I was forced to accept a Zen sort of realization on a hunting horse on a pitch black night in the San Juan mountains.
I was moving between camps and foolishly got started way too late. When it got dark it got REALLY dark. This segment of trail was a shelf trail, real steep, I could take a boot out of a stirrup and touch the uphill side in places. A fall here had consequences. I couldn't see the trail.
At a certain point I released my white-knuckle grip on the reins and threw an overhand knot in the ends. I was no longer guiding or controlling the horse. I had to give up the idea that I was in control. The horse was the only one that could see and feel the trail. I had become just a piece of cargo. I had liked this horse and trusted it, but I liked it a lot more after arriving safely that night.
