phyla, classes, orders, families, genera, and species had vanished from my brain.
Halfway there, it got light enough that I could see that it was a beautiful day—completely clear and bright, and the air had an extra sparkle that it sometimes gets in December. When we drove down the road that led to Vista del Canada, we kept seeing scarves of fog wafting against the mountainsides, and the mountains themselves looked like flat cutout layers receding against the pale sky. Everything was sleepy along that road until we went through the Vista del Canada gate, and there everything was busy as could be. Horses, riders, and grooms were everywhere. At the upper barn, all three wash racks were busy—cross-tied horses being sprayed, the spray foaming up in the morning sunlight, and the horses shaking their heads. In the hillside pastures, the mares were grazing.
Encantado was trotting back and forth in his paddock, staring at the four horses and riders making their way around the big white oval, one at the trot and three at the gallop.The trotting one slowed to a walk, then went out the gate, and one of the cantering ones eased to the trot. Yet another was being ponied—a man on a palomino was trotting around the track, holding the lead rope of a bay, who was trotting next to him. The center of the track was empty. In the walking area, three grooms were leading their horses, who were enveloped between their ears and their swishing tails by swaying yellow coolers with green trim that had VISTA DEL CANADA embroidered into one corner and LEAMANN RACING embroidered into the other corner.
Danny parked and we jumped out. I followed him to a pen not too different from our training pen at home—a little smaller, with perfectly smoothed footing, as if one of the grooms had raked it by hand. Right when we got there, three guys came over, leading Jack, and he had a saddle on his back.
Yes, he whinnied when he saw me, and Roscoe Pelham and the other two brought him over to the fence so that I could pet him. I tickled him the way he always liked it, around the eyes and underneath his cowlick, and then down his cheek. It was really strange that he was wearing a bridle. It was a racing bridle, simple, with no noseband, but strange anyway. His mouth worked a little around the bit, but he seemed more interested than uncomfortable. Roscoe said, “Here’s the owner, boys, Abby Lovitt. Abby, this is Wayne Griffin, the rider, and you know Ike.”
I nodded. Wayne Griffin was not as tall as I was, but bald and strong-looking. When he smiled, I saw he had about eight teeth. He said, “Nice colt. Nice colt indeed.” Then he stuckhis hand out for me to shake. His hand was twice as big as mine and his forearm bulged with muscles.
Roscoe said, “Ready?” and Ike started leading Jack around and around the little pen, just walking. Roscoe and Wayne walked alongside Jack, step by step, with Roscoe occasionally patting Jack on the shoulder or putting his hand on his haunch. For a while, Jack was looking around—either over at the track or, when Encantado whinnied, in his direction. But he got bored with that.
Danny said, “He’s been in here every day for the last three days. Yesterday, Wayne walked alongside him for twenty minutes.” Danny leaned his elbows on the railing and stared.
The three of them stopped and stood there for a moment, then Roscoe and Ike stepped away from Jack, and Wayne started petting him and leaning against him. Jack didn’t seem to care. All of a sudden, Wayne jumped on top of him, his chest in the saddle, his feet dangling, and his head on the other side. He stayed that way for a moment, petting Jack on his far side with his hands—Jack moved around, then stood still, and Wayne slid off. Then Wayne and Jack walked a little more, and Wayne did it again.
They came around to our side of the pen, and Wayne got on him a third time, but this time, he swung a leg over, and lay there, his feet hanging down and his chest
Halfway there, it got light enough that I could see that it was a beautiful day—completely clear and bright, and the air had an extra sparkle that it sometimes gets in December. When we drove down the road that led to Vista del Canada, we kept seeing scarves of fog wafting against the mountainsides, and the mountains themselves looked like flat cutout layers receding against the pale sky. Everything was sleepy along that road until we went through the Vista del Canada gate, and there everything was busy as could be. Horses, riders, and grooms were everywhere. At the upper barn, all three wash racks were busy—cross-tied horses being sprayed, the spray foaming up in the morning sunlight, and the horses shaking their heads. In the hillside pastures, the mares were grazing.
Encantado was trotting back and forth in his paddock, staring at the four horses and riders making their way around the big white oval, one at the trot and three at the gallop.The trotting one slowed to a walk, then went out the gate, and one of the cantering ones eased to the trot. Yet another was being ponied—a man on a palomino was trotting around the track, holding the lead rope of a bay, who was trotting next to him. The center of the track was empty. In the walking area, three grooms were leading their horses, who were enveloped between their ears and their swishing tails by swaying yellow coolers with green trim that had VISTA DEL CANADA embroidered into one corner and LEAMANN RACING embroidered into the other corner.
Danny parked and we jumped out. I followed him to a pen not too different from our training pen at home—a little smaller, with perfectly smoothed footing, as if one of the grooms had raked it by hand. Right when we got there, three guys came over, leading Jack, and he had a saddle on his back.
Yes, he whinnied when he saw me, and Roscoe Pelham and the other two brought him over to the fence so that I could pet him. I tickled him the way he always liked it, around the eyes and underneath his cowlick, and then down his cheek. It was really strange that he was wearing a bridle. It was a racing bridle, simple, with no noseband, but strange anyway. His mouth worked a little around the bit, but he seemed more interested than uncomfortable. Roscoe said, “Here’s the owner, boys, Abby Lovitt. Abby, this is Wayne Griffin, the rider, and you know Ike.”
I nodded. Wayne Griffin was not as tall as I was, but bald and strong-looking. When he smiled, I saw he had about eight teeth. He said, “Nice colt. Nice colt indeed.” Then he stuckhis hand out for me to shake. His hand was twice as big as mine and his forearm bulged with muscles.
Roscoe said, “Ready?” and Ike started leading Jack around and around the little pen, just walking. Roscoe and Wayne walked alongside Jack, step by step, with Roscoe occasionally patting Jack on the shoulder or putting his hand on his haunch. For a while, Jack was looking around—either over at the track or, when Encantado whinnied, in his direction. But he got bored with that.
Danny said, “He’s been in here every day for the last three days. Yesterday, Wayne walked alongside him for twenty minutes.” Danny leaned his elbows on the railing and stared.
The three of them stopped and stood there for a moment, then Roscoe and Ike stepped away from Jack, and Wayne started petting him and leaning against him. Jack didn’t seem to care. All of a sudden, Wayne jumped on top of him, his chest in the saddle, his feet dangling, and his head on the other side. He stayed that way for a moment, petting Jack on his far side with his hands—Jack moved around, then stood still, and Wayne slid off. Then Wayne and Jack walked a little more, and Wayne did it again.
They came around to our side of the pen, and Wayne got on him a third time, but this time, he swung a leg over, and lay there, his feet hanging down and his chest
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