A MOVIE STAR HORSE CROP
Locked between my legs vibrated the most thrilling half-ton of hair-trigger muscle I'd ever clung hard to, a horse so fast, so scary and wild with urge, that I had to hang on. I had to.
The sound of those hooves, a staccato by steed, the muscle and enormous power, a thankfully thick mane that I had to grab a hunk of, the sheer force of nature upon which I perched without pause or consideration for the danger between my legs is why I bought that crazy racehorse that day. I fell in love. It was the ride of my life.
And that's how I came to have a horse at Cohutta Lodge in the great beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains of Georgia, just above Ellijay. It was a long time ago, but I remember all of it: Cohutta, the smell of the stables, rawhide, horses, leather, sweat, and puppies, the gorgeous forest and lodge, Joe, the Stableman … and nearby Atlanta as it used to be during my glory days as a casting director and living the leisure life.
I'd drive up to Cohutta and have fancy lunch at the lodge and ride horses every week, sometimes twice a week. Joe and I became friends and he'd often go with me into the mountains or we'd break new horses for trail riding. I liked helping out around the stables. Joe sometimes asked me to bring up the back of a pack of riders. He'd lead the group and I watched for trouble or rode up to hold a horse that scared a rider or catch one that tried to run. It worked well for the horses, and Joe let me have run of the place in return.
My favorite thing to do was the exhilarating run up the open grass meadow straight to the lodge where people would be seated out on the open deck having cocktails or lunch. The horses loved running that wide swath of hill too, but regular riders were not allowed to do it, because no telling who could or could not keep control of a breakout horse that wanted to run. When going out on my own, I picked “animated” animals to take into the mountains. Yes, I got thrown a couple of times, never in front of the lodge, thankfully. It's humiliating to hike it back through the woods, but a good bruiser of a lesson.
Then one day, a horse was tied up at the top of the long pebble driveway to the stalls when I got there, away from the other horses. At almost 17 hands, Liker (pronounced “liquor”) was huge. Kicking around and angry, I went to calm her, but Joe hollered up not to bother with her, that she was wild and he put her there because kids were coming.
I reached out a tentative hand anyway. The horse intrigued me. Danger usually does. She relaxed right away and I went closer. Joe ran up the road with a rope. “Watch out, she might kick you. She was a race horse and definitely isn't a fan of being tied up, but I can't take time to deal with her now.”
“I want to ride her,” I said.
“No
way. She's wild, I tell you. Seriously, Lori, she's a really skittish
fast horse and I don't know....”
“Really, Joe. Let's go. Come with me. I'll help you get the kids out for the trail ride and let's go! Look, she's fine.” I started stroking her long mane and talking to her. The horse responded gently, her big eyes following my every move. She bowed her head and tilted a knee, both signs of acceptance.
“Wow,” Joe said, “maybe you can ride her. I've not seen her let anyone get this close. If you can get a saddle on her, sure, why not?”
Liker. I Like Her. Liker for short. A thoroughbred. Four years old. She'd won a few races, nothing important. She was pretty. Very pretty. And too spooky for regular riders because she was massive and double-quick, could stop short, and had too many compulsive actions that scared people and other horses.
Joe and I got the riders going and then we went out, just the two of us. Initially, I had no trouble with Liker. I really liked her! It's weird, sometimes, being on horses that are that high off the ground, but if they have a good gait, smooth withers, a nice temperament, and a luxurious mane in case of emergency – ha! - I can forget that I might be 2 stories off the hard ground. If a huge horse is clippity-clop unsteady, then it's worse. It hurts after awhile.
And then there's this: the faster you go, the easier the ride.
I learnt that by accident the first time a horse took off with me and I was screaming at the top of my lungs. I tell you as that horse flew through the woods, there came a second when I caught myself realizing that I was still ON the horse and it felt kind of smooth. Trotting isn't so smooth. Running is very smooth! I sat back and let it happen and I liked it.
It's like flying. Galloping on horseback. All that bouncity-bounce stuff stops and you just sail through wind riding a giant breathing machine that warms with a run. It's glorious. Most people would be very afraid to do that, because they don't know that once the full-out-gallop breaks forth, it's actually a more comfortable ride and pretty nice. I didn't know. I do now!
Anyway, I bought Liker and it was a grand love affair. She'd lean her heaviness against my shoulders when I'd dig into her frogs with a hoof pick to clean around her shoes. It's as though that tickled her or something. If anyone else tried to get her to lift a leg, Liker did, right into them as high as she could. Nobody understood the temperament or why we got along so nicely, but we did. Plus it was funny to watch other people approach her to pet a nice horse. She'd capably scare them away.
But there was nothing to beat that first day out with Joe and that first dash-run around that sharp corner at the edge of a cliff, and every time I went out after that, I looked forward to that needlelike bend and grabbed a hunk of mane just in case. Liker got predictable, but I was never sure how she'd be when we were headed home to fresh hay and sweet beets.
