This year’s Tevis is just over a month away and I find myself wishing I was ready to be lining up again for another try at those mountains and perhaps another buckle. Bruce Weary has posted his story about how, after numerous attempts, he eventually earned his Tevis buckle with the help of a stubborn, heavily muscled Tennessee Walker named John Henry, a horse who typifies the concept of Atypical Endurance Horse.
In the interest of perhaps inspiring others to give grabbing for the brass ring a try, I thought some might be interested in my continuing the story of how John Henry helped me also earn my first Tevis buckle. He has since been my partner in earning a total of three buckles in a row, plus one for another rider in 2016. Five Tevis completions ties John for the record of Tevis buckles by a gaited horse, a record that has stood for over forty years. I think we just might need to go bag that record before we are done, but here’s the story of our first Tevis journey together. It’s long, so I’ll break it up into several chapters as I write them, and if it’s not of interest, then just scroll on past.
I began having trouble with my knees some years ago and in 2010, Bruce invited me to come to Arizona to ride John Henry in the Las Cienegas 50 and see what a gaited horse feels like. I did, had a great time and proved that even riders with many years of collective experience between us could get so caught up in swapping stories that we completely missed a turn that was all but marked with cheerleaders and a fire bell. We went an extra seven miles, finished mid pack anyway, and I was in love with this smart, tough, endlessly kind horse John Henry. I said thank you, goodbye and flew back home.
A year or so later, Bruce called me up and asked if I would be interested in owning John Henry. I joke about having compromising video of Bruce playing golf with Satan, thus blackmailing him into selling John to me, but the reality was that Bruce had accomplished his goal by finally earning that buckle. He was kind enough to think perhaps John and I were a better fit long term. I brought him home to my barn very soon thereafter.
During our first 2011 season together, John and I did 660 miles together, including several multidays of up to 250 miles in five consecutive days. Tevis was definitely in our sights, but I wanted to bring John into tiptop condition and make sure I knew him inside and out before we sent in our entry. I had only attempted Tevis once before in 1993, pulled at Robinson Flat and had not tried since—-both busy finishing my vet degree and more than a little intimidated by the mountains and canyons I’d seen firsthand but had yet to conquer.
2011 was the year that snowfall forced Tevis to be rescheduled to October instead of its usual summer start, and then caused the ride to be run backwards from Auburn from its traditional start in Robie Park. We planned to be there. Our last tune-up was to hopefully do all five days at the XP Paunsagaunt multiday, riding through the tough trails and hoodoos of Bryce Canyon, Utah. I had been working to really dial in both John’s and my nutrition, fitness and electrolyting regimen, using a portable blood analyzer to verify I had everything just right before and after our rides. I thought we were getting pretty close to optimum fitness for a horse that didn’t have the metabolic advantage of Arabian blood, and was built more like a truck than a race car..
John was more than willing to go at Bryce and he eagerly roared through like a freight train. He scored his first Fastest Overall Time for horses finishing all five days with fuel still left in the tank, ate and drank all day like it was his last meal, and was going faster on Day Five than he did on the days leading up to it.
I had learned not to try dictating what gait he chose—-our deal is that I attempt to suggest (sometimes to no avail) the speed and he chooses the gear, most of which I can’t even name. I tell people that all four legs go back and forth, but in no particular order. I’ve sometimes been offered well-meaning advice of how to train John Henry to hold a run-walk or rack more consistently, but my conclusion had been If It Ain’t Broke Don’t Fix It. As long as it was efficient, comfortable and got us down the road at a good clip, that was fine by me. This wasn’t a show ring we were aiming for, it was one of the meanest courses on the planet, and style doesn’t count.
At this point, John could cruise all day at 10 mph with a heart rate of 130 bpm and jog into the vet checks already at pulse criteria without having actually stopped yet. His strange gaits allow him to fly down hills without concussion on the forehand, which would help us at Tevis. I planned to tail him up the canyons and was working out five days a week to get myself fit enough to do so.
However, one of John’s few weak links is that his odd way of going means he is difficult to fit a saddle to over 250 miles. A week after our return from the Utah ride, I found a dry, scabby patch of skin that, when scrubbed up, was hiding a significant friction rub underneath. He’d never shown a sign of a problem during the ride (I always check every night and morning), but here it was a week later, and just a month before Tevis’ October 8th start.
