I was Kung Fu fighting

Kung Fu. Never has a two-word title for a class conjured up as much mystique. David Carradine’s probably to blame for that.
Though lacking the name recognition of Carradine, St. Helens’ own Shaun Kennedy taught me the reality beyond the mythical creations of Hollywood.
Namely, Kung Fu is an applied art that requires great attention to detail and a huge amount of mental recall.
Kennedy is the head instructor at St. Helens Shaolin Kung Fu Club, where he teaches a few different classes to a wide range of students, from white belts to a black belt.
My class? Basics.
Nothing like explaining to a grade-schooler that she knows a lot more about a sport than you.
Then again, all I knew about martial arts I learned from Bruce Lee and Ralph Macchio.
On my first day of class, Jacob Woodruff, a purple belt, took fellow beginner Shawn Kelley and myself aside to teach us the eight basic Kung Fu stances and their eight related movements. This mostly involves punching and kicking to different specific areas.
The younger, more advanced students were working on stringing together these moves and others. Once Jacob taught me to do the walking cat stance across our red and blue mat, the main objective was avoiding the flying fists and feet flittering about the classroom.
I got in on one competition: a knife fight. I took on Eisen White, a yellow belt. He quickly grabbed the “knife” (a piece of chalk) from the center of the mat and proceeded to stall, taking it easy on me. My goal was to get the knife from him or take him off the mat without getting stabbed.
I should have tackled him.
I tried putting to use the stances and moves I’d learned just minutes earlier. It didn’t work. My recall wasn’t so sharp. He easily stabbed me right in the stomach.
After a Q&A session taught me you have to be at least as smart as you are physical to earn your belt in Kung Fu, the day drew to a close. After a day off, it was time for weapons class.
I paired up again with Jacob, and we each drew a wooden sword. The movements were basic: hit, hit, hit, hit. As it turns out, weapons class was a lot of fun and games.
The class was outside with our swords and nunchuks for a game of capture the flag. Kelley and I were the flags. The kids were fast, stabbing each other with their soft swords and trying to stab the generals and the flags.
I was stabbed more often than Kelley was.

Purple belt Cody Woodruff lands a kick on head instructor Shaun Kennedy during our Kung Fu class June 11.

After the game, students sparred for a bit. Cody Woodruff, Jacob’s son, laid plenty of kicks on Kennedy, and black belt Randy Rhoads showed his quick feet and high hops.
Jacob proved that it wasn’t just the youngsters who were full of energy by landing several blows on his instructor.
I returned to more familiar ground – taking pictures of the action.

Golfing with Lions

When people golf for the first time, they usually make a fool of themselves.

Not because they're not good, per se, but because they end up bouncing the ball off the windmill. Or the dang clown's mouth closes down on your ball.

But, that first trip out to the miniature golf course sets you up for success in the long run by doing one thing: teaching you how to putt.

A pair of St. Helens sophomores - Colin Chiddick and Kyle Jones - did a heck of a job putting on a putting clinic for outgoing SHHS athletic director Ken Bailey and myself on May 27.

We were playing in the first annual Lion Cup: a two-man scramble pitting Lion golfers against teachers. There were more golfers than teachers, so I was summoned for duty.

The format was best-ball match play: Whoever wins the most holes wins the match.

Two matches had been played the day before. The teachers won one, the student golfers the other. My foursome was the first of five groups on this day.

The sophomores teed off first, with Jones smashing a drive down the center of the fairway. My tee shot trickled down to the women's tee box, but luckily Bailey outdrove Jones by about 10 yards. We're in business.

We looked to have the edge by parring the hole, with them needing to sink a long putt for par. Sure enough, Chiddick nailed it. He didn't tell us at this point that he'd be doing this a lot.

On the par-three second hole, we played my tee shot ...which had found its way onto the green. (This was not common. I think we played just one more of my drives all day.)

After two-putting for a par, we took a 1-0 lead and felt pretty good, and pretty dry from the ankles up.

It turned out Chiddick and Jones didn't like being behind. Jones nailed a 170-yard approach on the next hole. Chiddick curved a 10-foot putt in, and they won the third hole.

After we both parred the fourth hole, Chiddick's 85-yard approach shot landed five feet from the pin, and Jones sunk the putt. Youngsters 2, us 1.

This was the beginning of a trend: Bailey and I looked great for the first half of a hole; Chiddick and Jones looked better on the more important half of the hole.

Chiddick sunk an 18-foot putt on the next hole with our ball lying quite a ways away. Bailey put his within a couple of inches, leaving the pressure squarely on my shoulders.

