Most teenage girls are crazy about horses and I was no different. When I was sixteen, we had a horse named Sundance. His coat shimmered with intensity, like new copper in sunlight. He had spirit and fire. He was my freedom and independence. Sometimes it felt as if he was my only friend. Indeed, he was often my sole refuge from a tumultuous adolescence. I spent hundreds of hours on the back of that horse. Nothing could stop me from riding, not weather, illness, or injury.

My passion for horseback riding, however, was born out of something more fundamental than a simple desire for freedom and independence. From the beginning, life was a struggle. When I was born in 1963 with a serious birth defect known as Spina Bifida, doctors argued over my destiny with a morbid passion. Two neurosurgeons foretold a grim future: The hole in my spine and resulting spinal cord damage would leave me paralyzed from the waist down, even if they operated to fix the deformity. The quality of my life would be poor and I would not survive into adulthood. The situation was more or less hopeless. My parents were told it was best to do nothing and let me die. As one of the surgeons put it, “She’ll be a millstone around your necks until the day she dies.”

The following day a pediatrician came to see me. He was much older than the two neurosurgeons (and wiser, one could hope). After examining me, he told my parents that I had a very strong will to live, and would not die, even if they didn’t operate. My life would exist in an institution, for I would surely develop meningitis (an infection of the brain and spinal cord), which would lead to hydrocephalus (an abnormal accumulation of fluid in the skull) and ultimately, brain damage. He suggested my life then, truly would be awful but would last for many years, until I eventually died from chronic kidney infections sometime in my thirties.

Fortune and Fate were with me that day, as my parents chose to have them operate. The day after repairing my damaged spinal column, I began to move my legs. Within weeks, the nurses started adding cereal to my formula, as my appetite was insatiable. In six weeks, they released me from the hospital and sent me home in stable condition.

Nevertheless, what was to follow would not be easy. The tendons in both of my feet were too short, a deformity known as clubfoot. To correct it, they tried stretching the tendons by placing plaster casts on my feet. When this failed to work, they had no choice but to cut the tendons. Many surgeries to both feet eventually enabled me to walk but I spent the first several years of my life on crutches, in wheelchairs and leg braces.

It was during these years that I learned to be self-sufficient and independent. There would be things I’d never experience: Walking without braces or crutches, ride a bike, run, jump and skip. Fortunately, no one informed me of this, and so there was nothing to stop me from trying, and eventually succeeding at all of these things. My body was not whole, but it wasn’t long before I came to believe that little was out of my reach, given enough time and effort.

I can still remember the first time I rode a horse. I was fifteen and fell madly in love. His name was Raj. He was a beautiful Arabian gelding who was so tall (16 hands), that I couldn’t see over the top of his back. When I climbed into that saddle, I knew at once what it was like to be physically equal with everyone else. To feel the strength and grace of an 1100 pound animal at your fingertips is an overwhelmingly powerful experience. I cannot even begin to describe how wonderful it is to feel whole and strong, to feel completely equal to every other human being.

A year later when I was sixteen, we lived in a house on the edge of a large greenbelt. Just outside our back door lay hundreds of wooded acres full of meandering animal trails. It wasn’t unusual to see a lone coyote or black-tail deer cross through our yard. Back then, the area was relatively undeveloped, so the sounds of civilization were blissfully absent. This day, however, was filled with the sounds of finches, chickadees, and the rapid tapping of a pileated woodpecker. A soothing breeze carried the smell of ripe blackberries and pungent earth. It was a warm summer day that beckoned for adventure.

The ritual always began the same way. Once Sundance had been groomed and bridled, off we went in search of a stick. Vine maples were my preference as their branches are straight and the wood doesn’t easily break. Alder was more common and easier to find but it was my second choice, as it is brittle and crooked. Sundance knew this routine well and was never alarmed by it. The stick was not meant for him. Rather, it was held out at arm’s length to catch and remove spider webs (and sometimes the incensed spiders).

With web clearing stick in hand, Sundance and I slipped into the cool shadow of the woods. The air was humid, dense with the smell of rotting leaves. Hills and valleys were covered in a sea of lush ferns. Sunlight trickled down through the canopy and danced over the ground like water in a hot frying pan. Monolithic, blood red stumps dotted the landscape, their crumbling forms all that remained where towering fir, cedar and hemlock once stood. It was a glorious day, so when the familiar part of the trail ended and something unexplored and unknown lay beyond, we drove forward.

There was one rule I always followed when traversing new territory: When I came to the first fork in the trail, I would decide which direction to take (left or right), and thereafter, whenever a new fork in the trail presented itself, I would choose that same direction each time. I did this for two reasons. The first is being that I have a terrible memory, especially where direction is concerned. The second reason was so that I would be able to enjoy the experience. If you constantly have to make mental notes about which path or direction you are taking (so you can find your way back), it is very difficult to enjoy your surroundings. It was my way of cheating, of sorts. It’s like driving somewhere new without having to take notice of where you are going. So you can relax and look around, see what there is to see and not worry about how to get back home.

This day, for whatever reason, I decided to break my rule. When I came to the first fork in the trail, I went left. Then another fork came and the trail to the right looked so much more interesting. I had fooled myself into believing that I would remember which way I had taken. There were natural markers that would serve to remind me which path to take on the way back. As it turns out, trees, bushes, stumps and puddles can look very different when viewed from the opposite direction.

And so it was that I found myself on an unfamiliar trail, with no knowledge of how to get back home. In the two hours that followed, I’d backtracked and retried several paths until the sky began to dim. The warm summer day had waned, was on the verge of transforming into murky shadow. Fear drove through me, trying to rip away my self-control. I did not cry. I did not panic. With trembling hands, I gathered up my horse’s reins and tied the ends together in a loose knot.

Then I did the only thing I could: I let go of the reins. I leaned down, wrapped my arms around his neck and whispered, "Help me Sundance, take us home." Sundance let his head drop as if nodding his understanding. I sucked in an anxious breath and gently nudged him forward.

With every twist and turn, with every fork in the trail, doubt filled my mind. But there was nothing else to be done. The sun was nearly down. Dusk approached as sure and steady as the hand of fate. And I was lost.

I watched my horse carefully for any sign of doubt or hesitation but he seemed to choose each path with an uncanny sureness. Even so, everything inside me that had so willfully kept me alive protested my decision to relinquish control, to the last. Then, just as the sun dipped below the horizon, the discord suddenly fell silent. Sundance lifted his head and tilted his ears forward in anticipation. In that moment, I knew with certainty that I had made the right choice.

Home was at last upon us.

-END

Author's note: The events in LOST IN THE WOODS took place 25 years ago and until recently, I never shared the experience with anyone. Recording this story was inspired by my nephrologist, Raimund.
Raimund: Thank you for saving my life by reminding me that it's all right to "let go of the reins" and trust another living soul with your life. This story was written for you.
For the record, Sundance is still alive and well at the ripe old age of 31!

Copyright © 2005 Suzanne L. Petroske