PART TWO

On Our Way

LEAVING

My father asked, “You have enough money, don’t you?”

Money was something he could control. Daughters who dreamed of sleeping under the stars? Out of his hands.

So he asked again. I nodded my head yes. Who knew how much money I should have? I’d never lived off the back of a horse before. My mom had a crumpled tissue in her hand. My younger brother Vince was on his knees, playing with Gypsy. He looked at me for a minute, and we both smiled, but he avoided my eyes after that.

I’d been waiting for the moment I’d ride off and “be free” for years. But there I was, checking the packs I’d already checked, tightening the saddle I’d already tightened. The feelings inside were not nearly as simple as I thought they would be. I couldn’t believe I was really doing it.

Then, I swung up in the saddle. Vince handed me Gypsy. I leaned in to hug him as tears formed, and my mom and my dad got in there, too, holding me tight. Rainy stood quietly within my family’s embrace.

When they stepped back, my mom dabbed at her eyes with the tissue as my dad said, “You’re going to call us tonight, right?” I nodded, wiping my own eyes, saying I love you, letting Rainy walk away.

We followed the farm drive, the dirt under Rainy’s feet still soft and damp with morning dew. When we reached the main road, I turned back in the saddle, looking for them, huddled together up by the barn. I raised my arm and waved. Then, I faced forward.

Rainy turned left off the driveway. His horseshoes rang out a hollow sound on the pavement. I brushed the tears that remained from my eyes. With so many unknowns before me, I needed to see clearly.

LONGEST DAY

We crossed over a creek rushing with spring runoff. A late-season snowstorm had hit the area, and where we were riding had been buried in snow just a few weeks before. Now the sun was shining. Trees lined the road in a lacy shade of light green.

I’d imagined this moment many times. I never imagined I’d feel unsure and confused.

Rainy, Gypsy, and I rode past the farm where my old horse Bo was staying while I was gone. Bo paced back and forth by the fence, whinnying to Rainy. The buckskin gave a little nicker back. It sounded as sad to me as Bo’s frantic calling. The horses knew something unusual was happening.

Seeing Bo in such a state was the last straw in an emotional morning, and the tears started again. I kept Rainy going up the road until I couldn’t hear Bo’s whinnies anymore. We rode on until the road turned from paved to dirt. A small stone monument, old and tilted with age, marked the border between New York and Pennsylvania. We weren’t far from home, but we’d crossed our first state line.

We were making poor time. By midday, we were at Quaker Lake, not nearly as far as I thought we’d be. I considered pressing on and skipping lunch with the friends who’d invited us to stop in. Then I reminded myself what the trip was about, how I’d said there’d be no strict schedule. The stop would give Rainy a break, and seeing friendly faces might help me get some of my confidence back and shake the doubt I was feeling.

Mary Larabee offered hot soup and cold drinks. Gypsy curled up to nap on the cool tile floor. Mary and her husband Byron seemed happy to be part of our first day, and I felt better spending a little time with them. As I saddled up to leave, Mary offered her hand to me.

“We want you to have this,” she said, depositing something in my palm. “It’s the Saint Christopher medal I gave Byron when we were first married. Saint Christopher is the patron saint of traveling people.” Mary wrapped my hand around the medal. I promised to carry it with me and tucked it in my pocket for safekeeping as Rainy, Gypsy, and I got on our way.

After a while, Rainy’s pace slowed. Gypsy looked uncomfortable, panting in the unseasonable heat. I had no idea why this first day was so hard on all of us.

As we crossed a little bridge that spanned the neck of Laurel Lake, Gypsy decided she’d had enough. My young pup plopped down in the middle of the road. She wouldn’t get up. I coaxed, I made kissy noises, I pleaded. I tugged on the leash, but she just rolled around. Finally, I scooped her up into my arms, which made it hard to get back in the saddle. I began to walk on foot.

That’s when Rainy decided he’d come far enough.

I tried to lead him forward but the buckskin planted his feet, refusing to budge. I set Gypsy down in order to take the horse’s reins in both hands, and my dog took the opportunity to lie down again, flat on the road.

The sun was burning my nose and cheeks enough to hurt. Gnats had been bothering us all day. There by the lake, mosquitoes stung my arms and the back of my neck. I couldn’t swat at them because my hands were busy trying to pull Rainy and Gypsy forward. In the midst of this, I heard a chuckle. Teenage boys were fishing on the shore near the bridge and were watching us, laughing at our struggle.

My dream never seemed more impossible than it did at that moment.

My face grew hot with embarrassment. Those boys would never believe I was on my way across the country with these two animals. No one who could see us at that moment would take a bet that we’d make it thirty miles, much less three thousand.

After a moment’s reflection, I knew what was wrong. Rainy and Gypsy were extremely capable of reading emotions. Stories abound of horses and dogs sensing danger, grief, fear, and other feelings. They pick up on and react to what they sense around them. My horse and dog were acting out what I felt inside: balking and scared, daunted by the task I’d set us out to accomplish.

I stopped all the tugging. I took a deep breath and let my animals stay right where they were. I scratched Rainy’s neck and patted him, and he relaxed and lowered his head. I rubbed Gypsy’s belly, earning a tail wag. Thank goodness animal friends forgive us our mistakes so easily. I started to walk once more, and this time both Rainy and Gypsy moved along with me.

Not long after the tussle on the bridge, a car passed and did a U-turn, coming back to pull up beside us. I recognized an older gentleman, a neighbor who lived near the farm where I boarded Rainy and Bo.

“Hey!” he called out. “I heard you were going on a long trip! Which way are you heading?” I told him we were aiming to reach Montrose by the end of the day. “Well, what’re you doing going this way?” he asked. “I know a better way.”

For some reason, after thinking about my trip and planning it for years, I changed my plan. I let the man convince me that a different route was easier, better, shorter. With my confidence slipping away, those words tempted me. But soon his “better way” had us climbing steep hills, and I didn’t see any familiar landmarks.

