PROLOGUE
I can’t tell you exactly how the dream of riding a horse across the country started. I can tell you how it flourished.
As a young child, I was known in my family as “spacey.” I’d sit in school, and instead of paying attention, I’d be lost in my own fantasy world, looking out the window, imagining riding through some distant town on a trustworthy horse.
From the back seat of the family car, no dirt road or shady trail escaped my notice. They beckoned to me, making me wish I could follow as they led me somewhere green and wild. I could almost feel the swing of a horse’s stride beneath me and the breeze at my back as my horse and I discovered where those roads and trails might take us.
Time passes and daydreamy kids grow up. But as a young adult, every time I stood in line for too long at the department of motor vehicles or struggled to pay bills, the fantasies reemerged. I still dreamed of living like a gypsy on the road, spending every day riding and free.
I had my own horse—a lovely older gelding my dad helped me buy—and as I was nearing the end of my teens I acquired a second mount: a four-year-old Quarter Horse I called Rainy. This horse proved to be remarkable, and by the time I was twenty-three and Rainy was seven, I knew I had the right horse for the journey I’d dreamed of. Rainy and I were in good health and good shape. I couldn’t think of a reason not to try to make it happen.
I wasn’t trying to escape a troubled life. Just the opposite was true. I was part of a happy family. I had a job, a boyfriend, and friends I cared about. Yet in the spring of my twenty-third year, I said goodbye to all of that. Carrying a puppy named Gypsy, I climbed up on Rainy, the horse I loved so dearly, and we walked away from everything, heading west.
This is the story of our journey.
PART ONE
RAINY
A secret quest brought me to a winding country road, a folded newspaper with one small, circled classified ad on the seat beside me. I knew when I found the place I was looking for: a barn, and down the hill, horses grazing in a grassy field. The owner of the farm came out as I pulled in, and together, we walked toward the pasture.
I noticed a buckskin horse standing out amongst the sorrels and bays. He looked up from his grazing, walked up to us, and stopped in front of me. His coat was a light golden color, his mane and tail, midnight black. His muzzle and ears were a soft charcoal, like shadows. I took in every detail of this horse with deep clarity—his velvety coat and deep brown eyes. I held out my hand and the young horse met it with his muzzle, blowing a soft puff of air onto my palm. Right then, I knew he was my horse.
I asked my veterinarian to visit the buckskin and check him over, make sure he was healthy and sound. My vet took a liking to him, too, confirming my belief that I’d found an exceptional horse. This was important, because I was keeping something to myself: I was searching for a horse that could carry me a long distance. A very long distance—like across the whole United States.
Some might have said I should’ve been looking for an older and more experienced horse. An older and wiser person would not have succumbed to love at first sight. But I was nineteen years old. I wasn’t listening to common sense the day I met the buckskin. I was listening to an impulse deep inside me.
The young horse I named Raindance came home to live with me and my old gelding, Bo. The first sight of the buckskin across that green field, how he walked over and stood with me, felt like fate. We were never apart again.
THE DREAM
There’s an old horseman’s saying that it takes six months to know if you bought the right horse and a year to really bond with him. Horses are creatures of flight, hardwired as prey animals to flee at the first sign of trouble. They’re peaceful animals, but they walk through life warily. Teaching them to accept what we humans ask of them takes time, patience, knowledge, and skill.
But Rainy and I started right out as if we had been together a long time. We didn’t have experience, but we had what I believed was an almost mystical connection. In my heart, that mattered more than all the training in the world.
Now that I had the right horse, my dream of a cross-country journey began to find form. In my mind, it combined all I loved: I would be outdoors, riding the horse I felt so connected to, traveling somewhere new each day, and seeing the country. I didn’t mind being alone; in fact, I liked it. At the same time, I enjoyed meeting people and hearing their stories. What could be more perfect than a horseback trip across the United States?
I researched other adventurers who had traveled long distances by horseback. I studied equine conditioning and training. But mostly, I rode. It was autumn when Rainy came to me, and we roamed the countryside all season, first through the farm fields as leaves fell. By the time the snow blew in flakes around us, we had wandered many back roads and trails. The trust was there and the idea of walking away together had taken on a life of its own.
