Robbie

If you’ve never been up at dawn, and walked a curving road through old-growth forest, and looked up to see distant mountain peaks, perhaps encountering on your path a small frog, or a massive mule deer, or a thrush with a voice like a whistle, then I want to say that I highly recommend the experience, and that it is enhanced if it ends by encountering a small, soft, elderly roan horse, looking for breakfast.

Our dear little roan is named Robbie. He works as a trail horse in a national park in western Montana, and daily encounters things like deer--as well as larger fauna, like the park’s thriving population of grizzly bears. But Robbie is unfazed by the appearance of bears, especially first thing in the morning; Robbie has been underweight as long as I’ve known him, and at dawn his priority, and mine, is to present a pan of grain to his soft muzzle, and encourage him to get fat on it.

Nearly every horse in our trail riding string--close to thirty individuals--I have personally ridden. It’s a good way to get to know their personality, their quirks, as well as details like the comfort of their stride or their responsiveness to the reins. It feels unfair, and irresponsible to me, to ever ask a stranger to ride a horse that I haven’t ridden myself. That said, despite working with him nearly every day, I have not ridden Robbie. It isn’t because I am afraid of him--quite the opposite. I trust Robbie as much as any horse I have ever known, to be calm, quiet, obedient, and careful, and I give Robbie the most precious cargo: with his diminutive stature and reliable manner, Robbie is our children’s horse. I don’t ride Robbie, because I am closer to six feet tall than to five, and my weight might drag him down to his knees. I don’t ride Robbie, because Robbie has worked here longer than I have, anyway. I don’t ride Robbie, because Robbie doesn’t need me to.

Only, and especially, the smallest children get placed on Robbie. Countless times, I see young faces, illuminated with the thrill and magic of at last encountering a horse--sometimes for the first time in their lives. Sometimes, when I introduce their steed, they are moved to tears, or sometimes they become overwhelmed once placed, so high up!, in the saddle. Sometimes they stammer and cry when he takes his first slow step. Often their parents are confused, usually because their weeping child has begged for days or even weeks to go on a trail ride. Robbie never seems confused. He has done it all before, and day after day brought back a child that had departed red-faced and desperate, wearing instead a smile of pride and confidence. The parents will shout to their child to stay on for a picture, as the kids want to hop down so they can see his face when they tell him thank you. I have seen the most terrified stop to pet him, or kiss him on his nose or soft cheeks, as they say farewell.

Sometimes I lead the rides with the tearful children. I stay right in front, and sometimes as a comfort I hold Robbie’s rope from my own horse, so the tiny rider can see me and know I am always there for help. I must say, this is the only context in which Robbie has ever hurt me, because my lead horse so often wants to speed up along the trail, and Robbie, tugged along where I am holding him, refuses. He knows he has to take the trail slowly, and carefully, and he observes this duty unfailingly. Between them, the horses stretch my shoulder out. For this reason I prefer not to hold the lead rope if I can avoid it, but instead simply talk to the child. Do you have pets at home? A dog, or a cat? Robbie is just like them, but a little larger. I often think, but never say aloud, that Robbie is even better than their pets, since he doesn’t bite or swipe like a cat, and he doesn’t go careening off in all directions like a dog. Kids brighten when reminded of their pets at home, and gradually come to realize what I also have learned--that they can trust Robbie.

Some of my fellow wranglers took amusement in leading Robbie up to more confident children, and warning them to take it easy with this one--he’s a bronc. It takes a bit of deftness to read the attitude of the kids, but the right kind will give you a firm nod, and assure you they can handle him. We would laugh after work when these kids, usually in the homestretch of the ride, would make one more request of their wrangler--can we make Robbie go fast? Even to those who had been most patient, well-behaved, and capable little riders the entire time, the answer was still no; not they, nor I, nor any force I can name, could ever make Robbie go fast.

I have been tempted to claim that Robbie, sound and reliable trail horse, is perfect. It was pointed out to me that this is not so. Robbie has a flaw, one single misbehavior, employed now and then but especially in the busy season: Robbie goes left. I didn’t really understand or believe this until I saw it myself. Nearly home, in the middle of forest, without a landmark, or any other trailheads, without a patch of something tasty to eat or even anywhere to go--without any warning at all, really--Robbie simply made a left turn, and continued in his timeless pace. The tiny child as ever balanced upon him went pale with confusion, bordering on fear. “Take your reins and move him to the right!” I called. Obediently, child, and then horse, responded to my directions, and in the space of two big steps Robbie was on the trail again. I turned away from both for a minute, trying to conceal that I was shaking--with laughter. Horses have quirks, some dangerous, some harmless. Robbie’s quirk seemed to be, of all things, conscientious objection.

His color is red-brown, patterned all over with white flecks of fur, giving him an ageless quality like a well-loved child’s plush toy. Silver runs through his mane and tail, though that was probably his color even years ago, when he was actually a young horse. He is not, truly, impressive in appearance, but to the very young, he has something much better than bright color: Robbie is the softest horse I have ever known. When you draw a hand across him, you feel that he is not even sleek, but actually downy, like the undercoat of a kitten or a particularly soft rabbit. I have seen the eyes of children growing enormous with this discovery. Meanwhile, the quiet and sapient Robbie meditates on other things.

Of all the horses I’ve known, this one, who I have never ridden, never trained (because, what training could he possibly need that he still lacks?), never used in competitions, still holds a deeply special place in my heart. Robbie feels like the trees or the ancient boulders, features of the trail itself; he will outlive us all. I recall one of my fellow wranglers telling Robbie’s young rider that he was like a guru, the old wise man of the mountains. “Does he have any wisdom for us?” asked the child.

She thought for a moment. “When things aren’t going right,” she suggested, “go left.”

This, like everything else about Robbie, pleased the kids immensely.