Letting Go: Nuevo

The hot June sun beat down on sparse, grassy hills and the dust-slick ribbon of trail. High above Cofresi Beach in Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic, the trail horses gently snuffed and lowered their heads against the glaring light. This was the end of a two-hour ride over the dusty, chartreuse-green terrain girding the city, and as the sweaty string of roans, chestnuts, and bays descended the gentle slope back toward the stables, I felt a pang of longing rising up as gently yet insistently as the rolling hills around us: I wanted to gallop.

And yet I was afraid. During my childhood, as a horse-obsessed girl in dude ranch heaven, I pounded over the trails five times a day with the naïve fearlessness born of youth. Years later, during a country visit to family friends in upstate New York, I was thrown from the saddle by Breezy, a skittish chestnut who lived up to her name by inexplicably charging a fence. I landed on my right shoulder, and rose shaken but uninjured. Then during a suburban trail ride years later, the saddle slipped loose around the feisty Pistachio’s girth, and I suddenly slid to the rocky ground as the chestnut galloped off.

Now personal circumstances were not helping my confidence. Weeks before this family vacation, I left a difficult situation with the man I’d married the previous summer, hoping I’d made the right choice. My marriage had been a short yet brutal descent into verbal abuse, resulting in crippling self-doubt and unimaginable pain. The woman I now was – and the fearless young rider buried deep inside of her – had been thrown yet again, this time struggling back up more slowly, bruised by much more than an aching shoulder.

Despite my well-founded misgivings, as our group approached the last straight section of trail, I turned in the saddle and asked Mike, our Dominican cowboy, if we could trot. This gait is bumpy but easy, a controllable pace quicker than a walk but safer than a gallop.

“No, senorita,” he said, in heavily accented English, shaking his dark, Stetson-clad head. “This is a beginner ride.”

“OK,” I mumbled, feeling simultaneously defeated yet relieved.

Mike removed his hat and wiped his sweaty forehead on pale sleeves. He contemplated me a moment before answering. “If you want, you take a private ride one afternoon later this week. We go out on the trail, ride how you want.”

Before I realized, in an instant I agreed. Tomorrow afternoon, 4:00. We would meet at the stables. I would again ride Nuevo, an eager bay the color of wet nutmeg.

We soon reached the stables and I dismounted with a vague mixture of anticipation and dread in my stomach. It had been years since I galloped on a horse, and longer since I did so without a tight grasp on the saddle horn. I decided I would hold on, and just get through it while trying to enjoy the beautiful scenery.

For the rest of the day back at the resort, while I swam in the cerulean pool or the sparkling ocean, I worried. What ifs bubbled up within me like a freshly poured spill of seltzer. What if Nuevo grabbed the bit and ran wild? What if he lost his footing on pebbly ground and skittered sideways, crushing my legs? What if I fell and landed on my head?

And behind all this, fueling my uncertainty like fresh oxygen feeds a fire, the shellshock of my recent separation and upcoming divorce burned through me. What if I made the wrong decision? What if I prematurely left my young marriage? What if I hadn’t tried hard enough? What if I failed?

After contemplating cancellation, the next afternoon I reluctantly returned to the stables. Nuevo was tethered in the corral, his dark hide glazed with sweat. I approached his massive frame timidly, offering a sticky lump of sugar, but he refused. He was all business, slapping an inpatient hoof on the dirt while flicking his dusky tail.

Mike walked up, greeting me with a robust “Hola” while helping me climb into the saddle. From Nuevo’s broad back, I cast a quick look down at the distant ground, which looked awfully far away as we left the corral. Nuevo, cooped up in his stall for most of the day, rolled a bright, eager eye and tugged at the bit.

As we moved toward the rising hills, the trail gradually opened from a narrow swath through pale green grass to a pebbly chocolate path. “Ready?” Mike asked, more an invitation than a question.

And then we were off. As we accelerated from a bumpy trot to a faster, fluid gallop, my hand instinctively grabbed for the saddle horn, and I pressed my sweaty palm tightly around the rough leather. Mike stayed beside me, graceful and tall in his saddle as I hunkered down, our horses matching strides and fighting for the lead. Nuevo surged ahead, strong on the bit. “Rein him in a little,” Mike commanded, still sitting easy in the saddle despite our thundering gallop. I pulled hard on the reins and to my relief, Nuevo reluctantly slowed.

We rode up into the hills, the lash of trail a thin swatch of pale brown against the tall swaying grass and fruit trees. Small battered farmhouses were randomly perched on the incline. When we approached, rangy dogs barked alongside broken fences, some with eager pups in tow. Children shyly peered from narrow doorways, their dark liquid eyes curious. We waved, shouted “hola,” and trotted by, trail dust lazing up in our wake.

Deeper along the trail, we veered off to hug the gently sloping hillside. Here the ground was smooth and green, and as we climbed higher, the town of Cofresi appeared below, tucked under the mountains. The distant ocean glittered, and the languid sun beat down upon white-roofed buildings.

Suddenly, the grass slipped by and the air whistled past as we broke into a gallop. Nuevo was on the bit, and as I leaned forward in the saddle to aid his upward climb, to my shock I realized I was not holding on. As the horses dug in, relishing their flight, a portal long closed within me somehow inexplicably opened. It surged up as quickly and unexpectedly as Nuevo catapulting into a gallop, whispering with a gentle yet insistent thrum: Let go, it commanded, simple yet unmistakable in its fervor. Let go of the worry, the doubt, the uncertainty, and fear. LET GO.

I realized that the nameless voice echoing through me could be as simple as the dark bay horse running beneath me. He arched forward, running for the sheer pleasure and freedom of motion, without worry, doubt, contemplation, or fear. He simply met the moment, running with the lash of breeze fresh against his face and the hot sun thundering down. And here he was, seemingly telling me to just LET GO.

The miracle was that I listened. Without hesitation, doubt, or worry, something shifted, and a long confined freedom rose up, beating its gossamer wings against the carefully constructed bars of my psyche. It hovered for a moment, flailing, and then passed through my heart before soaring out into the blue beyond.

On the way back to the stables, past the ripening mango trees perched on lolling hills and the small, tilted farmhouses, two riders now sat comfortably in the saddle, occasionally giving their horses rein and smiling as they swallowed the ground with eager, effortless strides. The dark-haired woman was beaming, delighting in the freedom and exhilaration of the ride. Occasionally, she reached down to gently smooth the neck of the dark bay horse. The horse with the wise eye flicked his ears back, arched his neck, and bounded into a gallop.