In the many hours I’d spent riding alone, I’d never had an encounter that made me feel I was in danger. I told my mom and dad you didn’t have to worry out in the country. So it unnerved me when a car slowed, coming dangerously close to Rainy, and an obviously drunk man leaned his head out the window, calling out really raunchy things. I tried to avoid eye contact as I urged Rainy around the car.

“Hey! I’m talking to you!” he shouted angrily. He pulled the car up close to us again. I could see his red-rimmed eyes and greasy dark hair. I was not at all sure what to do with him blocking the road and no one else anywhere around. “Are you ignoring me?” he slurred, followed by, “Bitch.”

Then as suddenly as he arrived, he sped away.

I was truly shaken by the encounter. How could this happen now?

I had to admit to myself that on our first day, on the trip I’d planned for years, we were lost. I slumped in the saddle, completely beaten down. Rainy’s head drooped before me. Gypsy panted in the heat. I felt stiff and tired. I deeply regretted changing my route, but there was nothing to do about it but keep going and hope that soon I’d come to a road I recognized. When we finally did, I felt a rush of relief, followed by dismay. We were still about six miles from our planned destination, and even as we rode forward, I knew we wouldn’t make it by dark.

The woods thinned out ahead and a neat yellow house came into view on the side of the road. A large shade tree stood in the middle of a sprawling lawn. Knowing I shouldn’t push the animals any farther, I envisioned Rainy tied to the tree and my tent right near it.

A man and a woman carrying a baby came out of the house. The family paused near their car when they saw us, and I rode toward them with a shaky smile and a hello.

“Can I tie my horse to that tree and set my tent up in your yard for the night?” I asked after quickly explaining who I was and what I was doing. My voice trembled with fatigue and emotion. The strain of the day had taken its toll; there was no hiding my feelings.

The couple looked at me with kind expressions. The baby cooed from his mother’s shoulder. I was embarrassed by how fragile I probably seemed. I knew none of us looked like we could go another mile, never mind across the whole country.

“Well, sure,” said the man, “but you might be happier with our neighbors who have a barn and pasture. Let me give them a call.”

I nodded wearily, thankful to have help.

We ended the first day of the great adventure not at all where I expected to be: Rainy safely stabled in a barn; Gypsy and I visiting with new friends, the Rennees. We sat around their kitchen table, and as I shared the trials of our day, it started to sound a tiny bit more like a funny story than a complete disaster. I told them about the Larabees, and the Saint Christopher medal they’d given me, and reached into my pocket to pull it out.

My pockets were empty. I searched frantically in all my clothing, but the medal was gone. Mary Larabee thought Saint Christopher would keep us safe, and I’d lost him the first day on the road. It was not a good sign at all. I looked at my hosts, with dismay. Mr. and Mrs. Rennee tried to comfort me, but there was nothing anyone could do. I felt horrible.

After a few awkward moments, the Rennees gently reminded me to call my mom and dad. I think they hoped it would make me feel better about the loss of the medal, but when I reached my parents, they were upset and worried because it was so late. I heard the doubt and concern in my mom’s voice. Yes, I’m in the home of complete strangers, I told her. No, nothing today worked out the way we planned.

How could I make my mom and dad feel better when my own idea of what to expect from this trip had already been shaken to the core? I couldn’t help but wonder if the whole journey was going to be like the first day: frustrating, intimidating, and lonely.

I also called the family in Montrose who had been expecting us that night and told them we were not going to make it. They had a new name and phone number for me, which I jotted down: A 4-H family down in Springville, who they knew, had said they were more than happy to meet me the following day and have Rainy stay in their barn for the night. I didn’t know it then, but it was the beginning of a chain of families and horse people who would help us on our way.

The Rennees graciously invited me and Gypsy to stay inside their small home, but I declined. I wanted to sleep outside in my tent. I clung desperately to the image I had of how this trip would be, of me and my animals, part of the wild outdoor world.

I set up my tent alongside the stream that ran behind the Rennees’ house. Daffodils grew all around and the stream made a bubbly, cheerful sound. Branches of a weeping willow gently swept the water’s surface. As I laid my things out, the evening air began to be a comfort, a warm shawl laid across my shoulders. The soothing surroundings worked their magic, somehow making the end of the difficult day seem not quite so bad.

Gypsy crawled into the tent as soon as it was ready, curling up on the sleeping bag. I wasn’t ready to close my eyes, instead lying awake, mentally cataloging all my mistakes. I’d gotten lost, sunburned, bitten by bugs, scared by a drunk. I’d wildly misjudged time and distance, cried in front of total strangers, seen my animals try to quit on me, and lost a precious gift.

Back when the trip was just something I just talked about, people always asked why I wanted to do such a thing, and I would casually toss off phrases like, “I want to see our country,” “I love to travel, to ride, to be outdoors.” The reasons I’d always given now seemed overly simplistic. I thought about the goodbye party my friends had given me, and the cards and letters of encouragement I’d received after our story was in the news. I thought about the humiliation I’d feel if I were to give up too easily.

Pride can be a great motivator. I looked out at the starry sky, and listened to the sound of spring peepers and the gurgling stream. We made it through the first day. We were okay. And we were fifteen miles closer to California.

DIFFERENT DAY

With the morning sun heating up our tent I woke with a start, anxious to check on Rainy. He gave a friendly nicker when he saw me. I ran my hands along his back and down his legs. Nothing seemed sore, and I breathed a sigh of relief that he’d handled the previous day’s ride well. I felt stronger just being around him, and I rubbed his neck and told him so.

I adjusted the packs while Rainy stood patiently. Mrs. Rennee approached with a kind smile.

“I have something I’d like to give you,” she stated. She held out her hand, showing me a small cross. “I’d really like it if you’d take this with you. I made it for you late last night. It’s from two palm leaves that were blessed at my church on Palm Sunday.”

