Epic Sun: A Horse Story

Photo: Me, Dylan the Dog & Epic Sun, University of Vermont, 1991

I have an addiction. It is one that has been with me since I was four years old. My addiction anchors me and possesses me. Obsesses me. It leaves me both too full and totally empty: vapid, breathless, bloated and broken. It has defined me. For decades.

I took to horses. Fast. After trying everything else–dance, gymnastics, skating, it was riding that stuck. Horses were all I wanted to do. Every summer, my grandmother sent me to an all-girls’ riding camp, complete with Pony Club instructors from the U.K. At age 12, she bought me my first horse, Strudel. Strudel was an off-the-track thoroughbred with a ‘misunderstood’ reputation, my coach said. You can handle her, she said. At the pre-purchase veterinary exam, the vet told my mother that the horse was Too much for a kid. My mother said But, she loves her.

I had Strudel for twelve years. I grew up with her. She was my excuse to head home early from high school parties that my gut told me would end in trouble. I have to get home—horse show tomorrow. Or, Sorry, can’t go out tonight, my horse is sick. I have to look after her. In my senior year in high school, I left private school in a neighboring state and applied to a school in-state so I could bring Strudel with me. Strudel turned me into a rider. When I wanted to move up to another level in competition, I sold her. It was the hardest thing I had ever done.

When I was twenty, I proposed to my father that we do a deal together on a young, sport horse prospect. He would buy, I would train, we would sell. We would make money. And, if all went well, we would do it again. We would be partners. He agreed.

I spent a summer driving all over New England and New York looking at youngsters in every price range. I brought my friend, Kerri—who was an equine veterinarian—with me to see potential candidates. I looked at no less than 50 young horses full of promise.

In August, I went back to the very first horse I had seen at the beginning of June. He was a dark bay, athletic, big-boned colt. He was two years old with no markings on his face and two little white ankles behind.

The colt was strikingly handsome with a thick, untamable, Black Stallion-like forelock that hid curious, bewildered eyes. A perfect candidate for re-sale. A little-old-horse-lady raised him. They were not a great team; the lady loved the colt but was afraid of him. In the horse world, sometimes when some people get scared, they run out of talent. The lady did a lot of 'shanking' on the colt with the nose-chain, which made him up-headed and difficult to lead. When she could not control him, she bellowed and screeched at the colt. This left him scared and suspicious, both uneducated and misunderstood.

Under his forelock was a jagged bolt of a scar that looked like the shiny tar sealant for cracks in a road. He earned the scar the day he cracked his head open as a weanling. That was the day the lady thought she would teach him to tie to a post, which was also the same day she weaned him from his mother. The colt also had a white scar that dribbled down his black, left front knee from trying to climb into an old bathtub, turned water trough. But the colt was so handsome that most people never noticed the tattoos from his rogue childhood. People did, however, notice his behavior.

That summer, I chose the colt because he bit me on the shoulder as I was walking away. I turned on my heel, strolled back to him, took him by the halter and smoothed his forelock to the side so I could look him in the eye. You bastard, I muttered. No chance I’ll get attached to you. Son-of-a-bitch.

True to the day he first bit me, the colt was a terror, both terrified and terrifying. All through my twenties and for half of my thirties, with and through and because of him, I learned about the dark side of everything from relationships to pride to money to ego. To fear. Love. The colt shadowed me as my constant teacher. And, as it turned out, he was a one-girl horse. Beautiful, talented, and only interested in being with me.

As a two-year old, the colt was extremely difficult to break. A full winter of trying myself and various, competent, horsey-friends and professionals and still, no one could ride him. My back was trashed after one too many launches off his back through the air–often finding myself on the ground even before my right leg ever made it to the other side. After a year of time, energy, and literal pain and suffering, dumped and duped by this horse, my body and pride stripped, the colt, all the while getting better at throwing me off, had continually left me naked. Exposed. How’s the training, my dad would ask. Slow. Really, really slow, Dad. But he sure has talent. I defended the colt. My project. My fault.

When it seemed, I had run out of brave friends, my trainer suggested that I hire a cowboy. I called Dad for more money, and we brokered a deal with a cowboy from Texas.

The cowboy broke the horse bare-back, with just a halter, in less than an hour. I was impressed and horrified. Alright, honey, he said. I think he’ll be good to go now for you. Here, I’ll even put a saddle on him for you. You can just swing on, nice and easy. Now, don’t baby him. He’s ready for you…You ready for him?

No. I was not ready. My whole leg shook as I placed my toe in the stirrup of the cowboy’s old rope saddle. My breath stilled. I could hear everything—everything else breathing—the crowd, my students watching, the savvy cowboy standing at the head on the horse. The colt. My father.

