Nebel
by Gail Folkins

 

I step from Georg’s car to the barnyard and inhale Swiss fog. Georg, husband of a co-worker and an avid horseman, wants to take me on a winter ride. While I’ve been avoiding the riding instructor for a few weeks, he’s tired of sitting inside and avoiding Nebel, a Swiss cloud cover that blankets the mountains and takes the blame at work for bad moods. It’s been this way for a month or so: overcast skies, a heavy workload, and German words that don’t come fast enough.

Georg saddles a friend’s horse, a gray gelding named Aldo, so I can borrow Georg’s horse, Yoki. Yoki blends European and American tastes. He looks like the tall, high-strung horses I ride in America, yet his obedience and precision are all Swiss. He stands still, only his breath moving in a cold cloud, while I screw cleats into his metal shoes for traction.

At the moment I start to lead Yoki out of his stall, the riding instructor appears, her hair in damp waves and her face soft and indefinite. I look at her a moment, not used to seeing her this way. Usually, she binds her light-brown hair in a tight, unyielding bun. The first time I rode here, she’d found me just as unkempt as I’d found her rigid; today, I’m the one with hair neatly hidden beneath a helmet. This shift, however subtle, gives me hope we can ease the boundaries between us, recasting our history just a little. The instructor and I trade a look that’s neither smile nor frown, an uneasy truce before she turns away.

The first time Georg brought me to the stable, the riding instructor, who like me was in her thirties, stared from my tennis shoes to the bangs hanging in my eyes. “You’ll ride after I take the other group out.” She walked past me in dismissal, her own thick hair pushed tight inside a riding helmet.

Georg wrapped his broad hands on the fence rail and tried his best not to look nervous for me. “You can start grooming Bruno,” he said. “Visit the foals if you get bored while we’re gone.”

I waved him on so he wouldn’t be late for his own riding lesson. I wasn’t concerned, not yet. I’d enjoyed riding in America, and would have fun here, too, taking a weekly lesson for the next few months of my year working in Switzerland. Unlacing my tennis shoes, I struggled with my tall riding boots, their leather dry and cracking. I rode English style in Texas, wearing the formal boots only for horse shows or when a new instructor came to town. Otherwise, it was ankle boots with a heel and half-chaps that reached to my knees, just enough gear to stay on the horse.

On the concrete floor of a tack room, I fidgeted with the boots. Oiled bridles draped from hooks; brushes hid inside labeled drawers. Saddle soap smell mixed with sharp liniment. I didn’t see any boot-pulling tools and wasn’t about to go digging through the drawers for them. Instead, I walked down the barn aisle, trying to make my heels sink into the stove-pipe leather. The two foals Georg told me about flicked their tails and made small circles in their stalls. With their mothers being ridden, these youngsters tasted an initial separation, an early step in ordered lives to come.

I walked over to Bruno’s stall. A half-draft horse gelding, Bruno chewed his straw bedding and looked at me with purple-brown eyes. He had the same name as my boss at work, along with the same polite acceptance. Both were also tall. After brushing the gelding in even strokes and picking out his feet, I tightened the girth to keep the English saddle in place. Bruno put his head down to accept the bridle. I didn’t see any steps to help me climb on, so I scaled him from the ground, making the left stirrup longer so I could reach it with my foot.

Georg, back from his riding lesson, directed me to a small riding arena. Three sides were lined by stalls and tack rooms, while the fourth opened up to the cloud-topped mountain. Along the railing, a group of curious Swiss riders gathered.

“Speak to her slowly,” Georg said to the instructor.

My face reddened.

“She doesn’t know all the horse terms in German,” Georg said.

The instructor, her expression unchanging, moved to the center of the arena. “Trab.”

I moved Bruno into a trot that lugged around the riding arena. My legs squeezed against the horse’s side to turn him; he ignored them. Reins crept out of my hands and turned into long spaghetti.

The riding instructor spit out commands for walk, trot, and canter. Bruno lengthened his body, becoming more unbalanced with each transition. He carried himself using his front legs rather than his hind, making the ride uneven and heavy. Between teeth-jarring bumps I sat up straight and kept my heels down, moves I’d learned in America. I patted Bruno when we were finished and walked to the center, eager for a reaction from the onlookers. They kept watching, a jury who neither smiled nor scowled.

In shining boots and smooth riding pants, the instructor grasped the reins and summoned another student. “We’ll have someone show you.”

A teenager, her spiked hair dyed black, mounted Bruno without lengthening the stirrup. Using stern leg pressure, she commanded the horse to move. He bounded forward with hindquarters that pushed instead of lagging. The girl’s reins shortened, holding Bruno in collected yet comfortable form. I marveled at this different horse she rode.

“I thought it would be easier to show you,” the instructor said.

