Can You Wear Jeans & Muck Boots to Judge a Horse Show?

I just signed a contract to judge another horse show. It's coming up in a few weeks and it's making me a little bit anxious. That's not because it's a high profile hunter and equitation show on the county circuit. And it's not because it was one of my favorite shows to attend when I was competing. It's because I've been told by the show manager to "glam it up a bit." In other words, I've been instructed to wear a dress or a skirt. Yes, that's how hoity-toity this show is, partially because it's held at a private country club. Actually, I'm very honored to have been hired to be one of the judges, but now I have to rush around town looking for a skirt. Why? Because, being a confirmed horsewoman... and a writer by profession who works from home... I do not own a single skirt or dress.

Hey, at least I've been wearing shorts a lot lately to get a tan on my legs so that when I do get all dolled up in that skirt I won't be sporting the typical horsewoman's tan. As most of you are aware, that means tan arms, really tan face (except for the raccoon eyes from wearing sunglasses all day) and pasty-colored legs.

Other than that, I'm excited about this judging job. I've come a long way from the very first show I judged. That was probably 15 or so years ago, and yet I remember portions of it quite well. It was a little, itty bitty show held in a dry plot of land adjacent to a dairy farm and a stockyard. In the back acreage that day, Civil War re-enactors were holding one of their annual soldier-fests and I had to deal with wayward Yankees and Rebels and the occasional "BOOMS!" of cannon fire. Most of the horse show participants were kids on scruffy horses tacked up in colorful nylon headstalls and "saddled" with everything from knock-off show saddles to bareback pads. I think I got paid a whopping $50 for the day, but you know what? It was a learning experience for me. It was my first opportunity to wrangle with the paperwork and decision-making that goes into judging a horse show. Regardless of how unkempt and disheveled the competitors were, someone still had to be declared the first place winner.

You might wonder how I happened into that judging assignment. Well, I asked for it. Literally. I accepted I had to gain experience starting at the bottom of the horse show ranks, so I made unsolicited phone calls to every horse show organizer I could find by consulting fliers and posters and volunteering my services for a very cheap daily rate.

Once I decided I was interested in judging part-time, I also consulted my friends who had obtained their AHSA (now USEF) licenses and they gave me some great impromptu tutoring sessions. I learned how to mark a score sheet. They gave me tips on how to penalize and reward various rounds over fences. I sat with them while they judged ("learning judging"). And, most importantly, I became very familiar with the rule book. After all, someone, somewhere, has to establish rules for competition. Otherwise it's a melee waiting to happen. However, I stopped short of getting my AHSA/USEF license. I just wasn't that interested in pursuing a full judge's card. That requires a certain amount of time, travel and personal expense. All of that is understandable, and I admire those who do complete the requirements. It just wasn't for me.

Yet I'm quite content to judge county-rated and regionally sanctioned shows. Thankfully, I've moved beyond judging the little dustbowl shows. However, there's a trade-off in such a promotion. Occasionally I have to update my wardrobe.

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They Can be Gone so Suddenly

The news that three-day eventing super pony Theodore O'Connor was euthanized following an accident really disturbed me. That's not because I'm a huge follower of eventing, but because he was a small horse-- only 14.1-- that had become larger than life due to his competitive spark and his successful performances in world class competition. Despite having spent much of my life riding warmbloods that towered above me, I've always had a soft spot in my heart for the smaller horses that neglected to realize that they were shorter in stature than their peers. Teddy suffered catastrophic injuries to a hind leg after he bolted, slipped and fell. Just like that, his fate was sealed due to a freak accident.

Teddy's fate was on my mind today while I was leading Wally down to the large arena near my house. He'd been idle since his two big trail rides over the holiday weekend and needed a longe before I hopped on. Wally being Wally, he started revving up like Secretariat going postward in the Belmont Stakes. I could hardly control him as I led him down the short path to the arena. Keep in mind that I inherited this behavior problem; I didn't create it. But it takes all of my physical strength and determination not to allow Wally to overpower me and begin whirling around in circles on the bridle path. Even more so today, with the spectre of Teddy's accident fresh in my mind, I realized that if Wally should bolt and get loose, he'd be dragging the longe line as he galloped... where? Into the street? Across my neighbors' lawns? Would he crash into the split-rail wooden fence that lined the bridle path? I held so tightly to that longe line (and the stud chain which, as you can imagine, was being used to its fullest measure) that I strained my bad arm. But it was worth it. I knew that should Wally get loose and run amok, he could also end up mortally wounded. Teddy's tragedy reminded me that even at the best barn, with the most experienced handler, a rambunctious horse can get itself into trouble. And unfortunately in the horse world, there are rarely any "do overs."

