This summer was supposed to find me somewhere in the high country of Colorado. Instead, I’m getting an unexpected lesson in horsemanship without riding. One of the things I was looking forward to most was helping pack amphibian biologists into remote Wilderness areas. It was the kind of pack trip I enjoy. Good stock, good work, and new-to-me backcountry. The researchers needed to reach places inaccessible by vehicle, the kind of situation where pack strings come into their own.
I was looking forward to time in the saddle, high mountain camps, and looking back at a string of mules loaded with gear and scientific equipment.
Then my bone doctor looked at the latest scans and said something I didn’t want to hear. “No riding for a while.”
It was beyond disappointing. Missing a local trail ride is one thing. Missing an experience in Colorado’s high country feels different. I found myself mourning the trails I wouldn’t ride, the camps I wouldn’t see, and the miles that would have to wait. Then one night, I walked out to feed the mules.
Ruger didn’t seem particularly worried. Cocoa wasn’t concerned in the slightest. Both were mostly interested in dinner and a scratch on the neck. As far as they were concerned, nothing important had changed.
Conventional wisdom says that spending time with equines is about riding. Ruger and Cocoa took that wisdom out of the woods, roughed it up, and stole its lunch money.
No riding doesn’t mean no mules. The saddle is only one place where things happen. Most of what makes a horseman, mule person, or packer happens long before anyone swings a leg over a saddle. It happens while feeding, grooming, and training. This forced pause has reminded me of that.
I’ll spend more time working on groundwork than I normally would. Instead of saddling up, I’ve tinkered with pack equipment, adjusted tack, and tackled projects that have been waiting longer than they should have. Apparently, later has finally arrived.
I’ve also spent more time simply watching the mules. That doesn’t sound productive, but I’m not convinced productivity is measured in miles. Some evenings, I’ll lean against the fence while Ruger and Cocoa eat. No destination. No objective. Just companionship.
The older I get, the more confident I am that some of the best lessons horses and mules teach us have nothing to do with riding. They happen in quiet moments when we’re simply paying attention and observing. We often celebrate the miles, adventures, and accomplishments, but I’ve realized those moments are only part of the real story.
Some of the finest horsemen I’ve known weren’t impressive because of how far they rode. They were impressive because of how well they understood their animals. Maybe that’s part of the lesson I’m supposed to learn this summer.
I’d much rather be loading panniers in Colorado and helping biologists reach some remote alpine meadow. Given the choice, I’d trade this column for a saddle and a string of mules on a mountain trail disappearing into the timber. But riders know that when conditions change, you adapt. This summer, reality says I need to stay out of the saddle for a while. Groundwork isn’t surrender. It’s an adaptation.
The mountains will still be there next year. In the meantime, I have clinics to teach, gear to build, books to write, and mules that expect dinner promptly at 6. The saddle may have to wait a for a bit. The good news is that the mules aren’t going anywhere. No riding doesn’t mean no mules. The heart of horsemanship is the bond and understanding built on the ground, not just in the saddle.
This summer may not include the miles I had planned, but the evenings still end the same way: mules waiting for a meal, a scratch on the neck, and a quiet reminder that horsemanship’s greatest lessons aren’t found only on the trail. They’re here, in patient moments, and for now, that is enough.
For more thoughts on trail riding, horse camping, and the lessons learned between the trailhead and the campfire, visit TrailMeister.com or check out my books The ABCs of Trail Riding and Horse Camping, Daily Wisdom from the Saddle, and It’s a Cinch!.