So an eventer, a dressage rider, and a hunter rider walk into a bar… Just kidding. It was just me.

I walked into the bar. Only the bar was my home, and the bartender was my boyfriend. Too broke to afford a real drink, or a designer beer—the money had been drained from my account into the pockets of Hunterland.

And as I grabbed the Bud Lite from his hand, I sank into the couch. Exhausted, covered in dust and Quiksilver. Wearing a ball cap, with perfect hand prints on my brand new Tailored Sportsmans. And I turned to him, and tried to explain my day.I had just completed my first recognized hunter show at Country Heir I–at the world renowned Kentucky Horse Park.

In true Carleigh fashion, I decided to go big. Who needed the local schooling shows to be my entryway into Hunterland? Not me. Let’s do a AA show as our first.

It will go well—it will be stress-free, my eventing brain reasoned. It’s only a few “stadium” rounds and a “miniature dressage test.” This was my rationale as I entered a 3′ division on my training-level eventer.

You can see why I thought a few spins around the hunter ring might suit Mak.

But it wasn’t. It wasn’t stress-free. It wasn’t just some stadium rounds. And it wouldn’t have been plausible to survive if I had not had a handful of amazing friends who calmed my nerves, polished my boots, and answered my questions. So I feel as though I should pay it forward—to the thousands of (a HA, lets be honest—the three) eventers who want to journey off into Hunterland, and provide the answers that I received.

1. What should I wear?

• Well young one, you can wear whatever you like—we are so accommodating to unique styles and fun colors. Oh wait, no? That was barrel racing I was talking about. But us hunters are also “hip” and “cool”—trust us!  
• You can wear any jacket, just as long as it is either black, or a navy dark enough that it looks black. Your breeches can be one of 30 shades of tan Tailored Sportsmans, and please, please, please, make sure your black custom made hunt boots come exactly 0.4 up your kneecap.  
• Your shirt must be white and a wrap around, and your helmet must be Samshield. You could possibly wear your Charles Owen Ayr8, but don’t you dare have any of that fancy schamcy piping. 
• Do you have pearls? No? Does your grandmother have pearls? GREAT. Wear those. Both in your ears AND around your neck.
• Put on your clothes early in the day so that you can walk around with a floppy hat and look cool, but make sure that your groom is the only one who touches your horse. Stand at least 12 feet away from all equus caballus until 30 seconds before you get on. Put your hands into latex gloves so as not to touch your clothes. Smudges are not cool.

Look like this, even if every item of clothing but your underwear is borrowed. 

2. What should my horse wear?

• Ahhhh, great question.  Your horse should be adorned with just enough tack that it looks as though you are ridiculously wealthy, while at the same time not standing out from any other horse on the grounds.  Here is what you should have:
• A CWD/Devoucoux/Antares saddle of a specific hide (preferably buffalo skin) and shade of brown, with a pristine white cut out pad.  If said pad has a tint of off-white, throw away immediately.
• Don’t even think about using your monoflap. I repeat, don’t even think about it. You’re still thinking about it. Stop. Seriously, stop.
• A finely stitched bridle with plain noseband.  Bridle should be adorned by a D ring, but if your horse could possibly top 7.6mph, add a pelham.  Regardless of bit, always have a standing martingale attached.
• Moving on to braids.
• The horse should be braided with at least 727 braids.
• They should be perfectly spaced, and sewn in with so much strength that a gorilla cannot rip them out.
• Use an entire bottle of either hairspray or Quikbraid to ensure that they will not move in even gale force winds.
• Stare at your (best friend) braider’s hands to try to learn how said braids go in so evenly and to tightly. Take two Advil after your eyes cross.
• Be convinced that your (best friend) braider is actually an alien. Or a Stepford wife. No one else could create such perfection. Unless they suffer from OCD.
• Speaking of gorillas—find one. You will need him to get the braids out at the end of the show.

3. When should I get ready to go the ring for my class?

• The answer is never. But always.
• Always be near enough to the ring to know exactly when you need to get tacked up.
• Never actually tack up.
• Check with the ring steward. Get a growl and a glare.
• Don’t tack up.
• Text your friends that you won’t ride for at least a few hours.
• Check with the ring steward again. Get a deeper growl.
• Play on Facebook. Play on Instagram. Watch Ellen on Youtube.
• And then, TACK UP. OH MY GOD. NOW. GO GO GO GO.

4. But then, how should I warm up?

• Well, dear friend.  This is where the fun really starts. First off, find a friend. Or, if you don’t have and friends who are willing to show their face in Hunterland, pay a homeless person to stand next to a jump.  
• Because you are not allowed to jump anything until someone or something that shares a closeness to you has claimed a jump. It’s kinda like a dog peeing on a fire hydrant. Your space must be claimed. Mark that territory.
• Pick up a canter. Jump a crossrail. Jump it again. When you are bored with jumping off of your left lead, get confused. Because your homeless person had chosen the jump closest to the right side of the arena, you are unsure how to jump said fence off of your right lead. Stand in the middle of the ring looking perplexed.  
• Finally voice your confusion. Let a nice trainer tell you that you can just change directions and jump the crossrail in the other direction. Stare at the standards to check for red and white flags. See none. Jump the crossrail quickly and while glancing off towards the in-gate, waiting to be eliminated for jumping it backwards. Relax once you see there is no such thing as a ring steward. It’s literally a free for all. 
• Because you don’t actually have a trainer, be forced to scream at your friend, or homeless person, to raise the jumps as you go. Get stared at for speaking. Riders should never speak. We are supposed to be robots. Trainers and homeless people speak. Remember this.