I picked up the delicate cross. “Oh, thank you so much!” I smiled at Mrs. Rennee. My belief in the “bad omen” of having lost the Saint Christopher medal was quieted with the gesture. Hope and faith sprang up from somewhere inside me as Gypsy found her position at Rainy’s heels and we set out.

After the solitude of the previous day, it was fun passing through downtown Montrose, Pennsylvania. We walked down the main street, and people stopped to watch. By afternoon, we were heading south on Route 29—a busy road for a horse, but the drivers were mostly considerate, and not much bothered Rainy.

About halfway to Springville, a light breeze picked up, bringing an unexpected cloudburst. As the first drops plopped heavily on the pavement, I twisted around and fumbled for my rain poncho in the packs. By the time I found it and pulled it out of its plastic sleeve and over my head, the rain ended. I was drenched, my horse and dog were drenched, and so were the saddle and our packs.

The brief rain brought humidity. Gnats hovered around us. The rain poncho had visible lines on it from being folded in its protective sleeve, but that didn’t mean I could fold it back up again. It was now a bright yellow jumbled mess, half in and half out of the packs behind me. I swatted at insects, Gypsy whined, and Rainy kept dropping his head down to rub his wet, itchy ears on his legs. My jeans were soaked and hot, and we moved down the road in a slow and heavy way. Well, I thought. The well-oiled machine is at it again.

GHOSTS

We approached a crossroads, a Little League field on one side and an ice cream stand on the other. Behind the ice cream stand, a board fence enclosed a small area with grass, trees, and a picnic table. I tied Rainy to the fence, loosened his girth, and walked around to the ice cream window.

My chocolate ice cream was dripping down the cone by the time I returned to my animals. I sat on the edge of the picnic table, my legs swinging, Gypsy watching. Her eyes never left the cone in my hand. She looked so serious; it made me laugh.

The edge of the outfield across the road was visible from where we rested, and I listened to the Sunday afternoon baseball game: the crack of the bat, families cheering, kids yelling. The sounds seemed to float on the air.

No one saw the three of us, tucked away in this shady spot. No one knew we were there. It was almost like invisibility, sitting alone, observing the small town goings-on. It occurred to me that we were on the outskirts of things now. We were on the edges, the way a ghost would be—hovering around loved ones, harmless, undiscovered.

OLD TOYS, COUNTRY ROADS

We found the two big blue Harvestore silos that identified the Hietsmans’ farm—the 4-H family who’d promised us a place to stay the night—by late afternoon. When I met Mr. and Mrs. Hietsman and their children, Doug and Julie, I liked them right away.

“You’ve ridden for two days. Maybe you should come home now?” my dad tried when I called to say I’d made it to our Day Two Destination.

“I’ll come and meet you there,” Mike promised when I told him the next town we planned to ride to was Meshoppen.

After a simple breakfast with the family the next morning, Mr. Hietsman shared some advice.

“Be careful of crossing Route 6,” he warned. “And there’s one road you should avoid that’s steep and has no shoulder. Watch out for the P&G factory you’ll come to…oh, and you should know there’s a big high bridge out that way, too.” But he had some good news, as well. Mr. and Mrs. Hietsman told me they’d allowed Julie to take the day off from school so she could ride along with me the entire way to Meshoppen.

“I’d really like that,” I said as I helped clear the breakfast dishes. It was an understatement. I was afraid I’d look desperate if I let them know how happy the news made me. I’d only been on the road a few days, and it had been a shock to discover how lonesome I was.

We saddled the horses together and set out early. Julie and her horse Van led the way on old logging trails, fire roads, and hunt-camp tracks. The wooded dirt roads were perfect for riding. We never saw traffic of any kind. The soft, damp soil muffled the sound of the steady footfalls from the horses walking side by side.

We came to a break in the dense forest where a tiny cabin hid in the shadows of tall evergreens. On the weathered porch sat an ancient and frail old man. My eyes widened as the man smiled a toothless grin, and, without a word, held up a painstakingly repainted toy Tonka truck for us to see, a proud look on his face.

Julie, who didn’t seem surprised by the scene, shook her head at him.

“No, thank you, Mr. Troy!” she called out in a loud voice as we walked past several more restored toys, scattered about the yard. I noticed a worn sign nailed to a tree with “TROY’S TOYS” scrawled crookedly across the board.

“Does he live here in the woods all by himself?” I asked Julie. “Can he possibly sell any of those toys?” I looked around at the dense forest and the narrow dirt lane we were riding on. We hadn’t seen a car or another human being all morning!

Julie shrugged, as if the old man was just part of the landscape.

“Old Mr. Troy has been in his cabin as long as I remember,” she said.

To me, it was like an illusion, as if, were I to go back and try to find that old cabin and the little spots of brightly painted toys in the woods, I would find no sign of them at all.

It felt like it was too soon when Julie and Van brought us to the edge of a paved road, and we traded the deep forest for sunlit farm roads that wound through Pennsylvania’s Endless Mountains. Signs of spring in the country were everywhere. Black-and-white dairy cows in green fields turned their heads as we passed. Farmhouse gardens overflowed with daffodils and tulips. Carpets of bright pink phlox covered the banks, sloping up from the roadsides.

We rode up to a little cluster of homes and a general store—a place called Lynn. “I’ve always wanted to tie a horse here, like they did in the old days!” Julie announced, pointing to an old hitching post outside the store.

It was obvious the woman in the store was curious about us—we could see her face, pressed up against the window of the door. She surely knew that Julie was supposed to be in school, and I was a stranger, which was kind of unusual for this tiny crossroads.

“Before I get home tonight, I guarantee my parents will have gotten a phone call, telling them about us being here today,” Julie said with a laugh.

This was my introduction to the country grapevine.

Our horses were well matched in their gaits and temperaments, and it made for an easy rapport between us as we rode. Gypsy explored the ditches and sniffed the fence posts. The leaves on the trees were just beginning to open, making everything around us seem green and full of life. We stopped to watch a trio of golden draft horses lope across a meadow, the Endless Mountains in layers of purple and blue in the distance.