The late teens and early twenties are a funny age; you are legally an adult but oh so young. It’s easy to get confused by conflicting desires: the yearning for a sense of belonging and a need to strike out on our own; the natural instinct to love and care for something, clashing with the thirst for independence. For me, Rainy fulfilled all those mixed up emotions. Having him allowed me to pursue my dream, while at the same time teaching me to be responsible and put his care above my own. The young buckskin could be counted on to go forward willingly, and he seemed to enjoy our meanderings as much as I did. We spent so much time exploring those first few months, I believe he came to trust that I’d never ask him to do anything frightening or harmful, and I began to trust him to carry me through anything.
The journey became something more than just, “Ride a horse across the USA.” It became, “Ride across the USA on this horse.” It was about a unique experience that Rainy and I would share as a team. There would be no other horse and no other way.
CONDITIONING, TRAINING
Early on, before I had a real idea of when we would actually start the trip, I got serious about preparations and developing a conditioning program to get ready for our long ride. The advice available was a mixed bag, further diluted by the fact that no one I could contact had done exactly what I was planning to do. I searched for any nugget of wisdom that might help: My veterinarian researched vaccinations that Rainy might need in other parts of the country. I learned to read topographical maps. I studied articles about endurance riding, which taught me about electrolytes, hydration, and the horse’s pulse and respiration rates—how they should be at rest and how these numbers should change as Rainy’s fitness improved. My dad, though not a horseman, was a marathon runner with lots of training experience, and his advice added to the disparate collection of information I used to prepare my horse and myself to walk approximately twenty-five miles a day for many months over varying terrain in changeable weather.
The mental training you give a horse is as important as the physical. There are many varied personalities in the horse world, and certain horses are better suited to certain activities than others. Along with his willingness, Rainy proved to be quite unflappable. I rode him on bridges, past livestock, and through water. I practiced camping with the buckskin tied near my tent at night.
As we prepared for the adventure I’d wished for my entire life, I dated, I went out with friends, and I had several jobs. Twice, I chose a date to begin our journey, and twice, I postponed it, not feeling anywhere near ready to leave. Then one winter day, it dawned on me that Rainy was now seven, a prime age for a horse. And I was twenty-three, a prime age for a human. We were in as good a shape as we ever would be.
I picked a date for the following spring, the first of May, 1982, which would take advantage of the longest stretch of good weather along my planned route, from my hometown in New York State to California. The timing would give us three seasons to cross the country before snow came again.
The first of May. It felt right.
A GUY AND A DOG
I had a departure date and new saddle packs. The local newspaper ran a story about the trip, followed by features on local television. The publicity brought me an unexpected offer of sponsorship from Eureka! Camping, a business based in Binghamton, New York. They would provide all the camping gear I needed if they could sew an extra logo or two on the tent, and I agreed to wear their tee shirts once in a while, during my travels. Of course I agreed. My budget was not nearly as grand as my dreams.
I heard from old friends, even people I barely knew, and received letters and cards wishing us luck. I was touched by these gestures, but they also made me feel my first bit of nervousness. Now, with a professional business giving us a sponsorship and people I knew (and didn’t know) rooting for me, some hidden doubt surfaced. I didn’t want to let anyone down.
Then, about six weeks before Rainy and I were scheduled to leave, two things happened that changed everything.
At a time when all I could think about was the upcoming journey and riding my horse, and the least practical thing I could do was meet someone, I fell in love.
Leaving a work party in late March, I said my goodbyes and went to cross a busy street to where I’d parked my car. A guy I recognized from another department at my company was waiting at the curb, too. Every time it seemed safe to cross, another car would whip around the curve, making us step back. After the third attempt, we looked at each other and laughed. Then he reached out his hand, I took it, and together we dashed across the street.
It was a bold move, but sweet, too. We stood talking by our cars, and it started right there. His name was Mike. He was funny, self-confident, and respectful. He knew about my trip and how soon I’d be leaving, but we started dating anyway. My attachment to him grew quickly.
The second event affected my journey deeply, in ways I could not have imagined.
The first time I practiced camping with Rainy was at the edge of some woods just over the border in Pennsylvania. A stream bubbled comfortingly nearby and the stars were out. It was lovely, and being there alone, the pleasant scene made me feel strong and capable.
