Hope Rising (25 page)

E
ACH FALL
, as the hum of ranch activity begins to subside, I take a moment to reflect on the season just past. This last season felt as if the entire time was spent running hurdles. I tried to soar over the first one, take a few strides, and then reach for the next one as best I could. But soon after there came another … and another, until they were coming so close together that there was no time to gain strength between leaps.

By the end of the summer I feared my form was more like that of a charging rhino than a graceful hurdler. I was off my stride and had crashed through more hurdles than I had sailed over. Some races are just like that. Each month of last season came with the usual load of normal hurdles expected with running a large ranching program. Unfortunately there were many more that weren’t anticipated. This was my view of looking down the track.…

Several organizations in the States rescue neglected and abused horses, as we do, and pair them with physically and emotionally needy children. What sets our ranch apart is the intensely personal nature of our program—one child
with one horse and one counselor, 100 percent of the time. Every child, every time they come to the ranch, has the complete, loving attention of a leader. This translates into a dynamic, open-ended session, lasting from an hour to an entire afternoon, enabling the child to deal with whatever he or she is facing at the time.

Our “children”—from toddlers to grandparents—come from every socioeconomic level. Troy and I determined when we founded Crystal Peaks that our programs would be equally available to all, so we never charge a fee. We provide for our four to five thousand visitors each season along with twenty-five horses and our support staff, which requires creative financing. The needs of the ranch have usually been met through generous private donations, fund-raising, and some grants. However, as any nonprofit organization can attest, there are seasons of plenty … and seasons of lack.

Such was the month of April.

Financial reserves had dipped into the red. Our hay supply alone was dwindling faster than our income could replace it. Without help we would run out within the month.

We were eagerly anticipating the approval of several “ringer” grants—grants we were certain to receive because our operation exactly matched the required criteria. The next two weeks brought more bad news—our grants were turned down, and private donations all but disappeared. Troy and I started paying ranch expenses with our savings.

It was only a matter of time before we would have to walk through our herd—our family—and choose the horses that must be sold.…

Everyone who spends time around horses runs the risk of being hurt by them. Even riding a bicycle has its risks. But a bicycle is only metal and rubber. It can’t think for itself. A horse, on the other hand, is a thousand-pound living creature that reacts instinctively and survives by fleeing danger. All too often when injuries occur, the rider blames the horse because he is too embarrassed or arrogant to admit that he put himself and the horse in a bad situation that ended with a bad result.

It’s my job as director of the ranch to pair children who usually know nothing about horses with horses that often know nothing about children. At best it is a tenuous balance. Parents entrust us with their most priceless gifts—their children. It’s our responsibility to keep them safe while they are in our care.

My staff and I have always worked hard to provide the safest environment possible. Over twenty thousand kids have ridden at Crystal Peaks since we opened, yet we have never had one serious injury. Through much hard work and just as much prayer, we’re thankful that we’ve never experienced more than our share of bumps and bruises.

But the risk is always present. And in May my greatest fear was realized.

From the moment she came to Crystal Peaks, Jenie completely captured my heart with her vivacious spirit. A college student with a strong background in youth ministries, this blond, blue-eyed beauty was also an experienced horsewoman who had competed at high levels in jumping and hunt seat. We walked together around the corrals, talking of all the possibilities to come, and I felt
humbled and blessed that such a dynamic young woman was joining my senior staff.

Only the day before, we had rescued two starving Arabian colts. They were in pitiful condition, and, as we usually find in such cases, they were skittish about being handled. One of the ways we try to overcome that nervousness is by grooming. It not only improves the horses’ coats, but also relaxes them and allows them to discover that our hands are gentle. Jenie and I brought these two new youngsters out to work on as we continued to chat.

The colts were distrustful of us at first, warily rolling their eyes. But clearly, being brushed was a luxury. As we curried their filthy, matted coats, their gaunt bodies soon began to relax. We oiled their dreadlocked manes and tails, and then Jenie and I began the tedious process of detangling the knotted hair. Our conversation floated from subject to subject as freely as the occasional puffy clouds drifting by overhead.