I never fully understood people who were afraid of horses. Then, I did.

You gonna ride him or stand there with your foot in the air. Kinda dangerous, that position, don’t cha think? the cowboy said.

I swung up. The colt, with just a hint of reverberation, steadied himself, licked his lips—a sign of compliance. He lowered his head and let out a gentle, sticky sigh. I was on!

I wish I had known then what I know now about the power of breathing. For I had failed to take a breath. No new air made me stiff, noncompliant. Vulnerable.

The cowboy said, Now, don’t sneak your ride on this colt. You’re either on ‘im or get off ‘im. Or he’ll make all the decisions and we don’t want that now, do we? Horses are poor, poor leaders.

I looked back over my shoulder to nod. Then, involuntarily I was on the ground. Again.

Alright, then, let’s start over. You alright? I told ya, ya can’t sneak rides!
When I finally wrangled his talent, myself and manage my own breath, I had him appraised by all of my trainers through the years, still with the goal of a sale. Someday. Soon, Dad, soon… Someday, when he outgrew his temper, his unabashed fury, his irrational, lack of self-preservation—which made him especially dangerous.

At times he was soft with me, child-like and tender. Usually after a rage. Like a drunk the day after a blackout or a boxer climbing into bed after a loss.

I gently rubbed Epic between the eyes, under his forelock, his sweet spot on his scar, to comfort him—alone—after fearful vets removed chain nose twitches for routine vaccinations and blacksmiths took steel rasp whacks to his belly when they deemed him randomly volatile. Dangerous.

At age five, he was appraised at five times his original value by an Olympic Dressage rider and trainer. So we (my Dad) insured him for more. And I kept on with his training.

Along the way, seemingly endless weird and expensive things happened to Epic. He once had an abscessed tooth the vet thought was a rare form of deadly bone cancer that had to be hammered-out from the inside of his mouth through his jaw. I borrowed more money from Dad. I stood behind the glass in the observation deck and watched the vet hammer away on Epic’s jaw while one vet tech flipped his tail back and forth like a fan of reeds and the other sat on his unconscious side and cracked jokes. I wondered how long we would be set back this time.

One day when a friend was hand-grazing Epic, she turned to look away for one second. Epic took a big step towards his head, foot to muzzle—and threaded his left front foot through the loop in the lead line chain. Wild with shock of having his head now locked to his leg, he broke free from the girl and ran loose around the grounds of the private estate we had been training at that day. In front of prospects and sponsors—women in fancy straw sun hats and men with highly polished, sole-less shoes—Epic blindly bastardized a three-legged-gallop across manicured lawns spooking at and just dodging water fountains, statues and picnic lunches. This episode cost us six weeks of rehabilitation and his local reputation.

At ten years old, after I had taught him all the movements of the Grand Prix Dressage, while Epic and I were stationed in New York in big time, high society horse country, he was valued at ten times what my dad had paid for him less than a decade earlier. But no one could ride him except for me. Advanced riders could sit on him, but he would not perform to his abilities with anyone but me.

Epic was advertised as a professional’s horse and, no question, potential buyers were screened for both price point and ability. It is not unusual for a pro’s horse to be challenging. Appointments to try him were for advanced riders only. Unsuspecting candidates swung on, picked up the double-bridle reins, closed their legs on his sides and said, Walk on. Epic would not budge. The potential buyer would get annoyed. They would tap him with the whip. Epic would swish his tail and stomp. Incensed and embarrassed, the rider (usually also a trainer) would ask for a set of spurs.

The buyer’s grooms would approach Epic’s head cautiously as the whites of his eyes flickered under his tousled forelock. A second demand issued, Someone get a hold of his damned head while we put these spurs on! Another groom would scurry out to help. Three professionals, one horse.

A longer, stiffer whip was usually provided, and sharp, roweled spurs put on…Now, you will move forward, I could hear them growl.

No contest. Epic would stand and buck in place, instantly turned a mechanical bull at the country bar, a crazy ride at the fair, his tail feverishly helicoptering, his head violently shaking up and down, teeth and rose-coloured gums blinking out, frothy saliva spraying his neck, the groom, the sand–sea foam on the arena floor.

Eye whites only now. No sale.

From state to state, we moved together and shysters and dealers who sensed my exasperation and knew a talented horse when they saw one, offered to take the Epic off my hands for next to nothing. You’re lucky I won’t charge you to take him! they would say as they shared various torture techniques they assured me would ‘cure’ him. I refused. The horse stayed with me.

