My horse riding holiday in remote B.C. was more adventure than I expected | Canada Voices

My friend, Sharon, and I had been taking English riding lessons in Ottawa, and were keen to experience backcountry riding. We were finally at a lodge north of the Okanogan in British Columbia, and the plan was to find a herd of 25 horses that had kicked through the ranch fencing and was on the plateau over the next ridge.

Sharon was from Calgary and had ridden with cattle roundups since she was small. She was now a geology professor who loved camping on remote mountain tops. I had less experience but was still excited, wearing a bandana knowing that it looked ridiculous with my English helmet.

Our guide, Dave, led Dan – a rider from the U.S. – alongside Sharon and me over the ridge to round up the missing horses. After a long day riding through the meadows high in the Chilkoots, we had retrieved nine of them, leaving 16 yet to be found.

However, it was 4 p.m., and the air was cooling. We were aching and tired. Time for the long ride home.

Until suddenly, there they were, at the far end of the meadow. The missing horses.

Our horses started whinnying, and the missing herd stampeded toward us, manes and tails flying in the sunlight, hooves pounding. They swarmed us, whinnying, snorting and kicking.

Dave shouted that we should steer the missing horses southeast to send them home. The herd was headed that way but suddenly veered the opposite direction, streaming past us.

My appaloosa, Digger, was ready to explode. Dave, Dan and Sharon peeled off in pursuit of the herd. Digger was calling and whinnying. He cantered faster and faster and suddenly, we were in full gallop. I thought, “I’m an accident waiting to happen,” but concentrated on heels down, legs on. The herd, Dave, Dan and Sharon disappeared through the woods.

Digger whinnied, spinning, backing up, throwing his head. “No! Easy! Whoa!” I yelled. Sit deep, heels down, reins tight. He slowed to a canter, then a fast trot, and finally a twitchy walk. He tried to buck.

Sharon and her horse, Duke, emerged from the woods. I was breathing hard, sobbing. Talking quietly, she suggested we dismount and walk. We got off, and since Digger was still agitated, we traded horses.

We knew that to get back to the lodge, we should follow the dirt trail southeast through the woods. We headed there, Digger still whinnying.

On foot, we walked, and Digger started to calm down. Sharon and I approached the trail, chatting loudly, mindful of wildlife stirring in the woods beside us as evening approached.

The weather was warm and clear, but daylight would fade soon. We found a log where we could mount, and we climbed up our horses. We came to a barbed wire fence with a crude gate. A trail led off to the woods at the left. Digger and Duke were determined to go that way.

The shadows were getting longer. After a bit of a struggle with the horses, we decided not to follow the trail in the woods, but to stay in open country through the gate.

We had water, a chocolate bar, a flashlight, rainwear and warm clothes if we had to stay out all night. It was reassuring to know that Sharon had years of experience in back country.

We were supposed to be heading southeast, but now the track was leading us west into the lowering sun. We had been on our own for almost two hours. We turned around, riding back to the barbed wire gate.

Sharon got off Digger to undo the gate, and we went through. Once again, Digger wanted to turn along the fence to take the trail in the woods. It took Sharon a few minutes to change his mind. We were setting off toward the meadow where we had spotted the missing horses, when suddenly, we heard voices in the distance.

I yelled out. Dave and Dan galloped toward us from the forest. We were found!

Dave pointed to the trail to the left that led into the woods as our way home. Digger and Duke had been right. We rode through the woods buoyant, body aches forgotten.

We emerged from the woods onto the main road to the lodge. One truck pulled up, then another, pulling a horse trailer. It was the lodge owners looking for us.

They had expected us back hours earlier, especially when reports started coming in about the 16 horses ambling down the main road, blocking traffic. They really started worrying when the horses started strolling into the lodge grounds, with no humans following.

The lodge owners loaded us and our horses up and drove us back to the lodge. On the grounds, horses were grazing in the yard, the paddocks, or streaming past in small groups.

Dinner had long been over, but we walked into the dining room to applause from the fly fishers, and a warmed-up dinner with a bottle of wine compliments of the house.

That night, wired and emotional, I had trouble falling asleep. I got up and walked out in the moonlight. Dark shapes were moving, and I could hear bells, snorting, blowing and the occasional squeal. The missing herd was home, settling in.

The next morning, I donned my bandana, confident that I earned it.

Karen Schwinghamer lives in Ottawa