Although the lesion healed well, I didn’t trust that his current saddle wouldn’t cause more problems over a 100-mile course. I wasn’t going to try a new saddle out on any race day, and certainly not at Tevis. I decided it would be safer to wait until 2012 rather than risk hurting this good horse.
About this same time, a friend and fellow endurance rider Gesa Brinks was diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer. She also had yet to earn a Tevis buckle, and although she was sick and weak, she attempted a last try that year. She only managed about ten miles before turning back, and passed away four months later.
Gesa and I talked about our Tevis dreams and the the regrets we’d had about opportunities we had let go by. The great Julie Suhr had sent one of her own 22 buckles to her during the last stages of her illness, something to hold onto and inspire her to keep fighting. Knowing the end was not far off, I asked Gesa if she would want her ashes spread along the Western States trail when I attempted it with John Henry. She said yes please, and our mutual friend, ride photographer Lynne Glazer, was put in charge of keeping her remains safe until ride day.
A month after Gesa’s death, I was packing to attend the Cuyama Oaks three-day ride, where we hoped to do well and continue prepping for Tevis. I received a call from my doctor—-I too had been diagnosed with an invasive form of breast cancer and the oncologist was recommending a bilateral radical mastectomy as quickly as possible. Surgery was scheduled for a week later, but I decided to go to Cuyama and attempt all three days, anyway. I didn’t know what the next few months would bring and I didn’t want to let this opportunity pass me by.
John Henry loves the Cuyama course and he was on fire all weekend. After Top Tenning the first two days and winning Best Condition the second day, I wondered if perhaps we should call it good and head for home. I had a lot to do to prepare for my upcoming surgery and it had rained all night, meaning the trails would be slick in places. John had worked hard for me but was eating and drinking well, his legs were tight and cool, and he had dragged me all over camp that evening during his after-dinner walk. I decided to trust him to call the shot the morning of the third day and tell me if we started again or not.
As I stepped from the RV in the early morning, John turned to look at me and nickered, as he always does—-the boy knows and likes his job and he’s a talker. I saddled him up and then held out his headstall to him, waiting to see if he would turn away. Instead, he stepped away from his breakfast and pushed his nose into the bridle, grabbing for the bit. I took that as, “Let’s go, Mom” and we went.
We won the ride that day (no, my competition didn’t know about my diagnosis, we had to work for it), won our second BC of the weekend, as well as Fastest Overall Time and Overall Best Condition. Two days later, I delivered John Henry to his Assistant Mom and very good friend, Julie Herrera, who would keep him ridden and doted upon while I recovered. Three days later, I checked into the hospital...
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Fair is fair, and I needed heat training, too. Every time I asked John to go jogging in his rain sheet, I rode in a heavy sweatshirt and jacket as well. Other riders on the trails would look at us as though we were crazy when we jogged past looking decidedly steamy.
Coming into Robinson’s, crowds of crew and onlookers lined the trail, clapping and cheering for every horse and rider as they jogged past, an amazingly inspiring feeling. As I ran in, leading John, I heard comments of, “What breed is THAT?” and, “Is that a gaited horse?!” My intrepid crew was waiting for me and stripped off tack to wash John down and offer a slightly salty bucket of water before taking him to pulse in and vet. We cruised straight through and after a break to eat and refuel, we were back on the trail headed towards the canyons. The temps were already climbing well into the nineties, so this time I carried frozen bottles of water to squirt on John’s neck to keep him as cool as possible.
It was just as well I didn’t know just how hot it was as we climbed. Later I was told it was 112 degrees in the depths of the canyon, without a hint of breeze. John kept up a steady march and I tailed behind, praying for the top to arrive. Several lifetimes later, it finally did. I was ready to faint, but when I checked, John’s heart rate as we crested the last switchback was just 76 bpm. By the time we reached the vet check, he pulsed through in less than four minutes with a heart rate of 50. A few bites to eat, more water and we swung into a ground-eating stepping pace towards the next two canyons.
It was now April of 2012, and several weeks had gone by while I recovered from a difficult surgery. I was home from the hospital, had spent several weeks mostly sleeping with the help of heavy painkillers and was just starting to get up and around a little more. There was still more surgery and other treatment ahead, but I wanted to get back in the saddle, hoping John Henry and I could get back on track headed for Tevis that summer of 2012.
