A Ride Through a Darkening Woods
Remembering better times with my daughter
I always wanted my daughter to ride. From the time she was a toddler, I began putting her on horses and teaching her. This continued as she grew older, even after I reluctantly became a weekend father.
My limited time with her was always precious, and I endeavored to make our time together special, even while running my riding school. I loved it when she showed an interest in riding, so I made it a policy never to say no if she asked for one of our special picnic rides, even if I was tired from riding all day.
We would usually pick up sub sandwiches from the local shop, load them into saddlebags, tack up the horses, and ride to the nearby river to enjoy a picnic dinner by its banks. Often her sweet Labrador would trot alongside us.
Teaching your child a sport that involves some risk can be a fraught experience. I was proud of her when she learned new skills and wanted to try more advanced things. There was a part of the ride where the path widened into an open dirt road, and here she would request a slow gallop.
Galloping is fun and smoother than the slower trot, but it’s riskier. Especially in unfamiliar surroundings, a horse is more likely to get spooked or become overly enthusiastic and run uncontrollably. A faster pace increases the potential for accidents.
Of course, I never put her on a horse that I didn’t trust completely, but horses are, after all, “only human” and can have an off day. My worries were mostly just me being an overprotective dad, yet my heart was always in my mouth during a gallop.
Not all of our trips were to the river; if time was limited, sometimes, we’d settle for a shaded part of the woods by a spring to enjoy our sandwiches.
Another thing my daughter always liked was for me to tell her stories at bedtime. As a child who would later become an engineer, she didn’t particularly like novelty; she liked order. So, usually, that meant the same stories every night — not a bad thing, as I was not an inventive storyteller.
Bedtime Story Circa 2010
However, even she grew tired of “The Three Little Pigs” every night. So there developed endless variations: “The Big Bad Pig and The Three Little Wolves,” “The Big Bad Chipmunk and the Three Little Acorns,” etc. Eventually, she started to feel that she had outgrown the bedtime stories altogether. So, they came to an end.
My daughter loved the river but was afraid of the dark woods if we returned too late. On one fall outing, she pleaded for the river trip. “Ok,” I said. “But it’ll be pretty dark coming back.”
“I’ll be ok,” she responded.
We lingered too long by the river, and darkness fell on our return trip. After galloping down the dirt road and entering the now-dark woods, she asked me to attach a lead rope and pull her horse. She was obviously scared, and it got worse when we suddenly heard a loud and unfamiliar sound from deep in the trees.
“Daddy, what was that?” she asked. “Honey, I’m not sure, but there’s nothing that will hurt us here,” I reassured her. “Daddy, are there bears here?” “Well, you know there are bears in the Pocono Mountains. Sooner or later, we’ll see one, but they won’t bother you.” “Daddy, tell me the story of The Big Bad Daddy and the Three Little Bears,” she said.
As I began another variation of the familiar tale, she started to become less fearful. I’ve taught riding to many kids; People have said I have the demeanor (and monotone voice) of the very low-key children’s show host Mr. Rogers. It seemed the cadence of my voice and the familiar storyline calmed her.
I realized the stories, as simple and silly as they were, still were meaningful to her. They were an intimate connection through the dark, a source of comfort. Regardless of the words’ meaning, they were a way for us to feel close to each other.
As we continued, I knew that those stories, those rides, and those moments would always be special to me. I hoped they would remain a part of her too, a bond that nothing could break. In the now very dark night, with the soft clopping of hooves mixing with the rhythmic murmur of the story, everything was good in the moment.
And now, with her an adult and estranged, I think of that ride and hope that she remembers those better times.
