I used to ride at these stables. The campus has been long-since shut down. I had a day off from work and decided to take my camera out for a spin. This seemed as good as any a subject for a photoshoot.
I started riding horses at about age 10 and kept it up thanks to my parents’ wallets through age 18. These days I am on the fence on whether I trust the equestrian industry; animal abuse is pretty rampant. Paradoxically, I have fond memories of the horses and ponies I knew over there. There was a particular pony that was a fan-favorite, Boy George. He was a very pale, almost white palomino pony. He looked like a real life my little pony.
Boy George, pulled from the Grizzly Peak Stables website (now defunct)
Boy George was around 20 or so years old when I met him. But he always seemed so full of life, you wouldn’t have guessed it.
Grizzly Peak Stables, May 2023
I’m more writing for myself than anything; this was a huge part of my childhood. I am still not sure how my parents afforded to let me take these lessons. But, it was something my mom did when she was younger, as well as my English grandmother. A picture of her in with two friends in the 1940s, all wearing jodhpurs and riding jackets, hangs up on our fridge to this day. I have another of my mom riding a big chestnut horse in the 1970s at Grizzly Peak.
I took photos of the defunct barn doors, I saw the “for sale’ sign, and an eerily knocked down “private property” sign. It looked like a perfect candidate for yet another zombie movie.
I did not feel welcome enough to linger and get close-ups. This was private property; country folks also tend to avoid the more populated areas specifically to avoid strangers like me invading the land they paid to have rights to.
Before heading out, I met the next-door neighbor’s horses. There were a couple chesnuts and a bay—all quite kind and small in stature. The bay in particular was quite charming and walked up to the fence to say hi. It did not go unnoticed there was a “no feeding” and “electric fence” right below their gate.
When I came home and reviewed my photos, it felt like I was creating yet another Urban Blight themed submission for an undergrad project. It’s hard not to be self-conscious when holding a good-sized camera. By taking a photo and stamping your watermark signature on it, there’s some ego involved. But, I had a personal connection to the space. I thought I would feel like I had “earned” my right to be there. I soon found that wasn’t the case; I felt like an intruder. It was invasive seeing it in such a decrepit state. In direct contrast all around there was beautiful calm nature; trees and flowing fields of grassland.
Tilden Park, just below Centennial Drive entrance
Editing took a minute today because I couldn’t remember how to for the first few minutes; I get rusty when I don’t use a tool for a while and I had to remind myself of the basics of using masks once again.
This wild turkey was a blessing. He kept putting his hind feathers up in full display, brazenly walking into the middle of the road. He was far enough away from me I couldn’t get a strong focus on him. I find turkeys to be incredibly charming because of how ridiculous they are. Not very bright, not very beautiful, but they know who they are and daggonit, turkeys are gonna turkey.
Fog and sunlight through conifers, Tilden Park.
The next photo I am sharing is the one that is the inspiration behind writing this blog post at all. I took the shot because there was something so “perfect” in encapsulating decay as the half broken-off stable door. The drama was too good to pass up. It was while trying to color correct and add texture I noticed the sign.
Below the defunct barn door, it reads: “BOY GEORGE Grizzly Peak Stables.” I started to cry and felt ashamed. You can take a photo of something, you can feel artistic for a moment. But, that was my friend’s home.
I don’t know how to finish this beautifully or elegantly; I think when I was younger I would have found this brilliantly dramatic. I would have used it to carve out some climatic moment to stun the audience with. But, as an older adult, I just feel mournful and sad. I am aware now that things we care about fade, animals really do die, and memories get distant and tinted grey blue. You become accustomed to the past being old and distant. So, when a piece of it comes brilliantly into the present, it is startling, it is arresting. It is cutting in its nonchalant intimacy.
As I wrote this out I remember visiting George once after having stopped riding for a while. I want to say I remember him looking in good form and the barn still feeling warm with life. But, even then, I vaguely remember its care and maintenance was waining. I want to believe not just George but all the animals at the stable were given a proper comfortable retirement in return for their service. I want to believe the people who would dedicate themselves to horse sport would respect them in return. But, I just don’t know that that is true. When I Googled “Grizzly Peak Stables closing” all that came up was the real estate listing—complete with drone footage. No article, no fanfare, no press release about a local business that had been around for decades closing down. No news of the beings that lived their lives out there.
I remember when I was in my early twenties an instructor I had by the name of Melissa had called my mom to let her know another horse I had bonded with at a different stable, Slaighter, had passed. He was the last horse I rode often and even years afterwards I would think about him. It was a genuine kindness that she went out of her way to let me know that he had gone; for George I’m left to wonder to this day. There aren’t any obituaries for animals; which in and of itself feels like a form of hubris. Humans aren’t the only animals to mourn, and some of us deeply mourn our animals.
George at around age 20 and me at age 11.
So here goes an obituary for Boy George.
Georgie was a sweetheart who loved carrots. He would put up with a lot of little kids, primarily rich little girls who were “horse crazy,” kicking him in the side or yanking on the bit in his mouth. I was one of them. He was patient but had opinions. He perked up when horses he liked neighed nearby. He had favorites; he was also a favorite at Grizzly Peak. He was kind to me. He let me clean out his hooves without much fuss. He loved his alfalfa. I’m always amazed at the kind and curious ears a horse presents towards any human; we aren’t a guarantee for kindness and comfort. But, George had confidence enough to go around. He is deeply missed.
If I can make a living long enough to secure myself and my wife a safe and comfortable future, I just want to provide a home for animals that doesn’t result in this kind of forgotten decay. It is a dream of mine to provide sanctuary for animals like George would love. It was a different time, a parallel universe to my own current one, but being there and seeing again, I am reminded how real it was. Writing out all these thoughts here on my personal blog, full of memories, dreams, sadness, and desires, I am again reminded of that damn wild turkey, walking in full display in the middle of the road, showing off to anyone who happens to come by.
Oh to feel this confident and impervious to cars.