Our day’s destination was Slumber Valley Campground in Meshoppen. Julie’s grandma had called the Jennings family, the owners of Slumber Valley, and arranged for me to stay, with special permission granted for my horse and dog. When we arrived we were shown to a spot along a creek with a grassy area where Rainy could graze. It couldn’t have been better.

Julie and I unsaddled the horses, and soon they were munching grass contentedly. It was easy work for two of us to prepare my tent for the night. Together, we collected twigs for tinder. The campsite was homey and friendly looking in the twilight. We sat at the picnic table, chatting about the day and eating crackers. Gypsy slept a sound, tired, puppy sleep at our feet.

Lulled by the peace of the setting and the quiet company, it was a jolt when Julie suddenly said, “There’s my dad.” I saw a pickup truck coming across the grounds, an empty horse trailer rattling behind it. We’d had so much fun that day, I actually got a sick feeling in my stomach with the reminder that Julie and Van would be leaving, and I’d be on my own again.

After parking the truck, Mr. Hietsman joined us at the table and asked about our day. Julie looked around wistfully at the horses and the campsite.

“I wish I could stay here and camp with you tonight,” she said to me, though her eyes watched her dad to gauge his reaction. She knew, and I knew, she’d already missed one day of school and had to go back.

Bob Hietsman looked somewhat dismayed at the prospect of leaving me. Even after Julie’s horse was loaded in the trailer, he asked again if I was all right and if I needed anything. I must have looked more fragile and lonely than ever. I fought back tears as they pulled away. I noticed for the first time how empty the campground was around us. The last rays of sun disappeared as the truck and trailer grew smaller and smaller, until they were gone.

MESHOPPEN

Twilight deepened. I was a little unsettled, but also a tiny bit excited. This was the first real camping of our trip. I called Gypsy to me, and we explored along the creek.

Purple violets dotted the grass on the path where we walked. In clear pools, minnows darted from side to side. On the opposite bank, the woods already had the look of nighttime, dark and full, now that the sun was behind the hills.

Back at our campsite, I lit the little teepee of twigs that Julie and I had prepared, and watched the edges turn electric orange and begin to curl and burn. Soon a fire crackled gently, warming me and taking the edge off being alone. I watched my animals and listened to the twilight sounds. Rainy slowly lowered his weight to the ground, stretched out, and slumbered. Gypsy was long asleep in the tent. The mosquitoes, so prevalent in the day, were gone now as the night air chilled my skin at the same time the day’s sunburn heated it.

I’d made calls home and to Mike earlier from the campground office. If Mike could get out of work early (he worked the third shift, usually from midnight to eight in the morning) he’d drive down to see us. I vowed not to sleep so I could watch for him.

The campfire dwindled to a warm glow. Despite my vow, I drifted off, waking sometime in the wee hours to the sound of a car on the gravel campground road, and feeling ridiculous that I felt so elated when I recognized Mike’s Buick.

After a jubilant greeting from me, and one from a wiggling Gypsy, Mike and I sat at the picnic table to eat the breakfast he’d brought. As the sun grew stronger, we walked to the waterfalls, talking nonstop.

“How is everyone at work?” I wanted to know. I teased him when he admitted he’d been playing the albums I’d left at his house. And then I asked, “Will you be able to come and see me on the road again at some point?”

“You’ve only been gone a few days!” Mike laughed.

I was startled to realize he was right. It felt like so much longer to me!

Mike helped groom Rainy, and the morning passed in a companionable way, one of us on each side of the buckskin, brushing his sun-warmed coat.

Mike knelt down by my packs and dug around until he found the sunscreen, buried deep within.

“Here, let me do this,” he said, holding my face with one broad hand while he applied the lotion to my sunburned cheeks with the other. We had been talking all morning, but now I stood silently. We both knew it was time to go. He was going one way, and Rainy, Gypsy, and I were going another.

I loaded my carefully arranged saddlebags onto my horse as Mike awarded Gypsy one last scratch. With a nod from me, he gave me a leg up into the saddle.

Rainy, Gypsy, and I walked away from the quiet campsite, and the beautiful creek, and Mike, standing there by his car. Saying goodbye made me sad, but there was something else that morning…an unwanted gut feeling that rose deep inside—a weird and sudden belief that I would never see him again.

CRYING TO SINGING

I rode along, worrying. So far, the trip had been so different from what I expected. I’d been mostly consumed by negative emotions. Instead of a sense of adventure and excitement, I felt lonesome and anxious. Maybe I’m not cut out for this. Will we all be all right? What lies ahead?

Insecure thoughts ran their course as Rainy, Gypsy, and I made our way up the mountain road. I’d never know what awaited us on the road ahead, yet something kept me going. No one made me do this. This was my dream.

The road was steep. Occasionally a big logging truck blew by with a load of timber. There was little shoulder to ride on, but Rainy wasn’t rattled by the monsters passing so close to us. I shook my head, dislodging my gloomy musings. I needed to pay attention. I focused on Rainy—this good horse on this bad road, making his steady way, up and up.

We hugged the guardrail on the right side, and I tried to ignore the steep dropoff. The left side was sheer rock face where the road had been cut, and the mountain appeared alive with layers of stone, dripping spring water everywhere. It seeped from the very earth, helping graceful ferns grow all along our path. Tall evergreen trees kept us in dappled shade.

I had been sniffling when we started up this road. Little by little, the bubbling springs, the birds, and the breeze began to bring me a sense of gratitude. I became aware of something surprising: I was singing. The goodbyes and the worries had fallen aside as I became engrossed in a remarkable May day. I was singing!

THE BRIDGE

As we worked our way down another steep road, I caught glimpses of silver through the trees. At first I thought there was a body of water below us. As we descended, the bright flashes came more clearly into focus.

I stopped Rainy and sat, staring. Before us was the largest industrial spread I’d ever seen. Metal buildings covered the land for acres. Smokestacks billowed white smoke upward, and a multitude of parking lots and structures extended almost as far as I could see in one direction. The Hietsmans had mentioned the Procter & Gamble Company plant I would come upon in Mehoopany, but its size in this rural place was as unexpected as finding an iceberg in the desert.

