It’s surprising how many people, once asked, struggle to explain why time spent in the wild is precious to them. I think it’s safe to say that for many, it’s an intrinsic homecoming. It’s about finding that true essence of what feels like home: the familiar whisper of leaves dancing in the wind, or the metronomic sounds of your feet pounding the trail.
Most people with this connection to the wild can attest to having a way of moving through these spaces that particularly grabs them. Some find freedom when climbing high in the mountains, while others love to simply disconnect from the thrum of modernity by bivvying beneath the stars. I suppose a lot of this comes from a desire to exist in a level of discomfort. We love a bit of ‘type 2’ fun. After all, the convenience of daily life and the rhythm of habitual comforts can leave us with a subconscious sense of existential unease.
I think every person who finds solace in the natural world should find and experience that one hike, climb, run or ride that takes their appreciation for the wild from momentary to existential. One experience that makes it all make sense. Where these fluxes of achievement and discomfort seem to find equilibrium.
As a fan of big rides on two wheels, it didn’t occur to me that anything could connect me more closely to wild landscapes than traversing them on a gravel bike. My bike has taken me places my feet would’ve struggled. It’s taken me across mountain passes, over great rivers and allowed me to camp in wilderness that is otherwise inaccessible. My bike taught me the resilience and self-reliance that comes with the glorious sense of independence you only get from existing alone in the wild.
Enter a whirlwind invitation by a friend to take a foray into the world of unassisted horseback trail riding. I’ll admit, I was initially sceptical. How would it match up to the simplicity of a gravel bike? Wouldn’t it just be a lot of extra faff? Still, her enthusiasm won me over.
During my first ride, a week-long ring route in the forests of the Balkan Peninsula, I was a total novice. I was spurred on by both my mate’s enthusiasm and track record for killer adventures; and if I’m honest, the idea that these creatures are basically the ultimate ATV. However, I’d leave completely consumed by the intensely layered feelings of awe, love and gratitude that completing a journey with the help of a horse brings.
Once the initial wonder dissipates, the calm begins to set in. These creatures talk, if you choose to listen. With every shift in environment, transitions from forest to open plains, storms to scorching sunlight become a sensory experience you experience through the horse beneath you. Their ears dance in response to calls of wildlife and changes in terrain. Feeling the ease with which they navigate the terrain beneath you is nothing short of magic.
In place of noticing your own levels of exhaustion or worrying about the beginnings of a blister setting in, your heartbeats sync to hoofbeats below. Every scuff and skipped beat bring you closer to the creature’s umwelt, in a constant reassessment of the horse’s energy state.
This becomes the biggest weight to bear, far beyond any physical pack I’ve carried on my back. Don’t get me wrong, I understand these creatures are capable of far greater things than carrying 50kg (their maximum weight-bearing load hovers around 100kg) – yet you become a team.
Across any trek, you learn the personality, fears and loves of the horse. Just like watching your friends tackle something that scares them, seeing your four-legged crew overcome hurdles and gain confidence brings a certain sense of achievement I’ve not experienced anywhere else. Whether it’s coaxing a spooked horse across a particularly worrying bridge (my personal record is 35 minutes of whispering and persuasion before success) or helping them to remain calm during a lightning storm, you feel you both bolster each other. They’re some of the best teachers of patience and compassion that life can offer.
Your campsites, snack spots and daily chores are dictated by your new teammates’ needs – which instead of being a frustration, brings moments of stillness within your environment; far more so than simply pausing for a breather every now and then. You learn you must plot your route around intermittent meadows for grazing, finding places to rest for the night that offer comfort for the horses, where they can feel secure in their mini herd from weather or predators.
Part of the beauty of trail riding is its surprising simplicity – think what you’d pack on your own back for a thru-hike, but with some small additions like brushes and a hoof pick. The biggest challenge is keeping saddles and blankets dry. Having a tent larger than a coffin helps (turns out having to spoon your saddle makes for a pretty tight squeeze!).
Everything about the experience becomes a reflection of the timelessness of nature itself. Horseback travel in its essence seems to bring you to a place where the wild just sort of makes sense. I think I’ve always felt this state of existing in, and not with the natural ecosystems I wander through. That is what horseback travel seems to do so well: you’re moving with the land, not across it. It serves to blur the ever-deepening division of the human experience and the wild world we occupy.
It also asks you to embrace a slower pace, to check everything twice and never push your four-legged friends beyond what is safe. In exchange they’ll take you on a pilgrimage, revealing new perspectives in environments you thought you knew.
When you’re horsepacking, empathy and patience reign superior to speed. It’s an adventure that forces you to leave your ego at home and encourages you to appreciate the forest for the trees; taking you back to a time before Strava or PBs.
 |
 |
Comments will be approved before showing up.