Then, during the night, I heard a noise in the woods—the crackle of twigs as something moved nearby. When I looked over at Rainy, his ears and head were up, looking toward the trees. I told myself it was nothing, but the sound came closer, and it really put me on edge.
From the darkness at the boundary of the tree line, a whitetail doe came, stepping carefully toward the small stream. Seeing her, I took some deep breaths to try to calm myself after the adrenaline rush of fear. In that moment, I suddenly wished I had a dog with me. Rainy was my stalwart companion, but he could not curl up in the tent with me. A dog could be a guard and protector, or just sit with me and observe the natural world in peace.
A few days after that camping trip, I was officially in search of the perfect dog. But I felt torn. Could a dog be ready for such a long trip in such a short time? Would a dog be an asset and not a liability? I decided I would look at different dogs and see if the right thing to do would come to me.
My sister, Jan, and I made several trips to meet dogs at the pound, and we visited a dog breeder or two, but none of them felt right. Then one day, as puppies of all colors and sizes clambered on cage doors and barked for attention at a shelter, one small, mongrel pup sat watching us with bright and curious eyes. A Collie-German-Shepherd mix, she had a golden coat with white markings on her chest and paws like a collie and the ears of a German Shepherd. She was not timid, but calm, quietly observing things around her. She had a look that conveyed intelligence and a special light from within. Rainy had that look, too.
Yet I walked away.
I was plagued with doubt. As a rider, I should always be in control of Rainy. He needed to be my focus on this journey. But in a tense situation, would I be able to keep control with two animals to watch out for? I was drawn to that puppy, but I fought the feeling, and we left her there.
Two days later, I woke from a deep sleep knowing I had to get that dog.
It was a restless couple of hours, waiting for nine o’clock when the shelter opened. My fear now was that she would be gone. I bit my nails and paced, checking the clock every few minutes. Well before the doors were unlocked, I was parked outside the shelter office in my old Chevy Nova, waiting anxiously. An employee pulled up, and I jumped out and approached her. “We open at nine,” she said, briskly walking by me, fumbling with the keys.
“I know,” I answered with an apologetic look. “I’m just anxious to see if the puppy I want is still here.” She shrugged, but as she opened the door, she tipped her head at me, indicating it was okay to follow her in.
Behind her, I waited, fidgeting nervously, while she found another key to open the puppy area. I kept silently repeating, Please let that puppy be here.
As we finally stepped into the area where I’d seen the pup, my eyes did a quick, apprehensive search. There were black puppies and spotted puppies and beagle-looking puppies and then…there she was.
She sat alert, looking at me. I flew over and knelt near her kennel, sticking my fingers through the wire. The pup stood up and began to lick my fingers, her whole body wagging from head to tail.
When I picked her up and held her in my arms, a feeling of happiness came over me. It felt like the last piece of a puzzle had just fit, and I had a sense of having done something wise.
The puppy licked my ear, and I whispered to her, “I’ve come to take you with me.”
And I did.
GYPSY
My mother thought of calling the puppy Gypsy. No other name was ever considered.
Gypsy was small and even-tempered; it was easy to take her everywhere with me. Despite how well she handled herself, I found it nerve-racking to bring her to the farm for the first time. I carried her as I walked down the barn aisle between the cow stanchions on one side and horse stalls on the other. When I finally set her down, Gypsy put her nose to the ground, sniffing and exploring. She was intrigued by the cows in the stanchions but kept a respectful distance from their hooves.
I saddled Rainy and walked outside with him, mindful of the puppy trotting along with us. I picked Gypsy up, but it was awkward trying to mount while holding her. The only way I could swing up into the saddle was to zip her into my jacket. That’s how we rode off together for the first time: Rainy walking in his steady pace, Gypsy peeking out from my jacket, and me with a happy grin on my face.
In the field of the farm’s hilly pasture, I stopped Rainy and dismounted, setting Gypsy on the ground. After a minute, I got back on, leaving the puppy on her own, and asked Rainy to walk on. Gypsy trotted over to keep up with us. She found “her spot,” behind and a little to the side of Rainy, and she stayed with us in her roly-poly puppy way. The dog showed an innate sense of how to act around a horse. I couldn’t have asked for more.
