When I was 19 I spent a summer in Wyoming. I was a trail cook/wrangler. Part of my job was to coax semi-wild horses to leave the lush green meadow, and come up to the barn, where fat old men would get on there backs and force them to carry them up the mountain to fish in the mountain streams. This was kind of a hard sell to these horses, and most of them wanted no part of it. Redman was an older horse that loved oats. Sometimes he would come if you had a handful of oats. The trick then was to jump on his back and ride him bareback back to the barn. If you could do that the other horses would usual follow. On one occasion Redman was being particularly evasive. Luckily, I convinced Thunder (one of the younger horses) to come to my handful of oats. Now, Redman was a short squatty bay, and a relatively easy horse for this short and squatty wrangler to get onto. Thunder, on the other hand, was quite tall. His back went almost to the top of my head. Somehow I managed to get my chest on the top of his back, but before I could swing my leg over his back, I found out why they called him Thunder. He bolted like he was possessed by demons straight toward a little patch to woods on the edge of pasture. By the time I was able to get my leg over his back, and situate myself, he had made his way into the woods. He planted me on the first low hanging branch he could find. I hit the branch and spun like a wind toy, flipped and landed on my face. Redman witnessed this fiasco and slowly walked up to me shaking his head (I could almost hear him saying, "you sad, sad little man"). He walked up to me and stopped, He gave me that, "get on before you get killed look". Time was wasting, so I reluctantly got on his back and guided the other horses up to the barn. I hated that horse.....