Gone Viking by Bill Arnott

Author:Bill Arnott
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781771604482
Publisher: RMB | Rocky Mountain Books
Published: 2020-07-16T23:09:50+00:00

Pili

“You ridden much?” asks Dan, one of the stable-hands and guides.

“Only once,” I say.

“Oh. Well, this is Pili. He’s the worst of the lot. Miserable horse, hates everyone and every other horse. And every horse hates him. You gotta take charge, don’t let up. He’ll test you. Beat him up if you have to. Don’t worry. You can’t hurt him. Nothing can.”

I trot Pili – a robust chestnut – away from the stable as Carla rides up. She’s the other guide, an effusive Hawaiian who grew up in the saddle. Her daughter was in the saddle at three weeks old, she says proudly. Now, as a two-year-old, Carla’s daughter is an accomplished rider. The family lives off the grid – solar power, propane and generator, growing most of their food. I find myself envying the childhood Carla’s daughter enjoys. Maybe she’d envy mine.

“You ride a lot?” Carla asks.

“Only once.”

“Oh. That’s Pili. Do you know about Pili?”

“I’ve heard. Anything else I should know?”

“Yeah, keep him away from the other horses. He’s always looking for a fight.” She pauses, then adds, “The vet kinda botched the castration. So now we call him half nuts.” I’m left to wonder if she means Pili or the vet. And with a smile she rides away, a single fluid motion.

As other riders mount up, I visit with a man from Chicago. After introductions he tells me how much he loves the Pacific Northwest. “Been there a ton, for work,” he says. “Weeks at a time. And it’s always beautiful and sunny. Always,” he laughs. “People talk about the rain, but I’ve never seen it. Never.”

He asks what brought me out to paniolo country, to spend a day in paradise rattling my kidneys like a paint-can in a mixer. In shit-kicker boots and canvas duster I rather look the part, and setting my jaw I say, “I suppose I wanted to dress like a cowboy.”

He nods assent, giving me a Clint Eastwood squint. “I get that,” he says. But as I don the optional helmet, needless to say, my appearance changes radically – less Jack Palance, more Special Needs.

We mount up, a dozen of us including Dan and Carla, and make our way from the stables onto a rising paddock of tufted grass and rich earth. The ranch sprawls over five thousand acres, undulating with volcanic landscape. With a chorus of ch’k-ch’k-ch’k we trot our loose line through tall Norfolk pines, a woodsy fence-like windbreak, the lowest branches dangling to the horses, and we’re forced to duck low in the saddle to avoid thick boughs and gnarly needles.

“Don’t let the horses graze!” were our instructions. And as we pass amongst the trees each horse proceeds like disciplined military. Except for Pili, who stops dead to pluck and munch Norfolk cones, a horrific sound like rocks in a blender. And I wonder if he may in fact be an Icelandic horse, as he seems to have an extra gait all his own. Not so much a fast canter between amble and gallop, but more an idling fuck you somewhere between belligerence and disdain.

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