My good friend Julie Herrera had been riding John Henry for me, and he had benefitted from a break from competing, getting stronger and putting some weight back on. My master’s thesis data had been collected at Tevis measuring the effect of relative thinness to completion rates in 100-mile horses and I knew Himself would perform better if he toed up to the starting line carrying good cover, neither too fat or too thin.
I was also mindful of the advice of many successful Tevis finishers, including Julie Suhr, who had warned it’s better to show up with a horse in good weight and only moderately fit, than one who was overtrained, tired and thin.
John Henry was rested, in good weight and feeling full of himself, but now I was by far the weakest link in our chain. With dire warnings from my surgeon to wear a body protector so as not to undo all his work, I was back in the saddle for careful training rides a month after surgery. While I wouldn’t have tried this with just any horse, I’ve often said that John Henry is always exactly the horse you need him to be on any given day. He sniffed me over very carefully and refrained from bashing me with his suitcase-sized head as he usually does by way of friendly greeting. As pig-headed and exasperating as he can be when he knows all is right with the world, he walked with me like he was carrying eggs for those first few tentative rides while I was still recovering.
My doctors were rolling their eyes at me, but gave me a grudging go-ahead to enter a ride, as long as I rode bandaged, with a body protector, and didn’t try running, especially on the downhills. Nine weeks after surgery, we went to Descanso 50, a hot, rocky and technical ride often used by Pacific Southwest riders as a last tune-up before Tevis.
John can be a freight train, especially early in the ride, but he carried me like he was a kid’s lesson horse all day long. As expected, it was hot and difficult, but we finished mid-pack. John looked great, but I was utterly drained, nauseated and miserable with pain. I could barely lift my arms the next day, a far cry from previously being ready to go out again day after day.
We had done what we came to do that day, but the real take-home message was that I wasn’t in the physical condition I needed to be to tackle Tevis. I had promised John Henry that when we started, I would do my part to help him out, especially in those blazing hot, steep canyons. I wasn’t going to be able to do that and so, once again, I decided this wasn’t going to be the year for us. Instead, I scheduled the second of three surgeries I ultimately needed, and sent John Henry off with Julie to have a good time riding in the Sierras at the Eastern High Sierra Classic.
The next fall, I was feeling stronger and took John through a careful 50 miles at Manzanita, making sure I was fully recovered after my second surgery. I felt good afterwards, so three weeks later, we went to the Bill Thornburgh 50 to see what we could really do. John was up on his toes, wanting to go and I turned him loose.
When John is ‘on the hunt’, he will pick out the next horse on the horizon and steadily chase them down until they are behind him and gone, then start looking for the next—a habit he had picked up from his previous barn and conditioning buddy, Maximum Heat, who had finished in fourth place at Tevis in 2011 with Bruce’s wife, Dayna. We finished the Bill Thornburgh in 4th place and first Middleweight out of 30 starters in just over six hours, a very respectable pace of 11mph for a horse that looks more like a cow pony than endurance horse. Will we ever make an international team on our best day, nope. Will we ever win a really big race, nope. John Henry’s and my goals are about working with what we have, overcoming our own challenges, maintaining our partnership and the well-being of my horse. We wouldn’t have it any other way.
Now finally back on track, I didn’t want to compete John too hard or too often, but needed to work on peaking him for the following summer. We did another 255 endurance miles together that spring, with an LD for good measure with his second mom Julie. At Julie’s suggestion, we added in swimming at a local thoroughbred facility, a good cardiovascular activity that didn’t add stress to his legs. Most racehorses in training will swim, at most, perhaps a dozen laps of the pool. John Henry still holds the “record” after swimming 68 laps on one occasion, and 50-60 laps on many other days, a distance of about 2 1/2 miles.
In addition, I started trailering him up into the mountains to a local ski resort for some training at altitude after the snows had melted. We didn’t do long miles, but clambered around the mountains and did short galloping wind sprints up the steep maintenance roads and ski trails, getting a lot of bang for our buck without excessive wear and tear. I’m guessing that John Henry is likely the only horse that has summited Mt. Harwood at 9600’, casually climbing up narrow single track called the Devil’s Backbone, usually only occupied by hikers and bears.
Finally, we added in heat training down in the valley. The weather was pleasant and much cooler than the 100-plus degrees we needed to be ready for in the canyons. I put a waterproof rain sheet on between the saddle and pad and we walked and jogged, with stops every ten minutes to check his temperature with a rectal thermometer. I aimed to raise his temp and maintain it at 103 degrees, but stopped and let him cool down when the temp reached 103.5, the point at which hyperthermia becomes potentially dangerous if it continues to climb. This strategy developed more neovascularization, the extensive network of surface capillaries that helps efficiently transport heat from the body’s core to the outer skin to be dissipated. Since John is built more heavily muscled than the average Arabian, handling the heat of Tevis could make or break our day. By the middle of June, John’s neck and shoulders were looking as veiny as any pumped-up Kentucky Derby runner.
Fair is fair, and I needed heat training, too. Every time I asked John to go jogging in his rain sheet, I rode in a heavy sweatshirt and jacket as well. Other riders on the trails would look at us as though we were crazy when we jogged past looking decidedly steamy.
John’s last tune-up was again Descanso 50, the same ride where I’d decided the year before that 2012 wasn’t going to be our year for a buckle. My partner in crime, Julie Herrera, had worked as hard as I had at getting John Henry ready, and she’d earned the right to ride him in the 50. They had a great day and finished in sixth place, just where John needed to be fitness-wise six weeks before Tevis. It was our green-light ride and we were good to go to make a try for a Tevis buckle.
Our entry was in the mail. From here forward, we would keep John tucked away in bubble wrap, resting, eating and getting ready for our trip north to the starting line at Robie Park.
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It was August of 2013 and finally we were encamped at Robie Park, ready to take our best shot at Tevis. Three days prior, we had hauled up from 600 miles south, stopping often along the way for water and leg stretchers. John Henry travels with a big bucket of sloppy mash in front of him, and it’s always gone by the time we arrive—-another two gallons of water inside to the good.
Our stall at the fairgrounds finish line was set up with fingers crossed, and I had ridden John down the last few miles of trail. His entire demeanor changed from his at-home goofy village idiot to Game Face. He’d been here before, and I had no doubt he knew exactly where he was and why.
I had piles of crew bags, lists and ice chests ready for my SuperCrew. As John’s second mom, Julie Herrera was crew leader, but I’m pretty sure she was mostly there to smite me dead on the spot if I did anything to put John at risk. We vetted in uneventfully, with just one casual comment from the Tevis vets, “We’ve never seen a horse jog with three different gaits, a buck and a fart, all in a 100-foot trot-out lane.” Yeah. Welcome to my world.
At the ride meeting, Dr. Jeff Herten MD, a long-time member of the WSTF Board of Governors, stood up to tell us that a hoped-for cool weather forecast had failed to materialize. Instead, we were in for record hot weather all weekend, with temps probably over 110 degrees in the depths of the airless and baking canyons. He advised us, “If you’re not drinking a liter of fluid every hour on the hour, you won’t be able to keep up with your fluid losses.”
He was right—-a number of riders didn’t drink enough and pulled with a Rider Option later in the ride even when their horse was cleared to go. It turned out to be one of the lowest completion rates in Tevis history at just 46.88%. I had four big bottles on my saddle, two for me and two for squirt water, as well as snacks and human electrolytes that worked well for me. John’s electrolytes, long since dialed in to a tee, were mixed up and in the saddlebags and crew bags. John was getting a plain salt slurry syringed in the days and night before, and before the start to trigger a good thirst response early on. We knew from research that few horses start the ride fully hydrated due to fluid loss during travel and we needed to start with our tanks full. John was given approximately 24 ounces of electrolytes during the ride, well buffered with kaolin-pectin. He was syringed every hour during the ride and at every vet check. Research teams analyzing blood at the 36 mile point demonstrated our electrolyting regimen had really helped. His blood results were perfect, he never stopped drinking like a fish, eating voraciously, or pulling like a train.
Ride photographer Lynne Glazer had also arrived at Robie Park, bringing our friend Gesa Brink’s ashes, divided into five baggies. After the ride meeting, Lynne and I took one portion out into the meadow and carefully buried it in the shade beneath an enormous pine tree, near the natural spring and Tevis hopefuls grazing nearby. We knew the tree’s roots would take up those minerals, making Gesa a permanent part of it. We thought she would have liked that. I know I would have.