Jenie’s brushing strokes grew longer as her colt’s flaxen tail began to comb free. Finishing there, she switched back to a soft body brush. She was brushing the colt’s rump and telling me about her family’s plans for their annual trip when she allowed the brush to sweep down the colt’s hind leg.

The startled colt lashed straight backward. His hoof nicked Jenie’s extended arm one millisecond before it struck a bone-crushing blow to her face. Bright red blood gushed from her nose, spattering garishly on the dusty earth. Instinctively she staggered backward before collapsing.

Time stopped.

With dreamlike slowness Jenie fell to her knees, and I
saw her hand rise to her face—as if checking to see if it was still there. Blood covered her hand. It began trickling through her fingers. And down her wrist.

I couldn’t get to her fast enough. A quick examination revealed no mobile fractures, not even any external damage other than a small cut on the side of her nose. Throughout the adrenaline-fueled frenzy of packing ice around her nose and trying to stop the bleeding, Jenie’s only concern was for me. To soothe my anxious heart, she began to joke with me from under her face full of ice.

Several X rays later confirmed that Jenie had indeed sustained an immobile fracture of her nose. The damage was substantial enough for her to require a surgical rebreak and repairs to her shattered septum. She took it all in stride with easy grace. Judging by Jenie’s level of concern, she had suffered nothing more serious than a stubbed toe.

I could never forget those initial, gut-twisting moments. The flashing movement of the colt’s leg, the jolting sound of hoof crushing bone, the startling fall of Jenie’s twisted body, and then the heart-stopping moments when I tried to reach her while my legs felt trapped in quicksand. All the possibilities of what could have happened jumbled in my brain, spiraling down to the same conclusion. One inch to the left and that smashing hoof would have struck her squarely in the temple.

My heart still writhes with the crushing knowledge that Jenie could have been killed. I agonized over what we were doing at Crystal Peaks.
Lord
, I prayed,
nothing on earth is worth risking the life of a child. Should I close the ranch?…

It was the thirteenth of June, and at four o’clock in the afternoon the ranch was operating at full capacity. Half a dozen horse-and-rider teams were riding in the arena; several others were in various stages of tacking up or down. A three-year-old chestnut colt stood tied at a small hitching post near the bunkhouse lawn. We used this place for training young horses to relax and stand quietly amid commotion. And nowhere was there more commotion than around the bunkhouse, where we hosted a variety of activities for the kids.

The shady lawn in front is always filled with a cheerful clutter of white plastic chairs, each one artfully colored with permanent markers by our ranch kids. From here there are views of both the mountains and the arena, so it is a great place for visitors to relax and watch the children ride. This afternoon we had settled a disabled grandmother on the lawn in front of the hitching post. She always comes with her daughter and two granddaughters and seems to enjoy both the fresh air and the hubbub around her.

I had just stepped out of the arena to greet a young family on their first visit, feeling pleased that the father had come with his two daughters and their mother. It wasn’t often we saw complete families at the ranch. I was talking with the little girls when it happened. Screaming pierced the air. It shot through my heart like a burning arrow.

I heard it before I saw the cause for the scream. The
biggest dust devil I had ever seen was roaring inside the arena! Not one of my comforting, whimsical whirlwinds, this spinning devil was at least fifty feet across at the base, and already black with debris. Its gaping vortex devoured the sky. Before I realized my own movement, I was running toward the arena. The very air became solid matter as earth and sky converged.
Dear Jesus, the children!

A sixty-gallon barrel came hurtling out of the sky and smashed into the arena gate, only steps away from me. I shielded my face as I struggled to see the kids through the chaos. Some were still mounted. Others had dismounted and were huddled in groups as their leaders tried to shield them from danger. One girl appeared to have tumbled off her horse and was ducking with her back to the wind. Quickly my brain ticked off the names and number of those in the arena, and all were accounted for.