I tried making up for the wet, not-so-fast greens by powering up a bit. I should have laid off the turbo.

Now it was do-or-die time. We were down two holes with three to play.

Then Jones, for all intents and purposes, ended the match. He drilled his drive 250 yards on No. 7, leaving his ball about 10 feet from the hole.

Knowing we had to get close, we took advantage of the "toss" rule implemented by SHHS golf coach Dave Lawrence. After Bailey's chip didn't get closer than Jones' drive, I put my horseshoe skills to the test by tossing my shot underhand toward the hole.

It wasn't a ringer.

In hindsight, I should've been wise to the toss rule and tossed Jones' ball out of bounds.

Jones ended up just missing his eagle putt, leaving them with a birdie and the match.

We played even on the final two holes, but that was largely irrelevant. The ninth fairway was difficult when the surrounding cow pastures seemed to ripen up a smidge.

After the next group finished, the Lion golf team had taken a 3-1 lead, with its top players Spencer Gordon and Chris Semling yet to finish.

Teachers Jared Phillips and Keith Meeuwsen topped Gordon's team, thanks largely to a 30-foot putt from Meeuwsen on No. 7 that sent a roar throughout the course.

Dave Lawrence and Jay Groom picked up another win for the teachers, tying things at 3-3 with one match left.

But Bradley Timmons and Sam Lawrence came up clutch for the golfers, giving the Lions team its own cup in the inaugural event.

Chiddick and Jones should be forewarned, though: I got in a couple practice rounds over the long weekend.

Conquering an active volcano

(This is the revised, published version of the previous post. Interested to see if any of you prefer one or the other. Leave comments saying which one you prefer and why.)

Thirty years ago Mount St. Helens went on the offensive, showing the region all it could do.
Recently I went on the offensive against the volcano. I wanted to show it all I could do.
In the battle of man vs. mountain, nature vs. nurture, good vs. evil …evil prevailed.
My friend Sam and I set out to conquer Mount St. Helens on April 24, less than a month from the 30th anniversary of its devastating eruption.
When we set foot on the trail, around 10 a.m., we were ready to make it to the top. The reports we’d read suggested we’d make it to the crater’s rim and back in anywhere from six to nine hours: We had plenty of time.
Little did we know, we also had plenty of snow. And as it turned out, we certainly did not have plenty of gear.
In the parking lot we saw about a half-dozen other folks preparing to trek up the crag, all of them outfitted in snowshoes or skis. Sam was wearing his Gortex-lined, vibram-soled Asolo hiking boots — and I my synthetic fiber running shoes.
Luckily he had an extra pair of Gators (what look like leg warmers but really keep snow out of your shoes). That helped.
“We’re minimalists,” he said. Or fools... who really knows?
Soon into the trip up the mountain’s south side, I realized the workout was going to be extreme. My training included a long walk and a round of disc golf — not exactly heavy duty. Also, neither of my two warm-ups included snow.
We found ourselves occasionally sinking to mid-shin in the snow, which really hampers a climb.
On our ascent through the timberline, we didn’t see or hear many woodland creatures. While many of the mountain’s creatures were wiped out 30 years ago, several species of birds, amphibians and mammals have returned. They were keeping warm on this day — smart idea.
“Now we’re going to start going up the mountain,” Sam (a much more experienced mountaineer than myself) said an hour or two in. The thing about that was, I thought we already had. And, we were nearly up to our knees in snow.
So far, views of what lay below and behind us left us wanting more. Thanks, gray skies.
However, the snow swirling around us did create a magical ambiance amid the silver fir trees. Jimmy Stewart’s snow globe wouldn’t compare.
But after we got out of those fir trees and above the timberline, the mountain became steep. Very steep. Steep enough that we stopped to eat.
Even the raisins in the trail mix tasted good on this day.

This Eugenian was smart enough to bring the proper equipment on his trip up the mountain. The left side of the picture shows the remnants of a lava slide down the south side of Mount St. Helens.