Another portion was going to go with Lynne as she hiked down to the creek crossing beneath the Swinging Bridge, a highly anticipated cooling and photo op spot at mile 52 in the depths of the first monster canyon. The other three portions were to travel with me during each of the major legs of the ride. I’d installed a small grommet at the bottom of my pommel bag (visible on our Cougar Rock photo) and each baggie slowly trickled out with an occasional tap as we rode.
John Henry was cool as a cucumber during the pre-dawn start and it went off without a hitch. We slipped right into a bubble well behind the front hot shoes, but a bit ahead of the main pack. We stayed in that bubble for most of the ride, and moved up through attrition. Much of the first few miles of the trail leading to Highway 89 is downhill with good footing, and I knew no one can travel downhill as well as John does with his strange gaits. I wanted plenty of space on the downhills to move out when we could before we started the 2550’ climb to Emigrant Gap at 8750’ elevation.
A steady march up through the Squaw Valley ski resort, picking our way through muddy bogs hiding submerged boulders and scrambling slippery scree rocks through the spectacular Granite Chief Wilderness. I remembered the advice of Julie Suhr not to forget to turn and tip the brim of my helmet towards the rising sun, not just for the beautiful view, but perhaps a bit just for the mojo of it. And onwards towards Cougar Rock at 23 miles.
I had not made firm plans about whether we would go up and over Cougar Rock, getting that iconic photo but risking more slippery footing, or take the bypass around. Robert Ribley, with sixteen Tevis buckles, had once cautioned me that “lots of riders have the photo, but not the buckle”. Good advice.
When we saw the Rock, there was just one rider ahead of us and no line of horses waiting. Without discussing it with me first, John Henry plowed straight towards the trail going over the top. Arrows painted on the slippery trail point out the turns, but John already knew. I got myself forward, off his mouth and stayed out of his way as he climbed up and over. We will never have a spectacular Cougar Rock photo leaping like a deer up the steep climb, but we made it without a slip and that was all I wanted (okay, and the photo, too). Off we went at a steady clip towards our first gate-and-go at Red Star at 28 miles, and then our first one-hour hold at Robinson Flat.
We cruised into Robinson Flat at 10:56 a.m., in 72nd place—about mid-pack—amongst all starters, but in 48th place amongst those who would eventually finish the ride. It was a good place for us to be, and we were feeling great. I had previously calculated when I wanted to be at each checkpoint and we came into RF exactly on schedule—well ahead of cutoff but within the pace I knew John could keep up all day. We knew that we needed to average 5 mph, but that nine vet checks would eat into our time available. So would technical, steep trail that slowed us down to a walk. When the going was good, I asked John for a faster pace at 10-11 mph to eat up the trail.
Coming into Robinson’s, crowds of crew and onlookers lined the trail, clapping and cheering for every horse and rider as they jogged past, an amazingly inspiring feeling. As I ran in, leading John, I heard comments of, “What breed is THAT?” and, “Is that a gaited horse?!” My intrepid crew was waiting for me and stripped off tack to wash John down and offer a slightly salty bucket of water before taking him to pulse in and vet. We cruised straight through and after a break to eat and refuel, we were back on the trail headed towards the canyons. The temps were already climbing well into the nineties, so this time I carried frozen bottles of water to squirt on John’s neck to keep him as cool as possible.
Down a steep, rocky trail to the bottom of Deadwood Canyon and across the Swinging Bridge. We skipped going down to the river itself in the interest of time management. I had been told of a natural spring before the trail starts to climb that, although not as photogenic as the river itself, provided plenty of water even in the middle of a five-year drought. John drank deeply and got more electrolytes, I wetted him down, soaked my shirt, filled my squirt bottles and we started tailing up the notorious 73 switchbacks, climbing 1700’ in 3/4 of a mile to Devil’s Thumb.
It was just as well I didn’t know just how hot it was as we climbed. Later I was told it was 112 degrees in the depths of the canyon, without a hint of breeze. John kept up a steady march and I tailed behind, praying for the top to arrive. Several lifetimes later, it finally did. I was ready to faint, but when I checked, John’s heart rate as we crested the last switchback was just 76 bpm. By the time we reached the vet check, he pulsed through in less than four minutes with a heart rate of 50. A few bites to eat, more water and we swung into a ground-eating stepping pace towards the next two canyons.
