Walk. Trot. Canter. In the pipe corral Saracen, standing over 16 hands high, sleek, black mane and tail flowing, was just getting into the easy rhythm of his canter. He'd been confined to the barn for several days waiting for Southern California's soft winter rain to abate. This was the first clear day, still cool and crisp, and slightly overcast. The ground in the pipe corral was soft with moisture, no standing puddles or mud, but yielding like sand, unlike the dusty hard-baked ground of high summer.

It was a pleasure watching him enjoy his own unbridled movement. I was glad for the opportunity for him to get the kinks out. He reminded me of my son, reveling in the freedom of good weather after being cooped up in the house after flu or bad weather. The next day was Sheriff Posse training for Saracen and me. I knew he'd be in an unusual, highly charged setting, requiring him to respond in ways that were not natural to his temperament. I wanted him to have the best chance to succeed. Exercise was key to his being calm and receptive the next day.

I stood in the center of the corral, turning to watch him as he cantered, his lean, muscular body liquid grace. On his third circuit, his inside hind leg slipped suddenly in the soft ground like the back tire of a bicycle sliding out from under its rider. He went down, hit the ground so hard his front legs lifted as he slid toward the corral piping, both front legs lacing through the rail as far up as his shoulder, his neck flush against the upright of the corral. He was stuck, and stunned.

My first instinct was to run to help him. But a voice in my head cautioned me to wait to see if he could do this by himself. If he couldn't then I'd get help to rescue him. Frightened, he squealed, tossed his head, his eyes white with fear while his legs thrashed against the pipe railing, clanging, clanging. I was terrified he'd break a leg. I knew that intervening at this point could be dangerous to him and to me. It took all I could muster to stand by and watch this animal I loved, not knowing how badly he was getting injured as he knocked his legs against the pipe trying to free himself. I was afraid that if the fall hadn't hurt him, the panic would. The theater of my brain was screening coming attractions of me having to put down this magnificent horse that I had loved and trained and learned with. My heart, I'm sure of it, stopped while I watched his struggle. I felt helpless and fearful for him, mixed with a resolve to wait it out.

Finally, by repeatedly throwing his weight with his shoulders, he managed to shimmy far enough away from the railing to free his front legs, but his exertion had rotated his body just enough to lodge both back legs under the bottom railing. I could feel his frustration. Finding himself still tangled in the corral, he panicked with fresh terror. I can still hear the ring of his bones and hooves against the pipe.

Drawing on an expected reserve of strength, he bucked his weight with his shoulders until he managed to slide out far enough to move his back legs free of the railing. His instinct was to roll over away from the railing, but his withers are so high, rolling over is difficult for him. He flailed, thrashed his head, then with a tremendous burst of power to heave his weight over the arch of his neck, he managed to roll over and right himself. He got slowly to his feet and that's when I went to him, clipped the lead line to his halter, laid my palm on his cheek and spoke softly to him. I led him in a slow walk around the ring to calm both of us and to see if his legs were sound.

Thankfully there were no broken bones. I studied his legs closely for signs of cuts and lameness. Watching each step intently, I was horrified to see drops of blood hitting the ground. Red dripped from his left nostril. I wanted the ground to open and swallow me up. Just when I thought we'd made it to safety, this. "Dear God, PLEASE don't let him have internal bleeding," I said aloud.

The second reel of the movie started in my brain. I managed to put it on pause long enough to raise Saracen's head and examine him. Sure enough, there was a cut just inside the nostril, an injury that would respond to simple treatment. I was sure I could hear the music swell as the happy ending unfolded and the credits ran.

I learned a lesson in the corral that day: the unmistakable rightness of allowing someone to attempt to solve his own predicament, even when it is uncomfortable to witness the struggle. Sometimes watching and waiting is the best thing. My husband and I later talked about how this lesson applied to a difficult business situation with one of his employees. It takes energy, courage, a certain element of faith, and the wisdom to discern when to intervene--to act after the person has exhausted his/her own resources, and before the situation becomes detrimental to the person or the business. It's a fine line.

Although Saracen was badly bruised with some cuts and abrasions, he's come through without serious harm. Once again, he's taken me to another level of learning.

Sometimes I wonder which of us is the trainer, and which is the one being trained. Feel free to use this article in your publication or web site, or forward it to a friend. The only requirement is the inclusion of the following statement: