“[. . .] When I bestride him, I
soar, I am a hawk: he trots the air; the earth
sings when he touches it; the basest horn of his
hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes.
[. . .] It is a beast for
Perseus: he is pure air and fire; and the dull
elements of earth and water never appear in him[.]” —Henry V, Act 3, scene 7, by William Shakespeare
I’ve been feeling low lately, worried about some personal stuff and weighted by a sense of powerlessness. Consequently I’ve been unproductive, despite projects and tasks galore, and so on Sunday I decided to flee. A change of routine, particularly when it includes going somewhere I haven’t been before, often helps me mute my mind’s relentless whirling, even if only briefly. But this time it wasn’t just a place I sought. It was horses.
Horses have been backburnered on my mind ever since my trip to Vermont; the place always conjures happy memories of riding through fields and woodlands; of pulling tart apples off low-hanging branches and feeding them to my steed as we jogged on, barely breaking pace; of the magical perfume of a horse barn and the slick sweat of a muscular, mohawked neck. Then by chance I saw that author Pam Houston had two unexpected spaces left in her Colorado ranch writing retreat, in which days are spent on horseback, and oh, was I tempted. So when I spotted a lovely horse-patterned tea mug set in a shop near home, I decided the universe was trying to tell me something.
The tea set clinched it. My memories, the riding/writing retreat, the tea mug—all combined, a sign that I needed a horse, preferably more than one, and preferably close enough to touch and smell. But I’d settle for a sighting, and I knew just the place for that—Monte Cucco, where I’d wanted to go for months. So I threw Aria in the car and off we went.
Monte Cucco borders both Umbria, on its western slopes, and, to the east, Le Marche, and it’s part of the 1,200-kilometer-long Apennine mountain range that runs the length of the Italian peninsula. It’s home to herds of enormous, free-ranging white cattle, wild horses, and, as I discovered, some very friendly donkeys.
I spotted my first pair of Monte Cucco horses even before I got out of the car, disappearing up a trail perpendicular to the road. By the time I’d parked they were long gone, but then we had our donkey encounter (close but no cigar), and then we had only to walk five minutes in the direction the donkeys came from to find horses, a mare-and-filly combo who seemed to know they made a good photo opp. Ahhhhhh. Like getting a brain massage.
My idea of horses as therapy isn’t unique. Equine therapy has been around for a while; in fact, according to this 2012 article in The Guardian, “the Greeks documented the horse's therapeutic value in 600BC and French physician Cassaign concluded in 1875 that equine therapy helped certain neurological disorders.” Nowadays equine treatment programs (some that involve riding, some that don’t) help people who suffer from PTSD and other forms of trauma, as well as those with developmental and sensory disorders.
The healing power of horses stems, it’s thought, from the fact that they’re empathetic creatures. (How could they not be, when they’re literally big-hearted—most horses’ hearts weigh about 1 percent of their body weight, so, for a 1,000-pound animal, 10 pounds.) As herd (and prey) animals, they’re sensitive to the crowd; their very survival depends on being tuned in to what they sense around them. They don’t hide their emotions, and they respond to others’ emotions by mirroring and reacting to what they see—fear with fear or aggression, anger with anger or stubbornness, and so on. That makes it hard for the humans in their presence to deny their own feelings, because they can see them being played out on the thousand-pound animal in front of them. Yep, whether a horse stands calmly, rears and whinnies in panic, nips or kicks, or runs away depends on the person/animal they’re encountering (and yes, certainly past experiences too, especially bad ones). Not only that, but they’re highly intelligent. Their potent mix of empathy and intelligence means horses have got your number, and if you think you can fool them, you’re wrong.
After I’d taken some photos of the posing pair and Aria had finished barking at them, we hiked on, past enormous piles of dung that proved the area was common ground for the mountain’s creatures and their two-legged visitors. At a fork in the path where a large group of hikers had stopped to rest, we found another mare-and-youngster pair, soon joined by yet another. Calm in the presence of chatting adults, boisterous children, and two dogs, all four horses grazed, and every so often the youngsters nuzzled their mothers’ bellies, to no avail.
Aria greeted the other dog briefly, then sat and watched the horses, fascinated. In California, when she’d seen horses on the trails, much too close for comfort, she’d always trembled, alarmed by their size. Here, watching from a distance, apparently over her earlier need to bark, she seemed as content as I was. She couldn’t appreciate their beauty, as I did (though who knows? Maybe dogs do make aesthetic judgments). But their magnificence and power, their magnetism, the way they compel you to gaze at them in awe—I think she felt that.
Back at the parking area, we were about to leave when another pair came toward us, the mare plodding down the road while her offspring mirrored her on the hillside above. When I climbed out of the car to take photos, the mare stopped; when I stepped aside, she continued on. Body language read, message received and understood: no danger here.
I sat in the car for a few minutes before we left, taking measure of my mental state. I’d brought my worries to the mountain and I would take them home with me, but in the presence of those gentle creatures, for a time, my sadness and worry had faded into the background. Even the mountain’s cattle seemed to know it. As I drove down the western slope, a small herd filled the road, demanding that I stop. One cow looked me in the eye—no alarm, no fear, no malice, only a steady gaze that seemed to say, “Y’all come back soon now, hear?”
Have you got a horse story? Tell us in the comments! And take a poll (or two).
Book of the week:
Seabiscuit: An American Legend by Lauren Hillenbrand
Poems of the week:
“How to Triumph Like a Girl” by Ada Limón
“Foaling Season” by Ada Limón
EAU de Cheval! Great idea. I love burying my nose in a horses neck.
I have little experience with horses. Monte Cucco, however, looks beautiful!