The total distance between the start of the first canyon and the end of the third Volcano Canyon is only eighteen miles, but it took us over five hours to get it done. We had climbed 3,790’ and descended 5,091’—-a lot of it on narrow, rocky trails but with heartbreaking scenery, traveling past historic mining towns and the rusty bones of abandoned gold mining equipment.
As we made our last climb coming into the second one-hour hold at Foresthill, I felt John’s gait change just a bit. Looking down, I saw a bare foot—-his odd gaits make him notorious at overreaching and he had pulled off a shoe. We hand-walked him into the check, where he quickly pulsed through and over to the vets.
Head veterinarian Greg Fellers, DVM watched him jog out and back and told me, “Susan, it’s only 7:30 and you have just 32 miles to go. Even if you just put a boot on and walked him the rest of the way, you have time to make it in. You have a lot of horse left. Go take care of your horse and go get it done.”
My crew shooed me away to go eat, clean up and change clothes (oh, the joy of clean socks and a washcloth) while they scrambled to fit boots. Julie made the call to pull the other front shoe to keep him as even as possible, but our previously prepared boots weren’t fitting quite right. She and husband Ken ransacked the camp hustling up a pair of boots in the right size. At my out time, I came back to boots I’d never seen before, and that John had never worn in practice rides. Nevertheless, we mounted up and headed for the out gate, hoping the angels were on our side.
Did I mention John had never worn boots like this before? As we left, he was moving like he was wearing swim fins, trying to figure out this new feeling. Trying out something new at a ride is a cardinal sin in endurance, and an even worse idea at Tevis—-let alone 68 miles into the ride and about to head down the steep switchbacks of the California Loop in the dark.
As we walked down the main street of Foresthill, I thumped myself for not checking the fit of his tried-and-true boots just before the ride. How could I have been so dumb? I toyed with the idea of turning back and asking for a Rider Option before I made things worse. Later, my crew said that as I left the out-gate, with John walking like a duck, they all agreed, “She won’t make it. They’ll have to turn back and pull.” Gesa’s spirit would have to be satisfied with being spread over just 68% of the Tevis trail.
Just as I was picking up the reins to turn around and head back to quit, John’s walk smoothed out. He’d gotten the hang of these things now, and voluntarily picked up his pace to a big, swinging walk. He stretched his neck, asking for the bit and looking down the road, knowing where he was headed.
God hates a coward, and my horse was telling me he was good to go. So we went.
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Final chapter of our Tevis story, and I sincerely thank every one for their kind interest. The point of this Nordic saga isn’t about me, or even about John Henry, though he is truly a great horse (I might be biased). It’s about all of us who meet our challenges with less than perfect bodies, a less than perfect life, and riding not necessarily the typical endurance horse. We all have other distractions in life. We all have a back story. We just need to tell them.
As we headed down into the California Loop, it was turning from dusk to twilight and then full dark. The moon would not rise for several hours, and when it did, much of its light would be hidden beneath heavy tree cover. I had put several glow bars on John Henry’s breast collar, but not for his benefit. His night vision is far superior to mine and he could see just fine. If I could barely see the outline of his head in front of me, I wouldn’t get vertigo and could balance better on the ten miles down through narrow switchbacks and alongside steep drop-offs to the American River. I had a red light on the brim of my helmet, and was carrying a flashlight, but left them both off. Nothing is more disruptive to the horse’s night vision, or to other riders around you, than flashing white lights.
I was hoping that John would maintain a good walk after learning how to move in unfamiliar boots put on as a spare tire in Foresthill. Walking steadily would get us in on time, barring anything else going wrong. However, as we traveled, his movement became more confident and he voluntarily picked up an easy stepping pace when the footing was good. We moved along steadily, and I concentrated on staying well centered. I couldn’t see the turns of the switchbacks, and John knows he’s the pilot after dark. As he swung around sharp rollback turns, it was my job to just move with him.
Seventeen miles and three hours after leaving Foresthill, we came into the Francisco’s checkpoint at 85 miles. It was now 11:30 at night, still in the high eighties without a breeze, but we were feeling strong. John was eating voraciously, his hydration and metabolics were good and he sailed through the check with a pulse of 56 four minutes after coming in. I grabbed a flake of wet hay as we left and handed down snatches of it for him to munch as we made our way towards the river crossing at 90 miles.
I had never crossed the river, certainly not at night, and was feeling uneasy about it, not knowing what to expect. With his swimming background, I knew John would plunge right into the water, and he did. He stopped chest deep to take a long drink while I scooped water onto his neck and shoulders, and then marched across. Glow sticks in floating gallon jugs marked our exact path and volunteers were standing by to help if needed.
Some riders advise pulling your feet up out of the water to avoid cold water cramps. Julie Suhr, undisputed queen of the Tevis trail, had advised me differently, saying that after 90 long, hot miles, nothing will feel better than that cool water on your feet. She was right, it felt fabulous. I knew I would be staying in the saddle from here on in, except at our last remaining check point and the finish line, and I wasn’t worried about blisters from running in wet shoes.
On the far side of the river, the trail narrows for a mile or so and we came up behind a string of riders with flashlights in all directions and glow sticks dangling everywhere, including off the tail of the last horse right in front of us. There was no way to pass, but the lights were starting to make me a little nauseous, and I could tell John was impatient, repeatedly pulling at the bit. I politely called ahead that we would like to pass when the trail allowed and heard a reply that they would pull over when they could.
A mile down the trail, now thoroughly tired of seeing flashlights ahead, I heard the call, “It’s wider here, would you like to pass?” YES, WE WOULD. With a grateful thank you for their courtesy as we jogged past, we were in the clear and alone again. I have no aversion to riding with friends at times, but here tonight, I only wanted to be out there with my horse, my ride and this trail in the moonlight, listening to the whisper of the river. It’s part of the magic of Tevis.
Once past the crowd, I dropped the reins onto John’s neck. He knows that this is my signal to him that our speed is his choice. He could walk if that’s what he needed to do, or anything else. I expected him to drop into his usual working gait, an efficient stepping pace of around 7 mph, but he had other ideas. As soon as he felt the invitation, he stretched his neck forward and broke into a 12 mph hand gallop. Surprised, I bumped him back just a bit, thinking he had misunderstood, but he’d understood exactly. He said it was time to go and he knew we were headed for home.
The thought crossed my mind that this was completely crazy, riding a horse at a gallop in the dark, on trail unfamiliar to me, after already having done 90 miles of the meanest trail on the planet in record heat. The moon was up but the trees overhead prevented me from seeing anything other than patches of light reflecting off the river to our right. I also thought to myself, “Either you trust your horse, or you don’t.”
I bumped John gently in the mouth once more, asking, “Are you sure this is what you want to do?”. He tugged again, relaxed and moving easily, not putting a foot wrong, clearly telling me, “Mom. I got this. Just ride.”
So I did.
When asked what was the best part of their Tevis ride, many riders have replied it was receiving their award buckle, getting out of the saddle for the last time, or taking a shower afterwards to wash off the sweat and grime. For me, our best moment will always be galloping in the dark ten miles from the finish. Not seeing a hand in front of me, catching the breeze against my face, feeling the muscles of my horse beneath as familiar and necessary to me as is wind to a hawk. In that moment, galloping together, we weren’t just riding for a buckle. We were gods, if just for that moment, and that memory would have been enough to last a lifetime.
The lights of Lower Quarry at 94 miles, our last checkpoint before the finish, came into view and we jogged in, John as nonchalant as ever. I worried that having galloped the last two miles would affect his ability to reach pulse criteria without taking time to relax and be sponged down. He cruised in, pleased as punch with himself, took a deep drink and was at 56 bpms.
We vetted straight through and I let John slurp up some mash while I wolfed a half-sandwich from the table. Processed turkey and American cheese on Wonderbread had never tasted so good. I grabbed another flake of hay to hand down to John as we rode and we were off on the final six miles to the finish.
As we got closer to the Overlook, the trail narrowed to singletrack and at last John was content to just walk up the last 500’ climb behind a line of other dirty, tired horses and riders. After our long journey together, it was almost an anticlimax to see the finish line ahead of us and to give our number to the WSTF volunteers. I heard my husband call out to me, “Did you wait around on the trail so you could come in JUST then???” I didn’t know what he meant—he later explained that I had crossed the finish line within two minutes of our ride plan, something I never would have expected after all of our ups and downs of the day.
