The Mustang Diaries: Axl's First Ride

Yesterday, Axl graduated into a new chapter of his life; being ridden. It was his very first ride and then today marked his second, a monumental moment in every young colt's life.

Axl is eleven years old, and for ten of those years, he lived as a wild stallion in the White Mountain management area. The knowledge of that wildness does not disappear with a saddle and a halter; it glows in his eyes, it hums beneath his skin, a reminder that freedom is not given up lightly. Axl is absolutely breathtaking, a beautiful red roan with a long, flowing mane that cascades past his shoulders. There is a dignity in him that feels almost ancient, as though he carries the weather and the history of a hundred dry seasons in his heart.

I have spent months trying to understand that history without rushing to rewrite it. Training him since last June has not been about forcing his wild heart to submit but about translating a language—the language of instinct, of flight, of the visible and invisible cues that tell a horse when to move and when to listen.

We began last June, with groundwork, the slow, steady conversations on the ground that build trust without forcing proximity, the kind that teaches both horse and human to read the same signals and respond with equal patience. Axl learned how to regulate, how to follow, and when to relax. Finally, yesterday, he was ready to take the leap of faith into his first ride.

I settled into the saddle; it felt less like riding and more like listening—checking that my own rhythm did not disturb his, that my leg did not wake the old instincts that might still surge if he felt crowded or confined. The first minutes were almost contemplative. Axl moved with a careful, almost reluctant stride as if he had never before been so unsure of something. He was not yet relaxed in the way a seasoned horse feels easy in a trainer’s hands; there was a constant, careful attention in him, a subtle readiness to react if something unexpected appeared on the far side of a fence or a clump of mesquite. Yet I felt the trust building, not in grand bursts but in a slow, unwavering willingness to keep moving forward with me beside him.

And when the trot came, it did so with a grace that surprised me, a rhythm that felt both strong and controlled, like the steady drumbeat of a heart that knows its own boundaries even while it pushes beyond them. And the canter, surprisingly smooth, like water flowing over a creek bed of polished rocks. The wind found his mane and sent it streaming in a living flag, a banner of color that made the moment feel cinematic.

As the ride drew to a close, I sat with the gratitude of what we had accomplished and the humility of what lay ahead. Yesterday did not mark an end in any dramatic sense; it marked a beginning, a doorway through which we both step with a sure sense of purpose: to build trust, to respect the wildness that remains, and to allow that wildness to flow freely within us.

Axl’s first ride after a half year of patient preparation did not surge with adrenaline or end in a dramatic triumph; it affirmed something deeper—the possibility that a life shared with a former wild horse can be a partnership built on measured steps.