When housewives horse around

When a group of Maketu mothers head to Ace Hi Horse Ranch for a weekend ANGIE BELCHER finds that their alteregos take over.

Wedged between school newsletters and a sausage sizzle flyer, the small Pub Crawl by Horseback advertisement has grown a yellow, parched look as it clings precariously to the fridge door.

After walking past it for the hundredth time, Maketu mother Briar Mascheretti impulsively throws down her pile of dirty washing and picks up the telephone. The lure of a Coromandel weekend has won.

Mascheretti's desire to unharness herself from household responsibilities and ride off into the sunset is not an uncommon one and news of her upcoming adventure flies around the small seaside community in the Bay of Plenty.

Soon 14 women are booked for the same trip. It does not matter that most have never ridden; nor that they do not greatly care for beer. What they want is a chance to recapture that carefree attitude which has faded along with the acres of diapers on their washing lines.

Set up by Alan and Nanette Fraser, owners of the Ace Hi Ranch near Whitianga, the weekend begins early on a Saturday morning with a trek by horseback through spectacular bush and farmland. The trek takes in lunch by a river, a ride to the quaint Coroglen Pub - the night's stopover - and returns by an alternate route the following day.

It sounds a bit painful.

"You'll be sore," the husbands warn. "What's wrong with the croquet club?" one jokes.

While the males arrange a support group for those left behind with children, the women plan pre-adventure warm-up rides that never quite happen. Instead they prepare psychologically for pain. It will be worth it.

Mothers are never warned that if they ever decide to go away, whatever can go wrong will go wrong. This trip is no exception.

As the women pile into two vans they relate their stories. One baby refuses to be weaned on time. Another's 3-year-old was up all night vomiting; someone's cat was hit by a car. However, purging ourselves of any guilty feelings, we head off.

In the van, chatter dwindles to a nervous quiet as we pull into the ranch and spot our horses corralled and ready to ride. Waiting to greet us are the three male horse handlers who will lead and assist us over the weekend, plus Rachel, a dinky little Tania (of Who Dares Wins) look-a-like. We all feel decidedly frumpy in old trackpants, gumboots and T-shirts as she rides by in tight jeans, leather chaps, stirrups, cowboy hat and black bikini top.

Those with little or no experience (most of us) are given some brief instructions and inelegantly hoisted on to our steeds while Nanette moves around us handing out large glasses of port to calm nerves.

Soon we are riding up a dusty trail heading into the Whitianga hills, leaving behind all semblance of our past lives.

Fears of getting a horse that won't budge or one that bolts are unfounded. Ours are well-groomed studies of flexing muscle and power, ready and willing to be unleashed upon the rolling hills of the Coromandel Peninsula.

A trail of dust rises behind my chestnut steed Harry as he follows the others up the path. For the next hour Harry attempts to brush me off on every post and low lying branch he can spot. By the second hour we develop what could only be described as a relationship based on mutual respect.

I am soon grateful for two things: my son's chamois-lined bike pants and the large, comfortable stock saddle with a big pommel that I grip tightly whenever Harry decides to exert the not-so-passive side of his nature.

Like the man from Snowy River, ranch owner Alan rides up and down the line. "How ya doing, luv?" "Dig your feet in." "Use your reins, not your horn," he shouts as we try to emulate his riding style so that horse and rider move as a single unit and not as a bouncing blob of flesh gripping on for dear life.

His friend Kevin, lured to Whitianga by the rumour of 14 women (how disappointed he was) epitomises the Marlborough man, neatly dressed and looking completely nonchalant while the rest of us sweat and froth almost as much as our horses.

With welcome relief we arrive at a swimming hole for lunch where Nanette greets us with our togs, towels, healthy lunch and plenty of drink.

While our horses roam loose in the shade of ferns and native bush, the braver members of the group ride a flying fox across the river, ending with a plunge into the icy water.

Lunch over, the trek winds its way along red clay paths and through stands of native bush. Panoramic views make us forget the first niggling signs that bottoms, legs and backs are not that used to the punishment we are giving them.

With each area of the trek the women seem to take on a different persona: elegant and upright while trotting down gentle trails, Xena-style warriors yodelling and crashing through bush, or stockwomen scattering cattle as they yippee-yi-yo uncontrollably into waterholes.

The meek housewives are left behind in a puff of dust.

After a few hours, confidence is getting dangerously high. Women are jumping logs and scattering stock. We are 14 wild women revelling in the freedom of no kids, no husbands and no worries, riding in fury and burning off years of kitchen frustration.

In the late afternoon we ride into the Coroglen Pub, welcoming the cold beer handed out.

Reluctant to collapse on beds for fear of not getting up, we swap our mode of transport and drive to nearby Hot Water Beach. Aching muscles and bruises are soon soothed in the natural hot waters.

Back at the tavern's homely backpacker accommodation, the rooms begin smelling of oils and ancient remedies, which are carefully massaged into sore spots.

Although most of the group are moving somewhat slower the next day, none are prepared to toss in the reins. It is harder now to lift legs over saddles but we are confident that we will soon cross the pain threshold.

However, two of the horses are the worse for wear. One has thrown a shoe. The other, Alan kindly tells a larger member of our group, "has a sore back". Meanwhile, Ace Hi brings her a bigger horse by float for the return journey.

The clip-clopping of hooves on tarseal soon dies out as we turn our backs once more on civilisation and head for the hills. A tiredness and inner peace consumes most of us. Deep in thought we meander along rivers and through newly-ploughed fields. As we head up the final stretch before the ranch, Alan lets us have one last chance to whoop, yell and go wild.

The horses, sensing our need for this final release, rise to the occasion in unison and gallop across the hills.

Happy, hurting, tired, wild women slide off saddles.

We are ready to take our dreams and memories back to Maketu until someone else discovers another advert clinging to their fridge door.


CASENOTES


GETTING THERE: Ace Hi Ranch runs one- to two-hour treks, a half-day river ride and the pub crawl.

COST: The pub crawl on horseback costs $200, including four meals, accommodation and horse. Groups of 10 or more get a 10 per cent discount.

CONTACT:Ace Hi Ranch, State Highway 25, Whitianga. Ph, (07) 866 4897, fax (07) 866 0489.
Website: Ace Hi Ranch

email: acehitreks@xtra.co.nz