One of my more exciting memories from riding camp as a kid involved a trail ride on my 20-year-old grade pony, Pacer. I was one of the few campers who brought my own mount to the riding school that week, and Pacer quickly became known by the instructors as the guest who was a true saint among ponies: In fact, when one punky little mare had bucked off her rider twice in a lesson that week, the instructor put me on the perturbed little pony and swapped the frightened rider to sweet Pacer as a confidence-builder. (I got bucked off, too, as it were.)

But back to our story: The particularly memorable day involved a walking trail ride, which on any other morning probably would’ve been quite dull. Our camp instructor was ahead of us on a path at the edge of a clearing when the second or third pony in the line began balking, refusing to go forward on the path. Cue from the instructor: “Stephanie, please bring Pacer through so the others will follow.”
Pacer complied until she hit the same invisible wall the previous ponies had É and wouldn’t budge. I squeezed her forward with all my might.

Within a few moments Pacer obediently walked on (bless her). She got stung. She bucked. I landed in the hornets’ nest. I got stung. Much of the rest of the day is a blurry memory, but I know it involved an uncomfortable pony, an abundance of tears, a swollen thumb, and a Benadryl coma.