The Canal

February–March 2006

The First Ride Alone

The first time I saddled Tex for a trail ride, Ranae wasn’t home.

That wasn’t an accident, but it wasn’t a declaration either. It just worked out that way. She had errands. Dusty stayed in the pen. The house was quiet in that late-winter way, the air cool enough that the sun felt useful.

I took my time. Brushed longer than necessary. Checked the cinch twice. Ran through the same mental list I’d been carrying around since December. Flex. Yield. Stop. Breathe.

Tex stood quietly, head low, watching me without much expression. He’d learned that part. Or maybe I had.

Not the Corral

The canal ran along the edge of our block, a straight ribbon of water cutting through open ground. Miles of riding in both directions. Flat. Exposed. No fences to funnel mistakes into something manageable.

Not the corral.

I swung up, settled into the saddle, and waited. Tex didn’t move. Not frozen. Just waiting.

“Okay,” I said, mostly to myself.

We stepped off toward the canal at a walk. His ears stayed busy, swiveling forward and back, taking inventory. The footing was good. The space was not. Everything felt bigger out here. Sounds traveled farther. Movement caught the corner of your eye and stayed there longer than it should.

I rode with my hands too deliberate, my legs too conscious. I could feel myself managing instead of riding. Every decision took a beat longer than it had in the corral.

When a duck burst out of the canal ahead of us, Tex jumped sideways. Not much. A hop, really. I caught him, brought him back under me, felt my heart thumping harder than it needed to.

He stood. I stood. Nothing else happened.

We went on.

Workable

The ride wasn’t bad. It also wasn’t easy. Tex paid attention, but he never quite settled. He felt like a horse waiting for instructions instead of one moving with intent. When I asked him to trot, he did. When I brought him back down, he listened.

Everything worked. Just not smoothly.

After about forty minutes, we turned back toward the house. I felt relief more than satisfaction when I swung down in the corral.

That worked, I told myself.

Not good. But workable.

One Ride That Stuck

Over the next few weeks, I rode the canal more. Sometimes alone. Sometimes with Ranae on Dusty riding alongside me. It was easier with her there. Not because she fixed anything, but because the space felt less empty.

One afternoon in late February, the rhythm came together. Tex moved forward without me micromanaging every step, and I relaxed enough to notice the weather instead of the reins.

That ride stayed with me longer than the others. I used it as a reference point. Proof.

The First Unease

In early March, I came home from work earlier than usual and walked out to the pens. Tex was lying down.

That wasn’t unheard of. He laid down more than most horses I’d known. But most horses get up when you approach. He didn’t. He stayed where he was, head up, eyes open, calm.

I leaned on the fence and watched him. Then I climbed into the pen and scratched him along the neck, the shoulder, down his back. He shifted slightly but didn’t rush to his feet. I stood there longer than I meant to, listening to him breathe.

When I finally turned to leave, he rolled onto his chest and pushed himself up. Slowly. Carefully. Like an old man getting off a sofa.

He took a few small steps, stiff at first, then lengthened out as he walked it off.

I stood there, uneasy.

He’s just stiff, I told myself. Out of shape. Trail work will fix that.

It was a reasonable thought.

Choosing to Believe

Tex walked over to the fence and put his nose near my shoulder. I rubbed his forehead. He leaned into it, then stepped away and went back to his hay.

Nothing was wrong. Not really.

At least that’s what I decided.

The canal was still there. And that one good ride sat in my mind like evidence I could pull out whenever doubt crept in.

I saddled him the next time without much hesitation and pointed him back toward the trail.

I believed we were doing the right thing.