From here we had a great vantage point of a pumice-filled valley created from a lava flow.
After our mini-lunch break, it was time to head up the ridge, aiming for the top.
We scaled one tall ridge amid the clouds and moved on to the next one. But while tackling this one, my joints were acting up, my legs were heavy, and it was becoming very difficult to see.
We found a pair of rocks to give us something of a landmark, but they were just a pair of pepper grains inside a salt shaker at this point.
Just then we saw a snow-shoer heading down the mountain. A 30-time climber of the mountain, he said these were the worst conditions he’d ever seen. He was turning back. It was then we decided we weren’t going to make it to the top today.
At this point, my hands started thinking they didn’t want my brain to know they were there. I wiggled my fingers more than St. Helens High School students do while Zach Sweeney’s shooting free throws.
The two of them – brain and hands – made contact again.
Somewhat defeated – though not entirely, as this was the first mountain for either of us – we slipped and slid back down St. Helens. Much of the trip down came in the sitting position. We enviously watched the skiers glide past.
About 3 p.m. we reached the parking lot, changed into dryer clothes and headed to the clam chowder store for refreshing drinks and warm food. There, we learned we’d climbed about 2,000 feet and made it basically half way to the caldera.
In pretty deep snow.
So, Mount St. Helens, you may have won this time, but it’s not over. We’ll be back. And this time we’re coming when your layer of defense has disappeared, leaving nothing but rock and trails for slipping and sliding.

Attacking a volcano

Thirty years ago Mount St. Helens went on the offensive, showing the region all it could do.
Recently I went on the offensive, against the volcano. I wanted to show it all I could do.
In the battle of man vs. mountain, nature vs. nurture, good vs. evil - evil prevailed.
My good friend Sam Jones and I set out to conquer Mount St. Helens on April 24, less than a month away from the 30-year anniversary of its devastating eruption.
Our ascent to the top was delayed by our lack of planning and lack of attention to detail, specifically my ignoring of the check-in guy's directions on how to get to the base, thus leading us on a 30-minute scenic, waterside detour. He gave us these directions when we bought our $22 permits at 9 a.m. while some guy behind him was wolfing down an early morning bowl of clam chowder.
When we finally set foot on the trail, at 10:08 a.m., we were ready to make it to the top. After all, the reports we'd read suggested we'd make it to the caldera in anywhere from 6-9 hours: We had plenty of time.
Little did we know, we had plenty of snow as well. And as it turned out, we certainly did not have plenty of gear.
In the parking lot we saw about a half dozen other folks preparing to trek up the crag, all of them outfitted in snowshoes or skis. Sam was wearing his gortex-lined, vibram-soled, brown Asolo hiking boots and I my black and silver, synthetic fiber running shoes.
Luckily he had an extra pair of Gators - what looks like a leg warmer but really keeps snow out of your shoes. That helped.
"We're minimalists," he said. Or fools... who really knows?
Soon into the trip, I realized the workout was going to be extreme. My training included a walk from Pittsburg Road to St. Helens High School and a round of disc golf at Pier Park in Portland. Not exactly heavy duty. Also, neither of my two warm-ups included snow.
Mount St. Helens this time of year likes having snow. Before long we found ourselves sinking to mid-shin every so often, which really hampers a climb.
The wildlife decided it best to be tame on this particular day. On our ascent through the timberline, we didn't see or hear many woodland creatures. That could have been a result of the people ahead of us, our constant chatter, or Sam's squeaky knee brace. Whatever the cause, we missed that part of the adventure.
"Now we're going to start going up the mountain," Sam - a much more experienced mountaineer than myself - said an hour or two in. The thing about that was, I thought we already had. Instead, we were just getting into the steep part.
And we were still nearly up to our knees in snow at some points. I had the fortune of following in his footsteps, quite literally, most of the way. This kept me on top of the snow after he had the fun of packing it in.
To this point, our turnaround views of what lay beneath us left us wanting more. Thanks, gray skies.
The snow swirling around us did, however, create a magical ambiance amid the silver fir trees. Jimmy Stewart's snow globe wouldn't compare.
But after we got out of those fir trees and above the timberline, the mountain became steep. Very steep. Steep enough we stopped to eat some trail mix and a half a sandwich each.
Even the raisins in the trail mix tasted good on this day.
After our mini-lunch break, it was time to head up the ridge, aiming for the top.
We scaled one tall ridge amid the clouds and moved on to the next one. But while heading to the top of this one, my joints were acting up, my legs were heavy, and, worst of all, it was becoming very difficult to see.
We found a pair of rocks to give us somewhat of a landmark, but they were just a pair of pepper grains inside a salt shaker at this point.

