My Favorite Horse Show Essays -- Personal Narrative, descriptive essay

As the first rays of the sun peak over the horizon, penetrating the dark, soft light illuminates the mist rising up from the ground, forming an eerie, almost surreal landscape. The ground sparkles, wet with dew, and while walking from the truck to the barn, my riding boots soak it in. The crickets still chirp, only slower now. They know that daytime fast approaches. Sounds, the soft rustling of hooves, a snort, and from far down the aisle a sharp whinny that begs for breakfast, inform me that the crickets are not the only ones preparing for the day. Sliding the barn doors open, I step into a warm, comforting environment. Musty straw mingles with the sharp aroma of pine shavings, complementing each other. A warm glow from sporadically placed incandescent lightbulbs richens the leather tack, all cleaned and hanging ready for the day's use. From it wafts the smell of a new pair of shoes. The fruity essence of "Show Sheen", applied after yesterday's baths, still lingers in the air. Even the harsh stinging scent of urine and manure is welcome at this early morning hour. Breaking open a bale of hay, I sense the sweetness of the dried timothy as it engulfs my olfactory system, making me wish my queasy stomach had not made me skip breakfast. I am nervous, as are many others. I know that the day ahead will bring excitement, dread, triumph, and defeat. The unpredictable nature of horse shows causes frenzied questions, like salmon spawning, to run constantly though my mind. Will the judge like my own particular style? What if t he red flowers bordering the first jump spook my horse? What if a piece of paper on the ground blows into the ring? Will this horse show be a success? The outcome depends not just on me; but a... ... to the barn, friends and family echo "congratulations" and "good for you". The feeling of accomplishment as I dismount amidst all of Hartwood's magic erases any doubts of earlier. Now we must pack. Our gear slowly fills the trucks, until finally, only the tack trunks remain. As I hold my ribbons, my gaze shifts to the showgrounds, almost deserted now, a forgotten battlefield with only the last stragglers searching for forgotten treasures, until I close my eyes and all of Hartwood's splendor flashes before me. Silently I say good bye. Laying my ribbons gingerly into my tack trunk, I straighten every wrinkle, smoothing them with my fingertips, almost caressing. Lowering the lid, I see their bright colors fade into the deep black darkness. Blues, reds, greens, soak in the smell of the neighboring leather, all tucked in, prepared for the long ride home.