In yet another instance of bolting off, I found a link to this news story on Horse Channel's homepage. According to the report, a bay Arabian gelding named Charlz bolted while on a trail ride and unseated his rider. He galloped off into the forest and hasn't been seen since. Lost in the Forest?

I remain confident that Charlz' story will have a much happier ending than that of dear, heroic Theodore O' Connor. Yet the potential is always there for one of our beloved horses to bolt off into oblivion, despite how hard we hold on to the reins. Or the longe line.

Trust Me, You Don't Ever Want Me to be Your Trail Guide

Here I am, smiling bravely so that Wally won't sense that I have gotten us lost. I'd hate for him to think that sage brush and wild mustard plants were on his dinner menu.

My sister Jill and I spent Memorial Day riding at Lake Perris. I know, it doesn't look much like an area that would be home to a huge lake and a boating marina, but trust me, it's there. Far, far in the distance. Otherwise the scenery is rather wide open and remote, as you can see by these photos. By the way, you'll have to forgive the lop-sided/off-kilter appearance of the pictures. It's not easy to snap a photo from the back of a moving horse... or so I've learned.My sister took this photo of Wally and me when I hopped off to examine the trail marker. More about that later.

Like all of our previous trail rides, this one contained several elements of calamity. To begin, my sense of direction-- or lack thereof-- had us headed up the wrong freeway, which is not a good thing in Southern California traffic. Adding to the silliness? I had just driven the exact same route to the exact same location-- Lake Perris-- with my trail riding buddy, Natalie, on Saturday. You'd think I'd remember how to get there 48 hours later, wouldn't you? My waywardness prevailed throughout our excursion when I blithely pointed at a trail marker and said to Jill, "Oh, let's head off that way." And then, 2 hours later, we had lost sight of our truck and trailer and every other sign of civilization. When we came upon a fresh carcass of a large snake (minus its gnawed-off head) we interpreted that as an omen. Perhaps it was time to start figuring out which trail to take to get back to our starting point. I mean, you know, the serenity and all that was nifty, but after a while we began to wonder if we were headed out of California. Fortunately, we found a trail marker that pointed west-- the direction back to the trailer-- and we gleefully took that path. Hence the smile upon my face!

Oh. And just so you know, even though Jill and I were quite ready to plop into the cab of the truck and head home, neither of our horses seemed particularly winded or tired. My sister's horse, Topper, is an off-the-track Thoroughbred who spends the first 15 minutes of every trail ride thinking that he's headed to the post at Santa Anita. Once he settles down he still out paces Wally at every gait. Wally has to do his western jog to keep up with Topper's long-strided walk. And he has to lope to stay alongside Topper when the big Thoroughbred is trotting. Yet after nearly 3 hours of riding, they both seemed quite willing to explore more territory. But that would have to wait for another day. Hopefully it'll be a day when I have a map of the trail system.










This is Jill and Topper, trying to decide if they're headed in the correct direction or if the Mexican border is just over the next hill.

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Ice Skating Miniature Horses

Wally needs some shade trees around the outside of his turnout paddock so Ron and I have spent the last couple of days planting trees on the hillside. Wait. I'm getting ahead of myself.

Ron and I have been digging holes for some trees on the hillside. Because our house (apparently) sits atop one solid slab of granite, this endeavor requires the use of a jackhammer. And a lot of sweat. Then, to prevent the newly planted trees from slip-sliding down the hillside we have to create terraces of large rocks.

How do we get the rocks? By foraging. It's not hard to find a lot of rocks in my neighborhood. They're just sunbathing along the bridle paths like lizards. I pick them up, toss them in the back of my truck, and transport them to Wally's hillside. Yesterday, in the midst of one of my hunting-and-gathering sessions, a sympathetic city worker pulled up in his official city truck and said, "I hate to see you working so hard. Just go up to the city park and take rocks from there."

According to him, excavation work to expand the equestrian park had revealed a mountain of granite boulders. A rock crushing company was stacking the clumps of granite before smooshing them into sand and gravel. "The rocks are ripe for the picking," the city guy told me.

So yesterday evening Ron and I drove our truck up to the city's equestrian park. While we picked our way through a moonscape of granite rocks, several hundred exhibitors were competing in a miniature horse show in the nearby covered arena. Ron and I were examining and evaluating rocks like kids in a pumpkin patch-- this one was too angular, that one was too lopsided-- while some judge in the booth above the grandstand was examining and evaluating miniature horses. We could hear the applause and whoops of elation when the ribbons were announced.

About the time that the fingertips of my riding gloves had worn through, thanks to handling one too many boulders, the liberty class began. Though Ron and I were on the backside of the pile of rocks, we could comprehend that one at a time a miniature horse was turned loose in the arena to prance, dance and run around while accompanied by music. It was kind of surreal: we were buried knee-deep in craggy, dusty granite and 100 yards from us some elfin equine was struttin' his stuff to Van Halen.

