The Old Blog in the Desert

I dropped the reins and allowed the horse to have her head. She seemed tired, and to be honest, so was I.

The sun was high over the Sierra foothills, that soft gold light spilling across the sage and scrub like honey. I figured we both deserved a breather.

Now, I’ve always believed horses are like people; some are saints, some are sinners, and most are just a little unpredictable before lunch. Mine, a mare named Sugar, had the temperament of a tired librarian with a caffeine addiction.

Usually steady and occasionally judgmental. But when Sugar got an idea in her head, heaven help whoever was holding the reins, or not.

So there we were, walking easily down the trail, birds chirping, crickets tuning up for the evening show. I loosened my shoulders and thought, Maybe I should’ve been a cowboy after all.

That’s when Sugar decided to remind me I was most certainly not.

Without warning, she practically folded herself in half, let out a snort that sounded like a cannon blast, and launched upward like a bottle rocket at the Fourth of July. I had about half a second to pray, repent, and remember my mother’s advice about keeping my feet under me, all of which proved equally useless.

Gravity and I have always had an understanding: I don’t challenge it, and it doesn’t embarrass me in front of witnesses. That day, however, gravity broke the deal.

I went up, then down, then rolled once for dramatic effect. By the time I stopped moving, Sugar was already a speck on the horizon, tail swishing as she’d just clocked out early from a long shift.

I sat up, dusted off, and checked for broken parts. Everything was where it belonged, though my dignity had taken a leave of absence.

With no horse, no reins, and no ride, I did the only thing a man in my position could do. I started walking.

Nine miles back to the ranch. Nine long, boot-sucking, pebble-in-the-heel, sun-on-the-neck miles.

But after a while, I found a rhythm to it. The birds kept me company, the breeze smelled of pine and sage, and the mountains stood guard in the distance like old friends. I started noticing things I’d missed on horseback, the way the sunlight caught in spiderwebs strung between fence posts, the sound of a creek chuckling somewhere out of sight, the perfect stillness that comes after a gust of wind.

Funny thing about walking. It slows life down to where you can actually keep up with it.

Somewhere around mile five, I stopped feeling sorry for myself and started feeling grateful. For the view, the quiet, and the fact that I hadn’t broken anything vital when Sugar had decided to audition for the rodeo.

By the time I reached the ranch, the sun was slipping behind the hills, and I was wearing a layer of dust, sweat, and what I like to call “hard-earned humility.” The stable hand met me at the gate, trying not to laugh.

“She beat you home by a good two and a half hours,” he said, nodding toward the corral. “Looks pretty pleased with herself.”

I glanced over at Sugar, who stood there calm as a Sunday morning, ears twitching as if nothing had happened.

“You and I,” I told her, “are going to have a little talk about teamwork.”

She snorted, turned her back, and went back to munching hay.

That night, sitting on the porch with a cold drink and a sore everything, I couldn’t help but laugh. Life has a way of tossing you off the saddle now and then, sometimes literally.

But it also gives you the chance to walk a few extra miles, look around, and remember that even when the ride gets rough, the scenery’s still worth it.