This is a story as told to me by a man that I was acquainted with when I rode the trails in Campbell Valley Park. I had met him and his horse initially at cattle penning, and then proceeded to see him quite often at the Park.

I hadn’t seen him in quite some time, and he told me the following story. It’s a story of  perseverance, determination, loyalty, trust, and a boundless love. Everyone should be so blessed to know such trust and loyalty. Everyone should be so blessed to have a relationship with a horse.

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Dead pine cones and needles crunched under his feet as he trudged through the gnarly pine trees. It had been months since he’d last seen her and still he looked for her every weekend, up in the mountains.

He was an endurance rider and ’she’ was his willing partner, a bay arab mare with a sweet disposition and a heart that would carry him anywhere. They had been endurance riding when she spooked, he fell and she took off. He looked for her all that weekend, calling her name, whistling for her.

He drove back home with a heavy heart, worrying, wondering where she was. Work kept him busy, but still, he worried. Where was she? He drove back up to the mountains the next weekend and again, picking his way through rough and hilly terrain, calling her name. He posted ‘lost’ posters at every tack shop, on the internet – asking if anyone had seen her, and where.

Weeks went by, with sightings hundreds of miles away from where he had fallen off. He drove to every single one of the sightings, calling her name, pushing through brush, over dead logs, and miles and miles of mountainous trails. Summer turned to fall, and the warm summer days turned crisp with a cold bite. He hoped that someone, somewhere had found her. He hoped that his endurance saddle had fallen off of her, or that someone had found her and taken it off.

Every weekend he hunted for her. Fall turned to winter, and he hoped the early snow fall that silenced his footsteps would reveal her hoof prints.  Weeks marched on, snow cloaked the deadfall, leaving soft mounds like whipping cream where trails had been.  Icy, snow laden roads made driving treacherous and he could no longer access the mountain. Still, he kept her poster and internet listing ‘alive’, requesting info for any sightings.

Winter’s cold whiteness slowly warmed to brown mud and new green buds and shoots  peeked and popped towards the spring sun.  Once again, he was able to head for the mountains to look for her.

Spring stretched into warm summer days again. One weekend, intuition led him back to where he had originally fallen off, and with little hope, he wandered the area, calling her name, hearing his footsteps crunching in the fallen pine needles, branches grasping at his coat, hair and face. His leather riding gloves protected his hands from the dead branches he constantly pushed aside.

He called her name again, his heart skipping when he heard a soft noise. He stood silently, listening – he called again, and again, he heard the soft nicker that was so familiar. His heart pounding he called and listened, trying to determine which direction she was in.

Frantically, he pushed through brush, not wanting to frighten her, but panicked that he might lose her again. He called her name again, and again she nickered, and this time, as his hands roughly pushed some branches aside, he glimpsed her standing in the shadows of overgrowth and trees.

Elated, he moved quietly towards her, talking softly. As he neared her, his elation turned to heartbreak. Her bridle was still on and was embedded into her skin in spots. Branches were twisted into one side of her bridle, holding her tight. She was badly cut, with no resources to heal herself, and no fight left to get herself free.

Her once gleaming coat was dull and shaggy. His saddle had worn a hole in her withers, her emaciated and bony frame told a story of months of famine. Her once rounded hindquarters were sunken, her hip bones jutting sharply through a thin covering of skin. He touched lightly the matted mess of her mane, and gently ran his hand down her hollow neck.

Tears slid down his cheeks as he rubbed her softly between her eyes. Her once bright brown eyes were dull and glazed from fear, flight, loneliness and starvation. Freeing her from the snarl of branches, he pressed his forehead to her neck, feeling his hot tears against her skin.

Once free, she dropped her head to his chest and nuzzled his hands. Slowly, he crouched down and as if on cue, she tucked her knees and dropped heavily beside him.He stretched his legs out on the blanket of pine needles, next to her. Content, she lay her head in his lap, closing her expressive brown eyes, relief relaxing her entire body. He stroked her head, her neck, scratching the place behind her ears that had always made her nudge him for more.

If she could only talk! What tales would she have to tell? Where had she run to? What had scared her? And how much pain had she endured with that saddle still on? Stroking her neck, her face, he talked, telling her of how he had looked for her for so many months. How he never gave up on finding her. He talked for hours, telling her of all the places he’d been to look for her. All his adventures and disappointments, and how, this weekend, he didn’t know why, but his heart led him back to where it all started.

He told her how happy he was to have found her, and let the tears fall, as his heart knew this was the end for her. He stroked her, told her how much he loved her, she opened her eyes, full of trust and love, and with a huge deep breath, closed them and let her last and final breath go – safe and happy again in the care of her partner. Love had kept him looking, and he was certain, had kept her alive until he found her.

Gently, he moved her lifeless head from his lap, to the indentation his body left in the pine needles,  stroking her one last time. Tears blinding his sight, his heart aching, he turned and picked his way carefully through the brush and down the mountain.

Andrea Chapman