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If somebody asks if you want to go riding, your first obligation is to tell that person how good a rider you are, and what you’re afraid of. (A cliff on one side, a hundred-foot drop on the other.) Your choices are beginner, intermediate, and advanced. This isn’t the time to try to impress anybody by claiming you’re an “advanced” rider when you’re not.  

Riding a horse, even a rent-string horse, offers you a different way of seeing the country. One of the most memorable rides I’ve ever taken was on the Big Island of Hawaii, in the Waipio Valley. It was a lonely spot and hard to reach—at least when I visited—where herds of feral horses roam the valley floor, eating whatever they can find, including coffee leaves and beans. To get there, a friend and I (our husbands stayed in Kona) drove her car to a view area above the valley, where we were met by an affable young man driving a pickup. We sat in the bed while he drove down the steepest road I’ve ever seen.  Vehicles coming up from the valley had the right-of-way, since they only have one reverse gear. On the valley floor, we bounced across a shallow river, past abandoned sugar cane fields, and finally reached the barn itself.

The owner/guide was a competent, friendly young woman who immediately asked how well we could ride, sized up how we were dressed, and selected horses for us. By then it was about ten o’clock. The three of us rode slowly past deserted coffee plantations and through groves of palm trees, overgrown with vegetation that resembled the house plants I had at home, but on steroids. Since I was riding a green-broke three-year-old mare, I wondered what I would do if one of those feral stallions came bursting through the jungle on a caffeine high to claim my mare for his herd. Luckily I never had to make that decision.   

The scenery changed every sixty seconds, and suddenly we were faced with the vast,  glittering Pacific Ocean, stretching toward the horizon like a sheet of blue-white glass. When we reached the beach, our guide told us that the area was often used to introduce Peace Corps volunteers to life on a Pacific Island. The setting was certainly idyllic enough, but building a shelter from thunderstorms would have been a task. (When the trade winds blow on the Big Island, mornings are usually clear, but it usually rains in the afternoon.) We stopped, picked a spot on the beach, and had a lunch of taro chips, poi, and other snacks. Our guide pointed out the trails that crisscrossed the cliffs opposite the one we had driven down earlier and said that they had been made by “nightingales,” donkeys that had packed supplies into the valley and coffee back out in the old days. Their descendants were the feral donkeys that, like the horses, still roamed the valley. We heard them braying once or twice but never saw one.

If you do trail ride, in this country or any other, find out the basics before you make an appointment. I always pick up brochures at the hotel to see who offers trail rides. They can be pretty funny. Describing a trip to a river that ended in a spectacular waterfall, one brochure  warned tourist not to drink out of the river because “wild bores” upstream liked to urinate in it.  Do you prefer to ride English or Western? (In some countries, “Western” is called “American.”) Is the stable area clean and well kept? Is the equipment—saddle, bridle, bit—in good shape?  How about the horses?  Are they well-kept and in good shape, or skinny, worn-out plugs so barn sour that the guide hands you a whip? Do your homework—browse the internet, and read other people’s comments. I refuse to patronize stables that abuse their horses, and so should you.     

And the most important question: should you be honest about your level of expertise? 

Always. 

Joan Fry is a lifelong horse lover and the author of “Backyard Horsekeeping: The Only Guide You’ll Ever Need” (The Lyons Press, Revised Edition, 2007). She can be reached via email at joan@joanfry.com.

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