The pale girl rode up to me and hopped off the horse as if she were a mere five inches from the ground rather than five feet. I remounted with firmer legs and shorter reins. Bruno, remembering his most recent rider, sprang forward and stayed collected, his hind legs bearing more weight. All my muscles, used to a lighter touch on a horse, ached to keep control. My legs quivered when they found firm ground again. I patted Bruno and leaned on him a little so I wouldn’t fall over.

The instructor, her helmet off, strode up to us. “You can cool him out.” She paused to smooth Bruno’s forelock under the headpiece before looking at me again. “You can ride with us in a group lesson next week.” She walked away, her hair knot bobbing with every step. 

From the rail, a smile twitched across Georg’s face. “You see now,” he said. “It’s not like your little Arabian horses.”

I grinned and led Bruno, his steps even and steady, back to the barn.                            

Georg and I ride Aldo and Yoki up the mountain and into the clouds. I’m glad for my red jacket lined with fleece and the hat that covers my ears. The horses make fresh hoof prints in the snow and their warm breath curls upwards. I touch drifts that line tree branches and trace the frost in small leaves I find. This snowfall, several days old, still grasps the forest between ice and Nebel.

Yoki snorts and bobs his head. The cleats on his shoes give him confidence in the icy footing. Ahead of us, Aldo’s gray coat blends against the wintry backdrop; only Georg’s blue jacket makes him visible. The higher we go, the thicker the snow and the closer the clouds.

Georg crashes through the underbrush and I follow, not knowing if there’s a trail but trusting him. He disappears on Aldo, and I urge Yoki into gnarled trees while snow spills on my shoulders. I don’t mind the physical chill—the precision of my last riding lesson was even colder.

I see a brightening in the open space ahead and aim towards it. In a clearing of indigo-painted sky, jagged Alps pierce the Nebel. The air thins, snow glitters, and fog rests below us. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve seen the sun, the sight of it against the icy sky freezing me in place. Yoki, sensing my hesitation, slows.

A few paces ahead, George turns Aldo around to face us. “Ready for a gallop?” His eyes reflect the bright sky. Aldo’s legs are invisible in the white snow surrounding them.

Georg must know I’ll say yes, but I nod anyway as he spins Aldo around. The gray horse flies across the field. I forget the rules and squeeze Yoki into a dead run to catch up. Both horses’ ears flit back while their hooves plant half moons in the snow, the evergreens beside us waving snowy arms in the breeze we make. 

For my first group riding lesson, I rode Pipo, a small, stout Swiss breed called a Freiburg. His eyes rolled sideways with too much intent behind them. The minute I opened the stall door, Pipo bolted out while the other horses murmured at the commotion. He didn’t run far before stopping at the watering trough and sucking in large breaths of water. I grabbed his halter. The riding instructor walked by without a glance. I loosened my hold on Pipo and tried to catch her attention. “Is he that thirsty?”

Her eyebrows darted up. “No. It’s a game. He does it to the children.”

I wondered what the horse would do once I was on him before remembering what a friend had said, about new things taking time here. After tacking Pipo up, I joined the other five horse and rider combinations snaking around the arena, keeping a tight rein so Pipo wouldn’t charge the horse ahead of him. Between tight maneuvers and making sure I didn’t run into anyone, I strained to catch the instructor’s German. When our turn came, I asked Pipo to canter. Instead, the little horse sped up his trot and lurched around the corner without bending his body, creating an oval-shape rather than a round one. I shook my head. “May I try again?”

The instructor stared at the rider behind me, whose horse curved in a perfect circle. “No. You and the horse aren’t working well together.” She sighed and turned to me for the briefest of moments. “I’m not sure what I can teach you in six months.” Her frown retightened as she focused on the next rider. 

My face burned from her words, which deemed me too short term, too hopeless for her instruction, not a good investment. Our chance gone, I aimed Pipo toward the rest of the group, who walked in careful steps around the arena’s edge. I did my best to keep the little horse’s nose from the tail in front of him. Maybe he was tired of order, fed up with perfect form and waiting for the right moment. Nebel floated down the hill and filled the arena until I couldn’t see anything.

Georg and I pull the horses up from their run. Fresh steam rises from our breath and fades into the impossibly blue skyline. I watch Yoki’s nostrils to make sure he’s not breathing too hard. Aldo paws the snow and looks ready for more. In front of us, mountaintops crowd close enough to touch.

“This time, you lead,” Georg says. His face is ruddy and his eyes glint through snow-spattered glasses. Climbing past the clouds is Georg’s gift, a reminder of how I ride in America.

I wait, inhaling cold air before tasting the warm release that’s coming. I’d spent so much time connecting with the order of Swiss life, it felt good to escape the closeness, to just ride for the sake of itself. With a hint of leg, I whisper in Yoki’s ear. It’s subtle, yet enough for the tall horse, who breaks into a four-beat stride I can barely hear against the snow. Though Aldo’s right behind us, I can’t hear him at all. Yoki stretches his legs to gain speed with ears swiveling forwards and back, ready for what’s next.