Just then we saw a snow-shoer heading down the mountain and talked with him a bit. As it turned out, a 30-time climber of the mountain said this was the worst conditions he'd ever seen, and he was turning back. It was then we decided we weren't going to make it to the top on this day.
It was just then that my hands started thinking they didn't want my brain to know they were there. I wiggled my fingers more than St. Helens High School students do theirs while Zach Sweeney's shooting free throws.
The two of them - brain and hands - made contact again.
Somewhat defeated - though not entirely, as this was both of our first mountain - we slipped and slid back down the mountain. A lot of the trip down came in the sitting position. I'm not as good at sliding on my butt as Sam is on his, but it was still a good way to end the day. Not quite as good as the skiers we enviously watched glide past, but good nonetheless.

About 3 p.m. we reached the parking lot, changed into dryer clothes and headed back to the clam chowder store for refreshing drinks and warm food. There, we learned we'd climbed about 2,000 feet and made it basically half way to the caldera.
In pretty deep snow.
So, Mount St. Helens, you may have won this time, but it's not over. We'll be back. And this time we're coming when your layer of defense has disappeared, leaving nothing but rock and trails for us to slip and slide on.

Golfing in the dark

Golfing in the dark — now that just sounds like trouble.
I can’t seem to make it through nine holes using the same ball in broad daylight, so how in the heck was I going to get through nine holes at dark?
With the help of a bright green glow stick, that’s how.
As soon as I heard about Wildwood Golf Course’s Glo Ball tournament Aug. 15, I knew I would be there. Regardless of the score, it seemed like a whole lot of fun. And I couldn’t quit wondering how such an event could be pulled off.
The golfing itself didn’t seem to be as difficult as rounding up a team. We had a foursome lined up, but then a few days before the tournament we learned that one guy couldn’t make it. Luckily, we were able to find a substitute.
Unluckily, a last-second scheduling conflict left us still one player short for the four-person scramble tournament. Oh well — winning wasn’t really on our minds anyway.
My friend A.J. and I met our third teammate, Steve, out at the course around 8:15 p.m. as the sun was slinking its way out of sight.
We signed in, grabbed 11 glow-in-the-dark balls, our pink and orange glowing necklaces, and then trotted out to hole No. 3, where we’d be starting the nine-hole tournament.
The mosquitoes followed us.
By the time we teed off at about 8:50, it was getting pretty dark, but we could still see the fairway and green.
Steve’s tee shot landed on the green about 20 feet from the pin on the 118-yard par three hole.
A.J. and I missed the green, but in a best-ball tournament, we were able to play Steve’s shot. We couldn’t sink the long putt and settled for a par. This would be the first of many missed putts.
As we got ready to tee off on hole No. 4, it was dark. We were past dusk and into the night, ready to see how we’d fare without seeing fairways. Once darkness set in, there was no need for practice swings; depth perception did not exist any more.
The first tee shot we hit into the night was amazing. Not that it was a great shot, but watching the glowing green orb that was our ball arcing through the air looked way cooler than any shot I’ve ever seen Tiger hit.
Throughout the night, we kept “oh-ing” and “aww-ing” over the glowing balls flying through the air all around us. When there are upwards of 150 people showering the course with glowing golf balls, it looks pretty cool.
Steve’s next tee shot, though, was very strange.
The glow balls have a hole through the middle where you place the glow stick. It’s recommended that you place the ball so the glow stick is perpendicular to the ground when teeing off.
Steve apparently missed that tip and managed to crush the end of the glow stick, sending the ball flying into the darkness with a stream of glowing liquid painting a trail away from the tee box.
This would be the first ball we lost. Many more followed.
As we played, a strange, sudden realization dawned on us: If you’re going to play golf in the dark, it’s probably advantageous to be on a course you’ve played before, especially if it’s one as challenging as Wildwood.
Steve had played the course once about six years ago. Neither A.J. nor I had played it at all, though I had seen some local high school athletes tee off at holes No. 1 and 10 this spring. That didn’t really acclimate me to the course much.
So we kept aiming at the group of four glowing necklaces in front of us, or we’d wait till we say one glowing item not moving: the flag. The flagpoles were adorned with glow sticks, which were also shoved into the hole, so you could see it when putting. Smart.
While Steve kept pounding his driver — and I continued slicing more than Emeril Lagasse — A.J. played smart and down the fairway. As it turned out, his driver never even left the bag, which served as a pretty nice insurance policy for our squad.
But no matter how many times we reached the greens in regulation, we couldn’t figure out a way to sink a birdie putt.
As we finished hole No. 9, we thought it wise to grab a couple more balls from the clubhouse for the last two holes because we were down to one ball apiece. The way things were going, that wouldn’t last two holes.
We were right.
I tried a new strategy on hole No. 10: swing as hard as physically possible. Past experience with this technique showed the ball would either be driven into the ground or sailing far away to a fairway on my right.
This time, somehow, I crushed a drive and it was — believe it or not — straight! Who’d have thought I’d hit my best-ever drive at 11:30 p.m. with a glow-in-the-dark ball? Not me.
But… I actually drove it too straight, and it left the fairway (had I sliced per usual, it would’ve been perfect).
Three hours after we started, we finished with a nine-hole round of 40, which was actually five strokes over par. We had five pars, three bogeys and one double-bogey.
And we also had one of the most fun, definitely the weirdest, rounds of golf I’ve ever played. I know I’ll be back next year, hopefully with a four-person team.

