3,000 Miles of Horses, Mud,
Babies & Bad Decisions
Road notes from Arizona to Oregon by way of Colorado, Wyoming,
Montana, and whatever emotional zip code I happened to be living in
at the time.
I pointed the truck north out of Arizona and managed to stack just
under 3,000 miles onto the odometer before finally landing in Oregon
for the summer. Somewhere between canyon roads, mounted shooting
clinics, muddy fairgrounds, baby snuggles, and enough gas station
coffee to medically alter a person, the trip slowly turned into
something bigger than just hauling horses from one state to another.
The original plan was simple enough:
Follow Celia to
Colorado.
Spend time in Wyoming with my daughter Athena and my
newest grandson Mark.
Then head into Montana to help Jim Hanson
with mounted shooting and horsemanship clinics before eventually
making my way to Halfway, Oregon to base-camp for the hot months of
summer.
Simple plans are adorable in theory.
Colorado: Canyon Hideout & Porch Security
I landed at Canyon Hideout in Colorado, tucked down inside one of
those canyons so pretty it briefly makes you reconsider modern life
altogether. No cell service. No noise. Just horses, canyon walls, and
enough stars at night to make you feel like your problems probably
aren’t all that important after all.
Harley immediately appointed herself Head of Porch Security while
Groot conducted a full tactical snack inspection of the property.
Cabin life suited me pretty well. Settled the horses, put up hot
wire, hauled water, and settled into the kind of quiet that either
heals a person or causes them to start talking to inanimate objects.
Jury’s still out.
We rode canyon country bordering National Forest and Ute land,
climbing up through old Anasazi ruins with names like Pig Rock and
Poison Ivy Ruins. Comforting little names like that really make a
person feel welcome.
Drifter continued his ongoing career path as a talented but
slightly criminal young horse. Some days he feels like a future
champion. Other days he feels like a Craigslist warning story.
Steve spent most evenings telling stories that may or may not have
been true. Honestly with Steve, truth feels less like a requirement
and more like a creative guideline.
Mother’s Day rolled through while Celia’s family wrapped up
turkey hunting season and headed home. They always make me feel
welcome, but being around intact families when you’re the odd piece
floating around the edges can hit a little strange sometimes.
Then again, my grandma always said I was odd.
Maybe this is
just me finally growing into the role.
Wyoming: Baby Mark & Snow in May
I pulled out of Colorado at 4 AM after Jack stepped directly on my
foot before daylight, which honestly felt like the universe providing
an accurate preview of the day ahead.
Despite having TWO GPS systems running and AI helping with
directions, I still managed to get lost multiple times hauling horses
through unfamiliar country. Technology is amazing.
At one point I passed the same gas station twice
while both horses stared at me from the trailer with visible
disappointment.
Eventually I rolled into Wyoming where Jim met me at the
fairgrounds and hauled my horses and trailer back to Montana so I
could spend uninterrupted time with Athena and baby Mark.
That kind of loyalty means something to me.
Baby Mark finally got to come home after everything they’d gone
through, and seeing him in person for the first time hit harder than
I expected. Tiny little million-dollar miracle baby.
I was initially afraid to even hold him because he seemed so small
and fragile.
That lasted about five minutes. After which I did not want to put him down.
Turns out I’m apparently built more for emergency situations
than nurturing ones.
That conversation actually came up while I was in Wyoming with
Athena and Baby Mark. I told her sometimes I wish I were more like
her mother-in-law Cindy. Cindy is one of those genuinely saintly
humans with a heart wired for service. If there’s a crisis, she’s
already making casseroles, feeding people, organizing what needs
done, and somehow quietly holding everybody together while the rest
of us are still trying to locate our emotional support coffee cup.
She just naturally knows how to care for people in the soft ways.
I’ve never really been that person.
I told Athena sometimes I feel inadequate around women like that
because nurturing doesn’t come naturally to me in the same way. I’m
not the “let me feed the neighborhood” type.
