Horseplay

Horseplay

 

Highway 101 winds along the scenic Santa Barbara coast from Ventura north until it turns inland shortly past  Refugio State Beach, just before the turnoff to the Hollister Ranch. Dark oil platforms are framed against the background of the Channel Islands and the shimmer of sunlight reflecting off the Pacific. Today, the ocean lives up to it’s name. Only a few surfboarders are in evidence, sitting gloomily astride their becalmed boards, scanning the horizon, waiting like Godot for the roll of a wave that never comes. Once we turn inland into the Santa Ynez Valley, the temperature climbs noticeably. The hills are still green from the recent rains, but the creek beds are almost dry, indicating the surrounding vegetation is soon to change colors.

 

We leave 101 at the Solvang exit, soon passing an ostrich farm on our right. The sight of dozens of these large, ungainly looking birds (and not a one with his head buried in the sand) trooping across a grassy plain arrests my attention, but as I’m driving, fortunately only momentarily.

 

Once a year the principal hospital where I work invites the member of the Executive Committee to a weekend retreat. The ostensible purpose is to allow us to hash out the multiple and mounting challenges threatening the immediate survival of our institution, and what we might do to improve the odds of this happening. It’s also a reward to those of us who donate our time and energies to the hospital without other compensation, as well as a chance to do some “team building” in the parlance of the business world.

 

The venue selected by the Chief of Staff for this year’s retreat was the Aliso Ranch, located on 10,000 acres of rolling hills, gullies lined by ancient California oaks, and dotted with 2000 head of grazing cattle, scattered deer, watched over by soaring golden tailed hawks. Aside from the usual amenities, a friendly staff and surprisingly good food, the Ranch offers horseback riding, fly fishing, mountain bikes, paddle boats and kayaks, as well as access to tennis courts and golf courses for those who are so inclined.

 

Our Saturday morning meeting goes reasonably well. The presenters were sufficiently experienced to leaven their PowerPoint slides with small doses of humor, and not exceed the 4-½ hour timetable of talks and discussions that’s been shown to be the upper limit of our attention spans and bladder capabilities.

 

I hadn’t ridden a horse in over twenty years, though I had done a fair amount of riding prior to that time. As a result, I wisely chose to sign up for the intermediate group, rather than the advanced. The later contained two members of our group who either owned horses, or in the case of one, used to train them.

 

The chief wrangler did a pretty good job of sizing up his potential riders; I was very grateful for not having been given Diablo or Widow Maker for my mount. After giving us some preliminary (and sensible) rules like staying on the trails, not crowding the horse in front, and not straying too far from the group, we set out to ride.

 

The first hour on horseback was great. Redman, a reasonably well behaved quarter horse, responded well to thigh pressure and neck-reined commands, easing my earlier anxieties about not having ridden for so long. The scenery was arresting as we made our way up from the valley floor to the ridge that offered panoramic views of the Santa Ynez River and its surroundings. The weather was about as perfect as you could ask for riding – not too warm, clear, with only a few scattered clouds. Robin, scrub jay, and blue magpie calls filled the air. Aside from the creaking of the tack, the occasional snort of a horse mixed with the murmurings of some of the riders, nothing disturbed the serenity surrounding us. I was feeling good, thinking to myself, “hey, this is horseplay!”

 

The second hour my left knee started a minor protest every time we’d canter or gallop the horses. Pretty soon, the minor protest became a major rebellion. For anyone who has ever ridden a horse, you’ll know that it’s just about impossible to be on horseback at anything other than a slow walk without the use of your knees. (O.K., I’ll concede that if you were riding sidesaddle you might be able to get by, but as I’m the wrong sex and we’re in the wrong century for this exercise, I won’t count this.) Needless to say, after a couple of hours, I was more than happy to dismount. I can’t prove it, but I could have sworn Redman smiled at me as I walked away.