Hope Rising (9 page)

Our deep pride in grooming these horses arose from their former lack. For their sheer will and courage alone, they deserved more than we could ever give them. Only after they had been thoroughly bathed, brushed, and combed, gleaming under the sun like fine polished metal, were they ready.

We led them into the prerace vet check area, where we moved like a tiny tributary into a vast river of horses. They were nearly all Arabians, exotic, athletic, proud, and bold—lean powerful horses that we couldn’t imagine had ever known a day of hunger or the threat of abuse.

Our team was quickly noticed and targeted by the usual looks—the silent comparison of our horses with theirs, an attitude that slithers its way insidiously, like a black serpent, through the milling horses and up and down each imperfect leg, over every scarred back. Some of the other competitors gestured at us, pointing and murmuring. A few attacked us openly, loudly voicing their bitter opinion of me and my equine refugees. Some were vindictive enough to say to my face that they hated me, how only horses like theirs should be allowed to race.

It could be devastating.

Thankfully, the vast majority of the time we were greeted with great kindness and warmth, particularly by
those who had lent their generous support to our equine rescue program and our limited-distance endurance team. So we reassured ourselves by concentrating on our veterinarians’ opinions, remembering the highly focused training we had put in to get this far, and reminding ourselves that scars are evidence of the trials of life, a testament to victory over adversity. We were confident that within each of our horses’ battered exteriors burned the heart of a lion.

Friday afternoon of any weekend endurance race is the major prerace vet check, which determines whether a horse is fit to race the following morning. It’s the same at every race—the horses are called from a lineup, one at a time, by a hardworking vet who checks their vital signs, hydration factors, back, girth, tendons, and hoofs. Notes are taken on every horse as a baseline for the mid and postrace checks. The last phase is a trotout, where the vet analyzes the horse’s gait. Any imbalance, no matter how slight, means the horse is not fit to continue and is immediately pulled from the race.

One after the other our horses entered the vet check area, and the members of our team quietly explained their mount’s story of survival. As always, the vets listened with compassion, making careful notes of every bump and scar on the competitor’s scorecards. Often they congratulated our young riders with hearty hugs of approval for working so hard to rehabilitate horses that might have otherwise died.

Four of our five horses had cleared the vet check. I stood and waited for Sarah as she and her “boy,” Mighty Mojave, entered the vetting area. Sarah had fallen in love with the horse when he was a yearling, living down the
road on a local ranch. She was only a little girl then, but because of him, she sought employment on the ranch as a groom. He was so small for his age that his exotic gray face seemed too diminutive to support such incredibly large dark eyes. He and Sarah’s young hearts were soon inseparable.

Then the season of lack struck. His infant body could not bear the lean rations, and his weight began to plummet. Sarah watched helplessly through the fence as he slipped closer toward the gnawing jaws of starvation. As often as she dared, she slipped her young soul mate food and water and spent many frozen winter hours stroking his beautiful face, whispering comfort to his hungry heart.

Winter gave way to the resilient power of spring, and that same life-giving force took hold of Sarah’s heart. Like tender shoots of grass pushing through a sidewalk, she resolved with all the strength of an eleven-year-old to do whatever it took to rescue her boy. So began for her an entire year of mucking out stalls and paddocks, bathing, grooming, riding, feeding, and the myriad of other chores on a large breeding ranch. She did it all for a year … for free. Her only payment at the end would be the little runt of a gray colt.

Sarah and Mojave grew up together in the unmatched harmony so common between a girl and a horse. Through the long summer afternoons when she hung on his back or napped by him in the pasture, he flourished in the radiant shelter of her love. She started training him alone without a buck or a hitch, riding him gently to gradually build up his fledgling strength. The once-emaciated waif was gone. In his place stood a powerful fifteen-hand silver horse. His head was still uniquely Arab; his expressive eyes
were still the largest I had ever seen, but they were different. Instead of being overcast brown pools reflecting hollow uncertainty, now they reflected only her. She was his life, from beginning to end. All of his focus and affection was finely tuned to a single point. He saw only her. I was certain that for Sarah, this magnificent horse, without hesitation, would run through fire.

