If you play polo long enough, you either become a decent enough rider or you get hurt and have to quit the sport. But playing polo is not the only equine interaction requiring equal doses of skill and daring.

Riding a horse is about enjoying a unique, saddle-top perspective. It is also about taking a chance doing something that can be inherently dangerous. As I was to find out the hard way, even trail riding requires a specific set of skills, even for someone like me with nearly 50 years of riding experience. Acquiring new skills are essential, especially for the type of trail ride demanding absolute trust in the horse's ability to climb up and down rocky mountains and to somehow find a way through bottomless, muddy bog fields like those found in western Ireland.

000Not long ago, my sister and wife convinced me to go on a weeklong, 110-mile ride along the legendary Connemara Trail somewhat between Ireland's Lough (lake) Corrib and the Atlantic Ocean. This famous horse trek is one of the oldest trail rides in the world, and it takes a special kind of mount to brave this twisted topography. Imagine a creature that combines the best and worst features of a pony, lama and billy goat and you will have a pretty good idea of the abilities of the Connemara Pony. The Connemara were bred for durability, being natural-born rock climbers who thrive in bad weather and exist on whatever pasture is available. History reports the Connemara is a weird concoction of Spanish barb, Andalusia, with a liberal dose of 19th century Arab and Welsh thrown in for good measure. They are truly magical beings, and it was a pleasure learning to trust in the soundness of their intelligence and athletic abilities.

All eight family members on this Irish holiday have spent a good portion of our lives playing polo and in other riding activities. We all felt confident this trip would be a dream vacation riding in beautiful wilderness, yet stopping at a decent hotel for the night. Our group included my wife, Gwen, and children, Steven and Emily; sister Maria and her husband, Peter, and their daughters, Sara, 21, and Dawn, 19; along with family friend Julie, 21, a scrappy young horsewomen who could ride anything. The youngest trekkers were 10-year-old Emily and 13-year-old Steven, and the oldest was, well--I.

Rounding out our expedition would be six equine enthusiasts, including two ladies, Uta and Brita, from Germany, and Sheila, Jane and Warren originating from various parts of the United States.

Our little odyssey began one morning in a rocky pasture near lovely, remote Cloonabinia, a short drive from the seacoast town of Galway, where we spent our first night in Ireland. A plucky Englishwoman named Jackie met us at our hotel and led us to the middle of a primordial forest. Even Steven remarked it felt like we were in Jurassic Park. Rain is   why everything is so green in Ireland. We sang praises for our rain-resistant outerwear, for our waterproofing oil for boots and for fanny packs loaded with tiny rolls of toilet tissue, knowing there weren't going to be any bathrooms where we were going.

While we waited for our tour guide, an Irishman named Willie Leahy, we were treated to lunch beneath a weeping copse of trees. Leahy eventually arrived, driving a slightly battered vehicle towing a two-horse trailer loaded with a few additional horses. Leahy owns and raises more Connemara ponies than anyone and earned world renown for organizing and financing the first Irish horse museum. He also leads the famous Galway Blazers Hunt.

Leahy is one tough old bird and one of the most experienced horsemen I have ever met. Throughout our trip, nothing much bothered him except human thick-headedness. He knew well the moods and ways of his horses and had a knack for matching horse with rider. If a shoe came off a pony, he would dismount, pull out some tools and cinch on the new iron. One Irish newspaper called him the "Horse Whisperer of Ireland," yet, to hear him bray, "What are you waiting for, go get your horses," or to listen to him repeatedly yell at the top of his lungs, "Whoa, whoa,   whoa!" at a recalcitrant pony or at a rider going the wrong way on the trail, we had another name for him: the "Horse Hollerer," said with a smile, way behind his back.

The first order of business was sorting tack from the vehicle, placing bridles and saddles neatly atop the remains of an ancient stone wall. Led by Leahy, a few of us found, then chased, a dozen horses and ponies to the small clearing where we had eaten. Those willing started bridling the horses in simple snaffles. Just as we had been sizing up the ponies, Jackie and Willie were sizing up their latest motley crew of horse vacationers. Willie has an uncanny ability of matching human with mount. Before you knew it, almost everyone was matched with a horse. While everyone was fitting grass bellies with girth and saddle, my brother-in-law Peter and I remained horseless. When Leahy said, "Come here, me boys, I have two horses for you in the trailer brought along from my farm for a coupla' fellers like yourselves," we realized it was no mistake. Through an impish grin he asked, "You two play polo, do you now?" Peter stood there smirking. I glanced at my wife and sister while Willie quickly dropped the ramp to the back of his two-horse trailer. I finally said, "Really Mr. Leahy, I want a quiet one for a nice, easy ride ..."

