Dapples

As I was petting the shoulder of an enormous, snowy-white draft horse, I looked up at the stranger who was perched atop him, and said, “Dapples is a great horse. I would put my mother on Dapples.”

Anxiously, she looked back to me and replied, “Oh. ...Do you like your mother?”

It’s a moment I can laugh about now, because after that day’s two-and-a-half-hour trail ride through the wilderness of western Montana, Dapples brought back a rider who was relaxed, smiling, and elated—as usual. Daps was just one of more than thirty trail horses we used every day to take visitors on a slow, beautiful ride through the woods. But it wasn’t a coincidence that I placed myself next to him, and not another horse, when sending off the group; his job, specifically, was to take people who were older, weaker, or—as on that day—simply anxious. We called Dapples our unicorn. A big, gentle white horse, he could make people feel like their trip was not hazardous, but rather, magical.

Every day, when the trail ride wranglers arrived home, we’d inevitably end up talking about the horses—who was being good, who was seeming tired, whose saddle didn’t quite fit properly, who was stopping to graze in the middle of a ride, or who had lost a horseshoe. We joked about those horses that were our best coworkers, but there was a certain truth to our comments. We all understood that in the forest, we were far from help, and our situation was potentially perilous. We’d all seen bears, sometimes even grizzly bears, during rides. We had the threat of storms, falling trees, sliding rocks, or even the horses themselves leading to injuries. It was always a comfort, when leading a ride of fourteen or more strangers, to be able to trust the fourteen horses they were sitting on. I, for one, loved my human coworkers, but I never depended on them like I did on my horses. We all picked favorites, and always, most of our favorite coworkers were equine.

How, among all these excellent employees, could I ever name the best? It’s a difficult question. In a trail of horses as peaceful and quiet as any I have ever known, it’s easy to switch into arbitrary criteria, like the horse with the nicest markings, or who takes the most comfortable steps, or who isn’t bothered as much by biting bugs—all things that the horses themselves don’t really get the option to control. Even so, there is a reason to choose Dapples, other than his pretty white color, his enormous soft shape, or his sweet, almost sleepy expression. Dapples is truly an exceptional horse, even in an exceptional herd. This is why.

It was the middle of the day on a very small ride, with only one wrangler. Dapples was near the back of the herd, where we usually place him. It can be harder to see the people who are several horses away from you, so with a wrangler at the front, we put the best horses, the ones who do not need you to act like a babysitter for them, farther. The group was all older people; that was perfectly fitting, because Dapples, like a lot of our herd, is an older guy himself. The guests had enjoyed the scenery of the ride—huge cedar and hemlock trees, a raging meltwater stream coming down from the distant snowcaps, areas touched by wildfire, and ancient boulders lost among the trees like traces of something supernatural. It was a lovely day, clear and quiet, and they were on the way home. They had already passed our final radio call-in site—massive mountain peaks blocked any chance of cell service along the trail, so we relied on radio contacts. The whole ride was only about ten minutes from the end.

That’s when one of the riders got a bad feeling. She had worked in an emergency room before, and she said to her it was like déjà vu. It isn’t all that easy to turn around in a Western saddle, and look all the way behind you, but she did, and when she did she yelled for the wrangler’s attention. It was the man who was riding Dapples—he had become unresponsive.

The wrangler stopped all the horses immediately and radioed home for help. She tied her own horse and went to Dapples’ side. His rider was pale blue and clammy to the touch. The man had no history of trouble with blood sugar, but his symptoms seemed clear, and the wrangler gently placed a glucose tablet into his mouth. There were a few tense moments, shared by everyone, before he started to appear more lucid. Color returned to his face, he could respond and answer questions about his surroundings, and soon, he was weak but stable. The riders were dismayed, but their horses remained steady, and none more than Dapples. As though he perceived the frailty of his rider—which he quite possibly did, with his quiet but sensitive way of being—he slowed and then stood perfectly steady, a plush sofa on four solid legs. Dapples is not a small horse, in fact quite the opposite, but though his bulk is sometimes intimidating to unfamiliar riders, it is just one more of his superb assets. The biggest horses have the biggest hearts, and there is more there to love. Furthermore, in this instance at least, he demonstrated that he was so wide, a person would not slide off of him even if they were to go completely limp.

Help arrived shortly. Now there were two wranglers, who divided their tasks, one on a horse to guide the ride back, and the other walking alongside Dapples, to keep an eye on his weakened passenger and stop immediately if further intervention was needed. The lead wrangler held the rope of one empty horse, as well—the rider who’d first gotten the bad feeling wanted to get down, and walk next to Dapples, afraid of what might happen if she turned around again. She was shedding very quiet tears when the horses arrived home. She’d seen it all in the emergency room before, she said, but it was different when it was your own family.

Everyone else at the corral was thrilled to see the ride returning, a little late but safe and unharmed. The unfazed Dapples came quietly at the end of the string, as ever, placid in a world of bears, old age, and other perils. His rider leaned down to pat his neck gently, once, before dismounting, and told us, “Doodles is such a good horse.” We were all so happy he was speaking and safe, that nobody even bothered to correct him. Dapples, I’m sure, did not mind.