Asher on Aspen: Saddle up, sister

I smelled them before I even saw them. That thick, raw, unmistakable musk of horse — sweat, leather, hay — hitting my nostrils like a door from the past swinging wide open. It was earthy and strong, with just a hint of something sour. A smell that sticks to your clothes and under your fingernails. A smell that yanks me straight back to childhood — standing beside my father at the stables down the road, palms outstretched, feeding apple slices through the slats in the fence to gentle giants with curious eyes and twitchy upper lips.

TLazy7 Ranch is where Maroon Creek Outfitters runs their operation, a slice of old Aspen tucked between the trees, untouched by the noise of town. You pull in, and the asphalt turns to gravel, and the gravel turns to trail, and suddenly time gets fuzzy. The girls — my nieces, Bridie, 11, and Hattie, 9 — were bouncing with nervous energy, their excitement camouflaged by fidgety hands and stiff smiles. Erin, my older sister, and I exchanged a look. She’s been on a horse before, but it’d been years. It was the girls’ first time — but Erin and I were just as excited.

We were signed up for the one-hour ride — an easy loop through groves of aspen trees, along a gurgling snowmelt stream, over dirt packed hard from generations of hoof traffic. A mellow ride, they said. Perfect for beginners. But horses don’t care about your experience level. They care about energy. You have to show up present, patient, and just confident enough to fake it. You can’t lie to a horse. They feel things we’ll never understand. They’re prehistoric creatures, ancient in soul and soft in eye.

Bridie got Haley. Hattie was on Scout. Erin mounted Calypso. I climbed aboard Amarillo, a calm palomino with a slow blink and a sturdy gait. Amarillo had the seasoned composure of a beast that had seen a thousand mornings just like this one and would see a thousand more. We moved single file, like something out of an old Western, winding through a trembling grove of aspens. It felt as if the trees whispered secrets only the horses could decipher.

Our guide was Adam, a Rip Wheeler character with chaps, a sharp jawline, and a voice that cut through the morning like spurs on concrete. His horse was named Stan. Solid name. No fluff. Adam had a 10-year-old daughter and a soft spot for kids who faced their fears. He told us his mother had been the one who got him into riding. She passed a few years back, but he keeps going — for her, and now for his daughter.

“It’s so cool,” he said, “to get a kid on a horse who’s terrified and then watch them overcome it. You see it click. It’s wild.”

The girls were scared at first — white knuckles on the reins, darting eyes, stiff backs — but something shifted halfway through. A breath released. The horses responded. Their shoulders dropped. They found rhythm. Found courage. Horses do that. They pull the tension right out of you.

Adam told us that horses really only care about two things: food and each other: “You’ll notice,” he said, “if one stops to pee, they all stop.” Mimicry. Survival. Some kind of ancient horse code. He talked about how intuitive they are — more than most people realize. You have to be gentle but firm, he said. Show them who’s in charge without pushing too hard. Like any good relationship, it’s a balance of respect and trust.

There was a moment — riding through the dappled light, trees flickering past like a slow reel of film — where I felt utterly, completely at peace. Something about the steady clomp of hooves and the sound of the creek bubbling nearby. Something about watching my nieces gain confidence with each passing minute. Something about Amarillo and the way her ears twitched every time I spoke to her. Maybe I did know horses in a past life. I’ve always felt drawn to them in a way that’s hard to explain.

Back at the barn, the girls slid off their horses beaming. The nerves were gone, replaced by something electric and wild. They ran to me with breathless excitement, each trying to outdo the other. Bridie loved Haley. Hattie wanted to ride every day. Erin looked at me with that older sister pride, like we’d pulled something big off together.

And maybe we had. There’s power in introducing a child to a horse. You’re handing them the reins to something primal. Something with a heartbeat and hooves and a mind of its own. You’re saying, “Here. Trust it. Trust yourself.” And sometimes, that’s all it takes — a quiet trail, a steady horse, and a little bit of trust — to remember what we’re made of.