The black monster spun out of the arena and toward the bunkhouse. The tied up chestnut colt was directly in its path. In the space of a heartbeat, the colt’s alarm exploded into panic. Sheer terror turned this usually placid animal into a twisting blur of flailing hooves. In a desperate attempt to escape, he launched himself forward over the smooth bar of the hitching post.
Dear God!
I thought.
If his rope breaks
…
Our disabled grandma was only a few feet away!

In an instant the white chairs were snatched away by the dust devil. The entire bunkhouse area was enshrouded in black, twisting debris. I strained to see the older woman, who was now completely engulfed in airborne material.
Lord, protect her
, I shouted inside my head.

Kelsie, one of our junior leaders, had been riding in the arena when the dust devil struck. Before she could move out of the way, it passed directly over her, lifting her
from the saddle! My heart hammered like an emergency alarm as the chaos continued to swirl around me.

Three days later, after our team of five horses had competed in the premier endurance race in the Northwest, I began preparing our herd for the evening. Most of the finest horses in a five-state radius, including British Columbia, had competed. During that spectacular day my sweet unregistered, rescued mare, Ele, had won—by almost two miles! And Jenie, riding the tiniest of our Arabs in only the second race of the horse’s career, came in second place.

When dusk descended, I had a quiet moment to reflect on all the gifts of that day. What a defining moment it had been for my precious horse. I sighed with deep satisfaction as evening color began to seep across the silent sky. The race camp was nestled in the foothills of the Cascade Range in a broad, grassy valley cradled by rugged, densely forested mountain flanks and rocky bluffs. The temperature fell with the setting sun, and streaks of sherbet orange and violet rose spread across the horizon until the sky itself seemed to be cheering in celebration of this triumphant day.

After blanketing our horses and settling them down for the night, I was desperately ready for bed myself. Even though my heart glowed with all of the richness of the day, my body felt awful. That morning I’d thought that I was coming down with the flu. The aching and fever had worsened during the race, and now I felt really nauseated, shivery, and exhausted. I longed to curl up in my warm sleeping bag for a few hours of restful oblivion.

I had just started to undress when I heard the sound of anxious hoof-beats.
Surely no one was riding now!
I pulled on a light fleece and ran out to investigate.

A horse from the ride camp was loose, trotting around our portable electric corral and whinnying frantically. In the dim light I could see a young man shadowing the renegade from a distance and hoped he would be able to catch his horse before there was trouble.

My little herd circled nervously as the strange horse grew more highly agitated. I slipped into the corral and was trying to take hold of my mare’s halter when the unthinkable happened. The runaway suddenly wheeled and galloped through our corral, dragging the electrified line into all of my horses. Like a terrified flock of quail, they scattered up the steep slope behind the camp, snorting in terror, and thundered off into the wilderness.

Adrenaline seared through my body like an electric shock, and a silent scream exploded from my heart.
Dear Lord, help me!
My soul shattered as I watched my beloved horses stampede into the gaping jaws of imminent danger.

“Nancy, help!” I shouted over my shoulder to one of my leaders. I ran up the rough slope, but by the time I reached the crest not even dust lingered in the air. My precious family of horses was gone.

Twilight was falling fast into impenetrable darkness. I knew people who had lost their horses in the wilds. Some were found; some were not. Some had been injured so badly they had to be destroyed. Desperation gripped my heart.

I started praying.

The young man jogged up the slope behind me. I found out it wasn’t his horse that was loose, but he willingly
offered his help anyway. Together we began to run, following the fresh hoofprints as best we could in the gathering nightfall. In my illness and fear I was especially grateful for this Good Samaritan. Instead of returning to his warm bed at the campsite, he was out in the freezing, black wilderness searching after horses that weren’t his—determined to accompany a sick woman that he didn’t even know. He might have been flesh and blood, but to me he was an angel of mercy.