She saved him. Now, in her uncertain teenage years, he was saving her. When Sarah entered the vetting area, she handled her horse with casual confidence. He was an extension of her. Sarah and the vet talked easily. The local vet remembered this horse and his remarkable story. The scorecard slowly filled with A’s. Now would come the routine trot out. I glanced at my watch and looked up. My jaw dropped, and I stared in disbelief.

It was nearly imperceptible, but unmistakable—a tiny rhythmic bob of Mojave’s beautiful head. I watched, holding my breath, as he was rechecked and trotted out again. The minute rise and fall of his head persisted—a clear indication that something was wrong.

My stomach twisted into a sick knot. I had a strong professional background in sports physiology, and I trained our horses the way I trained athletes. Our team’s training was consistent, progressive, and precise, and included speed, distance, and incline components. Consequently, our horses had little, if any, incidence of injury. Only days before, Mojave had been a virtual distance-devouring machine.

What had happened?

I could only watch with a deflated heart as Sarah’s scorecard was handed back to the attending vet and Mojave was pulled from the race lineup. The vet reassured
Sarah that the lameness was mild enough that the horse might possibly return to soundness within the afternoon. He encouraged her to bring Mojave back for a recheck later in the evening. Even so, Sarah rejoined the team with enormously sad eyes set within a very pale face.

I knew she was thinking of her parents, making the long journey just to watch her race. Would it be for nothing? She didn’t want to disappoint them, but her silent demeanor on the way back to our camp showed that she felt she already had.

Once again, Sarah and I worked side by side. Together, we wrapped Mojave’s lame leg with what little ice we had. When that had melted, we formed a bucket brigade to the central water tank of the race camp, keeping the leg cool with hand-poured water. The afternoon passed slowly as we made trip after trip, hauling the heavy sloshing tubs of water, hoping to restore a little horse … and a dream.

Sarah was in more pain than Mojave. It was devastating to see the storm of concern and anxiety building behind her silent expression. After deep consideration, I called our small team together. In a circle of combined hearts and hands, I prayed aloud a simple prayer for the healing of Sarah’s horse. I asked the good Lord that His answer would come in such a way that everyone would know it was His great love that made the difference. In the midst of hugs and tears, a cool breeze swirled between us—an unseen messenger that seemed to ferry our simple prayer up through the forested hillside and into the very presence of God.

It was early evening when a Volkswagen van rattled up the dusty road toward our camp. Sarah’s parents had
arrived. She approached them with the body language of a girl preparing to show her parents a failing report card.

After a brief and quiet conversation with them, she returned to her post at Mojave’s shoulder and continued his restorative care. She was exhausted, emotionally and physically. Her vigil continued through the cool evening into the cold night. Twice she led her gelding the half mile to the vet check area, and twice he was declared still slightly lame. When it was dark and the area was illuminated only by headlight beams, the vet finally encouraged her with, “Come back around five-thirty in the morning, and we’ll look at him one more time.” She nodded in silent agreement as she cradled her horse’s head in her arms.

Fatigue drew all of us toward our frigid tents, but before turning in, I asked Sarah to wake me so that we could go to the early morning check together. Through heavy eyes and an even heavier heart, she promised she would. I watched her small flashlight beam retreat like a lonely star as she made her way to her tent.

The night passed all too quickly in dreamless sleep. I woke to a gray morning, my icy breath drifting up to join a thick layer of frozen condensation on the inside of the tent walls. Thin layers of ice had fallen onto my sleeping bag during the night.

Thankfully, I had stuffed most of my clothes into my sleeping bag to stay warm. The trick now was to dig them out and get them on without knocking down the layer of ice hanging precariously over my head. That accomplished, I crawled out of the tent and glanced at our portable corral.

We were one horse short. Mojave was gone. And so, I
discovered, was Sarah.

