Maine -- Count of Days Lost in the Cadence of Their Stride
Carriage trails all to our own in Acadia
Acadia National Park was always going to be our turn around point. In that sense, it was more a goal to be achieved than a destination to anticipate. I’d been to Acadia years before when my children were small. I knew it was a lovely place. And back then, when I’d ridden the most accessible of its carriage roads on rented bikes – limited by the distance a 6-year-old could pedal – I knew I’d come back and ride it on horseback someday. But, I just didn’t understand how impactful this place would be when experienced from the saddle.
What defines riding in Acadia isn’t a sight, though the scenery is spectacular. It isn’t a smell, though the sea air mixing with the pines is intoxicating. What defines riding in Acadia is a sound; it’s the sound of your horse’s hooves crunching in the fine gravel of the carriage lanes – the hypnotic cadence of a steady walk; the four-beat drum of a brisk trot; the pulsing power of the canter – like the surf. It’s hypnotic.
Kurt and I have long had a problem with our two horses being very differently gaited. To be frank, it’s a regular source of tension. Juneau, as a Morgan, has a very fast walk and a massive but smooth stride in the trot. He eats miles in those two gaits His canter, on the other hand, is slow, collected. Guillermo has a slower (but normal walk) and much choppier trot. But, his canter is much faster than Juneau’s. As a result, I tend to lead at the walk and Kurt spends a lot of time in a rather jostling jog to keep pace. Then, when we go to a trot, Juneau and I often set a pace that Kurt finds very hard to post. But, when we canter, Guillermo easily takes the lead. Juneau, as the herd boss, finds this insulting and, as often as not, I’m fighting like crazy to keep him from taking off in a full, uncontrollable gallop.
Our first day riding in Acadia, we had some of this. We were doing a magnificent park interior loop up and down the ‘hills’ (they’d be mountains in Maryland) around two ‘ponds’ (we’d call them lakes). But, there was a lot of Kurt telling me to slow my walk; something I loathe doing. I’ve spent all my equestrian days believing that a fast walk is a quality you should reward not punish with constant tugging at the rein. But, I get it – Kurt was getting his eggs scrambled trying to either keep up at a jog or hold his very anxious horse back to his slower walk. It was frustrating for us both. Had it not been for the amazing scenery, sunny skies and cool breezes, it might have been a markedly unpleasant day. We even had words when I’d had enough of being asked to slow down and he’d had enough of getting his nuts crushed.
Our second day dawned cloudy and the forecast wasn’t good. Rain was expected to last through eleven, then noon, then 1:00 when a 4 hour window might or might not open for a ride. We took our time getting ready and had the horses loaded by 11:30. We pulled into the trailer lot in the park just as some very wet riders came in from a morning ride. It didn’t look promising. But, as we saddled, the rain shifted to mist and the clouds lifted a little. I’d charted a course that would take us down to the harbor and then back around a loop defined by various beautiful bridges. We set out. It wasn’t raining but as we climbed, we reached the clouds and they took us in. Oddly, this had a surprisingly pleasant effect. Our world became defined by a shifting, changing little biome with us at its center. Instead of looking for viewpoints, we noticed the carpet of mosses and lichens coating the boulders lining the lane. Instead of listening for an oncoming bike, we heard the rain dripping from the leaves around us. And then there was the beat of the horses hooves on the gravel; no longer discordant in misaligned gaits but actually in time; a single beat; a cadence that was a simple but gloriously peaceful gift.