by Rowanne Fairchild
I pulled myself from sleep and rocked from my hammock, finding the shaft of my riding boots with my toes. Exhaustion blurred what was already hard to see in this midnight dark, but still I searched for him in the paddock, until his hard outline emerged from the softer darkness.
My spaniel, Annie, unwound from her tight ball at the base of the tree and sat up with a huff. She followed as I made my way towards the horse, and he waited by the gate, still and watchful. The sight of him upright, alert, calm, was enough to give me hope.
Yukon greeted me by snuffling my shirt, and I ran my hands down his side, feeling as well as listening for the sound of his belly before pressing my ear to his flank, praying for the snare drum pap or the landslide rumble of movement that meant not dying.
Silence.
I slid his halter over his nose, eased open the gate, and took him on a walk.
It was only 3 A.M., and it had been a long nineteen hours. When Yukon had presented with colic symptoms the previous morning, I’d started treatment right away: no food, lots of access to water, constant walking, and Banamine, that potent musculoskeletal anti-inflammatory drug that horse people love. Finding him in this lethargic state of distress was the worst way to begin a heavy work day. Colic was something horse people fear more than most things. Known as the “number one horse killer,” it can strike without warning and take the best horses in the prime of their life. This wasn’t something a vaccine could prevent–the only option was to give horses the best care, and then pray.
And still, we had programs to run. Located in dense virgin wilderness, our ranch at Cascades Camp was still operating at full tilt, even in the smoky haze and blazing heat of August. It was a full week of Ranch Intensives, with campers, staff, and horses operating on precise and synchronized schedules. There was no room, no time to keep Yukon from dying of colic. The rotation of arenas and trail rides and specialized courses couldn’t accommodate. Any available resources had gone towards walking him, making sure he drank water, keeping him from dropping to the ground. If he rolled, he was done for, and at 1,100 pounds of belligerent, soft-hearted, hoggish muscle, it took a lot of people to keep him from rolling when he wanted. He was a massive Fjord and Quarter Horse cross the color of blue steel who struck awe in the hearts of guests and campers alike, but that day he’d only made us feel dread.
Yukon and I made our way through the ranch, passing in and out of pools of light cast by the barn’s motion sensors. Annie darted ahead, nose to the ground, a barely distinguishable smudge in the dark. The evergreen forest rose in a dense shield around the perimeter. The bull frogs in the nearby marsh bellowed unhindered. I studied the closed up sky as we walked, one hand on his shoulder to steady myself.
The gravel road was loud underfoot as we rounded Headquarters and doubled back by the arenas, passing by the tie stalls and tack room. I tried not to think about how I’d be back here in less than four hours, and how tired I’d be as I led my team in another day full of bible studies and horseback riding and relational ministry, another day of keeping Yukon alive. Our steps were quieted as we passed over the carefully watered lawn, and I questioned, not for the first time, why we were doing all this for him.
The rest of my staff was also on hour-long shifts throughout the night. They were pulling equally with me because they insisted on helping. I’d even argued that they should rest instead and let me bear the load, let me be the one to bear the sleeplessness so they could be attentive to their students the next day. They heard none of it, because they were a good team. But I knew we would all carry the toll of sacrifice in the morning.
I suppose we did it because we loved Yukon. He made it hard sometimes, when he ripped thirty feet of fencing out just because he could, or when campers would wail because he wouldn’t stop eating on trail rides, or when he’d snatch your shirt in his teeth when you weren’t paying attention. But the liquid softness of his eyes and his willingness to always serve, no matter the task, always won me over.
Still, I hoped all this effort would be worth it.
After twenty minutes, we returned to the paddock, where I un-haltered him before taking a seat in his tire feeder. The vet had said twenty minutes of walking, twenty minutes of rest, then repeat. The vet had also said he’d be out again before nightfall to put Yukon down, he didn’t expect him to make it. And here we were, twelve hours later, but Yukon still hadn’t pooped. A horse’s bowel movements had never been so important, and threw all other concerns into stark relief. We just needed this one movement from him. Until that happened, we were very much in the woods.
Yukon made his way over and rested his forehead on my chest. I scratched behind his ears and down his crest where I’d cut his mane short. His grulla coat shimmered silver in the starlight, and I hugged his head.
I fell asleep for an instant, until he butted his head against my cheek and nearly knocked me to the dirt. And I thought again, I really hope you live. I need you to live. I hope all this work is worth it.
So often with colic, it’s not. It doesn’t matter what treatment is done and how quickly, the call has already been made. But with all this extra energy we were investing in him, I physically hurt with wanting him to make it.
And how could I do anything less? How could I not give one hundred percent to him who’d helped teach me as a child, and for whom I was now responsible? Yukon had come to the ranch when I was only ten. He’d had a wedge in his side from an old injury, and was a bully as well as easily spooked, but we were all enamored. A handful of horses still remained from my childhood and they were especially precious to me, the firstborn heirs to a kingdom.
We went out walking again before the end of my shift, and I leaned into him more, letting the strength of him hold me up. We took our time lapping the ranch, savoring the chance to walk slow until dawn came, and we would have to walk everywhere fast.
As we walked, I didn’t regret going to such lengths for him. It comes with the territory, I suppose. In camping ministry, you wake up and give your all–heart, body, and spirit–because it gives back to you in your own giving, an endless current of asking and generosity. And if Yukon didn’t make it, if he died in the paddock with me that night, at least I’d be with him and know I had no regrets about how he’d been loved. And I’d go into the blazing August work day with the air of forest fires in my lungs, and I’d give my all to these kids and the staff who chose to follow me that summer, and the horses whose lives I stewarded, and it would be enough.
Rowanne Fairchild is the former Ranch Manager at Cascades Camp and Conference Center in Yelm, WA. She received her undergraduate degree in English Composition at Whitworth University, and her writing has appeared in Whitworth’s 2014 Script publication. Yukon survived this episode of colic, but passed away from a repeated episode exactly one year later.