Quickly I pulled on my boots and riding gear. Light was only just beginning to tint the eastern horizon. The long valley that stretched down toward the main camp and vetting area was filled with a smoky mist. The ground and every living thing that covered it were dressed in a woolly layer of heavy silver frost. Earth and sky blended almost seamlessly into a shimmering veil of gray. Pulling on my gloves, I scanned the milky valley for any movement. My feet crunched on the frozen grass as I took a few steps, straining my eyes. Finally, through the sea of gray, a form started to emerge … then two. I watched as they materialized into dark gray shapes.

They walked shoulder to shoulder with their heads down. Occasionally, without looking up, Sarah rested her right hand on Mojave’s mane. Their combined body language was either of extreme relief … or despair. I continued to study them as they approached, anxious for any sign, any clue that might hint at either negative or positive news. But they revealed nothing, moving like floating phantoms up the streaming silver river of frost beneath their feet.

My body wouldn’t move, my lungs wouldn’t fill. I was afraid to blink.
Lord, this is so important to a young heart.…
My rambling prayer ended abruptly as her head slowly came up and she saw me.

I felt like a statue, welded into this somber place. My hands were buried deep in my pockets. My frozen breath rose silently around me. Time seemed to freeze as well. I could feel my heart pounding in my ears. Sarah held my gaze across the distance between us. I struggled to make out the features of her face. A crisp breeze swirled down
toward me as if carrying from heaven my answer within its wings. Then Sarah raised her arms high into the frosty air and threw her head back in a victorious gesture, like an Olympian who had just won gold. My heart leaped! I wanted to scream for joy; I wanted to fall to my knees; I wanted to cry. But most of all, I wanted to thank the Lord for answering the simple prayer of a little girl.

We ran to each other, meeting in an embrace so warm that it dashed the wintry grip of the morning. Our hearts rose high with the sun, matching the first golden lasers of light illuminating the blanket of mist. We sprinted back to camp, which was by now abuzz with excitement, and the morning whirled past with final race preparations. It hardly seemed more then a few moments before our team was saddled, mounted, and warmed up.

The horses’ jubilant strides mirrored the hearts of their riders. They couldn’t wait to begin, respectfully letting us know that they were nearly bursting to gallop, to fill their nostrils with wind, to stretch their God-given wings and fly through the forested mountains.

The countdown began—three, two, one, GO!

Without hesitation, our well warmed horses leaped into a powerful gallop. Incredible strength rose beneath us, gaining speed and power with each lengthened stride until gravity itself strained to hold us earthbound.

Pure horsepower in its most extreme sense expanded and contracted beneath us. With wind-whipped tears streaming back through my hair, I felt my mare’s power thunder with such remarkable force that in those moments, she felt more like an iron locomotive than a beast of flesh and blood. Gravity snapped, and we soared free of earthly bonds. Racing on the wings of the
wind … we flew!

The once placid trees blurred past us into a fluid emerald forest. The strong headwind created by our resounding flight spirited away our laughing voices into the recesses of the wilderness. Joy shimmered throughout the air, cascading like droplets onto the forest floor behind us. The trees bent and waved back in the midst of our draft, cheering us on with waving boughs. In our wake, I imagined our laughter turning the silver blanket of frost into pure gold.

Miles ticked by like minutes. Gradually we reined in our horses until they settled into a big, fluid trot that powered us up one mountainous ridge after another. Each seemed to rise forever toward the deepening blue sky, only to crest and roll back down in majestic, shady folds of deep green. Above the muffled cadence of our horses’ hooves over the humus floor, the whispering voice of the forest could be heard. Breezes hushed in the tops of the trees seemed to call us by name. The forest opened its enfolded arms and welcomed us into its timeless evergreen embrace.

Eventually the land sloped down and away, bending toward a creek. The midrace vet check was less than half a mile down the trail. We dismounted and led the horses the remaining distance. When we walked into the vet check area, Sarah’s expression changed from deep, quiet joy into something more somber. We both understood that whatever had affected Mojave before could return after his exertion.

To begin the vet checking procedure, the horse’s heart rate must first return to a resting rate of sixty beats per minute. Mojave’s pulse, when it was checked at the water
trough, was already there. I watched over my mare’s back as step by step the attending vet began to check off his list of crucial elements. The young gelding passed each one with high scores.