Author Dan Aadland’s favorite type of horse is an arched-neck beauty that “looks for the next town.”

Cream colored ponies and crisp apple strudels, doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles..." So goes the memorable song from The Sound of Music.

Those of us with a passion for a good trail ride on a good horse have our favorites, too. We like things that work for us, things that suit us, horses, and experiences that keep us heading out for new country year after year.

In a time of economic stress, maybe it’s good therapy to reflect on some things about our activity we truly love. So, in trail-riding context, here are some of my favorite things.

A Good Horse
The horse (of course) is where we begin. For me, they’re arched-necked beauties who carry themselves like royalty, who "look for the next town." I guess I’m in good company, because artists and sculptors from caveman days until recent history have always depicted horses with beautiful arched necks and bold head carriages and with eyes that rivet your gaze.

Humans in our history have conquered continents on such horses. I like them willing, ready, smooth-riding, and game for whatever is around the next bend. I like them honest (like people, they vary in this respect), the sort who gain your trust, the sort with whom, in a tight spot, you can trust your life.

I want my favorite horses short-backed, high withered, and moderate in width up front with that inverted "V" between the front legs when viewed head-on (rather than a flat span) that to the old-timers spoke of endurance.

Good bone, compared to the animal’s weight, is a given. I want a horse neither slight of build nor heavily muscled, but built instead like the equine equivalent of an athlete in Greek sculpture.

Such a horse need not be spirited, exactly, but he must have drive, go, a natural desire to move forward, an innate desire to "get it done." The best of them are cool in an emergency, as if they’re trying to think the situation through.

And once I’ve trained them, I never, on my favorite horses, have to be remotely conscious of guiding, of steering. It’s done with reins in one hand, the movement of hand and leg so light, so subtle, that I forget I’m signaling at all.

My favorite equine companions seem, too, to have a sense of humor, a personality that radiates enjoyment of what they do, even if it brings sweat to their hides. Horses are second only to dogs in the length of time they’ve been domesticated. Every horse on the planet, including those we call "wild," is the result of this domestication, so working with humans is deeply vested in their genes.

Though modern clinicians often focus on past equine behavior "in the wild," the horse is a domestic herd animal, and human interaction is natural for them. And just as you hit it off with some humans better than you do with others, some horses simply "click"; they’re friends from the start. These quickly make your list.

Whether smooth-gaited or not, horses that qualify for my "favorite things list" must walk! In the non-gaited breeds, an unfortunate side effect of some competitive arena events has been deemphasizing the walk, sometimes rewarding only a poky one.

All horse types, according to Deb Bennett, PhD, founder of the Equine Studies Institute (www.equinestudies.org) are physically capable of walking six miles an hour. But putting the walk on the back burner has resulted in horses that break into a trot at speeds slower than the walk of a human hiker. Never should our most important trail gait be put at low priority.

Functional Gear
The tack that most pleases me isn’t trendy. Some might find much of what hangs from the horseshoe hooks in our tack room old-fashioned or even archaic. (Yes, to handle the chiseled-from-granite trails of our Montana wilderness, we shoe our horses.)

I like old things that worked well for my forebears, people who used their horses as constantly as we do our automobiles, people whose daily work involved horses and who, I truly believe, forgot more about horsemanship than most of us will learn in a lifetime.

Tack that worked for decades of such interaction has much to recommend it, and although other things may work, as well, certain favorite things seem to work best for me. So (meaning no criticism, since we’re only talking preferences), you won’t find in my tack room mecates, slobber straps, rope reins, treeless saddles, or any sort of gear declared to be the only solution for a host of horse problems.

I like stout, deep saddles, with horns strong enough to hold their end of a dallied rope when I straighten out a recalcitrant pack horse or mule, or drag a heavy firewood log to camp. I like mild curb bits, which, if I’ve done my job earlier with the snaffle, let me be all the lighter on the reins, to ask my horse for a turn or a stop with pressure measured in mere ounces.

Rein chains are on author Dan Aadland’s list of favorite gear. “For the old cowboys, rein chains were standard equipment,” he says

And, I like rein chains! They’re hard to find nowadays, but I located a large selection in northern Wyoming at The Frannie Tack Shop (800/552-8836; 307/664-2344). For the old cowboys, rein chains were standard equipment. These light chains with swivel replace the leather for the first 12 to 16 inches at the bit end of the rein.

Rein chains offer two big advantages compared with all-leather reins. First, your horse doesn’t at every watering point soak your supple leather reins — the frequent wet-and-dry cycle eventually stiffening the leather and shortening its life.

Second, the slight weight added to the front end of your reins induces a smidge of built-in collection. Collection, of course, is basic to horses working off their hindquarters, and in gaited animals can help "square up" gaits and make them smoother. Harsh collection — driving the animal into an unpleasant bit — puts me off. But rein chains add just a touch, even when riding with an extremely light rein.

