I had spent the last couple hours driving through miles of large-scale fruit farming, arid hills, and sketchy looking industrial towns populated by migrant workers. The moon was rising, it was getting dark, and I was tired with no place to sleep. Instinct told me to keep driving to a place that seemed safer. I had read that the approaching town of Solvang was a quaint touristy town founded by the Danish 100 years previously, and I decided that seemed like a more likely place to find a quiet side street. The highway turned off and as I entered the downtown core of Solvang, my jaw dropped. Maybe I had had a car accident, died, and woken up in an alternate universe with a strong resemblance to a tourist section of Switzerland. Every building looked like an alpine ski-hut. There were Danish bakeries and cafes, European groceries, museums honouring Hans Christian Anderson, beautiful lush parks, Danish-speaking people on the street, and everything was clean and covered in white mini-lights. I parked, wandered, and slept that night on a side-street in the safest-feeling town I’d been in thus far.
The next day I was sitting outside a coffee shop, fruitlessly surfing the internet, when I came across a woman’s blog about free things to do in Solvang. Skimming through it I saw a name I recognized. “Free tours of Monty Roberts’ ranch and horse training facility.”
MONTY ROBERTS THE HORSE WHISPERER?? I had read his autobiography right before I left Ontario! My favourite personal-growth author and philosopher, Martha Beck, trained with him at his ranch. It’s HERE?? I looked at the directions. IT’S TWO FRICKING MINUTES DOWN THE ROAD! I had PASSED it, coming in. You’ve got to be kidding me.
I packed up and headed out. At the entrance to the ranch was a large wrought iron gate that was closed. Damn. Not again. I got out and strolled up to the gate for a closer look. It was at that point that I saw the phone panel set into the stone pillar beside the gate. On the panel was a sign saying “push button to open gate.” I did. The gate swung open soundlessly. I quickly hopped in my car and drove down a long tree-lined lane. The ranch is nestled into hills and vineyards. Signs in a small parking lot led me to a stone building with a visitor sign-in book and liability waivers (naturally). An older couple from L.A.
was filling out forms. We seemed to be the only tourists that day. Grabbing a photocopied map, we headed into the complex, where one can wander around pens, stables, buildings, and racetracks. Students were working with a horse, trying to teach her to go in and out of a horse trailer. Mexican stable hands were cleaning and walking horses. It was very quiet, and very beautiful – hedges instead of fences, and stalls are bookended by flowering bushes and trees. It almost feels like a peaceful park, except with horses and stables.
I didn’t see Monty. I assume he was comfortably ensconced in an armchair in the fancy ranch-style house I glimpsed through the trees on the other side of the drive. As well he I suppose he should be, after 66 years working with race horses and training others to use his patient, non-violent methods of communicating and working with the animals.
For info on Monty’s approach to working with horses, I recommend reading: The Man Who Listens to Horses, most likely available at your local library (here is some dispute over how much is autobiographical and how much is fiction - still, a really interesting story).
Here is Martha Beck's story of learning to join up with horses on Monty's ranch (a wonderful read!!)