Whistler Wilderness Ride, Day Two

Dawn

On the first morning at camp, I woke on my own around 6:15. I could feel the chill in the dawn air on my face and was reluctant to leave the warmth of my sleeping bag. My night had gotten off to a fitful start when my leg muscles cramped up, and then my tossing and turning got me tangled in the sleeping bag liner. Thankfully, once sleep came it was deep and impenetrable. The headlamp I’d brought for nighttime visits to the outhouse went unused.

Eventually I pulled on a beanie and a a few layers of clothing and headed up to the campfire where our host Don, with his grizzled beard and ponytail, was setting a cast iron a pitcher of coffee on a flat stone at the edge of the flames. My fellow guest Meryl, an upper Hudson Valley native in her mid-30s, was elevating her ankle. She’d rolled it dismounting her horse while stopped for our mid-afternoon break the day before and had gamely soldiered on after being tended to by the wranglers. I asked if she’d be riding today and Meryl didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, it should be fine. Hurts more to walk than ride.” Typical horsewoman, tough and determined.

I wrapped my hands around a cup of hot tea and warmed my toes by the fire while the remaining guests straggled over. Louise, who was my age and from Vancouver Island, announced that her teenage daughter was sleeping in. We were joined by my tentmate Elizabeth, luckily a sound sleeper, who lived in Ottawa and was a month shy of her 30^th birthday. While most of us emerged slowly from the fog of sleep, Meryl’s mom Laura arrived dressed in her riding clothes and ready for the day. We were all lifelong riders, mostly from the English discipline of jumping. Some rode competitively, currently or in the past.

Don and his business partner Dudley had established Copper Cayuse Outfitters in their retirement from the corporate world and from forestry, respectively. Although he didn’t lead guests on rides anymore, Don slept at the campsite when there were guests and worked magic on the grills. He served up a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, beans and large hunks of toast which we devoured in short order. I got the sense I’d be eating more bread over these four days than I had in the past four months, and I was fine with that.

The night before, Don had told us about the horses we were riding. They’re from the Mount Currie herd, a local managed band of wild mustangs, or cayuses (the archaic Western term), which roams the unceded Lil’Wat First Nations Territory. Each year CCO acquires a handful of colts, gelds (neuters) them, and incorporates the newcomers into the ranch herd. The horses are then led through a gentle training process at a pace dictated by the needs of each individual horse. It takes a few years of training to become a wrangler horse and at least a couple more before being permitted to carry guests. The horses are healthy, fit, and hardy. Their work varies, but Don said most are happiest on the mountain rides. They know their job and are happy to do it, which is why we don’t need contact with their mouths through the long reins. He added that these horses are sure-footed and capable because they’ve been running up and down these hills of the north since birth, so we could sit back and let them choose their footing over challenging terrain.

And it sounded like challenging terrain was on the agenda today. Remarks by guests on the sharp rise of the uphill slopes we’d scaled had been met with comments like “you haven’t seen anything yet” and “wait til tomorrow” from the wranglers. Gathered around the campfire after breakfast, I wanted to ask Don for advice on riding the steeper inclines but I held back, hoping someone else might ask. This seemed silly, but I felt embarrassed at the thought of seeking help. Where’s this reluctance coming from? I asked myself. Then I saw it. As a kid, my identity was wrapped up in being a smarty pants, and it can still feel vulnerable to admit I don’t know something.

There was only one thing to do, and that was to steer directly into the discomfort. It’s all smoke and no flames anyway. So, I asked him. At the start of the ride, we’d been instructed to lean forward slightly going up inclines. When the uphill path was steep, I found myself wanting to stand in my stirrups while leaning forward. Don shrugged. “Whatever you’re comfortable with.” I thought standing might assist Lonesome in climbing. Turns out he didn’t need my help. “You really don’t have to do anything while riding these horses unless you’re specifically asking them to do something,” Don counseled.

Good advice. Doing too much felt like the story of my life. It’s why I was so sore this morning. My shoulders were stiff and the peroneal muscle on the outside of my left leg above the ankle, hurt. The whole first day I’d been throwing my shoulders back and jamming my heels down like I was riding formally in a ring.

When I confided this to Elizabeth and Louise, they nodded in recognition. Elizabeth said she’d spent the initial ride focused on maintaining perfect equitation posture before realizing that effort were totally unnecessary. Louise had the same lower leg pain and figured she’d also been pressing her heels down too hard.

“Lowering my stirrups partway through yesterday’s ride helped, but it also felt weird and insecure,” I told them, “like I might lose a stirrup at any moment.” English riders typically ride with shorter stirrups, particularly while jumping, making for sharper angles at the knee and ankle and keeping us light in our seat. Like the longer reins, lower stirrups were going to take some getting used to.

Feeling a little annoyed with myself for the self-inflicted pain, I took some ibuprofen and walked over to the yoga platform with Louise to do some stretching. I took slow, deep, cleansing breaths in pigeon pose, loosening my hips. Surrounded by pine trees in the clean air at 2000 feet and gazing at a majestic peak, my breath became prayer. Soon what I think of as Infinite Love whispered in my head, Be gentle with yourself. Grace slowly spread through me in a warm glow. There’s nothing wrong with trying to do a new thing well. I moved into sun salutations. By the third downward dog, I felt proud that I’d asked for Don’s advice. Now that I knew better, I could make different choices.