Throwing Caution to the Wind

January 27, 2022

by Ellen Nieslanik

(Simply defined a gymkhana is competitive games on horseback.)

Never run your horse to the barn. It was a rule set forth by my Dad. One of those rules you didn’t dare dabble in the fringe. It was a matter of safety for the rider and a matter of training and bad conditioning for the horse.

So let’s set aside that rule for a moment and go back in time some 50 years. My older sister Maym and I were 10 and 9 respectively and were matched in age with Mark and Marty Nieslanik who were neighbor boys on the ranch just to the north and west of us. We were quite a foursome and played together most days. That summer Thursday evenings the four of us used to saddle up and ride over the hill together and down across the tracks together to the rodeo arena for the weekly 4-H gymkhana. It was my first taste of unsupervised independence “after hours” and felt so incredibly grown up and adventurous.

I rode a paint horse called Chief, and Maym a big powerful gray named Joker who was much faster than Chief. The Nieslanik boys rode nice ranch quarter horses that were equally fast and flashy. Side note — there was an unspoken competition and comparison of horses between ranchers and community brandings and 4-H events were both places they were showcased. My Dad and John Nieslanik were great friends which made their unspoken horse competition even more fierce.

Okay back to the story…. Both sets of parents and younger siblings drove down to the rodeo grounds after supper to watch the competition and cheer on their older brothers and sisters. Before the gymkhana events started there was often a short meeting, and sometimes square dancing practice on horseback, that’s right on horseback, which we performed at the weekly rodeo at the same grounds on Friday and Saturday nights. With business taken care of it was time for the fun, and the action packed night of competition to begin which usually included: goat tying, barrel racing, pole bending, flag racing, or balloon popping (where balloons are tied one the back of your saddle and you popped the balloons of the opposing teams balloons) — just to name a few.

Though I enjoyed the events, my favorite part of those Thursday night gymkhanas excursions were the horseback treks to and from— mostly from the rodeo grounds home with the Nieslanik boys. Often times our parents left the rodeo grounds ahead of the horseback foursome because of either barn chores to finish up or little kids to get to bed. This was the perfect storm for us as we took our time getting home by moonlight. There was riding down the railroad tracks and up through the brush and finally cresting the hill and breaking out on top in those wide open hay meadows for a good old fashioned horse race. Now I’m going to step out here and say most of the racing was suggested by Marty, because he usually had the fastest horse, and mostly because he’s not in the room to defend himself.

Marty would say, “You in?” to the rest of us all nodded and leaned in.

I knew that old Chief would take care of me, so as the youngest in the group, of course, I was “in.” Honestly, I was less concerned about who would win since I knew I was less of a contender than Maym, and I was just happy to be included in the race.

I leaned in against Chief’s sweaty neck (there’s nothing quite like the smell of a sweaty horse), reins forward, I gave him as much leeway as he wanted, saddle horn in my belly, and I whispered, “come on boy, let’s go!” And gave him a soft kick. And “go” he did. We flew, we literally flew across the pasture, jumping ditches, the four of us, neck and neck racing, egging each other on in the moonlight. Breathing in the dust we kicked up and squealing with delight as we sailed above the meadow. Maym and Marty broke out ahead for a moment, but we never got to finish the race because we had to pull our horses in and cool them down before we walked them home up the shared lane. Remember the rule…never run your horse to the barn. Not finishing the race was one of the silver linings that kept the mystery alive for the rest of the summer.

Dad usually met us at the barn when we got home, and I always wondered if he suspected something. It’s hard to believe he didn’t, especially when he saw the trampled hay the next morning, but he never mentioned anything nor did John. Anyway Dad asked how our ride home was and after we had nothing to report he’d say, “I’m sure glad you don’t run these horses home.”

We rode to the gymkhanas with Mark and Marty the rest of that summer then the next year we moved to the ranch up West Sopris Creek so we never got to finish that score with the Nieslanik boys, nor did we get to ride to any more gymkhanas with them. It was likely Divine intervention as our horses just got faster and we got more bold and someone would have gotten hurt.

Even now if I close my eyes and am transported back to those moonlight nights so many years ago on my trusted horse Chief. I can smell the salt of his sweat, and taste the dust in my mouth. If Iean forward and give him his rein with a soft kick, he gives me his all, and I can feel his body strain and reach with each stride as he picks them up and puts them down so we can sail over ditches and fly across the flat of the meadow. That horse, those nights, that exhilaration were something I’ll never forget.

You know, in general I’m not a rule breaker, but if given the chance on a moonlit night I’d do it again in a heartbeat, and Daddy-oh I think I’d have a fighting chance at victory for you.

Sometimes you just have to throw caution to the wind.