Ryan’s take: My horse was just hungry

Hrodlur, right, after surviving my maiden ride.

“It’s just like riding a bike,” one of the guides said as we mounted our horses.

It’s not.

In fairness, I think she was referring to the positioning of our feet in the stirrups – similar to where they should be on a bike pedal. That’s where I would say the similarities end.  

Hrödlur, my horse, tested me early on, as Elizabeth reported. We had to stop because someone (Elizabeth) was falling too far behind. And when we stopped to wait for that person (Elizabeth) and her horse to catch up, Hrödlur decided that was his chance to see how much he could get away with. Or else decided to wander off for a snack. Regardless of the reason, he turned right … and kept going.

I tried to tell him not to, but I’m pretty sure he was annoyed that I couldn’t pronounce his name.

Meanwhile, I’m looking for the handle bars or steering wheel or brakes. I’m pulling the reins and trying to remember whether my legs should be out to slow him down (they should) or whether I should squeeze him with my legs (I should not). I’m sure I was squeezing.

Finally, he relented and returned to the line after a combination of the guide yelling, no immediate grass for Hrödlur to eat where he took us and my bargaining with Hrödlur as I flailed around with my arms with the reins and my legs.

Eating ... again. 

After that, I’m proud to say we got a long swimmingly. Hrödlur did all the work, and I tried my best to stay on the saddle when we went faster.

But every time we stopped, Hrödlur jerked his head down and started eating anything he could.

Even if we stopped for just a second (usually to let Elizabeth catch up), Hrödlur went straight for the ground to munch.

Our guide said Icelandic horses eat at every chance they get because they have learned over generations to conserve energy both by eating a lot and limiting excess movements. Icelandic horses are smaller than American or European horses – but are larger than ponies. Note: Several souvenir shops sold t-shirts and coasters with cartoon Icelandic horses with annoyed expressions saying: I’m not a pony.

They’re also fiercely protected. No horses can be brought onto the island and once an Icelandic horse leaves the island, such as for a competition, the horse can never come back so as not to introduce any diseases. Even saddles used on horses outside Iceland aren’t allowed.

But these are a hardy bunch of horses who handle cold weather and steep hills all in stride.

The (semi)successful riders. 

Elizabeth on horses: Why Milla reminded me that I should never be in charge

And they're off!

Despite living for 13 years in Kentucky and covering seven Derbys, Ryan got his first hands-on experience with a horse on our trail ride with Icelandic horses.

I may have had the "expertise" – if that terms applies after passing a one-credit horseback riding course in college - but we were definitely the problem children for our instructor.




Ryan was aboard Hrodlur. Our troubles began about three minutes after mounting the horses. Picture three horses standing placidly in line behind the tour leader, then me about 15 feet behind, and then Ryan and Hrodlur 50 yards away while the guide yells "Mister, mister! Pull to the left!" Finally, Ryan convinced Hrodlur to return to formation. After that rocky start, Hrodlur calmed down wonderfully.

Snack break/photo break. 

Then there was me. Feisty is a deft description for my horse, Milla. She wanted to set her own pace rather than keep up with group, prompting many "Keep up! Closer! Closer!" directives from the guide.

Just a snack break. 

If we stopped for even a second, Milla was eating. Getting her to stop eating was a struggle. She'd make her own path when food was an option, and had no concern for whether her rider wanted to walk through that particular clump of bushes or where the other horses were going.

And when our group of six elected to speed up the pace, Milla wasn't content to follow the pack - she wanted to race for the lead and picked off the others. The instructor kept yelling "Shorten the reins!" and everyone knew she was most worried about me and Milla.

As we neared the end of the ride, even the instructor seemed to have given up on our cooperation. Milla and I were still trailing the pack by about 10 feet. I watched as the other four riders guided their horses into the paddock and readied to dismount. Milla, however, stopped a foot in front of the paddock and refused to move. I looked to the instructor in a panic, but by then even she was grinning: "Sorry, she's pooping. Give her a second."

Photos cannot do the setting justice. 

It illuminated why Sydney dog determines her walking routes, dining schedule, and wake-up times.
You know, basically running our household. The formidable will I inherited from my grandmother is apparently no match for any adorable animal, no matter the size.