Horse = Life

At the Providence House in Rohr Park on 11-20-25, the City of Chula Vista presented plans that showed the equestrian arena being replaced with lighted soccer fields. What many in the room saw as a planning diagram, horse people saw as the erasing of a way of life.

When people talk about removing the arena at Rohr Park, many in the room hear a land-use issue. Horse people hear something very different. We hear the quiet breaking of a bond that has existed between humans and horses for thousands of years.

Every horse person in that room could feel it. They were equally upset knowing what was being proposed… the end of a way of life. I could hear it in their voices, see it in their faces, and feel the tension in the room. It was almost inconceivable to learn that Chula Vista was preparing to erase the way of life of backyard horse owners in Bonita.

Most people who have never owned a horse don’t understand what happens there. They think it is just riding. Just a hobby. Just a sport.

It isn’t.

 A person does not simply get on a horse and go. First, you connect. You walk up slowly. You speak softly. You brush the dust and burrs from their coat so they are comfortable. You clean each hoof, lifting an eight-hundred-pound animal’s foot and earning their trust enough that they will give it to you. You place the saddle pad carefully because they deserve comfort. You set the saddle. You walk them so the girth can be tightened because they always seem to hold their breath. They are living, thinking beings… not equipment.

Only after that do you ride.

And when you are done, the work continues. You loosen the tack. You speak softly again. You brush the sweat. You give them an apple or a carrot. They give you a soft nicker… a sound no one ever forgets.

But what most people never see is the life of a backyard horse owner.

In Bonita, families wake up every single day and walk into their backyards and straight into responsibility. They don’t leave their horses at a distant barn. They live with them.

They muck the grounds.

They haul wheelbarrows.

They drag and move green trash cans full of green waste.

They coordinate hay deliveries.

They fix fencing.

They repair broken boards.

They watch for loose wire.

They call vets when a horse comes up lame, cut, or colicky.

They feed their horses before they drink their own coffee.

They change water before breakfast.

They clean stalls when it’s raining.

They check fencing when the wind howls.

They walk the footing and remove rocks and holes so a horse won’t get hurt.

They don’t do it for trophies.

They don’t do it for show.

They do it because that horse depends on them.

They do it sick.

They do it tired.

They do it exhausted.

And somehow… they do it happily.

And in that quiet work, something sacred happens.

Sometimes you’re bent over, mucking stalls or shoveling waste, sweaty and tired, thinking no one sees you… and Viva O Fear quietly walks up behind you and gives you a gentle nuzzle. A soft thank-you. A hello. A moment that melts your heart and makes every hard chore disappear.

That isn’t a hobby.

That’s a relationship.

That’s a life.

That daily care isn’t casual. It isn’t theoretical. It isn’t something you read about. It’s something you live every morning and every night. That rhythm of care is older than cities, older than borders, older than governments.

And there are only a few places left in San Diego County where this life is even possible. Only a few zones where backyard horses are still allowed. Bonita is one of them.

That makes Rohr Park more than a park.

It makes it a lifeline.

I didn’t grow up with horses. I was a waterman. A beach lifeguard. A surfer. A swimmer. I thought I understood connection to nature. Then my wife handed me a cowboy hat and introduced me to a horse named Viva O Fear.

At first, she saddled him for me. Then she made me do it myself. She taught me to listen. To feel. To slow down.

When you ride a horse, they say you’re ten feet tall… an altitude and attitude adjustment. But it isn’t a push-button car… it’s a living, breathing, thinking eight-hundred-pound creature that can spook, react, and move faster than fear. You have to be ready.

I was hooked the first time he gently nuzzled me and made a happy little nicker when I gave him a carrot.

That was the beginning.

Because of him, I moved my family to Bonita in 2000.

Because of him, I found Rohr Park and the equestrian arena.

By 2003, I completed my first 50-mile endurance ride. By 2013, Viva O Fear and I became a Decade Horse team with the American Endurance Ride Conference… ten straight years of fifty-mile rides… more than 2,000 miles together.

And sometimes I was the only man at these rides. Most of the riders were women… girls, daughters, mothers, grandmothers… quietly strong and quietly powerful… bonded to animals that respond to patience, kindness, and trust, not force.

Among them was my friend and mentor, Hall of Fame rider Suzy Kelly… may she rest in peace… a truly strong and talented rider who won first place in nearly every race she entered… an 85% winning record… amazing.

This is the horse sport I lived… endurance riding.

Fifty-mile rides.

Four vet checks.

Trot outs in hand.