I could hear Joe hollering behind me when we'd take off. Liker had weird ghosts too, especially about small ponds or streams of water and any snakes. Sometimes I had to get off to walk her over the tiniest bit of water. It was hilarious. A snake would make her rear up and wig her out for awhile. She didn't like the occasional black bear, who was more afraid of us than we were of him, but still, there were a few tense standoffs and sinister stares. Assorted other little creatures, and then, red foxes. Those little things would dart out of tall grass across the path in front of us and nothing scared my horse more than a red fox on the run. She would have certainly failed fox-hunt school. And I barely avoided whiplash or back injuries by Liker's frenetic avoidance stride, a pace jarring, her eyes and ears on high alert. The fox tail would fade fast, but the horse took time to settle. Red foxes ruined a few rides.
I was working on a movie in Atlanta with a well-known film director one afternoon, and we were sitting around between scenes outside Neiman-Marcus in Lenox Mall and chatting about horses and Cohutta. Moved by my description, he invited himself to come out for a ride after we wrapped that day and I called ahead and set it up with Joe.
A few of us went out and took a nice trail ride and a posh picnic about an hour out that Joe had put together. Liker got a little testy when we left the stables with the added attention and the director gifted me his horse crop once we got going. He leaned over and handed it to me and said, “Here, use this. Just show it to her. You can keep it.” It was lovely! A handmade braided beauty, the crop had a comfort feel in the hand, a luxurious touch, and Liker never needed anything but a view of that whip to come to attention. She wasn't used to this many horses or men on “her” mountain. We settled into an easy ride and dinner was served with a side of sarcasm about the movie set and the Atlanta populace.
This was the second time I worked with this director (we'd also made a movie on Tybee Island) and I'd visited his ranch and when he's out on a horse, he's an entirely different man than you would imagine. Funny. Introspective. A bit daring and I like that. That, and I've never seen any man handle horses the way he does. The original “Horse Whisperer” and Liker responded to his bids. She never did that for anyone else except me. She didn't even listen to Joe.
We rode past dark and Joe led us back to the stables through the lush forest on a different starlit path. The spontaneous evening, enjoyable and refreshing for our small crew.
It wasn't until I got home that I thought about the crop. Oh no! I didn't remember using it on the ride back in and couldn't find it. It wasn't in my car or with my riding tack. It vanished and I didn't remember when or where. It had sentimental impact for me. It was a treasured gift, a souvenir of an important ride. It was gone.
I called Joe the next day and told him about it, asking him to look for it when out on the trails. But it was the beginning of fall and leaves were starting to carpet the dirt trails and “finding” anything, let alone a small leather riding crop that would blend into the brush was probably impossible.
When I went back a few days later, the determination to find that crop was fierce. Crazy, to be honest. The mountains are vast. The territory wild. No telling where it would be and the leaves were thick underfoot, slippery in some places and Liker wasn't happy.
Begging Joe to go with me, he agreed to retrace our trip from the week before. My body popped in the saddle and I had to grab hunks of mane hair a few times. Leaves rattled underneath, the scenery was gorgeous, but early autumn in the woods has an eerie appeal. Unknown rushes of wind and rustling underneath make riding sketchy, running inadvisable, and here we were looking for this very small thing way below us. I knew the odds were nil.
By the time we got to the picnic place, a rustic built open shed, I'd relinquished my obsession. I was tired. Joe was tired. The horses were tired. It was getting dark and the effort was silly. We sat on a log and had a drink and agreed to go back. Someone had left a mess there and that made us mad, so we went about cleaning it up, cans, bottles, a pizza box, etc.
The last thing I picked up was the pizza box. And there it was. The Crop. Right under our noses, right under that box. Just waiting. I screamed. Joe laughed. It must have fallen off Liker when we were there with the film guys. Such a funny thing.
Neither of us could believe we'd found what we went looking for in the vast Cohutta mountains. But we did. Intention is everything, especially when sprinkled with dogged determination and lots of dumb luck. We saw a red fox on the way back and Liker bolted and I showed her the braided crop and she settled down.
The only item I have left from those days is The Crop. I cherish it. I recently tossed my tack and boots and old stuff. None of it fits the same anyway.
There are Holy Moments in my life, moments where a stark separation of before and after will always be marked. All my moments at Cohutta are Holy that way. The venerable lodge and stables burned down, everything disappeared. Today they are building subdivisions there.
Liker died. Atlanta became a bloated monstrosity of a place. Everything changes. There was that first day I saw Liker, the day with the puppies everywhere, all the storied rides and adventures with Joe and others, and the joyful day when we found a lost crop. These were the happy days of my life and my gratitude gallops. It's more comfortable to go fast.
Just Another Lori Story
