I grew up on ten acres with a barn, a pond and horses. From early on in our family to be in Montana meant being good with a horse. One spring day, on a Saturday or Sunday, my brother and I were hanging out at our pond. When heading back to the house I decided to jump on my horse Jig, a thoroughbred, trained to race 7/8 of a mile. He was light brown with a white blaze and three white socks. I climbed on his back which in itself was a feat. I grabbed a handful of hair on Jig’s main with both hands and jumped, climbed, clawed and finally swung my leg over his back. The feeling of being on a bareback horse is exhilarating. Gripping the dusty main, and smelling the unique horse smell, a mixture of horse hair, and dry spring dust that drifts up every time you move.
I kicked Jig a little to move him toward the house, which was about a quarter mile up a gentle green slope. My hands where loosely entwined in the horses mane. My legs just dangling at Jig’s side as he naturally walked toward the house. Then, all of a sudden, Jig began to gallop. I gripped his mane with earnest and squeezed my legs around his side. Leaning forward, putting my face in the horses mane as Jig rhythmically ran up the hill covering 20 feet with each stride. His hooves gently thudding the soft grass as my mind was whirling. Do I jump or wait for him to stop. I lowered my hands around his muscular neck as I thought about bailing and then thought better of it. He would stop sooner or later. He would stop but would he slow down. He seemed to be picking up the pace. His ears where stretched back and his nose was pushed forward, He thundered toward the fence, I thought will he jump it and as suddenly as he began he stopped. I slid of the front of his neck as inertia threw me into and through the fence. The barbed wire ripped my Minnesota twins sweatshirt clean of my body. I guess I had a ways to go to be a true Montanain.