Recovery heart rates that had to meet strict criteria.

Constant veterinary care focused on the horse’s health above all else.

I traveled across California looking for remote places where fifty miles of real trail could be found.

Manzanita.

Cuyamaca.

Yosemite.

Eastern Mojave climbing Cima Dome.

Tejon Ranch.

Descanso.

Otay Ranch.

Ridgecrest.

Even two rides out of Sweetwater Summit Park.

And the arena was critical to my training.

I would go to the Rohr Park equestrian arena and let Viva O Fear roll and run, then brush him, clean his feet, saddle up, and hit the trail.

Bonita’s trails made endurance riding possible. I would ride east through Morrison Pond… trot past Bonita Golf Course, dodging the occasional random golf ball… up to Sweetwater Summit Park and up Cardiac Hill.

Sometimes I’d continue east toward the Steel Canyon Bridge in Jamul.

From the summit, you can go north by Sweetwater Dam into Spring Valley.

You can go west through Rohr Park to Western Gateway Park.

You can go south through Bonita canyons and connect to Rice Canyon.

For an endurance rider… it was perfect.

But those trails weren’t always peaceful.

On one training ride out toward the Steel Canyon Bridge, we were attacked by a vicious pit bull running loose. I will never forget the sound I heard… my wife’s horse screaming.

True Girl… may she rest in peace… was my wife’s American Endurance Ride Conference Decade Horse of 2014 and Viva O Fear’s best friend.

We had no choice but to gallop.

We ran for nearly a mile with that dog in angry pursuit.

When we finally dropped the dog, I saw the damage. True’s back leg was cut and bleeding. Blood was splattered across her underbody from the gallop and the injury.

We looked for help.

We looked for someone to report it to.

We looked for a system.

There was nothing.

No reporting process.

No ranger response.

No safety structure.

So we became it.

We joined the San Diego County Trail Patrol.

We logged safety reports.

Cars parked on trails.

Motorcycles driving on dedicated horse trails.

People dumping roofing materials and debris.

Fallen trees blocking access.

We warned families about rattlesnakes in Rice Canyon.

One day, we heard a helicopter overhead describing a missing child… a boy in a white shirt… and without hesitation we saddled up and rode out to help search.

We became the eyes and ears for Sweetwater Summit Park rangers.

We attended meetings.

Filed reports.

Tracked incidents.

We logged over 10,000 hours of volunteer service… until the program disappeared when the person in charge retired.

That’s why in so many of my riding photos, I’m wearing my brown County Trail Patrol shirt.

We weren’t just riders.

We were guardians.

For about ten years, we helped keep families safe, horses safe, and trails safe… quietly… without applause… without recognition.

Because that is what horse people do.

There are people who ride trails.

Arena-only riders.

Parade riders.

Pleasure riders.

Gymkhana riders.

Ring jumpers.

Dressage riders.

Barrel racers.

Therapy riders.

So many kinds of riders.

So many ways of life.

But one thing is always true.

They need the arena to safely train and continue.

That is the bond they don’t see.

At home, I have two granddaughters, ages two and three. They have been riding Viva O Fear in the backyard since they were only months old. They hug his neck. They wrap their little arms around him. They press their faces into his soft mane. And he stands there perfectly still… calm and gentle… as if he understands exactly how precious they are.

My dream is to one day teach them to ride in the Rohr Park arena… when they are older… when they are ready… when they are strong enough to guide him on their own.

That dream lives inside this place.

Soccer fields fill space.

A horse arena fills souls.

People who have never lived with a horse don’t understand why this hurts.

Horse people do.

Because when you lose an arena, you don’t just lose dirt and fencing.

You lose memory.

You lose safety.

You lose history.

You lose healing.

You lose connection.

That arena has served families for more than forty years. It has saved lives during wildfires. It has created riders, caretakers, partners, and people who learned how to love something larger than themselves.

And for backyard horse owners, losing this arena is not an inconvenience.

It is an extinction event.

Without a safe, legal, accessible place to train, to start young horses, to teach children, and to maintain safe animals, backyard horse ownership doesn’t slowly fade…

It disappears.

This is not about dirt.

This is about the survival of the connection between horses and humans.

The pain people felt at the 11-20-25 meeting… I saw it in their faces. Each one has a unique story of how they connected to a horse. How they taught their kids, their kids’ friends, and their grandkids to ride in Rohr Park. Each person has a reason to keep the arena intact for future riders and future stories of Horse = Life.

This was mine.

By Darrell Jett | November 23, 2025

Return to Main Page