You Never Can Tell With Bees, by Stephanie

I was one of the few campers who brought my own mount to the riding school that week, and Pacer quickly became known by the instructors as the guest who was a true saint among ponies: In fact, when one punky little mare had bucked off her rider twice in a lesson that week, the instructor put me on the perturbed little pony and swapped the frightened rider to sweet Pacer as a confidence-builder. (I got bucked off, too, as it were.) But back to our story: The particularly memorable day involved a walking trail ride, which on any other morning probably would’ve been quite dull. Our camp instructor was ahead of us on a path at the edge of a clearing when the second or third pony in the line began balking, refusing to go forward on the path. Cue from the instructor: “Stephanie, please bring Pacer through so the others will follow.” Pacer complied until she hit the same invisible wall the previous ponies had … and wouldn’t budge. I squeezed her forward with all my might. Within a few moments Pacer obediently walked on (bless her). She got stung. She bucked. I landed in the hornets’ nest. I got stung. Much of the rest of the day is a blurry memory, but I know it involved an uncomfortable pony, an abundance of tears, a swollen thumb, and a Benadryl coma. One of my more exciting memories from riding camp as a kid involved a trail ride on my 20-year-old grade pony, Pacer. I was one of the few campers who brought my own mount to the riding school that week, and Pacer quickly became known by the instructors as the guest who was a true saint among ponies: In fact, when one punky little mare had bucked off her rider twice in a lesson that week, the instructor put me on the perturbed little pony and swapped the frightened rider to sweet Pacer as a confidence-builder. (I got bucked off, too, as it were.) But back to our story: The particularly memorable day involved a walking trail ride, which on any other morning probably would’ve been quite dull. Our camp instructor was ahead of us on a path at the edge of a clearing when the second or third pony in the line began balking, refusing to go forward on the path. Cue from the instructor: “Stephanie, please bring Pacer through so the others will follow.” Pacer complied until she hit the same invisible wall the previous ponies had … and wouldn’t budge. I squeezed her forward with all my might. Within a few moments Pacer obediently walked on (bless her). She got stung. She bucked. I landed in the hornets’ nest. I got stung. Much of the rest of the day is a blurry memory, but I know it involved an uncomfortable pony, an abundance of tears, a swollen thumb, and a Benadryl coma. Fast-forward 26 years to last weekend, on a shaded trail in southwestern Virginia. I was the last one in a walking-trail-ride string of three. The riding outfitters aptly warned my mom and me that our mounts weren’t fans of horseflies. Pretty standard among horses, I thought, so I wasn’t surprised when my mom’s gelding stopped and began swishing his tail and kicking late in the ride. We all stopped and I tried to assist, looking to spot the horsefly (to help Mom kill it) and puzzling over why nothing seemed to be landing on the horse. His swishing and kicking intensified. Right about the time my horse began wringing his tail, kicking, and then bucking in place, I spotted Mom’s horse’s flying assailant, and it was yellow. I tried to ride my horse forward, away from the bees, but he stayed put. And bucked, and kicked. And bucked some more. I’m not sure if it was instinct to stay there, or if he knew he was not supposed to get ahead of the trail guide. I stayed on, and within a few minutes we (as a group) moved away from the threat, but not without a few stings on my mount’s hind leg, and a couple on my neck.