NEWS

Ricky Mendoza's Paso Fino Clinic at Quinta Chiappetta, Shelbyville, Kentucky, May 12 - 15, 2011

For the second year in a row, a small group of members of the Central Canada Paso Fino Horse Association made the trek down to Shelbyville, Kentucky in mid-May. Their destination was a three-day clinic at Quinta Chiappetta, taught by the Chiappetta’s trainer, Ricky Mendoza - 'PFHA 2009 Paso Fino Trainer of the Year'. Four of us trailered our horses down, one member's horse was already in training with Ricky, and the rest of the group observed and rode a variety of Quinta Chiappetta’s excellent Pasos.

From the viewing booth in the covered round pen, the group was privileged to watch Ricky’s method of starting and training a young colt and preparing their top Pasos for the upcoming show season.

For those of us who had brought our horses, Ricky instructed each of us as we worked through any issues and questions we had about our horsemanship and how to get the very best from our horses. He’d observe while we handled and rode our horses, instruct us – or compliment us – and then he’d ride our horses to get a sense of what they needed and to illustrate what they were capable of. Unfortunately, rain ruled out the trail ride and the mock show planned for the outdoor arena.

We all left the clinic as more experienced riders, confident about the next steps for working with and enjoying our Pasos, in shows or on the trail, or (being the amazingly versatile horses they are) both.

Paso Adventure in Ohio

Four intrepid trail riders from Ontario set out from Quinta Chiappetta following the three day clinic. We headed north and east from Shelbyville, Kentucky, to the Shawnee State Forest, also called “the little Smokies of Ohio.” Our two large rigs trailered six Pasos, Richard Roy driving one, carrying myself and my husband Walter Keyser’s three mares, and John Hope driving the other, carrying two of his horses, a gelding and a stallion, and Saturno, Richard’s gelding. John and Richard did a week-long trail ride every spring, somewhere in the States, but this was the first year they’d invited us to join them. We were heading for ‘Ben’s Happy Trails’, sourced by Richard over the Internet. None of us had even ridden in southern Ohio.

We came off the motorway, stopped for groceries at a roadside IGA and snaked our way along narrow, winding roads, cursing when Linda’s sweet voice on Richard’s GPS contradicted directions Ben had given Richard over the phone. Rain dogged us along the route. With only one misstep and one need to turn around, we found the place.

It was still light when we arrived. A weather-beaten, two-storey wooden lodge stood on the left side of the road, looking like a set from ‘The Guns of Navarone’. Horses stood in expansive paddocks, mired in mud. On the other side of the road, a few wooden cabins nestled on the grassy hillside, and behind them, the forest.

There was no one around. A note on the front door of the lodge instructed us to call from the phone inside. No reception on our cells. We went in.

The lodge smelled of leather, bacon, wood smoke and dogs. A fireplace at one end, a couple of picnic tables, an armchair and sofa in front of a TV, a full kitchen along one wall and an old desk piled high with papers. We tried the phone. Couldn’t get through. We waited. Suddenly, tires crunched on gravel.

In came a large bear of a man, his florid face creased with a wide smile. He opened his mouth and out boomed a deep baritone voice. “Howdy folks! Welcome to Ben’s Happy Trails!” and he extended a big paw of a hand. His southern drawl was pure Hollywood.

“Y’all can park your rigs over there,” he told Richard and John, pointing to the other side of the road. “The third cabin, the farthest up the hill, is yours,” he boomed to Walter and me. “Everythin’s a bit muddy,” he grimaced. “It’s been rainin’ here every day for two months!”

He led us behind the lodge to a long barn, two rows of stalls facing each other, and showed us three small paddocks in behind. Richard and John chose the stalls for their three, and despite the puddles and the deep mud, I chose one of the paddocks for our three, used to living outdoors.