In the coming days Gypsy learned to “heel” with a horse: We’d ride along a dirt road, and if I heard a car coming, I’d say, “Over,” and she’d move right into the heel position behind Rainy. She made the association so well that before long, if she heard a car before I did, she’d move over all by herself.
Gypsy was content to ride along with me, too. When the warmer days came later in the spring, and I no longer had a jacket to tuck her into, the puppy would lie across the saddle in front of me. Rainy was not bothered by her, whether on board or running behind him. There were three of us now, and we were a good team.
48 HOURS UNTIL DEPARTURE
As departure drew near, it seemed everyone in my life had something to say about my upcoming adventure. Most expressed support but admitted to skepticism. My parents tried to convince me to ride out for a few days and “get it out of my system,” then come home. Friends with horse trailers told me they’d be glad to hitch up their rigs and come fetch Rainy, Gypsy, and me when I “got tired of it.” Friends, cousins, coworkers…so many people sent cards and called, wishing us luck. I would have liked for someone, anyone, to say they knew we could do it, that they knew I really was going to ride my horse all the way to California. But I don’t think anyone in my life thought that. They were supportive but not necessarily believers. I had to settle for their good wishes.
It was only when the last days before leaving could be counted in hours that the enormity of what I was planning got to me.
My aunts and uncles came to see me before I left. “You won’t believe some of the mountains you’re going to hit, just in western Pennsylvania,” my Uncle Mack warned. I envisioned myself and Rainy and Gyspy, dwarfed like tiny specks in a land of towering peaks, looming far, far away. It made me feel small and vulnerable, and a lump formed in my throat.
The rush of emotion came again when my farrier’s truck pulled up to the curb at my parents’ house—an unusual sight. Larry got out of his truck and walked his distinctive bow-legged walk up the walkway, his old worn cowboy hat on his head. I tried to get him to sit on the porch, but he stood, fidgeting, twisting and untwisting a bag in his hands.
Larry handed me a folded up paper. “Here’s the name of a horse family right outside Montrose. I just did their horses, and they’ll have a stall ready and a place for you to stay on your first night.”
Better still, there were more names and addresses and phone numbers on the paper. Larry had been shoeing and working with horses his whole life, and he knew people everywhere. “I made a few calls,” he explained. “I got a place for you guys at my uncle’s near Forksville, and then at a big Arabian barn with a tack shop on the grounds. If you make it out past Williamsport, that’ll be a good place to stop. They’ll help you if you need anything.”
I was relieved more than I expected to be, knowing we had a few specific destinations to ride toward and people watching for us.
“And I made this for you,” Larry went on, pulling a coiled rope from the paper bag. “It’s a neck rope. You just put this part over Rainy’s head.” He held up the rope to demonstrate.
I took the rope and looked it over. All of a sudden I felt short of breath. I was starting to feel a little scared.
I consciously pushed the feeling away. We would be fine. This trip, the trip I’d been planning for as long as I could remember, was going to be great.
It took my mom a while to finally accept that I was going to try to ride my horse, alone, across the country. She did not want me to, and I think she expected it to be a short-lived adventure. To show her support, my mom went shopping, picking up things she thought I’d need. She came home with a bag. “I got these things for your trip,” she said.
I poured out the contents on the bed where I was packing. There was makeup. And nail files. And moisturizer and other things a girl uses—a girl who is maybe going out on a date or something. There was even an electric hair dryer.
Maybe my mom was not quite accepting what I was about to do, after all.
Even though her choices seemed like a sort of denial, my mother was subtly reminding me to remember to be, as she would always say, “a lady.” It didn’t matter what I was doing or where I was, it was how I conducted myself that mattered.
And you know what? The moisturizer and the nail files were actually pretty smart. There were times later, on the road, I was glad to have them.
In dreaming about my journey across the country, it seemed like a free-spirited adventure, a lark on a grand scale. I never thought about how different alone is when it’s every night, or how different goodbye feels when it means for a very long time. Or what a huge responsibility it was to care for the horse who was giving his all, and the dog, so full of trust, who joined us.
On the day we set out, my lack of emotional preparation made me wonder if following my dream was a big mistake and if I was going to regret starting the whole thing.