Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls, I give you the Amazing Menini!

Ladies, back me up here. Ponies. As a child, who didn't want one? Once I figured out unicorns could not be purchased at any retail location, I set my sights on a horse. I read all of the Saddle Club adventures, collected the Breyer horses, watched all the Black Stallion movies and designed elaborate plans for the construction of a stable and paddock in our suburban backyard. My parents weren't sold on my brilliant architectural plans nor the feasibility of a horse in the backyard, heck, I couldn't even sell them on a dog, the closest I ever got was two rabbits, neither of which was allowed to live in the house (even though, oddly enough, my slob of a brother was allowed to sleep in the house). So I did the next best thing to owning a horse. I pretended I was one. I would gallop around the yard, then slow to a canter, and then a trot. I would toss my hair and whinny. I can't really tell you how long I did this for, although my parents have a videotape of me in a pumpkin patch pretending to be a horse. I've got to be at least 10. (Back me up here, Mom).

So for part II of my birthday, I splurged and bought myself a private horseback ride across the mountains. I picked this ranch because it seemed a little commercial tourist trappy than some of the others. I arrived at the ranch and my tour guide, we'll call her Sara, who I liked instantly, led me to a paddock and told me I could go on in and pick any horse that I wanted. Seriously. A kid in the candy store had nothing on me. There were at least 15-20 horses of all kinds and colors, quarter horses and mustangs, palominos and pintos. These horses were a cut above the standard rent-a-horse. Some moved away from me as I approached, others tossed their heads, some just kept eating grass. There were a few good contenders, but then I saw him in the back corner, a chestnut with a white blaze down his nose and three white stockings (white markings on his legs). The horse cocked his head like a dog and seemed to smile at me. I approached, cautiously, and the horse seemed to smile even more broadly. I turned and called to Sara, "I want that one."

Sara looked disapproving. "That's Menini," she said, as if that would explain it. She shook her head, "we don't let kids ride him, we don't really like women to ride him either. It's not that he's not a good horse…it's just that…well he's a bolter." I pouted. On a practical people skills point, you shouldn't tell someone they can pick out any horse and then the first one she picks out, you tell her she can't have him. She sized me up thoughtfully. "You ever ride before?" A loaded question. Of course I'd been on pony rides as a child and had occasionally gone for horse back rides on vacations I think, bringing my time on actual horses to, oh let's just say I can count on one hand. "Yes," I replied, just as vague. She asked if I had ever ridden before, not if I competed on the Olympic equestrian team. "Alright, you can have Menini," she said. Excellent, I thought. I was probably going to break my neck.

Menini seemed to be as pleased as I was. We saddled up (well, Sara tacked up both horses, but at least I mounted by myself), and went over basic techniques, rein holding, stopping the horse, backing up the horse, making the horse go faster (I kinda got the impression this wasn't going to be an issue as I could feel Menini literally chomping at the bit). I had practically memorized how to ride a horse as a child without ever actually doing it, so in some weird way, some of this felt like second nature.

Sara and I headed across the valley. She was a petite, trim woman with beautiful blond hair wound tightly in a braid down her back. I liked her instantly; she was easy and interesting to chat with (which was good because for the next four hours it was just going to be the two of us). She'd been at the ranch for twelve years and had passed the time studying horse behavior.

Horses, she said, were pack animals with a natural pecking order. Those at the top did not mingle with those in the middle and the positions could change. For example, Menini was the #7 horse in a pack of 22, but if he got injured or sick, he could drop down to the teens. Menini hung out with the #8 and 9 horses, but didn't care much for #6 or #10 (in fact, Menini, when irritated, would kick the #10 horse). He was a true son of Kauai, having been born on the island, and could trace some of his ancestry to mustangs. The vast majority of the other horses were American Quarterhorses from Canada, ironically enough. The ranch had a contact out in Canada they liked doing business with.

We ascended a high plateau of wide open space. "Now remember," Sara started to say, but her words were lost as Menini took off. We'd gone over the finer points of staying on the horse while said horse was running, but in actual practice, it's quite counter-intuitive. Instead of hunkering down into the saddle, you're supposed to go loose, and let the horse bounce you up and down. In the air. Imagine banging a bag of ice against a hard surface to break up the ice so you can put it in your drink more readily. Now imagine your pelvis is the bag of ice and the saddle and horse beneath are the hard surface.

Sara was pulling on the reins of her horse to slow him up, so I did the same. Menini was reluctant to slow to say the least. Sara congratulated me on my posture and keeping my seat. I was pretty sure my jeans were the only things keeping fragments of my pelvis from spilling out. I gave Menini a pat on the neck. Good boy, I thought, you just wrecked my mom's best shot at grandkids. John, it's all up to you now, pal.

I coaxed some more horse insight out of Sara. She touched upon the relationship between horses and humans. Forget National Velvet and My Horse, Flicka. Horses were prey animals, and humans were predator animals. And both species understood that. In essence, the horse is by nature, suspicious and nervous around us. If you couldn't make the horse feel safe, then the horse wouldn't trust you. The way to make a horse feel safe was to take control, make smart choices, not leave too much give in the reins. If the horse didn't trust you, he would find ways to make your life as unpleasant as he felt, going off in another direction, ignoring commands, etc. Or, Sara shrugged, sometimes they're just mischievous, she said with an eye toward Menini. Menini turned his head to look at me as if to say, who me?