Good tack, too, can form a connection with the horsemen who came before you. My wife, Emily, frequently rides in her dad’s saddle, made in 1919, and I sometimes use her grandfather’s Sam Stagg saddle, with which he cowboyed clear back in the 1880s. It’s a little narrow for some of my horses, but when it fits, I find it comfortable.

And there’s the curb bit I used after switching from a snaffle on the first colt I raised and trained from scratch. It’s the very same officer version of the standard U.S. Cavalry bit with which Emily’s grandfather guided his half-trained horse on the way home, herding a band of untrained ones he’d bought from the Crow Indians to break over winter. I’ve now spared the antique bit further use, but it adorns my office wall.

Good tack lasts a long time. And so do the memories, the associations, the touch with horsemen of the past that you get from using such good, functional gear.

A Beckoning Trail
The trail beckons to us dyed-in-the wool trail riders, and makes confinement to an arena as interesting as watching paint dry. We yearn to get out, and so do our horses; they always seem to perform better in the open than when confined by walls. Horses, after all, were our companions for all sorts of forays and expeditions. It’s natural that they itch for a trek toward the horizon.

The trail to me is the smell of pine, and the sounds of creaking saddle leather and hooves on the ground. The scent of sage mingles with the pleasant hint of horse sweat.

There are the songs of birds, and I often berate myself for knowing so few of them compared to my historical mentor Theodore Roosevelt, who, among his myriad dimensions, was an ornithologist. But one of his favorite birds is also mine, the western meadowlark, the yellow bird that sings three descending notes, then raises its pitch for three more.

One favorite trail involves many crossings of a small, clear creek that takes a serpentine course down a pretty valley. At each of these crossings, brook trout skitter out of the way when the shadow of my horse touches the water. Now and then, a pair of mallard ducks squawks into the air, drawing a start from my horse.

Aspen groves, light green in spring, shady in summer, and golden in fall contrast with dark spruce and tall lodgepole pine. There’s often a lunch stop by a favorite waterfall in a tiny basin. We always tie our horses well short of the place to keep it as pristine as possible.

A Comfortable Camp
A good camp is the ultimate destination. As the afternoon wanes, the best trails point toward a camp you’ve set up with your own hands rather than toward a trailhead crowded with pickup trucks and trailers. Nothing makes you feel more self-sufficient and proud of your working animals than packing in a comfortable camp and then spending time there.

A camp for me is pine smoke and the aroma of venison Swiss steak simmering on the stove, embellished with just the right spices, to be accompanied by something simple, such as macaroni and cheese with perhaps a little pudding for dessert. Beverages will be chilling in the creek.

The horses, relaxing after a tiring day, will munch grass at the ends of their picket ropes, those tied to the highline awaiting their turn, the young horse in camp hopping hobbled among them. At night, sunken into warm sleeping bags, we’ll hear coyotes yapping and, in the morning, the first bird songs and the scolding of a pine squirrel irritated with our presence.

Sometimes at high elevation, even during midsummer, there is a skiff of frost, a sheen of white covering the tent fabric when I wriggle out of my sleeping bag and emerge at first light. This is a particularly delicious time.

After hobbling several of the horses so they can graze, I sit on a camp stool, stir a campfire into life, and watch the sunrise while the coffeepot bubbles on the hissing camp stove and wafts aromatic steam toward me.

The sun first hits the top of the west valley wall, then edges its way down into the valley. On one morning like this a cow moose fed her way across the clearing east of the tent. As one commercial proclaims, "It just doesn’t get any better than this."

Friends on the trail and in camp spread out the enjoyment, make for more laughter and taller tales. Emily and I prefer small groups to large, riders we know with horses we know. At rest stops and around the campfire, there are stories, mild teasing, the common bond of similar people passionate about similar things.

A bit of bragging is a given, of course, because everyone thinks his or her horse is the best on the trail. If there have been any miscues, they’ll be hashed over in detail. Stories from the past, funny ones, will be resurrected and will grow.

Wrecks, hopefully of the sort that didn’t result in any lasting injury to horse or rider, seem less serious after the mellowing effects of passing years, their humorous side now fair game for ribbing. But the talk invariably centers on and returns to the horses, because they’re the bond, they’re what brought us here, and they’re what will keep us coming back.

And come back we will. The proof of success on every trail ride is that we find ourselves planning the next ride before the current one ends. Every topo map promises adventure, and every trail we’ve not yet known, beckons. At even a short rest stop, talk turns toward a ride not yet ridden, a trail someone has seen on a United States Geological Survey map that no one in the group yet knows.

And we’ll take joy in what we already have, favorite things, trail-riding opportunities that don’t require a great deal of expense, and faithful horses and friends who, like us, care little about the relative balance of their 401Ks