Despite the vastness of the massive factory, it was mostly quiet, and after the initial shock of seeing it, there was not much to look at. We headed toward a bridge I could see ahead.

Mr. Hietsman had warned me to avoid reaching P&G around three o’clock. At the time, I couldn’t imagine how huge the place was, and the schedule of “some factory” had little meaning to me. As I guided Rainy onto the long, high bridge that spanned the Susquehanna River far below, I heard a long whistle wail, like a fire alarm, behind me. My grip on the reins and the dog on the saddle in front of me reflexively tightened.

In only minutes, a wave of traffic from the plant poured from the parking lots like a dam had burst open. Vehicles came toward us, then swarmed around us like a horde of angry hornets.

The bridge was a long expanse of roadway, framed by concrete walls on each side. There were no sidewalks or shoulders; there was no way to escape. We were like a rock in a stream as the sudden traffic parted around us, its flow unbroken. Not just cars—trucks, too, blowing diesel fumes and hissing air brakes. Gypsy hunched in front of me, frightened by the surge of motion and noise.

Rainy walked on. My horse, a creature of flight, didn’t hesitate; he didn’t spook. The factory whistle wailed again, but he kept his steady rhythm, getting us safely through the onslaught of workers blinded by their hurry to get home. Shaken, I felt both awe and relief in the presence of Rainy’s nerves of steel and sense of responsibility as he got us across.

A white Cadillac passed and pulled over just in front of us. A woman stepped out of the car, dressed top to bottom in studded denim, dark sunglasses covering half her face.

“I’ll give you five thousand dollars for that horse,” she announced as we approached.

I just shook my head and laughed.

We turned up Route 87, on our way, my five-hundred-dollar horse, my dog-pound dog, and me.

TOO LONG, TOO FAR

The momentum from the bridge and the first little hint of optimism I felt carried us through the next days. My uncertainty was quelled by Rainy; I saw strength in his shoulders as he carried us up the hilly back roads.

It was supposed to be a twenty-mile day but as evening neared, I knew I’d miscalculated, and we were riding farther and longer than I’d planned. I kept thinking we’d come to Higley Park Campground, where we were expected, around the next bend in the road. Twilight turned to darkness. I pushed on, knowing that someone was watching for us.

It was late when we reached our destination, and I finally tended to my animals and made camp. As I sat outside my tent, watching Rainy eat, I berated myself for the day’s schedule, worrying that I’d pushed my horse and dog too hard, all for my own sense of security. I must become more adaptable and learn to improvise, I thought. I had to always put Rainy first, as I’d sworn I would.

As I watched Rainy lower himself down and lie flat on the grass to sleep, I wondered if it was normal behavior for him. It made me realize there were holes in what even the most devoted horse owners knew about their equines. I was now living with Rainy every day and every night. We would be eating together, sleeping right near each other, and watching every hour pass together. I’d be able to observe firsthand how my horse adapted to the variables that this trip would bring: changes in feed, climate, and terrain. I’d see how he used his different senses in each new situation. How would he act when he was introduced to new horses? Would the long and steady walking every day build him up or run him down? I’d be monitoring his physical condition, and as we traveled, I’d share daily life with my horse in a way that was not common in the modern world. Would Rainy, separate now from his equine family back home, transfer his strong herd association to me and Gypsy? As my animals and I came to depend on each other for all that we needed, I’d have a unique opportunity to learn how deep our bond could get.

Assuring myself that my horse was tired but seemed okay, I crawled into the tent, where Gypsy was already asleep. Exhausted by the long hours in the saddle and worry, I vowed to make the next day short and easy.

TRAVELER’S SPRING

The first thing I saw when I crawled from the tent in the morning was Rainy’s perfect black hooves and his charcoal muzzle as he steadily worked his way through thick bunches of grass. I ran my hands over his body, checking for heat and soreness, talking to him while he grazed. He twitched an ear and swung his head around to look at me.

The sun hadn’t been up long when Rainy, Gypsy, and I were off again, back down the mountain road we’d climbed wearily in the dark the night before. The sky was a vibrant blue. Hemlocks rose majestically on both sides of the narrow lane of pavement, keeping the air refreshingly cool.

At the village of Forksville we rode across the wooden planks of a covered bridge one hundred and fifty feet long and built in 1850, but still in use for everyday traffic. Rainy’s hoof beats echoed a sound from the past, and we stopped in the middle to look out over the beauty of the flowing creek and forested hills beyond.

Outside town again, Rainy walked along steadily, Gypsy trotting beside us. I was lulled by the familiar creak of saddle leather, the rhythm of Rainy’s stride, and the birdsong. It was only a few miles before we rounded a bend and came upon an artesian spring. The water bubbled up cleanly, dampening the ground under Gypsy’s paws. An old milk can sat nearby, a tin cup on top, and a ladle hung from a nail on a tree.

I got off Rainy, and because it seemed right, I filled the ladle and gave Gypsy a drink, then I drank, too, splashing the icy spring water on my face like the blessing it was before we moved on.

Like the covered bridge, the mountain spring invited us to stop for a moment and reflect. It was a message saying, Slow down, traveler. Just a day after I’d pushed my horse too hard, just as I was telling myself to look around and be grateful, here were real reminders of the reasons why I wanted to travel across the country on horseback: The belief that there were beautiful little forgotten things out in the world, waiting for those of us in the slow lane to discover them.

WELCOME TO HUGHESVILLE

On the other side of the Endless Mountains, I rode into the town of Hughesville with the notion of camping at the fairgrounds. Dignified, well-kept Victorian homes lined Main Street, their lawns neat and trim, shaded by old oak trees.

Though a small and quaint-looking place, it was not “normal” for a horse to be passing through the middle of this town. Rainy, Gypsy, and I began to attract attention, and soon we were like the Pied Piper with a growing crowd of children walking along with us. The kids peppered me with questions:

“What’s your horse’s name?”