Sure enough, as we moved along through rusted gates and rocky terrain, Menini would let me know if he was displeased. Once when I turned him too wide going through a gate, he banged my left side up against the fence with an indignant snort. Fair enough. Another time as I took him down too steep an incline, rather than opting for a more gentle path, he pulled me over to the trees so I would get hit with the branches. Sara laughed. Her horse, Bruno, which was her own that she kept stabled on the ranch, was an equine angel, a model of good behavior. This horse was making us look bad.

About half-way through the ride, we tied up the horses and hiked into a gorgeous, pristine waterfall for lunch. I self-consciously removed my jeans, hoping that fragments of my shattered pelvis would not be spilling out. We chatted about life and ate turkey sandwiches and oranges. A pale family on a private ride with their tour guide joined us, to my dismay. These people were complaining about the horses, the food, the waterfall, the price of macadamia nuts, the quality of the oxygen in the air. After a few minutes of this, Sara and I looked at each other, both thinking the same thing, either we'd have to leave or set them on fire. Since neither one of us had any matches, we pulled on our clothes and got out some climbing equipment (this I hadn't known about it ahead of time) and scaled up the walls of the waterfall. I may have slipped and wound up knee deep in water. Ho-hum ho-hum. I may have done that twice.

Bruno whinnied to Sara upon our return from the hike out of the waterfall. Menini eyed me. I couldn't be certain, but I felt like he was judging my wet pants. But, he let me scratch him behind the ears so all was forgiven.

A few minutes later when we hit open ground again, Sara said offhandedly, "Menini wants to go again, but you're in control. You get to decide the pace." Uh huh. So Menini and I compromised. When Sara wasn't looking, Menini took off and I made it look I'd given him the go by clucking to him encouraging. My pelvis shattered, I feared now for the structural integrity of my femurs.

"Great job!" Sara said when I had finally slowed Menini to a respectable pace. "That was excellent, you've really got a hold of him. I'm very impressed." I squeezed Menini ever so slightly with my knees. Our little secret, pal.

Then I heard the rustling in the tall grass and saw dark movement. "Sara," I started.

"Pull down on the reins, hard," she said harshly. "Back him up," she commanded. "Back him up!"

Brun was doing that head toss and eye rolling thing, horses do in movies when they're about to go into battle. His front feet came up off the ground.

"Wild pigs," was all she said.

As if on command, a porker family of four emerged. The largest, I assumed to be the male, was black and lean with spiky hair and he was a good size, he nearly came up to Menini's knees. The other, I presumed to be Mama Porker, was lighter, the color of Octoberfest (I'm sorry, Carota, but she was that color and nothing described her any better). Then came the two snuffling baby bacons, one as light as wheat and the other darker like the male. The female squealed like a pitch pipe, and there was some group chortling. From the pigs. Not us.

Bruno was just not having any of this and he was really fighting Sara. Who looks bad now, Bruno? Although I'd pulled up Menini on the reins, he stood there calmly, turning only one to the side as if to say, "pigs. So what?" I agreed. I ate pigs for breakfast. Literally. Now, had I been on the ground and stumbled upon them, I may have felt differently. I may have shrieked like a little girl and run screaming, swearing off all pork products. But sitting atop Menini, I felt quite confident in my position and relationship with this horse. I was pretty certain that Menini would drop kick any porker that came close enough. We both shared the common interest of wanting to see pigs fly. Snark snark. I'll be here all night, folks.

When the danger had passed, and the four-legged nuclear ham family had made a beeline for the trees (no I couldn't get a picture. Although Menini had demonstrated much valor, I wasn't about to give on the reins and go for the camera). Sara told me she hadn't seen wild pigs in five or six years. They had a tendency to spook the horses. There'd been an incident on a group tour awhile back and they'd had to refund the entire tour. And shoot the horses. Just kidding, seeing if you were still reading. Sara gave me lots of compliments for being so level headed, but really, it was all Menini. He'd been the one to hold his ground. I smirked over at Bruno. Way to drop the ball, big guy.

The sun was drooping in the sky over the mountains of the Hanalei region. It was time to turn back. Somehow Sara turned my four hour tour into a fiver. Menini pranced forward, head high, big brave baller that he was. (Make way, here comes the high stepper). When we got to the paddock, I seriously considered asking to put him in the back of the Aveo and drive off with him. I could carry him on the plane, right? Usually in my world, an incident involving wild pigs and horses would have resulted in disastrous injury to my person. So of course, I wanted to make him my house horse. He'd have looked just dandy in my small 1BR rental.

Sara did let me give Menini his feed bucket and he nuzzled me appreciatively. This obviously had nothing to do with me feeding him. It was love, I tell you. I know this because my boyfriend responds the same way when I bring him food. Love, I tell you.

Second part of birthday: ride across the mountain valleys? Check. Managed to stay upright upon the horse without injury to self or the animal? Check. Wild pigs sighting? Check.

Stay tuned, sports fans, for the final part III in which Jess drives all the way back around the island to explore sea caves only to find out it's too rough to boat.