My whining ceased when two black, 16-hand Connemara-thoroughbred geldings made their way out of the trailer. "Get them, get them," Willie whispered. After saddling, a handy tree stump enabled me to reach the tip of my muddy toe onto the edge of the stirrup. After a moment or two of a one-footed jig, I eased my plastic covered butt into soaking wet, deep-piled sheepskin--a saddle cover handmade by Peter. He and my sister had experienced this ride five years before and agreed that we would all need a little bit of the sheepskin. That we did.

Soon we were traversing modern civilization, which meant some highway riding dodging cars, dogs, sheep, cows and little children with spinning umbrellas as we made our way in driving rain. With relief we headed toward those green hills and slowly wound our way into a place of soul-resting solitude. The air was fresh with earthly scents of topsoil, grass, trees and wildflowers.

We rode for hours through undulating foothills until we found nighttime pasture in a place called Oughterard. We happily retired to a Sweeny's. This hotel was noted for being next to a clear, salmon river and for wild times when luminaries like the Rolling Stones would fish and drink in the obscurity of the river and the local pubs. Our first day ended with great expectations and a lot of laughs. A good night's sleep, undisturbed by the effects of jet lag or a pint or two of Irish stout, did wonders for our enthusiasm. The next day was recalled as "hell day," and we questioned if we were parents or members of a rock 'n' roll band.

After breakfast we donned our raingear, were driven to the pasture and saddled our horses in the driving rain. Day 1 was a piece of cake. My sister warned me this day would be different. It was. Early on a wild pooch spooked Dawn's horse into lurching forward before rearing straight up, throwing her into a jagged, stone wall. Dawn gamely remounted, sustaining a bruised arm and a wrenched knee.

After lunch we reached a short stretch of rocky mountain trail that looked a lot better than it rode. The children's spirits were high. This was an adventure. We began to climb, up and up and up a nearly vertical assent, with little fear or trepidation. The Connemara ponies settled in and seemed surefooted in sharp, jumbled rocks, deep mud and steep angled inclines and declines.

Willie causally mentioned that Pete's dancing, prancing, high-headed gelding had never been on this route, and it was becoming quite a handful. Luckily, Willie chose the right rider for right horse. No one on this trip would have enjoyed, let alone survived, Sparky as much as my green horse-loving, polo pony-making brother-in-law.

Unknown to any of us, including veteran trail climber Willie Leahy, the previous day's rainfall amount had exceeded the typical Irish June. Excessive rain here can be dangerous, especially in bog territory. By the way, bog is a substance better left alone. It is a quagmire that eventually, under pressure for a million years or so, becomes a fossil fuel. For centuries, local villagers have cut it, dried it and burnt it in fireplaces across Europe. Bog is covered by the greenest pasture ever and the only way to tell if there is bog underneath is a little white flower that looks like a puff of cotton.

Our way to Maam Cross was marked through more beautiful country. We were admonished to see the sites, such as the shores of Lough Corrib and the locale where John Wayne's movie The Quiet Man was filmed. We gazed at stone houses abandoned since the famine of the 1840s, wondering where all those people went ... probably to the local pub before heading to America. Too bad we were too preoccupied with fear, weather and difficult riding to appreciate this extreme terrain.

Emily became unsaddled as her pony made its way from rock ledge to rock ledge, a few of us found our horses chest deep in bog (muddy quicksand), and a woman fell from her horse, which then ran into Steven's pony, knocking them both down. Fortunately, other than a few bumps and bruises, we were no worse for wear.

Not much was said at next morning's breakfast, except we debated wearing raingear because the sun was shining. We decided to anyway, and by the time we went out and tacked up the horses it was raining. We once more began the ride to Ballynafad through the Connemara Natural Park. Willy had Emily on a towrope, telling her that she would be all right by noontime. He was right. Unlike her dad, Emily overcame her fear and opened her mind to the thrills of the ride. Assured that the next days would be far less stressful, we rode merrily along, eating what seemed like an endless supply of cookies Julie had stashed away--until we hit upon particularly ominous looking bog site, crevassed in a remote, narrow mountain pass. More bog--more fear and loathing on the Connemara Trial.

A Connemara-bred horse can go through, get around or climb over anything given even the smallest foothold or purchase. Rubber mats or loads of rock are poured into the ever-shifting, boggy areas; yet, incessant rain can cause new, deeper problems. The ever-resourceful Willy had to cut pine branches and place them over our latest surprise bog pit. That footing worked for the first few riders, and they were able to scramble to stable ground. Subsequent riders, including myself, were not so lucky. One woman landed face-first into sticky, brown mud, and Steve had to dismount when his pony's legs disappeared in the muck. It was everyone for himself, everyone reaching firmer, terra firma. More branches added to bog soup got us through.

