St Lucia in the Saddle

by Gabriel Denison

The horse was little and rangy. He was anxious to find the head of the herd, and endured the kicks of sour, older horses and bared teeth of younger contenders for the position of lead horse and scout. He called loudly, and held his head high to see over the milling horses that were his herd.

The little sorrel would have engaged in this behavior in any wild herd on the continent. But this was Cas-en-Bas, on the island of St. Lucia , deep in the Southern Caribbean . The 29 horses carried 29 inexperienced riders, and I was on Little Sorrel.

When the bus unloaded at Trim's Stable, the mercury read 102 degrees, not counting the intense humidity factor. The tourists all tumbled out, were issued helmets, and separated into two groups: the experienced and inexperienced riders. Twenty-nine people filed into the inexperienced group and one remained behind: myself. The two guides, who during the afternoon established themselves as pirates on horseback, grunted approval and said, “ Good. You can help the others.”

The horses began to appear from the cool, concrete interior of the stable. The ceilings were low, and the stalls were small. Everything was very clean, but an essence of momentum circulated. The riders were boosted onto their mounts, stirrups adjusted, and turned loose. The guides moved rapidly and shouted to each other in Caribbean Creole, a mixture of French and African.

There was no arena. The inexperienced riders milled in an ever-widening crush of horses that pushed each other around a long driveway. Wails began to emerge from the riders. “How do I turn?” “How do I go forward?” “My horse won't stop!” There was no answer from the guides.

I was presented with Little Sorrel, who could barely stand still long enough for me to mount.

“Careful,” my heavily accented helper admonished me, “He's very sensitive.”

Little Sorrel took off with a jump and entered the milling herd. He did not want to listen another dumb human on his back. He was intent upon finding his place in the herd, and I saw I might end up taking a kick along with him. I wasn't keen on this plan. I circled back to the guides, who were loading the last tourist up. She was crying and trying to get off.

“Listen,” I said, “This is a lead horse. We are just going to have a fight if you make me ride in formation with him.”

. “Oh, yes, “ they both nodded. “It's good you know that, he'll settle. You will ride in front. But you must help us with this group.”

I turned the rangy island mustang and headed back. Now I felt I could negotiate with this tough little horse. He was intelligent and sure-footed, but by U.S. standards, only half-broke. Humans were not on his priority list; they were just along for the ride. But I felt I could strike a bargain with him, on his own terms.

Regretfully for the rest of the busload, the rest of the mounts were half broke as well. The majority of the horses were quieter than Little Sorrel, but just as stubborn. I began to ride through the crowd with a purpose, calling simple instructions to the lost souls adrift in this mass of island horseflesh. “Put your hands down, hug with your legs!”

“Put your hands down, pull with your left!” “Right hand left leg! Right hand left leg!”

“Thank you's,” began to float into the humid air instead of wails. Little Sorrel caught my purpose of moving into the crowd, and began to work with me.

Suddenly, the guide Jason, swept to the front of the group on a burly black stallion, who was faunching and foaming at the bit.

“To the gate!” he cried, and the horses all began to fall into line behind the black leader. Little Sorrel shimmied quickly into the lead position, and we were off.

The brochure had indicated a quiet ride through the jungle, looking for the endangered Eclectus parrot, with monkey sightings along the way. Nothing could have been further from the truth as we wound through alleys, clambered over construction sites, trampled back yards and forded flooded trails.

Little Sorrel never set a foot wrong. He was more like a goat than a trail horse. I started using a Monty Roberts technique of touch communication, similar to the nose-touches used in horse herds. He responded within minutes. We rode up and down the long line of riders. Since he knew I would allow him to return to his lead position, Little Sorrel willingly did whatever I asked of him. I communicated with him with legs and firm finger touches to indicate direction. But we always had to return to the head of the group. That was our unspoken deal.

After an eternity of adventure, we passed a small hamlet in the jungle, complete with goats, chickens, and washing on the line. I thought we were approaching the end of our ride. Instead, a wild, ragged boy, riding a smallish horse at a dead run and guiding him with a halter looped around his neck, burst from the palm trees close to the house. He smiled from ear to ear, calling in Creole and waving with one hand. To everyone's surprise, he caught up to the group, merged and began to ask in English if we were enjoying our afternoon. We had barely recovered from his appearance when the landscape cleared and we burst upon a long beach. The wind began to blow wildly, and the guide's rough Creole shouts could barely be heard. The horses responded to the wind, becoming restless.

Our group started to move in a bouncy, lop-sided fashion down the beach. Without warning, a little bay broke from herd. With angry shouts from the guides fading behind him, he raced at top speed down the beach, away from the other riders. A terrified Australian girl clung to his neck.

Little Sorrel leaped after him. I reined him in, and he fought to control himself. Jason, his own stallion plunging to follow the bay, looked at me and snorted, “You. Go get her.”

Little Sorrel was gone in a flash. The force of his initial jump tore out the seat of my light khaki pants completely. He was fast. He was so fast we entered a dimension of speed where there were no hoofbeats, no crashing waves, no screams. There was only the sound of the wind battering my ears, and the feel of his mouth as he flexed at the poll. He was still light on the bit, and listening. So I let him run.

We caught the bay in a grove of palms, and Jason appeared soon after with the cavalcade of riders. He switched horses with the girl immediately, ignoring her protests over riding a stallion. The entire group returned safely to the stable.

Jason told me of all the precautions they took for the horses. All the chinstraps had been removed from the shanked bits; so inexperienced riders would not hurt the horses' mouths. The stable let their feet grow longer than usual to protect the horses against rocks and trail rubble. They wanted them to sleep in the jungle every night, to feel free.

I was overwhelmed that this stable was an agreement struck between half wild men and half wild horses. The guides were not overly concerned with the tourists, but with the sensitivity and feelings of their horses. They had all struck bargains with each mount, and felt it unnecessary to move on in training them.

The spirit of the Old West is alive in St. Kitts. The horses are wild and wooly, never being curried below the knees, and the riders wear ragged shorts and pirate smiles. But the spirit between man and horse remains an unspoken bond, a silent language that we on the mainland are working to rediscover.