“How come your dog can ride a horse?”

“Can I have a ride on your horse?” (All of them asked this one.)

The ringleader was a bright young girl named Mindy. She kept up an intelligent chatter, filling me in on who in our entourage was not allowed to go farther than the corner, and that she, Mindy, happened to love horses.

“We all know where the fairgrounds are,” she also said. “You better let us show you the way.”

I jumped down to walk along beside the girl, lifting the children up one by one, so they could take turns riding horseback through their neighborhood. They held on to the saddle horn and looked around, beaming, their friends on the ground, skipping and talking all at once. Rainy walked on, with his usual patience.

HOUSE OF GUYS

I’d been looking forward to our stop at Callenberger’s Arabian Horse Farm, one of the connections made via my farrier Larry. Because I’d known ahead of time that we’d stay there one night, I’d designated it my first mail pickup. I’d told friends and Mike, and now a few of the people we’d met during the first week of our trip, to write to me care of my mom at my home address. She’d taken the letters and packaged them all in a manila envelope, forwarding them on to this farm in Montgomery, Pennsylvania.

Whenever we arrived at a destination, I asked for nothing but a safe spot for me and my animals to spend the night off the road. I was happy to sleep in the barn or camp in my tent. But many people invited me and Gypsy into their homes. Bob Callenberger, of Callenberger’s Arabian Horse Farm, and his friend Rudy, were no exception, offering me a spare bedroom. I struggled with the decision at first, feeling like I should be outside, but I was also starting to realize that I was the designer of my own journey. It was not about whether there was a roof or stars over my head. It was about doing what felt right in each moment and being safe.

I gratefully accepted.

I wanted to get a professional assessment of how Rainy was handling the ride so far, so Bob helped me schedule a vet check. When the veterinarian arrived, I found him to be an outgoing, funny character, tall and broad. “What a wonderful idea!” he exclaimed when told about our trip. I laughed as he described his four buffalo: Marlene, Charlene, Darlene, and Big Al.

After a thorough examination, the vet praised Rainy’s feet and legs and his condition. We passed with flying colors. And when the time came to pay the bill, there wasn’t one. Another kindness sent our way.

By the time Rainy’s appointment was over, it was already late in the day. I helped with barn chores. Bob and Rudy were expecting company from New York City that evening, and three men arrived as I set the long table in Bob’s kitchen. One of the guys, a lean blonde with a buzz cut, stared at me, then immediately marched over and started sorting through strands of my hair, examining them.

“Oh. My. God.” He sighed dramatically. “You are not riding out in the sun all day without something on your hair, are you? Look at these ends!” He lifted a strand of my brown hair between one forefinger and thumb. “It’s so dry! You have to do leave-in conditioner. Do you hear me? Oh my God!” He shook his head in disbelief at my lack of hair care. I smiled, thinking my mother would approve of his advice.

In no time, I was completely comfortable with Bob and Rudy’s crew. We were like a loud boisterous family gathered around the dinner table, eating spaghetti, buttering rolls, and passing dishes as we joked and laughed, Gypsy curled at my feet. They asked about my trip; we debated whether people are mostly good or bad, discussed movies old and new, and compared notes on New York City. We made a strange bunch, the five guys and I.

Gypsy and I headed for bed right after dinner. I’d already read my mail, almost as soon as Bob handed it to me, but I read through each letter one more time before falling into a tired sleep. It hadn’t been long when I woke with a start, realizing I’d gotten my period. I swore softly to myself as I went through my gear—nothing. How had I forgotten something as basic as tampons? It was another reminder of how woefully unprepared in some aspects I really was. I’d thought of every little thing that Rainy and Gypsy would need, but basic supplies for myself? I was so focused on the beginning of our journey that I’d overlooked something I’d obviously need down the road.

I had no choice but to walk downstairs where the men were still visiting and drinking wine.

“Can someone, uh, bring me to town?” I asked awkwardly. They all stared at me.

“Do you need something for the trip?” Bob queried, setting down his wine glass. “I bet we have everything you need right here!”

“No…” I replied, cheeks burning. “Not everything…”

For the first time that night, none of the guys had anything to say. Then Rudy, blushing, offered to take me to a store.

ALONG THE RIVER

Bob planned to accompany me for a stretch of the ride toward White Deer. His Arabian horses hung their delicate heads out over their stall doors, watching us leave, unencumbered by packs and gear.

Bob rode his gray stallion, who got along surprisingly well with Rainy. The stud was a little skittish at first and let Rainy take the lead, but he settled right in. Arabian horses are smart, and this one learned quickly.

We rode on a grassy stretch along the Susquehanna River. The trees in bloom created dappled pathways as we walked beneath their branches. From the saddle, Bob reached up and broke off a piece from the limbs overhead.

“Here,” he said, handing me the twig. “Chew on this a little bit; see what it tastes like.”

I chewed for a minute, savoring the familiar flavor. I tried to place it, but Bob couldn’t hold back the answer for long.

“It’s birch beer! Doesn’t it taste just like birch beer?”

I laughed and nodded, and contentedly we rode on, chewing twigs.

UNEXPECTED FRIENDSHIP

As we traveled my “chain of people” kept on growing. It seemed to work out that at the end of each day, there was usually a place to stay or someone watching out for us. This chain brought us to Route 192, one of the most beautiful roads in Pennsylvania.

Acres of vivid green farm fields rolled away from both sides of the highway. To the south, looming in the hazy sunshine, was the dark green presence of Nittany Mountain, part of the Appalachian Mountain Range.

We’d stayed with the Hare Chambers, a 4-H family in Mifflinberg the night before, and Tracy Hare and her horse were riding with me. We walked along, talking at first, but grew quiet once we recognized the sights, sounds, and scents of Amish farmland. Approaching a square, whitewashed building, we stopped our horses. Amish children dressed in black, white, and navy blue filed outside the one-room schoolhouse and made their way toward a nearby grove to eat lunch in the shade of the trees. We watched the children hold hands and skip together, the dark colors of their clothing standing out in the bright sunshine and green growing fields.