Gettin' my motor runnin'

A while back, I read in one of Mike Weber’s racing stories that the good folks at River City Speedway were looking for people to come out and “pack the track” for their Saturday-night races.
I didn’t know what that meant at the time, but I thought I’d ask. One phone call later, I was all set to get behind the wheel of a racecar.
While some scheduling conflicts prevented me from racing until this past Saturday, those same conflicts allowed the excitement and anticipation to build.
Oh, and a little fear festered as well. That whole idea of driving someone else’s car as fast as I can around a clay track with concrete walls was just a little unsettling. Just a touch.
But Mike Harrison, whose car I was driving, did not seem to share that fear.
“I’ve got total confidence in you,” he told me. (At least someone did.)
Mike and his wife, Jenelle, have raced at River City for quite a while, so they know how to move their cars around the track.
In fact, Mike’s 16.313-second qualifying time in his 1978 Chevy Malibu was the fastest of the day in the Street Stock division. So I knew going into my qualifying laps that I had one of the faster cars out there. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves just a bit, so let’s back up to before I first climbed into the driver’s seat.
Before I strapped in, I learned my first lesson: you need long pants and long sleeves at the racetrack. I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, but Mike had an extra racing suit he let me borrow.
When I climbed through the window of the white and green No. 15 Malibu, I found myself in a car with just one seat, a roll cage and a couple of pedals. Then Mike handed me the steering wheel.
Unfortunately for me, there were no flight attendants to show me how to strap into my seat belt, and the ultra-safe five-point harness was pretty tricky. I had to connect straps coming over the top from both shoulders with a strap coming up between my legs and to two others hugging my waist from both sides. Not exactly how I buckle up in my Buick.
Sooner or later, I got the harness latched and tightened, then put on my helmet. Then it was time to fire up the engine.
Talk about sensory underload. I couldn’t turn my head very much to either side and the Malibu’s 350 cubic inch engine roared in my ears.
Mike directed me on how to back out of the spot without hitting anyone. Then it was up to me to get to the track so I could “pack it down.” This is basically just driving around at a decent speed, packing the clay into the ground so it’s not too loose when the cars go out to qualify.
This gave me a chance to get a feel for the car before what would be my main event for the day: time trials.
Quite a few cars were scheduled to qualify before me, so I used the last few minutes to pick Jenelle’s brain about driving on the quarter-mile clay oval.
How do I take the corners? How do I stay out of the wall? Do I brake or just let off the gas?
“It’s just like playing in the snow – you’ll slide through the corner and adjust to it. Don’t hit the brakes,” Jenelle told me.
Finally, I was sitting in line to get up to the track to qualify. My heart thought I’d drank four cups of coffee that day, but in reality, I’d had none.
I was the last qualifier to get timed in the street stock division. Basically, I’d drive four laps ... one partial warm-up lap, two timed and one cool-down.
I gunned it down the straightaway on the warm-up lap to see what I was working with. I felt comfortable driving straight, but my next challenge was coming up fast. Really fast.
I thought to myself, “OK, Jenelle said to slow down going in and accelerate about the halfway point. But didn’t Mike say something about powersliding through the turn?”
I went in slow, cautious not to ruin the car. Coming out of the turn I felt fine, so I gassed it again crossing the starting line to begin my first officially timed lap.
I came out of the turns pretty good, hit the straightaway fine, and did OK on turns three and four as well.
My first lap came in at 17.779 seconds, good for last place. The next-slowest lap was a 17.15; the fastest was 14.861.
My second lap was a little more dicey. I handled the first turn OK, but I lost control for a brief moment coming out of the second corner. My tail end started to spin out, then I overcorrected and started heading straight toward the wall. Keeping the day’s lone goal in mind – staying out of the wall – I lifted my foot off the accelerator, straightened out and got going down the straightaway.
This was not going to be a record-setting lap.
I clocked in with a 19.027 for the second lap, a good second-and-a-half slower than my already last-place finish.
Still, considering my prior racing experience was limited to a couple of runs on go-karts at Malibu Grand Prix in Beaverton, I wasn’t too upset with my performance.
And I was extremely pleased with the Harrisons’ generosity and willingness to let me drive their car and hang out with them in the pit area for an afternoon.
Mike said they’re always looking to bring people out to pack the track. Check out www.rivercityspeedway.net to learn more.