Mud was everywhere. We slogged through the mud to settle our horses. I hung small-mesh hay nets on the paddock fence posts to keep the hay out of the mud. John drove Walter and me and all our gear up the grass and through a small creek to our cabin. We were very tired. The cabin was small. Rustic. Two rooms, the washroom off the front porch. With a bit of furniture moving, we made it work.

John, the best cook in our group, whipped up a fine dinner of ham, roast potatoes and vegetables for the four of us in our cabin. We celebrated our arrival with a couple of bottles of white wine, and off went the two guys to bunk in their trailer.

Everything looks better in the morning, after a night’s rest. Except the rain didn’t stop.

Turned out Ben was a great cook too. Coffee was perking when we arrived at the lodge and there was smiling Ben. “What can I fix y’all for breakfast?” he boomed. “How about some nice eggs and bacon and some homemade biscuits? Coffee’s hot – help yourselves!”

He too was a good cook, as his substantial girth made clear, and we sat at the picnic table wolfing down Ben’s cooking and listening to his wonderful stories – horse stories, donkey stories, dog stories, life stories, all with that marvelous drawl.

We saddled up and rode out at noon, hopeful, having waited for the rain to stop. Richard on Saturno, John on his stallion, El General, Walter on his beloved mare Musica, and me on Franchesca del Paso. All our Pasos had either come from Quinta Chiappetta originally or been trained by Ricky, their trainer. We rode along the paved road for a mile or so, passing horse farms, a few small houses, and entered Shawnee State Forest. Ben had armed us with trail maps. John had a compass. We headed for Bear Lake and the Horse Park, prepared to take any trail that caught our fancy, confident we’d find our way. We loved the names – Snake Hollow, Rock Lick, Silver Arrow, Conley’s Run and Pigeon Roost – and over the week, we discovered and rode them all.

That first day set the pattern of our days. We rode out every morning after breakfast, returning mid to late afternoon, riding six or seven hours a day.

What valiant horses these Paso Finos are! The rides were long and grueling. After two months of rain, the trails were raw, full of loose rocks, the rain having washed the soil away on the steeper trails, and created bogs in the lowlands and gullies. The horses scrambled up those steep, winding, rocky trails, working hard, panting, drenched with sweat as well as rain, catching their breath at the summit, then carrying on.

Most days it drizzled off and on all day. We got used to that. We learned to set out well equipped with rain gear. One day it poured mightily. Richard and John were draped in large, tent-like ponchos which kept the rain off well, but were like saunas, the condensation gathering and running in rivulets down the inside. Walter, sophisticated but damp, wore a dark green OEF jacket and chaps. I looked like a canary in a bright yellow jacket and yellow rubber rain pants, both waterproof, but nothing could stop the rain dripping off the back of my helmet and down the back of my neck. But we let nothing stop us.

For the first day or two, I alternated between loving the challenge – I’m an outdoors person who’d always loved camping out and roughing it - and longing for the familiar and the fine. If only the rain would stop! If only I’d brought rubber boots! At night I lay awake, feeling terrible about our girls standing all night in the muddy paddock, in the rain, wondering if I’d made the better choice: freedom and open air versus three dark, separate but dry stalls.

In the morning I’d slog through the mud, wearing plastic bags between my socks and my riding boots, my boots soaked through and unable to dry – only to be greeted by welcoming whinnies. Our mares had survived the rain, the mud, the lack of shelter just fine and were happy to see me, to get their morning hay bags, and to set out again after breakfast, another day on the trails.

Despite everything – a marvelous adventure. We rode about thirty miles a day over steep, demanding, rocky or muddy trails. Many river crossings, shallow, but with rough, rocky bottoms. Steep climbs, steep descents. But we were in good spirits and our horses were up for the challenge. Hard-working, sure-footed, responsive and willing. We understood why this was the breed the Spanish conquistadors had used to conquer the wilds of South America. We pushed ourselves and we pushed them. We’d climb a steep, twisting, rocky ascent perhaps a hundred meters up and at the top, we’d stop and rest, let the horses catch their breath and take a few mouthfuls of grass or leaves, while we snacked on an apple or a trail mix bar. The horses stopped to drink at the many river crossings and we’d take a slug of Southern Comfort that I carried in my saddle bag.

