A fine place to fall off

Below is what we affectionately call "Pasture #1" at the Farm. When I was about 8 we numbered them, the surrounding pastures we frequented on the horses. When I was a kid it was more isolated out there, paradise. It still of course takes my breath away and the changes are thus bearable and sometimes even nice.

I broke my arm twice in this particular pasture, my sister broke one arm in it, and collectively we busted our happy asses more times than I can count! Every injury a happy memory! As a competent horse rider I don't believe you've really ridden until you've sustained a few close calls and fairly serious injuries. After all if you don't get back on after you fall, how do you know you're serious about it? No "fair weather" riders in my family.
We would fall off, break a bone, ride the scolded horse back home, go to the hospital to get x-rays and casts, come home and sleep it off then get up the next day and get right back on! I remember holding my broken arm up and away from my body to try to lessen the shock from the bumpy gait of Judy's prissy trot or the smoother motion of an all out ass-hauling. I also remember laying in bed that first night after the injury, plaster cooling rapidly as it dried with that throbbing dull pain and swelling like a sausage inside that new white plaster, wondering how I'd ever fall asleep.
Falling off was always an interesting demonstration of the relativity of time; my experience of time changed in the few seconds it took place. There's always a point at which you realise you have lost your seat and can not recover. In that time you weigh your options, once you've decided you can't regain your balance you quickly shift to damage control mode; can I fall clear of the thundering hooves, can I roll out of the way as soon as I hit the ground? Every plausible option is considered and weighed in a matter of what must be split seconds. Then you find yourself falling slowly, the ground coming closer to your face as you think to yourself (or maybe scream at the top of your lungs?) "Oh nooooo!"
As soon as you make contact with the ground you seem to bump and roll and be tossed about, sometimes catching a hoof as the obnoxious and victorious horse makes haste away from the crime scene. The bumping seems in slow motion too but as soon as you are stopped you look up to see the horse a half a mile away from you hauling ass on thundering hooves and it seems like the whole event took five minutes. The worst is when you get the breath knocked out of you and can't cry because you have no air in your lungs! Then your sister makes her way back around to you to ask if you are okay before heading off to retrieve the offending animal and asses the damage. I always knew when a bone was broken instantly, sometimes replying to the question "are you okay" with a simple one word response: "broken". Then it's off to look for a good spot to get back on the horse and take an easy slow walk back towards home to deal with the consequences.
Of course more often than not it went pretty much like that minus the broken bone; still no fun, but always fun after in the retelling! Usually when no bones were broken it all ended in hysterical laughter! Everything we did was fun.
Oh the stories I could tell, and will, but right now it's time for the Sand Man to sweep me away to dreams I hope will take place in this pasture; free barefooted and bareback on a pony and a simple bridle to direct her. Maybe a switch picked to discourage unruly behavior and to swat pesky horseflies off her rump where her tail can't reach and wearing nothing but cut off jeans and a tank top; versatile clothes for spontaneous activities like riding the horses into the pond for a quick dip. We traveled light, I don't even remember carrying water! On occasion we'd bring a dollar tucked into a pocket to stop in Jack or Jimmy's store for a cold Cocola on a hot day.

Now that would be a good commercial for Coke. "Perfect for carrying along riding bare back on your horse".