That bog ordeal was the turning point of the trip. From then on, it was an exhilarating time. By the time we all stopped for a cup of strong tea in delicate porcelain cups at a lakeside cottage, we all were joking about the past days' events. Before this day ended, we enjoyed a gallop along an old railway line, abandoned by the Irish in the 1800s after the British removed all the iron rails.

We were driven to the town of Clifden and lodged in a centuries-old abbey beneath a splendid wall of tall mountains. We had heard the food was not the best, but it was terrific. We were served generous portions of lamb or beef, fresh fish and vegetables. Irish potatoes live up to their reputation. After a long day of riding, anything sustains, but most nights for us it was one gourmet experience after another. Beware, most Irish towns have pubs packed with lively native, friendly people who enjoy jig-inducing music and who are ready to belt out ballads fueled by a shot of Jamison or a glass of Guinness.

Over the next two days, we rode an average of eight hours per day. Scenery and time slipped by as we passed through centuries of village and seacoast life. People came out of their homes to wave hello and wish us a fine trip. Galloping through the tall trees in forest woodlands or winding our way slowly over miles of alien, stony-gray barrens, we came to know a place apart from our comfort zones. Steven believed we had become Hobbits, chased by dark wraiths escaping from J.R.R. Tolkien's trilogy, The Lord of the Rings.

On a rain-free Friday we reached the Atlantic Ocean! We spent most of the day riding and napping on the warm, white sand of Mannin Bay beach. We galloped for miles and climbed and jumped across rolling sand dunes and over piled rock walls.

Most of our group wore bathing suits under their rain outfits, and they took the long walk past the waves and out into the deep, cold, crystal blue water of the Atlantic Ocean. One or two of us chickened out and held spare horses and took the photos. Our horse swimmers told me that I missed something special. That night, age, injury and too much dinner caught us with a soft uppercut. We limped to our rooms and fell into an exhausted slumber.

Our last day on the trail began seaside at the turnout pasture, where we collected the Connemara ponies, mounting not so gingerly, for the final day. We headed for Tommbeola, a coastal town located over steep, rocky mountains. We had grown to trust ourselves as much as our tired horses. Loosen the reins and let the horses pick their way over the rocks and through the streams to behold ever-unfolding scenery.

The upper slopes of the mountain afforded views of Dogs Bay, with topaz seas as clear as any Caribbean shoreline. Above us and all around us were herds of sheep, distinctly color coded with spray-paint patterns of ownership. Curving stone walls crisscrossed the landscapes, testifying to centuries of toil and sweat by inhabitants, creating soft, green pastures for livestock.

During a difficult part of the trail, Willie pulled his horse to a stop and told Emily to get off her horse and help him catch a leprechaun that lived in this part of the mountain. Willie directed her to stay on a rocky ledge while he went around the hill to chase the leprechaun her way. Legend said that leprechauns must be caught by grasping their big toe and shaking gold from tiny pockets. After a moment or two, Willie whispered, "Emily, be ready, me girl ... a leprechaun is coming your way." After several tense moments with Willie whispering and carrying on from inside what sounded like a deep cave, Emily wanted no part of catching a leprechaun's long toe. Willie chided her for her lack of perseverance because they nearly had one this time. Around the next bend in the trail we did pass what looked like the entrance to Golem's underworld.

When we descended the mountain range, we knew that our journey was near the end. Blackie, my now tired friend, had grown into a trusted horse, in some ways more trusted than my best polo pony. It was wonderful seeing my family laughing and having a good time. The younger ones had grown in confidence, becoming much older and wiser after surviving a long, hard ride through the rigors of Ireland. Tears flooded my eyes when I realized how fortunate we were spending this irreclaimable time together. We saw sights and experienced joys that too few will ever have a chance to realize. It was a bittersweet moment when we slipped the bridles from our comrades, freeing them to pasture. We thanked them and promised to always remember them.

We spent our last night in Galway. After a farewell drink, courtesy of Willy Leahy, each rider was awarded a scroll certifying our accomplishment, complete with a map outlining our journey. Willie invited us to stop by his Horse Museum on our way to the airport, and he met us there with a glass of warm whiskey for each of us. He proudly showed us around the first Irish horse museum, all self-organized and -funded. We all limped slowly through exhibits about the Connemara Pony and horses in general. There was even a short film about polo--a much safer way to be with a horse than a trail ride. Within the museum, Willie finally really did whisper, almost reverent standing amongst his life's work.

Willie Leahy is remarkable horseman living a remarkable dream in a remarkable land, who built a remarkable place to remember and honor remarkable horses. We were honored to share time with him, whether sitting horseback or at a dinner table or near a horse blanket picnic. We will never forget his charm and wit or his amazing Connemara ponies. Thanks, Willie and Jackie, and a special thanks again to big Blackie for keeping us from falling from off the edge of the world.