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Copyright © 2010 Andrea Langworthy
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Did you submit your bid to Christie’s auction house for Trigger, Roy Rogers’ stuffed horse? Me, neither. Tough to come up with a hundred thousand dollars nowadays. Besides, the mounted steed would fill up my whole house. But it was fun to read about the items from the recently closed Roy Rogers and Dale Evans Museum that would go to the highest bidder — things like cowboy outfits, hand-tooled boots, and guitars. Not to mention, Bullet, Rogers’ dog who had also been stuffed for posterity. The trip down memory lane reminded me of my once-favorite horse at Camp Wabigoniss in Peqout Lakes. My girlfriend had attended the camp the year before and had lots to say about the different activities available to campers. Arts and crafts and swimming sounded like fun but to a city girl like me, the one that caught my interest was horseback riding. With that in mind, I worked on my parents, begging them for a chance to experience camp life the next summer. Finally, they acquiesced.
The following June, when the counselor took us to get our horses the first time, I fell in love with a quiet-looking one that stood a bit shorter than the others. Dusty was a soft gray color with spots of darker gray. Her mane was almost white. The counselor told me she was afraid of cars but even at my young age I thought that was silly. Cars? We were in no-man’s land; miles from civilization. The counselor went on to show me how to get into the saddle, hold the reins, and pull back to get Dusty to stop. She explained the difference between a walk, trot, and gallop. I spent two months at camp that first year and as I recall, we went riding twice a week. Every time, I staked my claim on Dusty. We saw each other so often, I thought we were friends. One day, as we rode single-file down the road, the counselor, at the front of the line, turned and yelled back to remind me that Dusty was “car shy.” I soon learned why as a car gunned its engine coming up the hill. Dusty stood back on her hind legs, her front legs pawing the air, and began to snort. Time after time, I pulled back on her reins and said, “Whoa, girl” until the counselor turned her horse around and came back to help me.
The next time we went riding, the counselor asked if I wanted to take out a different horse but I didn’t want to hurt Dusty’s feelings. Besides, I’d already been through the worst. Or so I thought. That day, we rode toward the lake and the counselor said we’d take it slow on the sand. Once we got close to the water, Dusty decided to lie down on her side and roll over into the water. Shrieking, I held tight to the reins until I had a chance to jump from the saddle. No one could talk me into getting on that horse again. Instead, I walked back to the cabin as the counselor led Dusty in the other direction towards the stable. Even Roy Rogers wouldn’t have sung “happy trails” that day.