Athena reminded me that people contribute different things to the
tribe.
Some folks bake the casseroles.
Some folks apply the
tourniquets.
Apparently I’m a tourniquet person.
If the zombies attack, I’m your gal.
Snake bite? I got
you.
Alien invasion? Stay behind me.
You’re bleeding out in a
ditch somewhere? I’ll keep you alive long enough to complain about
it later.
But if you’re hungry afterward, you better hope Cindy’s nearby
because I’ll probably hand you a protein bar and call it emotional
support.
Wyoming delivered snowstorms, dog adventures, Sonic drink
tragedies, thrift stores, Thai food, and enough emotional whiplash to
qualify as a carnival ride.
The dogs adapted surprisingly well to temporary apartment life.
Harley claimed every porch she saw like hostile real estate
acquisition while Groot wandered around looking like a retired
drifter who accidentally discovered indoor furniture.
Meanwhile Baby Mark slept peacefully all day and transformed into
a tiny nocturnal dictator every evening.
I already miss that little guy.
Montana: Mud, Mounted Shooting & Controlled
Chaos
From Wyoming I headed into Montana where things shifted into
mounted shooting mode.
Clinics.
Video work.
Horse prep.
Arena setup.
Balloon
duty.
Sponsor shirts.
Mud.
Rain.
More mud.
And somewhere in there, actual shooting.
We spent time around Bozeman, Deer Lodge, and Anaconda helping
with clinics and shoots connected with the Treasure State Cowboy
Mounted Shooting Association.
I helped wherever needed:
setting up arenas,
shooting
video,
running balloons,
working horses,
staying out of the
way when possible,
and occasionally failing at the “out of the
way” part.
Drifter really started stepping up during the Montana State Shoot.
I shot clean one day and finally started pushing for speed the next.
Missed a balloon for absolutely no valid reason whatsoever, but once
I quit protecting the clean shooter pot and just rode aggressively,
things started clicking.
That horse has talent.
Jim was running like an absolute machine. Watching him and Teri
High push each other within hundredths of a second was worth the trip
all by itself.
Meanwhile the clinics produced the usual energy:
people getting bucked off,
mustangs outperforming
expectations,
rainstorms trying to destroy everything,
and
horse people somehow laughing through all of it anyway.
One gal got dumped pretty hard and climbed right back on like a
proper ranch woman.
The mustang at that clinic ended up being one
of my favorite horses there.
Montana itself was gorgeous.
Also muddy enough to swallow small
vehicles.
The horses’ feet stayed tender from standing in constant wet
ground packed with mud, gravel, and everything else horses manage to
locate with surgical precision.
During downtime I edited clinic videos and interviews, including
one with Teri High that actually turned out pretty decent considering
I’m basically learning all this as I go.
Somewhere in there I also started realizing I’m trying out a
different way of existing lately.
Less running.
Less immediate retreat.
More sitting with
discomfort long enough to understand it.
Still not entirely sure how I feel about that.
I also realized I deeply miss alone time sometimes, even around
people I genuinely care about. That part probably needs more figuring
out yet.
But growth rarely arrives looking organized.
Usually it shows up muddy, exhausted, emotionally inconvenient,
and asking where you keep the duct tape.
Idaho, Oregon & Summer Reality
By the time I hit Idaho, the road fatigue was setting in pretty
good.
There were reroutes, road closures, birthday cake, memories at
Craters of the Moon, and more rain.
Then finally:
Halfway, Oregon.
Everything fired right up when I got
there:
tractor,
pump,
Subaru,
lawn mower,
weed eater.
Which was honestly rude because it eliminated all my excuses.
The grass exploded while I was gone. My arena now resembles a hay
field tall enough to lose horses in. The fence lines need work. Water
lines need repaired. Everything needs cleaned, sprayed, organized,
unpacked, or fixed.
In other words:
summer has officially begun.
And after nearly 3,000 miles, I’m finally parked long enough to
start catching my breath.
At least until the zombies
arrive.
Double tap, baby…