What could be better? Hours and hours of riding on challenging trails, and a wonderful ambiance among the four of us. Not too much talking on the trail – which I appreciated – allowing us to focus on our horses, on the trail, on the mountains and rivers around us. All of us easy-going, no power struggles, no egos getting in the way. And wonderful, willing horses. Fresh adventures every day. In the evening, we’d eat a fine dinner, and content, beer in hand, sit around and tell stories and talk about what we loved - horses, saddles, gear, other rides we’d done and wanted to do.

No trail ride is complete without a few harrowing episodes – material for stories when we got home.

The one where Walter and I, as usual after a ride, let our horses graze freely on the lush grass around our cabin, away from their muddy paddock. I was inside trying to warm up and dry off after a long, cold ride. Walter was outside with them. Two of them are ground tied, and the third stays close. They seemed content and busy, so he left them grazing, dragging their lead ropes, and went down to the barn to fill their hay bags for the night. Every few minutes I looked out the window to make sure they were alright. The last time I looked I saw Walter coming back to get them and I stopped looking.

He was gone a long time. I figured he’d dropped in at the lodge to hang out with Richard and John and listen to Ben’s stories.

He arrived much later, bursting into the cabin. “Fresh adventures!” he said and told me the story.

He hadn’t realized there was no fence between our cabin and the trail above it. As he went to get the three horses, they headed up the hill, turned left along the trail, and out onto the road. They headed west, cortoing smartly in formation side by side along the road, over a hill and out of sight.

Walter raced to the lodge to get help. Our friend Al, who’d joined us for a few days, ran to get his truck. John hopped on board. Richard stayed, to head them off if they turned back. Walter ran down the road, his imagination full of all the terrible things that could happen, even though this was not a well-traveled road. Suddenly a red pickup came over the hill and towards him. It stopped.

“Those your three horses loose?” the driver called.

“Yes!"

"They’re fine. They’re off the road and in a field. Your friends are there.”

Relief so intense he could have cried. “Thanks very much,” and he ran on down the road.

They brought the horses home, John and Walter sitting on the tailgate of Al’s truck, holding the three lead ropes while the three mares cortoed briskly behind.

Then there was John’s story. During a rest stop in a clearing at the top of a steep trail, John took the opportunity to reverse his left and right stirrups. As he was removing one, he let go of the lead rope for an instant. The beautiful, black stallion El General chose that moment to take off. He raced down the hill we’d just climbed, out of sight in a flash. We all stared after him, stunned, looked at one another. What to do?

“Take my horse,” said Richard. “You’re more likely to catch him than I am.”

John jumped onto Saturno and took off. Walter, Richard and I waited a while before we realized it was pointless. Walter and I rode back down the trail. El General either headed for the Horse Park, to be with other horses, or back to Ben’s. We tried the Horse Park first. He wasn’t there, but four people sitting in lawn chairs behind their rig called us over.

“You missing a horse?” they asked. “A lady came by, it’s been found. It’s down the road.” Turned out he’d hightailed it back toward Ben’s Happy Trails but was distracted by a fine field of grass. A woman had stopped her truck and held him until John arrived on Saturno, and then went to the Horse Camp to let people know. In the meantime, Richard had slogged his way down the trail and along the road, and found John holding the two horses. We all rode back to Ben’s, grateful that again, no disaster had struck.

The sun came out on the last day. One fine ride in the sunshine, in shirts and jeans, down Silver Arrow, Conleys’s Run and Hobey Hollow one last time, the trails familiar to us by then, and then the long ride home, across the border, already dreaming of our next time out on the trails.

Helen Notzl
June, 2011

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