Dave, Tracy’s stepdad, collected horse-drawn vehicles and often traded with the Amish. He had made arrangements for me to stay with an Amish family on their farm—a kind gesture, which of course I appreciated. Curious, I’d asked if he’d stayed with them himself.

“No!” he’d answered adamantly, “Of course not! Very few non-Amish ever stay with them!”

His answer left me feeling a little nervous. Now that we were in the heart of their community, I was even more intimidated. I tried to recall what I knew about Amish people, and all I could remember hearing was that they lived a strict and austere lifestyle and were very religious. And here I was, in my jeans, roaming the countryside alone on a horse. I was afraid we were too different. I was afraid they would preach at me. I knew it wasn’t very worldly or open-minded, but I didn’t want to spend a night with people who probably didn’t want me there. I rode along with growing apprehension.

Tracy and I dilly-dallied at a general store, drinking Cokes on the steps while we gave the horses a break. By mid-afternoon, near the little town of Rebersburg, we came to the long farm drive with the name “Melvin Stoltzfus” on the mailbox. We started down the dirt path, and I felt I was surely leaving behind the world as I knew it. I realized that Tracy must have been worried about fitting in, too.

“I wonder where my dad is with the trailer?” she mused as she looked back at the road.

A small girl in a plain blue dress and braids watched us from outside the house I could see at the end of the lane. As we approached, she ran inside and reappeared, pulling a woman by the hand, closely followed by another woman, both dressed in similar fashion—long dresses and aprons.

I smiled nervously and called out a hello. What if Dave never reached them to make the arrangements? They didn’t use phones, right? Then a new thought occurred to me as they walked toward us, looking somewhat nervous themselves. What if they are worried about meeting me, like I’m worried about meeting them?

As I was shown where I could care for Rainy in the big white barn to the right of the farmhouse, Dave Chambers arrived with the trailer to take Tracy and her horse home. I waved as they drove away. Then, I joined the women who had gone inside the house and were preparing cold drinks for the men who were out working in the field. I watched quietly as the little girl, Katie, led a small pony to a hitching post, fastened a complex arrangement of buckles and straps, then climbed aboard a cart. She took up the reins and drove off by herself, across the fields, to deliver the drinks. She wasn’t more than six years old!

That was my first lesson about the Amish—everybody on the farm had a job, from the littlest child right up to the elderly aunts I met later in the second house on the farm, piecing together fabric in bright, startling colors, making quilts to sell.

Evening on the farm brought the sound of harnesses jingling and horse snorts and hoof beats as neighbors came by to find out what’s going on at the Stoltzfus place. It wasn’t long before several wagons and horses were parked around the yard. My animals and I were the subject of quite a bit of curiosity! After a few introductions, I sat on the lawn, where most of the young children were gathered, happily fielding their questions:

“Do you have parents?”

“How far away is New York?”

“Do you have a car or only just that horse?” (I answered that I’d had a car, but I got rid of it to ride my horse on the trip I was taking. This produced much giggling for some reason.)

A couple of the older girls whispered in the background, until one of them stepped forward, announcing that her name was Naomi, and she, too, had a question: Had I ever been on a buggy ride?

My “no” produced more giggling, and Naomi appeared to decide then to take me under her wing.

“Come with me,” she said, leading me to a small horse-drawn carriage. We climbed aboard, and Naomi casually gave the reins a little shake as she clucked to the ginger-colored horse in front of us. He began a precise and careful backing and turning around.

“Thank you for the ride,” I offered shyly.

“I figured you might be needing a girl to talk to,” was her wise response.

Her words caused me to choke up for a moment, as they touched upon a loneliness inside me. She sensed right: I did crave a girlfriend to talk to. I’d shared surface chatter with Tracy and had friendly conversations with various mother figures over dinner tables in the past week. But we mostly talked about horses, and I answered questions about my journey. Naomi and I were able to connect in a different way. As the little horse trotted along, the conversation flowed easily between us, and cultural differences and lifestyles and religion didn’t matter.

We passed several young Amish men out driving their buggies, and they smiled and waved at Naomi, who smiled back in acknowledgment. I thought she might be enjoying their surprise at seeing me with her as much as I was now enjoying her world.

On our way back to the main house, Naomi asked, “Would you like to try driving?” and handed me the reins. I’d been a rider most of my life, but holding the double leathers of the harness was a whole new experience. The horse knew a rookie had the reins, and his pace got faster and faster. By the time Naomi took control again, we were both laughing merrily at the furious pace.

Finding a friend in a place where I least expected it was enough of a gift. But as we trotted along, twilight turned to nightfall and the sounds of spring added sweetness to the serene quality of the evening. Absent were all the noises I’d become accustomed to all my life: car wheels on pavement, the honk of a horn, televisions talking, radios playing. In this place, the night sounds were peeper frogs and spring insects, the distant lowing of cattle in the darkening fields, and the clip-clop of Naomi’s sturdy little horse as he trotted along home.

“Would you like me to write to you as you ride across the country?” Naomi asked as we pulled up to the farmhouse.

I liked that she didn’t question whether Rainy, Gypsy, and I would keep going.

“Yes, please do!” I answered warmly…thankfully.

Night settled in completely. I reminded Melvin Stoltzfus and his wife that I could spend the night in the barn with Rainy. I’d observed that although there were animals all over, including kittens and dogs, none of them were allowed inside the house. Gypsy and I had not yet spent a night apart. But there didn’t seem to be any right way to refuse the Stoltzfuses’ offer, once again, to come into their home and sleep inside.

Gypsy pressed herself up against the screen door when she was shut outside, staring in at me. I noticed Mrs. Stoltzfus looking at the pup once or twice.

“She always stays with you, doesn’t she?” Mrs. Stoltzfus asked as she dried her hands on a dishtowel. I nodded my head. She walked to the door and opened it, allowing Gypsy to bound across the kitchen and wrap herself, wagging, around my legs.

