
The Riding Center had nine horses in the race. One rider, Mike, started toward the front of the field of 200-plus horses. Sarah Sanders and Kate Jordan were the last to leave camp because Kate was on an excitable stallion. The rest of us—Rodger Davis, Katie Davis, Sally, Amanda, Elena Macia, and I were somewhere in the middle. Within minutes of the start Katie’s horse Amiga tied up, so she and Rodger, her sponsor, were out. We trotted on. Sally was sponsoring both remaining junior riders, so a short time later when Elena’s horse Fabayah tied up, the three of them proceeded very slowly toward water and assistance for the mare while I trotted ahead on Lyric, an upset gelding whom I barely knew. As Lyric nervously climbed Squaw Peak tugging on the reins and franticly calling out, absolute dread of the next ninety miles replaced those earlier, more confident feelings. Robinson Flats, the first vet check and hold located 36 miles into the ride, might as well have been on the moon!
About the time I thought our situation couldn’t get much worse, my jittery mount freaked at one of the 37 gazillion rocks along this incredibly scenic trail and tossed me over the side. Here is where I strongly suspect divine intervention. I landed without my characteristic THUD, cradled by sage brush on the steeply banked side of the mountain. I cannot begin to explain how I managed to hold onto the last two inches of one of my split reins. As I lay there on my back, rein in one hand, arm stretched way over my head, head cocked back, staring straight up Lyric’s nostrils, a female rider came to my assistance. First, she yelled “Rider down” just as loudly as possible. I’m not sure if she was only trying to embarrass me further or if she had a valid reason for broadcasting my predicament. Regardless, she then dismounted and held Lyric so that I could roll over and climb out of there. I thanked her, she remounted and rode on.
I stood beside Lyric catching my breath and wondering at the futility of mounting again just a few feet from the scary rock that set this whole scenario into motion. Then, miraculously, a cherubic voice called out my name. “Paula, how’s it going?” This is where my faith was truly renewed. Turning to my right I spied two horses approaching out of the dust, one a springy young bay gelding, the other a no-longer-so-excitable black stallion, and their riders Sarah Sanders and Kate Jordan. Perhaps I had conked my head a little harder than I realized, but in that moment I thought I saw halos, not helmets, on their heads, and as the three of us trotted off together, Robinson Flats was once again within reach.