During one of my last Swiss riding lessons, I cantered on grasses under clouds and light rain. This time, I rode Jerry, a Freiburg like Pipo. I wondered if the two were related, because Jerry ran to the water trough just like Pipo unless I tied him up first.  They were both like a couple of commuters, terrified they’d miss the train.

The week before, I’d ridden a black gelding named Zorro. He was closer to the Thoroughbreds I knew, but fancier, with slender legs and a muzzle that could fit into a cup. His mane grew long in wavy strands. He reminded me of shoppers in downtown Zurich, clothed in dark elegance. We’d ridden into the forest that day for our lesson, each horse in single file while our instructor took the lead. Oak and maple trees, their leaves bronzed from the early cold, covered the hillsides. I steadied my legs on Zorro’s sides and kept an even hold on the bridle.

            “Everyone leg yield to the left,” the instructor said.

            The horses ahead of us moved sideways. This wasn’t an idle ride through the forest, but a new setting for work. I straightened my posture and put my right leg gently against Zorro, who floated left with the others. I wanted to lose myself in autumn leaves, but every step was productive. The minute we slowed down, I let Zorro sneak bites of grass. It would make the bit green, but I’d clean it before anyone saw.

Jerry didn’t try to eat, but pulled back on the reins to let me know he was impatient with standing still. I held him tight until the horse in front of us popped over a jump. Earlier, the owner of the stable told me Jerry needed both firmness and love. “They’re all individuals,” he’d said. He was right. The commands they knew and the order they lived were all a part of the culture I was learning. Although the riding instructor said it was impossible to teach me anything in a few months, I could still make the effort.

            “Form a line after me.” The instructor pointed her horse at a log on the ground. Her horse jumped it with precision and halted on the other side. The instructor’s eyes, steady and hard, watched us spring over the small log. After the last student cleared the jump, she led everyone to a final obstacle, a bank that sloped downhill. We watched her horse flick its tail before floating over the edge and pulling up to a perfect halt afterward.

Jerry fidgeted with the bit. I was next. I thought of the last time I’d jumped, with Zorro curling up like a cat across a tiny cross-rail. Maybe I’d given Zorro too much freedom, but the instructor’s frown couldn’t fade the colored leaves or the goat bells ringing like wind chimes in the fields around us. I was lucky to be jumping at all, I reminded myself—given the instructor’s reluctance, I needed to do my best.

With ears perked forward, Jerry approached the jump. I leaned back and gave him some rein, knowing he’d need it for balance on the other side. The horse took the rein and then some, swallowing the jump at twice its height. Mid-air, his body twisted one way and mine sailed the other, leaving Jerry on his feet and me in a slow-motion fall towards the ground. I rolled to my side and felt only shame from my failed attempt. I grabbed for the stirrup, but found Jerry’s hind leg rather than the leather strap I’d expected. Instead of kicking me, the horse stepped aside.

The instructor’s rain slicker swirled above me. She spun her horse around to snatch Jerry’s bridle and glared at me where I sat in the wet grass. “Are you crazy?” she hissed.

Yes, I thought to myself without looking at her, but not in the way she meant, not by falling off and trying to grab a horse’s leg. It wasn’t the ground I found so unyielding, but rules I didn’t understand and an order I didn’t fit. Maybe the instructor was right—my idea of horsemanship, born of adolescent rebellion and mountain gallops, was just too different. I climbed back up on the horse and headed for the barn, the lesson over.

It’s hard to leave clear skies for Nebel, but Georg and I walk the horses across the snow to a trail leading back down the mountain. When the hillsides lean too deep, we give the horses rein to help them balance. Near the end of the ride, we dismount and lead them, a Swiss riding habit I’ve decided to keep.

Once we reach the stable, I brush Yoki to make sure he’s cool before fastening a green blanket around him. The barnyard is quiet in the afternoon light, with no sign of other riders. Though its dark-brown timbers seem more forgiving framed in snow, I’m unsure if I’ll miss riding here. I’ll spend the rest of the winter hiking and doing a little skiing, sports where different approaches shouldn’t matter so much.

I stamp the snow off my boots and give Yoki a carrot. He crunches it into orange strands, most of which he catches, some falling into the straw. I take a moment to watch, though I need to hurry; Georg and his wife have invited me to their home for fish fondue. George waves at me from the end of the barn aisle. I shimmy out the stall door to meet him at the car. It’s okay if this is my last time riding here, I remind myself. There are activities besides riding, other ways to feel at home among the Swiss.

On the drive to Georg’s house, we pass neighborhood roofs lined in thick icicles. With no hint of the azure sky and silver snow we’d just seen, the afternoon light dulls back to Nebel. I stare outside, reconciling the order of daily fog with the blue-sky freedom we’d just experienced.  “Tuergi got a lot of snow,” I say. I want to break the stillness, lighten the thick drifts of snow along the road.

Georg turns to me and grins. “You can say your hometown now,” he says. His eyes spark fresh approval through round metal glasses. “You’re not pronouncing it like an American.”

I smile and look out the window.

The End

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