The Icelandic Canadian - 01.10.2002, Page 33

sion.
I learned as a boy to ride in the tradition
of the cowboy; Western saddle, and
Stetson, and high leather boots with heels.
Rough and ready. I had little skill; I never
took lessons. But I had a knack for staying
in the saddle long legs and a low centre of
gravity. Plenty of fear, but some daring; I’d
agree to ride almost anything I always
needed a horse to ride with my compan-
ions. Not entirely in character my behav-
iour with horses; I was a quiet teenager and
timid..
We learned those days that we should
ride on big horses, nothing less than fifteen
hands. And I found the look of these
Icelandic riders a bit comical. Such big men
on such small horses my first inclination
was to call them all ponies.
We went for a ride, five or six of us, late
in our Iceland stay two good hours into the
mountains; I think Nancy came with us.
Kristina, the wrangler, led us on her black
steed single file and deep into the moun-
tains. A good ride, a landscape that opened
up before us; valley, and mountains, and
sky.
The tolt; a running walk, a natural four-
beat gait reputed to give the rider a gentle
and bounce-free outing at speeds of up to
twenty miles an hour. I had my doubts
about that Iceland tolt. Most of us, human
beings I reasoned, are prone to exaggera-
tion. Especially in matters of nationality,
especially when the given nation is small
and of a fiery independent spirit. I didn’t
expect much from my Icelandic ride, from
the famous five gaits and the tolt, but I was
determined to give it a try. And Kristina
was there to help me.
“Like this,” she said. “Here. Lift the
reins. Pull up his head.”
And my Skjoni was equal to the task.
Did he ride. What ever I asked him to do,
he could do. He would do. What ever small
task I gave him. Down through this gate.
Up over that walkway. And his tolt was
indeed as smooth as lying at home in bed,
as constant as sitting in the pub with a mug
of beer the first mug of beer. Oh my
Skjoni. Suddenly it no longer mattered that
my legs were longer than his.
Those dazzling horses. Those astonish-
ing Icelandic horses. We hadn’t driven too
many miles after our breakfast on the har-
bour in Reykjavik before we saw them.
Icelandic horses, large colourful herds of
horses. In their graveled and grassy pas-
tures.
Pinto. And buckskin. Palomino and
chestnut and bay. White horse. Black
horse. Silver dapple and silver bay. Paint
horse. And blue or strawberry roan. Forty-
two different colour patterns according to
the literature. Sorrel with flaxen mane and
tail, liver chestnut, cremello, and dun.
Horses, and their half-ragged coats, still
early spring, still shedding their winter fur.
There on the road between Hofsos and
Reykjavik in a landscape of pasture and
hills and snowy peaks a round-up of hors-
es appeared suddenly in front of us,
blocked our route. On the pavement and in
the ditches. Geldings, and yearlings. Mares
with gamboling foals. Maybe one hundred
horses their manes and tails eddied in the
wind, maybe two hundred, and a dozen
men riding. And we scrambled from the
bus for a breath of air, for a picture and a
better look, for the thud and the clip of
hooves, the smell of horse dropping. We
stood and marveled under this large
Icelandic sky.
John Weier