The Rider of Rohan

       I’m wearing brand new jeans, clean Levi’s without any rips that my mom sent me as an early Easter present, and the legs are already wet through. I had hopes of keeping these jeans in nice condition, but the gray horse hair on the inseam tells me that was a vain wish. We I left the ranch ten minutes ago and my horse is already dripping sweat and white lather foams up where the reins rub against his neck. My inner thighs are against the saddle and my calves are protected by half chaps, but the six inches above and below my knee rest on the sweaty sides of the horse, which is why my pants are wet.

            We’re riding toward Villarica Lake, Sam (the new helper), Mara, two Danish girls, and I, and although they’re horses walk calmly, mine is prancing like a pony on parade. I ride at the front of the group, where he’s calmest, and I keep my hands low on his neck, pulling gently on the reins to ease his dancing. Mara looks over at me and laughs, saying, “Willa, you look so concentrated!” And she’s right. I don’t worry about guiding because Sam is here and she can take care of the Danish girls. Instead, all of my attention is focused on riding smoothly and keeping my hands soft and quiet on his mouth. Maybe, if I am perfectly tranquil, he will be too.

About a month ago, before my last four-day trek at the beginning of March, and before I traveled Patagonia for sixteen days, Mathias and I drove away from the farm one morning, bouncing over potholes and watching the sun flood the valley. Forty-five minutes later we pulled down a driveway before a modest, one-story farm house and greeted the bent, seventy-something owner. He was a man of few words, but was proud and preferred to handle things himself. Mathias warned me that he could be a bit gruff, and that as I was a blond, gringa girl, it would probably be best if I didn’t meddle too much with the horse we had come to buy.

Days earlier Mathias had gone to scout the horse and he returned, fidgeting and beaming, bubbling with excitement like an antsy boy anticipating a new toy. “It’s a gift, to ride this horse,” he told me, and then smiled, “It will be the most beautiful horse I’ve ever owned.” In general, Mathias does not coddle his horses. He is a smart businessman and his horses are not pets. He owns eighteen of them and every one earns its keep. When a horse becomes unrideable, it is sold. With this mentality, it’s not often that I hear him gush about pretty horses, but he was smitten with The Gray and it was with enthusiasm that I arrived to the farm that morning, eager to see the horse that had so excited Mathias.

 The weathered farmer greeted Mathias formally and led us to the paddock where two thick, stocky grey criollos stood. The man slipped a rope around the broader one’s neck, and I had to agree, he was beautiful.  A dark, silvery grey colored horse, he has an exotic look, with a black stripe running the length of his spine from mane to tail, and a quintet of dark zebra stripes on each leg. He is short, perhaps only fourteen hands, but has broad chest, a round, wide rump, a straight, strong back, and thick muscular neck. His mane is a darker color that the rest of his coat and is rather comically thick. The forelock reaches halfway down his face and fans wide, covering his eyes. In the tradition of rural Chilean horse culture, half of his mane is shaved: from his ears to midway down his neck is a ridge of hair, not unlike the broom-like decoration atop ancient Greco-Roman helmets. He is a compact little gelding, but clearly powerful and beautifully formed.

His owner betrayed his eagerness to sell the horse though. He was sure to tell and demonstrate every minutely positive aspect about his horse: “See how easy he is to catch? I just walk right up and loop the rope on.”…. “He’s strong; a fence like this, four, five feet high? He can clear it, no problem. BUT, of course he respects fences... just a bit of barbed wire and he won’t go anywhere.”….. “See his feet? They’re in great shape because he’s easy to shoe. Just pick up any foot and he stands still. Very easy to shoe.” Mathias nodded and agreed with the man’s assertions, but he didn’t need any convincing. He happily passed the man the money and I climbed up, said goodbye, and rode the horse back to Antilco.

As we rode together for five hours through the countryside that day, I came to know the horse a bit. I decided to call him Rohan, after the race of powerful horse-riding people in Lord of the Rings.  If ever a horse deserved a strong legendary warrior name, it’s Rohan. His every step hints at his potential power. Even his walk is tightly coiled as if he could spring forward at the slightest cue. He carries his muscled neck in a perfect, hooked curve which gives him a powerful, dignified look. When we ride, Sam tells me over and over again how beautiful he is, and he does seem to captivate onlookers, holding their gaze for several minutes at a time as we pass by.

I realized that first day that Rohan is by no means a horse for inexperienced riders, and also has some key faults which make him inept as a guide horse. It turns out, beauty isn’t everything. Which is why I’m riding him today, as I did yesterday and the day before, and the day before that. Business is slow at Antilco, so instead of guiding I’ve made Rohan my priority. He was trained to be a rodeo horse, which in Chile means herding a cow in a ring and pinning it with absolute precision against the wall. He’s bred to be highly strung and excitable and those traits have been reinforced his whole life. So now, on our way home from the lake, when we could be walking calmly, he throws his head up and down and the sweat from his face flicks back and hits my face. I can’t tell if it’s raining or its just Rohan’s sweat/spit/lather that keeps hitting me. His hooves criss-cross each other and his backend swings wildly from side to side, as if there’s a wheel loose and he can’t control where his butt goes. He can not only walk but also lope to the side, and when he feels the slightest pressure, even the touch of my finger, on his rump, he bucks. It all makes for good entertainment and Danish girls watch in awe as he twirls, sidesteps and spins with incredible agility and speed. And for a few moments, I’m entertained as well. If I ignore the growing dampness on my legs from his frenzied sweat, I can pretend I’m rodeo rider.

But when he swings, mid prance, to the side, slamming his full weight against the leg of the smallest Danish girl, I remember why his dance routine is dangerous. Rohan’s inquietude comes at the cost of his sanity. When he reaches this frenzied state it is near impossible to calm him down again and he is oblivious to his rider, to other horses and riders, and most troublesome, to the landscape. He could swing his backend suddenly and turn right off a cliff, or in a crazed moment of backing up he could slip into a pit. And the hard truth is that we can’t use a horse to guide, no matter how beautiful and strong it is, if it can’t be a composed leader. As a guide, I need to move up and down the line of riders to talk to everyone; I need to secure my reins under my thigh and reach to adjust the girth of another horse without worrying that my horse may throw me off; most of all, I need to be able to concentrate on the other riders instead of on my horse.

So I test my patience today, and will continue to do so the rest of my time here, in the hope that he’ll settle into a better tempered horse. I ask Mathias to give him more time, more chances because Rohan is a horse with character and dignity, and although he’s slowly driving me crazy, I respect him. Some rodeo horses calm and some don’t, and I could be wasting my time, but I’m happy to spend the next month working with him because I think he’s worth taking the chance.

When I returned from my two weeks in Patagonia I saw a new name plate nailed up in the barn with Sombrillo painted on. Mathias gave him an official name in my absence which basically translates to “shadowy.” When I asked Mara to use “sombrillo” in a sentence, she said without hesitation, “Severus Snape is very sombrillo.” I’m having trouble embracing the new name though, and as long as I remain his trainer, I will continue to think of myself as the Rider of Rohan.