We finished at 3:12 a.m., with a ride time just shy of 20 hours, in 29th place. John was the only gaited horse to finish that day and one of only two horses to finish that did not have at least 50% Arabian heritage. The other non-Arab was a tough little Appy named Crow Pony, who finished at 4:32 a.m. with Robert Ribley picking up his 13th Tevis buckle.
We were five hours behind the winning horse (my friend Rusty Toth on his great horse Quake) and 2 1/2 hours out of Top Ten. It didn’t matter—-we hadn’t come for a placing, just for a buckle and to see what this kind, humorous shouldn’t-be-an-endurance-horse-but-let’s-do-it-anyway, endlessly tough horse could do. And what I could do with him, and myself, as well.
As we entered McCann Stadium for our ceremonial victory lap before going to the vets, I once again heard the now-familiar comment from onlookers, “THAT horse finished? What breed is he?” My friend Jonni Jewell, who was leading us down, turned with a smile and told them, “He’s a Tennessee Walker. That’s John Henry. He’s not the average Tevis horse.”
John picked up a jog and I remembered one last thing we had come to do. I reached down to my right pommel bag and gave it one more tap. The last pinch of the ashes of endurance rider Gesa Brinks sifted down onto the ground as we crossed under the banner. It was the best we could do.
John passed his final check and my crew shooed me away to go clean up, eat and nap while Julie and her minions took over taking care of John. After washing him, feeding and wrapping his legs, Julie curled up in a chair next to his stall for the next five hours to watch over him. While I get to wear the buckle, Julie and my crew had worked as hard and earned it every bit as much as John Henry and I had.
There is just one more chapter to our story. Later that afternoon, we arrived for the BBQ, still tired but exhilarated and looking forward to the awards. That was a year in which Legacy buckles were available—-buckles that had previously been earned by earlier riders, many of them multiple buckle winners, who had generously donated them back to be awarded again to a first-time finisher. I had signed up, but had no idea whose buckle I would be handed.
As I crossed the stage and headed back towards my seat, I couldn’t wait any longer. I pulled out the buckle that, while newly polished, had the patina of a sterling silver buckle that had been well worn and well loved. I turned it over to read the inscription, ‘Julie Suhr - Marinera - 1966.’ It was finally too much for me, and I burst into tears. Julie later told me she had picked out that particular buckle because her Peruvian mare Marinera had also been a gaited horse.
Some weeks later, I looked up the date that Julie had originally won that buckle that I now wore. It was her second of 22 buckles she eventually earned, and she did it on July 30, 1966.
Julie had no way of knowing, but that date was just three months after my mother, born the same year as Julie, had died of breast cancer. The same breast cancer that killed her, had taken Gesa Brink’s life and tried to take mine. Of the three of us, I was the only survivor. At the time of my mother’s death and Julie’s 1966 Tevis, I was six years old. I had no idea at all about what Tevis was, or about the buckle being worn by a tough, kind horsewoman who would give it to me, 47 years later. I was just a little kid that loved horses.
John Henry and I went again to the starting line at Robie the following two years, and finished both times. In 2015, I had terrible leg cramps for the last half of the ride that turned out to be a side effect from an infusion three weeks earlier as part of my ongoing cancer treatment. John had to work harder than I had planned to carry us through, but carry us through he did.
In 2016, I loaned him to a friend, Lisa Schneider, who rode him to her seventh buckle and John Henry’s fifth—-four of them in a row, and his fifth completion out of six starts. It tied him for the record for gaited horse completions, a record that has stood for over forty years.
As I write this at my desk, where we now live in Tevis country looking out onto Tevis trail across the road, I can see my horses out grazing in the pastures in front. It’s close to 100 degrees outside and John Henry—no dummy when it comes to heat— is standing in the water tank splashing around like a duck.
Will we go to Tevis again and try to break that forty year old record? Maybe. I’ve learned not to predict what John Henry is going to want to do next. I’ll just keep riding him, see if he says, “Let’s go” or not, and be grateful for this magnificent soul in my life.
Someday, I’ll have his name, and mine, engraved onto the back of that 1966 Tevis buckle next to Julie Suhr’s and Marinera’s. Someday there will be another gaited horse finishing their first Tevis, and we’ll pass along that buckle to them.
But not quite yet.
