It’s March 2002, 18 months since I crashed so hard onto a concrete apron that the top of the ball of my hip joint sheared off as it bored through and shattered the socket.

The accident was the result of a freak tangle with a horse I was leading. My injuries left me uncertain for more than a year of my physical limitations. And though not actually a ‘riding’ accident, the circumstances left me uncertain about getting on a horse again.

An accident is a terrifying thing, especially one that results in serious injury and pain. The fear clings to you. You wear it like a coat that might protect you from bad weather. But the coat is heavy and too insulating and may do more harm than good. Shaking it off is a long and careful process.

   It’s taken a long time and two operations to be mended. I now have an artificial left hip. My left knee is weak and I feel uncoordinated when I walk. I’m out with my dogs every day now, on the beach or in the woods. I’ve been practicing getting my leg over and sitting astride a rock or a log. I wonder if I’m ready to get back on a horse.

“I don’t know why you’d want to?” The orthopaedic surgeon, while not resoundingly endorsing my plans, has said okay to ‘riding in moderation’. It’s considered a low impact activity after all. And so it is, as long as you don’t fall off the horse.

I’ve ridden for many years well into my twenties and cared for horses for years beyond that. I paint pictures of horses in romantic, classical poses. I ride because I enjoy the company of the horse and the exhilaration of the going to make someone understand who doesn’t indulge, Elke likens it to an addiction to chocolate. That describes it in part. There’s the pleasure of chocolate and then there’s the thrill of jumping out of a plane, and somewhere in that continuum there’s the pleasure and thrill of riding a horse. No matter, it’s something I badly want to be doing.

Elke is the teacher I found a few years ago when I decided to go back to riding after a long absence (25 years since my last lesson. I’m now 54). She’s a dressage instructor, who taught and competed in Germany since her early teens before moving to Canada. She has a small farm in Margaree were she breeds Westphalian  Warmbloods.

I’ve heard it said that when the student is ready the teacher will come. I’ve learned to trust Elke as a friend, instructor and horse woman, especially after the many times she has read my mind by reading my body, or read my body by reading the horse, relentlessly pointing out shortcomings in the horse’s performance and linking them to actions of mine. She will sometimes factor in the mood of the rider or the horse. Now, with me, she will learn to allow for the introduction of a new fearfulness.

“What are you thinking? Do you have any plan, any idea how we’re going to tackle this?” Elke doesn’t know. She’s taught handicapped riders, blind, disabled, other challenged people. She’s never brought someone back to riding after an accident. “We’ll go slow,” she says, “and play it by ear. So when are you coming?”

It’s a cold Thursday afternoon and I have taken charge of Fruehlingsfee, a 16-hand chestnut mare, a performance jumper with a ‘why should I make anything easy for you’ attitude and a deep-down sooky heart. Physically I can manage the grooming and the tack, even the hoof picking about which I had some doubts (bending is still difficult). Fee had been my regular mount for almost a year. With her, I have the best chance of relaxing.

I’m nervous and excited. I forget my helmet and fumble with the girth. Elke tightens it properly for me. I”ve never been able to get up on Fee without a mounting block. We use and old stoop for the purpose and when I climb the step today this procedure looks very awkward. I am mounting from my injured side. Can the left leg take my weight while I swing my right leg over? And, if I run into difficulty, will Fee stand still?

I’m stiff. This isn’t a log but Fee is a rock. My right leg, after one halting, agonising moment of resistance, is over her back, I’m in the saddle and grinning and Elke is grinning and I have the picture to prove it. Elke has decided to stay at Fee’s head. Until she is sure that I have my balance and can respond quickly to any starts or rabbit hops that Fee might throw at me, she will keep a hand on or near the rein. I’m grateful I do relax. We lose track of time as we chat and walk around the arena. I’ve been on Fee’s back for 25 minutes. I”m still grinning!

“How will you get off?” Thoughtfully. I have to be careful about coming down on my left leg. I let the stirrups go and, doing a bit of a push-up on the saddle, I work my right leg over and slide down to land on that foot, keeping my full weight off of my left. I have horse wobble. My legs and hip are tired and I will be sore.

As a ride it was quiet and uneventful. It felt like I’d been taken on an old-fashioned pony ride. In fact, I didn’t ride so much as sit on a horse for a while. But I did get on again, and for the first time in more than a year. The pleasure and the thrill are once more within reach.

Elke is prepared to work with me while I get strong and build confidence and over the next few weeks I find there are a lot of things at play here, including my physical strength, the strain on the recovering joint and, most importantly , my state of mind. We have ways of assessing how strong I’m getting but I haven’t  figured out what will make me anxious or worried.

I’m riding three to four days a week and every outing brings a different set of challenges. Some we can predict, others take us by surprise. I went for a hike one morning before my ride. It was such a beautiful day and the dogs and I covered a lot of rough ground and hills. In the afternoon when I went to mount Fee, something I expected to do smoothly by then, my leg gave out when I stepped into the stirrup. “No more hikes on riding days.”