The Lone Rock

We were making our way across the playa after a day of chasing wild Mustangs out of the nearby canyons for a soon-to-be-happening round-up. Tired and sore, I let my horse have its head, loosely wrapping the reins around the saddle horn.

As I did this, I allowed my feet to dangle free of the stirrups and I sat half-slumped as my pony swayed me back and forth with each step. Nearby, my friend Rob did the same.

The playa is flat and dusty. It is a place without shade and sweltering hot on sunny, cloudless days like the one we were experiencing at the moment.

We had done this on many occasions and my horse knew the way back to the barn without any prompting. However, something suddenly changed in the beast, as it stopped and shivered slightly.

“Rattle snake?” I questioned in my mind.

But there was nothing but the shadow of small rock, no bigger than a golf ball in front of us. Still the horse sensed a danger; its ears shifting wildly.

Knowing anything could happen when a horse gets spooked; I slowly gathered the reins and worked my boots into the stirrups. These caused the animal to rear back and then buck forward violently.

Not seated properly, my feet not in the stirrups, I flew skyward, rocketing over the horse’s head. It wasn’t the first time I’d been unseated from a horse, nor would it be the last time.

It was however the most painful throw from a horse I ever experienced that didn’t come with a broken or dislocated bone or spilled-blood. No, I landed with a dull thud on my ass, with that lone rock solidly compressed against my sphincter.

Getting ‘corn-holed’ left me rolling in the dust, unable to speak or breathe for what seemed an eternity. After a while, I regained my composure and got to my feet.

By this time Rob had figured out what happened and was laughing his damned fool-head off. For my part, I couldn’t bare sitting, so I shuffled the last three miles back to the ranch with my butt-cheeks squeezed tight, fearing my innards might fall out.