I have discovered they are very much capable of intense emotions. Their love for another can overcome their fear for themselves. It is not always love, though. Sometimes it is trust…or rage. But there will always be deep emotions pushing the horse toward a fear he would much rather avoid under normal circumstances. As an herbivore and prey animal, a horse’s most deep-rooted instinct is to run away from danger. Dogs, for instance, are celebrated for their bravery, but as a predator, it is more natural for them to pounce, attack, or face a potential threat. Of course, dogs, too, possess a survival instinct that tells them to hightail it when faced with danger. What I am saying is: a dog’s courage does not always collide one hundred percent with his instincts; a horse’s courage probably does. But horses still do it, don’t they? It seems irrational, I know. But then again, how often is courage rational?

Mild forms of courage are usually based on a profound trust in the horse’s partner. Such accounts occur regularly and with the average horse and rider. Even Gerry, my nervous little horse, has done things he would otherwise not have done just to please me. I remember a sunny day thirteen years ago. Summer had just begun to overtake the pleasant temperatures of spring and we were close to giving our horses time off for the three hot months of June, July, and August. I had owned Gerry for less than a year and was working him toward novice jumping level. After a strenuous group lesson with Mike, he took us down to the water jump on the cross-country course—not to jump it, but simply to walk the horses through the water to cool their legs.

I had never attempted to walk Gerry through any puddle of water prior to that day. I had no idea how he would react when I asked him to step into it. There were three other horses in the group, all of whom had no trouble getting their horses to walk down the gentle slope and splash straight through the water. As I approached the edge of the bank, I felt Gerry’s muscles grip. He put his nose down to inspect the footing and eyed the other horses’ advances suspiciously. He sniffed and studied the ground and water for several moments until I ran out of patience and applied my legs to his sides and urged him forward. He was startled by my request. His head rose and his body went rigid. He snorted in protest as though saying, “You want me to go into there?” Although I was young and relatively inexperienced, I still knew better than to reprimand a frightened horse. I stroked his neck reassuringly and squeezed with my legs again, answering his question with a confident but quiet “Yes.”

One hoof stepped forward hesitantly, followed by another. He tried to evade by swinging his quarters to the side but it didn’t matter, as long as he was generally moving toward the water. The other horses went round and round, thoroughly enjoying the refreshing wetness, while Gerry took tiny wobbly footsteps down the slope. I felt him trembling with fear and I continued to stroke his neck to calm him down. His fear was irrational, of course, and he probably thought there were piranhas in the water, eager to take little bites off his legs. To him, it must have made perfect sense to downright refuse taking this risk, but he continued. All this time, Mike was dozing nearby, unconcerned with Gerry’s reluctance. Eventually, Gerry’s feet touched the water and suddenly, he leaped, plunging straight to the center of the pool, drenching the other horses and myself. Excited but still nervous, he hopped in the knee-deep water for one small circle and proceeded up the slope and away from the water jump.

From then on, Gerry had no major problems with water. Summer came and went, followed by an unusually wet season. Unprepared for rainy weather, the riding center grounds went from crack dry to soggy mud almost overnight. Ponds and puddles of water covered most of the hacking area, so snaking a path between each puddle would have been ridiculous. At first, Gerry was skeptical, walking through the puddles with springy strides as though he were walking on hot coals. Then he began to relax and even enjoy the splashes he made as he passed through the ponds in his way. He had overcome his fear, and that had taken a lot of courage. It is a mild form of courage, but it is courage nonetheless. And it is a minor example. It does not, by any means, measure the extent to which a horse is willing to take a chance with his life.

This type of courage extends to all horses expected to perform difficult tasks. Cross-country horses, in my opinion, are the bravest of the equine world. The awkward obstacles they jump at high speed—it makes me marvel at their courage. They are trained for the job, of course, but due to the iron will the sport demands, some horses never make it past the initial training. Those horses are used in other sports or simply become pleasure horses. But nearly everything they do will require some degree of courage. After all, we humans always have high expectations of our horses!

~ ~ ~ ~

I have experienced some heart-stopping moments during my years of riding. Some had to do with riders falling off, getting bitten, kicked, or trampled. Some simply had to do with riding a horse. My first experience, which almost resulted in a seizure, occurred only a week after I purchased Gerry. I was reckless despite my inexperience and took him out in the open and galloped off. I wanted to feel the rush and freedom of being on a horse outside the constraints of lessons. It was exciting and refreshing, of course, until it took a nasty twist. As we rounded one big lap, I asked Gerry to slow down to a trot. He resisted, and I pulled on the reins. He leaned on my hand and galloped faster. I leaned back. We played this tug-of-war for no longer than an instant before he bucked in frustration and bolted. I crashed to the ground. It was the first time in my life to feel the pure power of a horse.

It was not my first fall, but it shattered my confidence for several months. Every time I have fallen—and there have been so many falls I’ve stopped counting—my confidence was shaken, if only for a few minutes. Many riders experience this lack of confidence at some point in their riding careers. It is completely logical to be worried. If you were injured from a fall, it is natural to be wary the next day. Yet the days I spent feeling nervous and scared for myself do not come close to the days I felt safe in the saddle. After so many years of riding, I have only recently become aware how secure I feel when I am with my horse. Perhaps being responsible for such a large and powerful animal has implanted a sense of courage within me, but I think there is more to it. It has nothing to do with the horse’s predictability (or lack of it), it is only about his power. To be quite honest, I would rather be in dangerous situation (i.e., lost in the woods, faced by wild dogs, chased by a maniac) with my horse rather than on my own.

Of course I hope you or I will never have to face such a situation. But if it does happen, I trust that my horse, or any horse, is better equipped than I to escape a potential threat. I do not have the agility to run away, nor do I have the super senses to detect danger before it reaches me. My confidence in a horse’s ability to protect me is great because he is big and strong. Having him on my side is an advantage. It's like having your house guarded by “Spike,” the Rottweiler, who is a lovable family dog but very capable of inflicting serious injury. Whereas a dog can attack an intruder, a horse would be most skillful at outrunning danger and he is likely to know when something is wrong much sooner than a human can. Combine his senses with his speed, and you have an animal that can get you out of trouble if the need arises.