouraged me to to ground work first and I laughed. No kidding were we going to do ground work! I was planning on spending a good bit of time on the ground, walking him around the arena where the canvas and metal creaked and flopped. One end was a little sandier, there were a were odd things all over, but the sounds and lack of horizon were what seemed to be the most upsetting.

We worked for a while. I even got a little rear on the ground and had to ease the pressure back (which had been pretty low, but apparently not low enough). I encouraged someone else to go first (I was "technically" first, although there was no real order), giving Smokey a chance to get used to all the noises, the crowd reactions, and to accept this environment.

I got in the saddle and we rode around in at a walk and at a trot. I tried to remember some of the things Mark had talked about in the morning - keeping reins tighter, riding with intention. When it was time to ride up for my turn I wondered where in the world we'd start. Smokey just wasn't the horse he was on the trail, and I didn't understand what was going on.

I introduced Smokey - who was by far the youngest horse at the clinic - and explained what was going on.

"How's his stop?"

I demonstrated. It was non-existent. After a few turn stops we halted. "He's never like this on the trail."

"That's because the trail is doing the leading, not you."

I didn't understand this, but frankly had my hands full of squirrely horse and didn't get to explore that idea. Mark immediately told me not to flex Smokey, which is what we'd been doing when he got like this. "While you're here, you will never, ever flex his neck."

Okay. As it turned out the flexing had been what had unhinged his steering completely. But more on that on the second half of this post. At this point we'd just work on our stop.

So for the next 45 minutes or so we worked on stopping with intention and clarity. (Thanks to Trail Rider for the photo below). Sure, we're stopped there, but probably it took us 30 minutes to get to that. Plus Mark was using some sort of force field (I'm only partially kidding).



Slowly, slowly we tried different approaches. We tried just plain stopping but whenever we faced the audience we just sidepassed into the wall. So we worked on stopping using a turn. That worked better to get the idea across.

Have you ever shot a gun? Mark asked me. Yes, I replied. (Actually I was a marksman in college)

"That's what I want you to do. Focus as if you were shooting a gun. See the target and stop facing it."

Then it started to come together. Our stops got crisper. Then Mark had me ease up on the cue completely. "Just stop," he said.

I cleared my head. I felt my focus get sharp, my intention simple and clear.

We're stopping I said in my mind.

And Smokey stopped.

I heard the intake of breathe from those watching. It took all I had not to cry with joy at this feeling of connection.

I headed to the back of the arena, marveling at what I'd just experienced.