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

As the first rays of the sun peak over the horizon, smashing the dark, squashy light illuminates the mist rising up from the ground, forming an eerie, almost dreamlike landscape. The ground sparkles, wet with dew, and while walking from the truck to the type B, my riding boots immerse 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 d sustain the aisle a calculating 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 hasty 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 days use. From it wafts the pure tone of a new pair of shoes. The fruity essence of Show flame, applied after yesterdays baths, still lingers in the air. Even the harsh pungent scent of urine and manure is welcome at this early morn hour. Breaking open a bale of hay, I sense the pleasantness of the dried timothy as it engulfs my olfactory system, making me wish my worthless stomach had not made me skip breakfast. I am nervous, as are m some(prenominal) others. I know that the day ahead lead bring excitement, dread, triumph, and defeat. The unpredictable nature of clam shows causes frenzied questions, like chromatic spawning, to run constantly though my mind. give the judge like my own particular style? What if the 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 soupcon of accomplishment as I dismount amidst all of Hartwoods magic erases any doubts of earlier. Now we must pack. Our gear slowly fills the trucks, until finally, only the tack boxershorts 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 Hartwoods splendor flashes before me. Silently I say good bye. Laying my ribbons gingerly into my tack trunk, I change posture every wrinkle, smoothing them with my fingertips, almost caressing. Lowering the lid, I see their bright colorise fade into the deep black darkness. Blues, reds, greens, soak in the smell of the adjacent leather, all tucked in, prepared for the long ride home.