Written by Alycia Goedvolk
Professional photography by Skye’s Eye Photography
A year ago, I wasn’t planning to adopt a nine-year-old Appaloosa gelding. In fact, I was just planning to drive home with a takeaway coffee and some semblance of a normal day. But fate had other ideas – ones that trotted into my life on four spotted legs, hooves clattering against asphalt like thunder.
That was the day I met Indi, standing confused in the middle of a busy highway like a horse-shaped glitch in the Matrix. And from that moment, everything changed.
Out of options
The practical reality of suddenly acquiring a horse hit me immediately. I had no farm, no facilities, and a very large animal who needed somewhere to go. I was out of options, so it was “phone a friend” – literally. I’m fortunate to know Sarah Miller, who runs a horse rescue and rehabilitation centre on her farm. She asked no questions other than, “Can you get him here?”
This became our salvation, and finding a horsebox to transport Indi there became the next challenge. It took several calls and favours, but eventually we located someone willing to bring their trailer out to the highway scene. Loading a confused, tired horse who had no idea what was happening into an unfamiliar trailer was another adventure entirely, but Indi seemed to understand that this chaos was leading somewhere better than standing on hot asphalt.
I still don’t know where Indi came from. There were no brands, no microchip, and no one came looking. He was a mystery wrapped in a mane, stubborn as a mule, with the kind of sideways glance that said, “I have seen things.”
But even as he eyed me warily from behind a scraggly forelock, something passed between us in those first moments – maybe trust, maybe shared confusion, maybe just mutual disbelief at our new situation. I like to think it was the start of a friendship.
A beautiful friendship
Indi’s first night with me was less “graceful rescue” and more “barnyard sitcom”. He refused to walk up the driveway, choosing instead to leap sideways into the flowerbeds. He mistook the water trough for an existential threat. He tried to bite a broom. At one point, we just stood there – me with my arms full of lucerne, him giving me the look of a creature who expected answers.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” I asked. He snorted like I was the one who didn’t belong.
Over the weeks that followed, we got to know each other the way all friendships begin: awkwardly, with misunderstandings and snacks. I discovered Indi hates bananas (noted). He discovered I talk relentlessly, in English and Spanish. I tried singing to him once; he walked away mid-chorus. Rude, but honest. Eventually, though, we started finding rhythm – morning feedings, quiet evenings, and trail rides where he’d pretend to spook at invisible predators just to see if he could get me to yell “INDI!” like an exasperated parent.
There’s a special kind of silence that only exists when you’re sitting on the back of a horse in the middle of nowhere, both of you listening to the wind in the grass. And there’s a special kind of laughter that comes from realising your horse is afraid of butterflies, but not, somehow, of rusted-out tractors or marching geese. Indi keeps me humble. He keeps me alert. He keeps me wondering what he was like before we met.
Sometimes I imagine his past. Maybe he belonged to a circus troupe and performed tricks before running away to start a new life. Or maybe he was just a pasture companion who got bored one day and walked straight into destiny. But, given the area, what’s most likely is that he was abandoned and, had fate not intervened, would have been ensnared by locals and forced into the cruel and illegal practice of bush-racing.
But whatever came before, it brought him to me, and for that I’m grateful.
Lessons from Indi
What I didn’t expect was how deeply this horse would change me. I thought I was rescuing him. But somewhere along the line, he started rescuing me. On days when the world feels like too much, he waits by the fence like he’s been expecting me. When I sit on the edge of the paddock and talk nonsense about life, he listens – well, sort of. He listens until he gets bored and wanders off to eat a thistle. But still, the effort counts.
There’s something pure about the way Indi exists. He doesn’t hold grudges (except against the vet). He doesn’t worry about the future (unless it involves empty feed buckets). He doesn’t judge me for talking to myself, wearing odd socks, or crying into his neck after a hard day. He just is, and somehow that’s exactly what I need.
He’s taught me patience – not the kind you learn in a yoga class, but the kind you need when a 500kg animal decides he’s not moving today, thank you very much. He’s taught me joy, too. Like the joy of watching him roll in the mud right after I’ve groomed him. Or the joy of realising he only comes when I call because he knows there’s probably food involved.
A horse who knows his mind
Indi is full of contradictions: stubborn and sensitive, goofy and wise. He’ll nuzzle my hand one moment and try to untie my shoelaces the next. He follows me around the yard like an overgrown dog but refuses to be caught when I’m actually in a hurry. He hates the farrier but adores the postman (who, to be fair, brings apples).
One of our funniest moments came last winter when I tried to introduce him to a horse blanket. He stared at it like I was trying to dress him in a sequined prom dress. After an hour of convincing and coaxing – and one unfortunate moment involving me being dragged through mud – we both stood there, covered in hay, staring at each other like, “Never again.” The blanket is now retired, living a peaceful life in the tack room.
Once upon a time…
In the year we’ve shared, Indi has become more than a companion. He’s become part of my story – a four-legged punctuation mark in a chapter I didn’t know I needed. And our story is just beginning. There are trails we haven’t explored yet, fences we haven’t jumped, and sunrises we haven’t watched together. He still startles at his own reflection sometimes.
I still can’t figure out how he manages to get burrs on his face. But we’re figuring it out, one hoof print at a time.
This isn’t the end of the tale. Not even close. There are so many more things to say about Indi – his quirks, our adventures, the small sacred moments that string a life together like beads on a bridle. This is just the beginning of the book, the prologue carved in laughter, muddy boots, and the quiet companionship of a horse who showed up out of nowhere and decided to stay.