It seems I'm always horsing around

The last time I was on a horse, I’m sure I looked like an idiot.
I had gone out to the Deer Island Stables to do some research about horse camps that are instructed by local riders. Thinking I was just going out to talk horses, I thought nothing of making the trip out in slacks, dress shirt and dress shoes.
But, as instructor Kelley D’Agrosa said, “You can’t come to a stable and not get on a horse.”
So this time, I was dressed for the occasion, knowing full well I’d be learning how to ride.
What I didn’t know was that I’d have to think. A lot.
Kelley and fellow teacher Sierra Paxton, both Scappoose High alumnae, were teaching me and two ladies not only how to ride horses, but also how to handle them.
I started out with Royal, a horse I hadn’t met yet. He’s nice.
Roy and I made a few trips around the dusty arena, with me leading the mammoth creature by an 18-inch rope.
After a bit of leading, we all switched horses so we could get comfortable with them all. We got them to walk in circles around us, then trot around us. And we did it by holding a rope and clucking — in horsespeak, “cluck” means “go.”
I clucked more Saturday than any other day in my life.
But it wasn’t as easy as it sounds. To get the horse to go where I wanted it to go, and as fast as I wanted it to go, I had to fight my natural instinct to back away from the horse. Instead, I had to stand in one spot or, if anything, walk toward the horse to show that I was the dominant one… right.
One thing I learned during this exercise is that horses running circles around you in a dusty arena can make you want to brush your teeth a second time in the morning.
With our newfound skills and bonds with the horses, it was time to mount up and do a little bareback riding… with Sierra leading the horse.
I again started on Royal, who was described as a sofa because he’s pretty wide and comfy. I knew I wasn’t a real cowboy when I climbed a stepladder to mount.
Once Royal began walking around the arena, I struggled to balance myself using my hips instead of my shoulders. It wasn’t until Sierra advised me to close my eyes that I relaxed and balanced the right way.
Scary movies, airplane landings — these are times when it makes sense to close your eyes. Riding a horse? I wouldn’t have guessed it, but it was extremely beneficial.
After a while riding Roy, it was time to switch to Tucker. Tucker’s the horse that made me look like a fool in my city-boy attire. He’s narrower than Roy and has a longer stride, so riding him was quite a bit different.
At this point, I learned to figure out when a horse is stepping with his rear, right leg. Sounds simple enough, but it took a lot more brainpower than expected. The giveaway is this:
Say you’re sitting in an office chair that’s lifted as high as it goes, and you lower it — except only the rear, right quarter of the chair dips. That’s how you can tell when the horse is stepping with its leg, which is important to know when you’re a more advanced rider and are telling your horse what to do.
Next up was riding in the saddle. Because Kelley and Sierra want their students to get the whole experience of horse ownership, we first learned to saddle and bridle the horses — something I was finally able to master (sort of).
Leading them from the saddle was quite a challenge, though. Kelley and Sierra set up a little track for us to ride around, complete with barrels and cones for weaving in and out.
For a beginner, getting a horse to turn is hard. Apparently these creatures are much more sensitive than I ever would have imagined and can sense where their rider is looking.
So to initiate the turn, the rider must first look in that direction, then lead the reins with one hand to the side while keeping the other hand forward and applying pressure with the opposite calf.
If you’ve ever tried rubbing your belly and patting your head at the same time, you’ll understand how tough it is to coordinate one hand pulling one way and a foot applying pressure the other way. Let’s just say, I messed this up more than once.
I also don’t have the world’s greatest posture, which is not helpful when riding. I can guarantee Sierra was tired of saying, “Keep your hands forward” after she told me to do that for the 600th time. But somehow, they always kept creeping back…
In the end, I started gauging my posture a little better and coordinating myself a little more gracefully, though I expect I’ve still got a long way to go before my rodeo debut.
If you’d like to take the first steps toward excellence atop a horse, call Kelley at (503) 397-9029 or Sierra at (503) 913-3135. They’re better than me.