Scare everyone but your homeless person when you see a long one in the warm-up.

5. OK, I’m ready.  Can I show now?

• You had your homeless person put you down in the order of go? Right? Oh, didn’t? Then no. You don’t get to show. You get to sit under a tree and drink a bottle of water. 
• You tell the ring steward to add you to the order of go. She says you’re 11th. Great. You can handle that—two minutes a ride? That’s like 20 minutes. Sure.
• You count 11 rides. Start walking to the in gate. The ring steward growls again. What’s wrong? Oh. Wait. You’re 11th in order of go, not actual rounds. People get to do both rounds back to back? Oh, OK. Sorry.
• Back to the tree. Let the tree become your friend. Name it Fred. Fred is nice. Fred gives you shade and a friendly face.

Can we go yet?

6. Oh wait, 837 is my number? I just heard it called! Now! Now I ride!

• Yes!  That is correct—you hunter you! Now is the time to strut your stuff. So you know how to jump a hunter round, right? You learned your course. It’s soooooooo easy. Outside line, diagonal line, outside line diagonal line. Jump all the jumps—HOOOOOO! LET’S DO THIS!
• Wait. One second. You want me to do what? You want me to get how many strides in that line?  
• FIVE? HAHA! What?  
• It walked in like 5.5! Oh, you not only want me to get a five in a practically six-stride line, you also want my horse to still *appear* to go slow. And his head can’t come up at all?   
• Oh, that’s not all that matters? I need to go in and immediately do a walk-canter transition? Right THERE. No no, not two feet after the second fence, THREE feet after the second fence. Calm now, calm down.  
• WHOA Mak.  
• No.  Not a 13′ stride, a 13.6′ stride. GOODNESS. Don’t you know what you’re doing? I thought I had trained you!
• Push! Leg!!!!!! Whoa, not THAT much leg.  Calm down. God dammit this is harder than stadium
• Pace. Pace.  1, 2, 3, 4….1, 2, 3, 4…..1, 2, *&%, 4. Whoops.
• Get in your corners. Deeper. DEEPER.  Oh crap, no Mak, don’t jump the arena. We’re not heading for cross-country. (*&*%. He’s going to jump out. The brush is there for decoration, not a ground line!
• No. No.  I didn’t want you to angle that fence.  Just go straight.  STRAIGHT.  Why don’t you know what straight is?
• OK, only one more line. There’s the first fence. Great, perfect distance, and 1, 2, 3, 4……..f*$k. Huh. Was that five? Did I count the first stride? Or was it four? Humph. Whatever, he left the rail up.
• Oh yay, are we done?  Thank God. Walk Mak, we good. Get me out of here before I mess up.
• Oh. Wait. We were supposed to circle at the end. Damnit. We messed up.

Looking the part. 

I left the arena on a loose rein, and hopped off.  My homeless person came up and gave me a massive hug and fist bump. We had done it. This ranch worker, turned eventer, sometimes prancing dressage queen, but mostly bumbling idiot had completed a AA hunter show.

We didn’t even place, and yet you couldn’t wipe the smile off of my face. I had begged, borrowed, or stolen every ounce of clothing and equipment on my horse. I had paid for the world’s best braider (Kaitlin) with a hug and a cup of coffee. I had found the best homeless person/trainer (Alexa) to set fences and polish my boots. I had the best videographers (Jeff and Courtney) who stood there with smiles, calming my nerves. My vet even showed up and offered me calming acupuncture… again.

And at the end of the day, I accomplished my goal—I fit in.

And all jokes aside, it was a great experience. The show was run amazingly, with friendly office staff who answered a million questions, amazing ring crews who worked efficiently and with a smile, and a beautiful course. I met numerous trainers and competitors who offered a helping hand, a golf cart, and their own warm-up fence, and I forced the other grumpy ones to smile.

And at the end of the day, I conquered yet another goal on the bucket list. Right there next to “play hunter princess on a Thoroughbred you brought along yourself” I get to put a big fat check mark.

And let’s be honest, that’s all that really matters. My pony was phenomenal. My posture didn’t suck.

And my pearls, well my pearls are placed safely back in my jewelry box—polished and glistening, ready to play another day.

Until then, Hunterland, until then.

When she is not riding her horses, Carleigh is a racing enthusiast, and helps her boyfriend on his own farm while also enjoying their two Labradors. She doesn’t like to admit it, but she is also an avid needlepointer and a closeted 80-year-old. You can read all of Carleigh’s COTH blogs here and more on her personal blog site, A Yankee In Paris.