At one point Ron paused, listened to the music and then turned to me and asked, "What are they doing in there? Ice skating?"

The visual image of a wiry-maned miniature zipping around a frozen arena on ice skates almost made me drop my twenty-pound boulder.

I hope Wally appreciates the landscaping efforts. It's amazing the foolishness I endure for the sake of a horse.

Yup, that Would be Rain That's Falling

Oh good grief! Here I was, just blathering on about the ungodly heat we've been experiencing... and today the wind came up, the clouds rolled in, the temperature dropped and it started raining. Not only that, but the local network news out of LA showed film of an overturned railroad train and a topsy turvy tractor-trailer rig on a nearby freeway due to wind. Uhm, that would be wind from an impromptu tornado.

Needless to say, right now Wally is inside his house. His erstwhile "cabana" has become his Rain Room.

I don't think this storm will last long. But regardless of its duration it ruined my ride today. I rode Wally over to the stable where I give my riding lessons (it's my former coach's private facility) and sat on Wally while instructing Veronica, one of my students. Just as she finished her faux medal class work-off-- I have her practicing a variety of work-off patterns so she's prepared for everything-- I began to smell that distinctive odor of wet earth. The brisk wind was carrying it, along with a herd of dark clouds. Wally seemed rather pleased, however, because I'd also begun fooling around with asking him to perform some western horsemanship and trail class skills. I'd backed him around cones in a figure-8 pattern, loped over the little flower boxes and made him sidepass back and forth over some ground poles. The brewing rainstorm cut that short.

Once Veronica had her horse back in the crossties, I headed for home. Fortunately, the bridle paths are manicured enough that I could pretty much lope Wally all the way home. I made it to my tackroom just as the lightning and thunder started.

Oh well. There's always tomorrow. I can ride Wally then. But don't you know it'll probably be hot and sunny again. *sigh*

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The Wally Cabana

This is Wally after our ride today. He's still slightly wet from being spritzed off but as you can see he's comfortably sequestered in his fully covered, completely shaded outdoor stall. You see, it's just too hot and sunny for him in his turnout paddock during the day. Or so I suspect, being a horse mom. So when it's horribly hot like it is now I put him in his stall until the late afternoon sun sinks behind the hills. Then he gets turned out again. Keep in mind it's not that he doesn't have shade in his turnout paddock. He has a huge shelter with his feeder and water underneath the overhang. But he chooses to spend most of his waking hours standing in the far corner where he can look out over the panorama that is our neighborhood. And that leaves him standing in the full sun. I guess this is a different spin on, "You can lead a horse to water, but you cannot make him drink." But with Wally it's, "You can build a horse a $800 shelter, but in hot, sunny weather you cannot make him stand underneath it." I'm shuttling my fat Paint gelding from one enclosure to another so he doesn't get sunburned or too hot. And all the while I'm sweating like a farm hand and my bare arms have turned the color of a well-done rotisserie chicken. Ah, the things we do for our horses!

The Judge is Melting

I call this snapshot "Still Life of a Sweaty Judge."

Yesterday (Sunday) I judged a hunter schooling show in Pasadena, which is a lovely old town situated at the base of the foothills just outside Los Angeles. There's quite a contingent of dedicated riders in the area. In fact, this particular show ground is a stone's throw from the famous Flintridge Riding Club. That was the home of world-renowned hunter/jumper guru Jimmy Williams, for those of you from my era.

At any rate, making the day extra special was the fact that we're in the midst of a godawful heat wave. I kid you not, it's been over 100 degrees for almost a week. And it doesn't cool off much once the sun goes down. Needless to say, I sweated through much of the day at the horse show, even though I sat beneath a canopy of shade cloth and I was kept well-hydrated by the show staff. There were times when my pen wouldn't write on my scorecard. (Hmmm... Was that due to overspray from the arena sprinklers at lunchtime or due to the sweaty residue I'd inadvertently wiped across my clipboard?) At least it was a pleasant experience otherwise. The competitors were primarily novice riders mounted on good ol' school horses and well-trained packers. Since the participants were so enthusiastic, I made an effort to unstick myself from my chair and saunter out to the line-up to give a few pointers to the riders in the equitation classes. The management encouraged me to do so, and plus, it gave the faint breeze an opportunity to cool me off by evaporating the sweat that had collected at the back of my knees. I lost count of how many times I dashed off to the clubhouse's bathroom to sponge myself off with my dampened washcloth. Yes, it was that bad. Normally we all get used to this heat and live with it. But it came on so quickly that no one--- horse nor human--- had a chance to acclimate. And naturally, it's supposed to cool off and perhaps RAIN on Thursday or Friday. That's so typical of my life with horses.