Recently, a friend invited me to come ride horses on his little farm.

“ It’s been ten years since I sat a horse,” I replied, thinking back on the hundreds of trail miles I rode through the Rocky Mountains, every foot of it an adventure.

“ Well, it’s just like riding a bicycle. You never forget how.” He was grinning when I turned to face him.

“ Yea, right,” I grinned back.

We both knew better.

All bikes operate pretty much the same. You straddle it. You peddle it. Maybe you shift gears every now and then. It’s pretty much the same as it was all those years ago when your Daddy promised you he wouldn’t let go when he was pushing you on your first little Schwinn.

Daddy lied.

He let go. You crashed. You cried. But eventually you learned to ride a bike.

And you probably never forgot how. Horses are different.

Horses don’t come equipped with training wheels.

No two horses are alike in temperament. Trust me on that. But I have a theory that all horses do share one common trait.

More about that later.

Everybody loves horses, right?

Depending on your point of view, horses can be regal and proud, frisky and cute, or swift and powerful.

If you’ve been around a few decades you instantly recognize the names of certain horses such as Roy Roger’s faithful steed, Trigger.

You may have read Black Beauty or seen the movie based on the classic children‘s novel.

Horses were a part of growing up. My friend Flicka. Mister Ed. Hi ho Silver, away! Dusty. Dusty?

You may not have heard of Dusty.

He was mine. Well, partly mine. I had a one fourth interest in him, having to share him with my three sibs.

Dusty only got in a hurry when he headed toward his oat bin. One day Urb and I, and another kid were all astride the old boy when he lit out for the barn. We couldn’t rein him down and when he ran under the barn door we were toppled off his back like dominoes.

Once I was loping across a mountain meadow aboard Old Major, my favorite horse of all time. My hat blew off and when I stopped to retrieve it the rest of the group kept riding. Every time I tried to remount, Major began his little sideways crow-hop dance. By the time he and I came to a mutual understanding, and I was back on him, my friends were two canyons ahead.

Another time I was riding a horse aptly named Diablo, which means Devil south of the Rio Grande. We were getting along fine till he intentionally ran under a telephone pole guy-wire and cleaned me off the saddle as slick as a whistle.

Then there was Taffy, my cousin EJ’s palomino. I had him loping down a firebreak behind Grandma’s house one Sunday afternoon when we came to a fork in the path. I wanted to go right. Taffy decided to go left. We parted company and I ended up in a barbwire fence.

Taffy got back to the barn before I did. See, all horses do have one thing in common. They don’t want you, or me, or anybody else on their back.

I don’t care how sweet and gentle your animal is. It doesn’t matter how gently he nibbles that sugar cube off your palm, or how he lovingly runs to the gate every time you approach the corral.

He does not want to be ridden.

It’s just a plain fact if you ride horses long enough, sooner or later, you’ll wake up on your back in the mud wondering where your horse disappeared to.

But despite my own few mishaps, I do still love the cussed beasts. Old Major in particular. He could be ornery but he was also tall and strong.

And surefooted.

He rode me across the Continental Divide by way of some treacherous trails that I’d have never thought we’d survive, my inside leg scraping a sheer rock wall, outside leg hanging over a thousand foot cliff.

It was terrifyingly exhilarating.

Some of the most beautiful sights I ever saw Out West were seen from horseback.

I admit it. I’m a saddlebum wannabe.

My favorite literary philosopher, Augustus McCrae, of the sweeping western novel Lonesome Dove, said it best:

“ I can’t think of nothing better than riding a fine horse into a new country.”

I couldn’t agree more, and I look forward to taking my friend up on his offer to ride.

But I’ll be keeping a tight rein just in case the horse is in agreement with my theory.

Happy trails.

Don Lively is a retired police officer and freelance writer. He lives in Shell Bluff. Email Don at Livelycolo@aol.com