I'm not absolutely certain of the facts, due to an uneven formal education and subsequent lapse of time, but I recollect it's Shakespeare who says that it's always just when a fella is feeling particularly cocky about life in general that fate sneaks up behind him with a large wooden mallet. I think he was on to something because that is exactly how it played out for me one long-ago morning in Colorado.
It was a beautiful summer's day on a picturesque ranch along the banks of Bear Creek in Evergreen, Colo. I had just turned 30 and thought I was at the peak of both my intellectual and physical skills. My employer had asked me to train a group of 20 college students who had been hired to work that summer at a youth camp that he sponsored. The camp's main feature was every camper (ages 9-14) was taught how to ride, saddle and care for a horse. That fateful morning, I was going to lead the newly arrived counselors on a two-hour trail ride to get them started.
Having hired most of them myself, I thought it best to impress on them that I was clearly a seasoned professional when it came to horsemanship. My resume was basically a handful of family-friendly rides growing up in Florida, but to round that out, I was fairly expert in watching all things horse in the movies. Knowing how important it was to look the part, I wore an old pair of Wellington work boots that I had never bothered to polish along with a cowboy belt with a silver buckle my brother had gotten for me when he worked at the local Six-Gun Territory amusement park. Topped off with a denim shirt, I was ready to ride.
My first off moment came when I asked the local wranglers who cared for the horses at the camp to "get me a good one." Seeing my rugged and confident demeanor (not to mention the aforesaid belt buckle) they were only too happy to oblige. Soon all the counselors were saddled, and we walked the horses from the corral up to a dirt road that led to the trail entrance, about 100 yards from the barn.
The swinging gate to the trail had a padlock on it -- for which the key had been left at the camp office about 1⁄4 mile in the other direction.
Being a natural-born leader, I quickly said, "You guys stay here. I'll ride up and get it." And with that, fast trotted my large horse up the dirt road, grabbed the key, and came trotting back to the waiting masses, a confident smile of success radiating from my face. Now here is where fate decided to raise that mallet we talked about.
As I got about 100 yards from the group, my horse could see the barn and decided there was no place like home. Breaking into a dead gallop, we came bounding at "Ben-Hur" speed toward the bewildered counselors. I would have tried to pull the reins in to stop or slow the animal, but all my efforts were taken up with holding on for dear life. I think my face resembled a tomato struggling to scream. Finally, as we closed within 5 feet of the assembled horses clogging the road, my horse suddenly came to a stop -- at which time, I may or may not have bounced off his neck and back into my saddle. As the stunned group starred at me in silence, I collected myself and managed to stammer, "I've got the key."
Fortunately, I find comfort in the quote from Antonio Perez: "An old ass knows more than a young colt." Take that, Shakespeare.