One day after a ride, a successful training session—I draped his lead line over the half-door to the barn to untack him. As I was crouched to brush his legs, the barn cat jumped up on the edge of the door and a surprised Epic flew backwards. His left knee hit me in between my temple and my right eye. I fell backwards into the dirt so as not end up under his belly. My face wet with blood, I brought myself to my knees. I watched him through glossy eyes as he roared around the barnyard. I pressed my hands to my thighs to get up and winced as my tall boots bit the back of my knees. I moved slowly, cooing to him to settle him down. Once I gathered him, I rested my head on his shoulder as I cocked his head toward me and stroked him—between his eyes over his scar. He licked and chewed and let out a sticky sigh—like a child who has been crying and is trying to catch his breath. Once again, still.

Sitting at the emergency room, I prayed for an answer to be free of him. But on it went. I could not quit the horse. For thirteen years, one more than I had Strudel, four states, twenty-five plus barns, two countries. Together. Bonded. Lifers.

I hauled him to Canada with me, to be married, to have our daughter, to continue with my horse training business, to give up training horses. To give up horses…

And, in Canada, in the fields, at our farm named after him, Epic stood. Gazing at him in the field from my office window I felt nothing but failure and guilt. All that talent, un-sellable, deal long broken, cursed.

An intercession came in the form of an opportunity provided by my best friend, Linda, in Vermont. A chance to escape my albatross. A fresh start for him—free of me. She offered to sell him for me in the States.

At fifteen years old, I gave Epic one last bath, packed up all of his fancy equipment, wrapped all four of his legs as I had for so many years, and hauled him across the border back to Vermont. I let him go.

One of my horse industry heroes, Ruth Ballard, tried to teach me in the 90s that They make more horses every day. Even though I know it is true I was never able to embrace this concept. You can’t get so emotionally attached, she would say. They are just horses!

I worked toward being horse-free, a lifestyle change for me. My conscience ruled me. It kept me up at night with haunting thoughts about the colt, Epic Sun.

Epic was finally sold, in the States to someone who said she Just loved him, even though she could not pay what I wanted for him. I accepted her offer. I signed his papers over to his new owner. I signed the bill-of-sale. Epic Sun, signed over, by me—his person. Later I learned that Linda, my best friend, secretly paid the bill. The very best kind of love. She did it so I could be free. Soon after, deemed Too much horse, Epic Sun ended up at auction—destination not known.

Years later…

I’m calling to see if you know anything about a horse? Do you know a horse named Epic Sun?”

I stopped. My breath choked back in my throat. Pardon?

I’m wondering if you know a horse named Epic Sun? I’m calling you from Connecticut. You see, I picked this horse up real cheap at the auction. Seems like he knows an awful lot? And, your name is on his papers…Any way, don’t know if I’ll keep him or trade him? He’s older…Been in an out of the auctions. He seems a bit tricky? What can you tell me about him…?

I paused. I took a breath. Everything…

Well, like what? He seems to ground tie real good but you sure can’t tie him to a post. Learned that the hard way. He flipped himself right over first time I did that!

Yes, he can’t be straight tied…better to ground tie him. He’ll stand. He knows.

He’s real good for baths with the hose and stands for the electric clippers but he’s a brute for the blacksmith and the vet. Any suggestions there?

No. I said, No answers there…

I noticed he’ll get onto the trailer but I can’t go in with him. He won’t be led.

No, he won’t be led. Let him self-load. He’ll self-load onto the trailer, I said.

What can you tell me about all his scars?

I paused. Swallowed. They are cosmetic—just scuffs from when he was a colt.

All of them? Shit! Some of them look pretty damned serious.

Serious? No, the one on his forehead and the back of his left knee are just surface scars.

The caller laughed out loud. When exactly did you last see this horse, m’am? He has way too many scars to even count.

I exhaled. Hard. Breathe.

You still there? Anyway…Now, he’s got some fancy tricks, doesn’t he? Like flying changes and that sort of stuff?

Yes, I said. He knows a lot. Tricks…

Ok, yeah, I thought so. Anything else you can tell me about him? I noticed one thing about him that’s kind of funny. He’s real head shy and up-headed but he seems to like having his face rubbed.

Yes…My closed eyes filled, and I could smell him. Again. Just rub him between his eyes, under his forelock. He likes that.

And then, three months later, as I was walking to the barn, another call from the same woman.

Listen it’s me calling again about your old horse, Epic Sun. I’ve got to downsize, you see and I need to get rid of a few horses—yours being one. You want to buy him back?

Buy him back?

Yes, I’ll let him go real cheap. Just can’t afford to feed him is all.

Panicked, I ran the rest of the way to the barn, to the tack room for pen and paper, breathless and losing phone reception, Give me your number, your name, your address, I’ll come—

Then, nothing.