by Trish Vicino
The hot June sun beat down on sparse, grassy hills and the dust-slick ribbon of trail. High above Cofresi Beach in Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic, the trail horses gently snuffed and lowered their heads against the glaring light. This was the end of a two-hour ride over the dusty, lime-green terrain girding the city, and as the sweaty string of roans, chestnuts, and bays descended the slope back toward the stables, a pang of longing rose as gentle as the rolling hills: I wanted to gallop.
Yet I was afraid. During my childhood, as a horse-obsessed girl in dude ranch heaven, I pounded over the trails five times a day with a youthful, naïve fearlessness. Years later, during a country visit to family friends in upstate New York, I was thrown from the saddle by Breezy, a skittish chestnut who lived up to her name by inexplicably charging a fence. I landed on my right shoulder, and rose shaken but uninjured. During a suburban trail ride years later, the saddle slipped loose around the feisty Pistachio’s girth, and I plummeted to the rocky ground as the spooked chestnut galloped off.
Now personal circumstances were not helping my confidence. A week before this family vacation, I left a difficult situation with the man I’d married the previous summer, hoping I’d made the right choice. My marriage had been a short yet brutal descent into verbal abuse, veering closer and closer to physical violence. On the morning I finally left, my enraged husband hurled a heavy shoe at me, striking the back of my knee. I limped for the rest of the day as I carried boxes of belongings away to a new life. The woman I now was – and the fearless young rider buried deep inside of her – had been thrown yet again, this time struggling back up more slowly, bruised by much more than an aching shoulder and sore hamstring.
Despite well-founded misgivings, as our group approached the last straight section of trail, I turned in the saddle and asked Mike, our Dominican cowboy, if we could trot. This gait is bumpy but easy, a controllable pace quicker than a walk but safer than a gallop.
“No, senorita,” he said, in heavily accented English, shaking his dark, hat-clad head. “This is a beginner ride.”
“OK,” I mumbled, feeling defeated yet relieved.
Mike removed his hat and wiped his sweaty forehead on pale sleeves. He contemplated me a moment before answering. “If you want, you take a private ride one afternoon later this week. We go out on the trail, ride how you want.”
Before I realized it, I agreed. Tomorrow afternoon, 4:00, at the stables. I would again ride Nuevo, an eager bay the color of wet nutmeg.
We soon returned to the corral, and I dismounted with a vague mixture of anticipation and dread in my stomach. It had been years since I galloped on a horse, and longer since I did so without a tight grasp on the saddle horn. I decided I would hold on to get through it while enjoying the beautiful scenery.
For the rest of the day, safely back at the resort, I worried. What ifs bubbled up within me like a freshly poured seltzer. What if Nuevo grabbed the bit and ran wild? What if he lost his footing on pebbly ground and skittered sideways, crushing my legs? What if I fell and landed on my head?
Beneath all this, fueling my uncertainty, the shellshock of my recent separation and upcoming divorce burned through me. What if I made the wrong decision? What if I prematurely left my young marriage? What if I hadn’t tried hard enough? What if I failed?
The next afternoon I returned to the stables. Nuevo was tethered in the corral, his dark hide glazed with sweat. I approached his massive frame and offered a sticky lump of sugar. He refused it, slapping an inpatient hoof on the dirt while flicking his dusky tail.
Mike walked up, greeting me with a robust “Hola” while helping me climb into the saddle. From Nuevo’s broad back, I cast a nervous look down as we left the corral. Nuevo, cooped up in his stall for most of the day, rolled a bright, eager eye and tugged at the bit.
As we moved toward the rising hills, the trail gradually opened from a narrow swath through pale green grass to a pebbly path. “Ready?” Mike asked, more an invitation than a question.
We accelerated from a bumpy trot to a faster, fluid gallop, and my hand grabbed the saddle horn. I pressed my sweaty palm tightly around the rough leather. Mike stayed beside me, graceful and tall in his saddle as I hunkered down, our horses matching strides and fighting for the lead. Nuevo surged ahead, strong on the bit. “Rein him in a little,” Mike commanded, still sitting easy in the saddle despite our thundering gallop. I pulled hard on the reins and to my relief, Nuevo slowed.
We rode up into the hills, the trail a thin swatch against the tall grass and fruit trees. Small, battered farmhouses perched on the incline and rangy dogs barked along broken fences. Shy children peered from narrow doorways, their dark eyes curious. We waved, shouted “hola,” and trotted by, trail dust lazing in our wake.
Deeper along the trail, we veered off to hug the gently sloping hillside. Here the ground was smooth and green, and as we climbed higher, the town of Cofresi appeared below, tucked under the mountains. The endless ocean glittered, and the languid sun beat down upon distant buildings.
Suddenly, the grass slipped by and the air whistled past as we broke into a gallop. Nuevo was on the bit. I leaned forward in the saddle to aid his upward climb, and to my shock I realized I was not holding on.
As the horses dug in, relishing their flight, something within shifted, whispering with a gentle yet insistent echo. Let go, it commanded, simple and unmistakable. Let go of the worry, the doubt, the uncertainty, and fear. Let go.
The nameless voice echoing through me was as simple as the dark bay horse on which I rode. He arched forward, running in sheer pleasure. He simply ran with the lash of breeze fresh against his face and the hot sun thundering down. Let go.
The miracle: I listened. Without hesitation, a long-confined fearlessness rose up, smothering the carefully constructed bars of my psyche, soaring. LET GO.
On the way back, past the tilted farmhouses shaded by mango trees, two riders sat in the saddle, giving their horses rein and smiling as they swallowed the ground with eager strides. The horse with the wise eye flicked his ears back, arched his neck, and galloped.
Trish Vicino lives in Summerville and still looks forward to those horseback rides in the Dominican Republic. She teaches English at Berkeley High School, and has published her award winning story,
A Roof the Color of Desire in
Charleston Magazine.