“All the animals have a job,” Mrs. Stoltzfus explained, “and her job is to stay with you.”

As if she knew she was in only by special invitation, Gypsy lowered herself down to the floor and stayed very still and quiet until we said goodnight. Then she followed me up the stairs, lying down beside the feathery stuffed bed. I blew out the little lantern they’d given me, and I pondered where I was and the feelings I hadn’t expected now coming alive inside me.

I got up from the bed to look out the window at the farmyard below. I could see the road where Naomi and I had taken our buggy ride, now a silver ribbon in the moonlight. No artificial light blocked the stars, no sound marred the silence of the fields around us. I fell asleep with the sense of peace and serenity that these things bring.

JUST PEOPLE

By the time my animals and I left the farm in the morning, the word of my new friendship with the Stoltzfus family had spread. (Don’t underestimate the power of horse-drawn news!) Melvin Stoltzfus recommended I stop at the Fischer Brothers Harness Shop in Madisonburg to get a small split on the seam of my packs repaired. While Amos Fischer worked on my packs, he instructed me to ride to his home where his young wife, Lydia, had lunch waiting for me. Then, the proprietors of the bakery across from the harness shop, Eli and Katie, packed a bag with cheeses, bread, and brownies for me to take on the road.

As I fastened the newly repaired packs to Rainy’s saddle, to my surprise and delight, Melvin Stoltzfus drove up in a fine black carriage, drawing the horse to a stop near us.

“I wanted to be sure you got all the help you needed,” he said in greeting. I assured him I had been helped beyond measure, just as a young woman drove her buggy up to the front of Fischer Brothers and handed me a small box of cookies.

I thanked her, and after Melvin drove off, we chatted a bit, she asked bluntly, but not unkindly, “Were you afraid to come and stay with us?”

I paused, then admitted, yes, I had been, but shook my head sheepishly at how silly it all seemed now.

She smiled and declared in her singsong accent, “We’re all just people, aren’t we, then?”

I smiled back at her.

FUNHOUSE FACES

We’d been traveling for two weeks, but still, I was having trouble letting go of the need to have a plan, to be secure. My animals and I were in a little downtown called Centre Hall, small, but busy compared to the Amish communities we’d just visited. We rested under the shade of an oak tree as I accepted the fact that it appeared my arrangements had fallen through, and I didn’t know what to do.

As I stood there, flustered, a pickup truck pulled up. Chris and Barb Cole, Tennessee Walking Horse enthusiasts, introduced themselves, saying they’d heard that a fellow horseperson might need a hand and had come to get us settled in the horse barn at the local fairgrounds. They had feed for Rainy and dinner for me. It occurred to me that every time we needed help, a kind stranger showed up.

The horse barn at the fairgrounds had old midway rides stored in it, including large cartoonish clown figures from the funhouse. After the Coles had said goodnight and gone on their way, I made my spot in the barn near Rainy, settling into my sleeping bag. I wrote a few short letters by lantern, my light casting shadows and making the dismantled funhouse faces around us seem surreal.

With nightfall, a breeze picked up and blew in through the barn. A ride with long arms and crazy painted faces rattled and bobbed. I dozed fitfully, waking every hour or so to garish clowns with big red-and-white grins staring across the aisle. They clanked and leered at us through the night.

PENN STATE

As we neared the town of State College, home of Penn State University, a tall, nice-looking guy strode out into the road to meet us. When he informed me that the barn where he worked was full of Tennessee Walkers, exclusively, I knew this connection was thanks to Chris and Barb Cole from the prior town. They had told me they had “Walker contacts” all over the state and were going to help me while we rode through Pennsylvania. Bless them—it appeared they were following through.

Jay, the busy barn manager said her boss, RB Powell, had plans for me, and extended an invitation to stay an extra day. It was intriguing, and it was late anyway, so I accepted.

In the morning I rose early to get to the barn. I worried about Rainy and preferred to feed him myself. He’d so far maintained his weight and his good attitude, despite his constantly changing surroundings, and I wanted to keep it that way.

Within minutes of meeting RB Powell, I was on one of his Tennessee Walkers. I rode around his barnyard on a tall black gelding, getting used to the unfamiliar but comfortable running walk. RB was convinced that if I rode a Tennesee Walker, I’d want one of my own. The Walker people I’d met were all very enthusiastic promoters of their breed.

RB took me for breakfast at a diner where he knew everyone and then on a tour of the Penn State campus. He looked at me seriously as we walked by a large stone sculpture of a mountain lion on the prowl.

“You know the legend of the Nittany Lion Shrine, don’t you?” he asked.

I shook my head no, which was all the encouragement he needed.

“There’s an old saying that it will roar when a virgin walks by.”

I stood there sheepishly; the statue remained conspicuously silent.

RB escorted me to a campus horse show, where he introduced me to the riding instructor from Grier School, a girls’ boarding school about 30 miles down the road. We made arrangements for Rainy to spend our next night at the school barn.

That evening, RB, Gypsy, and I drove down a logging road to a clearing in the woods where a low campfire was ablaze, surrounded by students and staff. RB was an English professor, so the jovial conversation drifted from poetry and Shakespeare to trying to determine what the initials “RB” stood for. His college students were relentless, but RB wouldn’t give it up. Jay even confessed to looking around the horse barn office for paperwork with her boss’s full name on it. We all had a laugh, as the professor refused to give even a hint.

Someone pulled out a guitar and began playing familiar songs as sparks flew up from the fire. Gypsy enjoyed scratches and food scraps before settling contentedly in the center of everyone and drifting off to sleep.

In the morning, as I got ready to start out, several employees from the barn and friends of Jay’s gathered to see us off. RB was the last to say goodbye. He walked with me and Rainy as we moved away from the group.

I put a foot in the stirrup and swung my leg over the saddle while RB held Gypsy for me. When I reached down to take my dog from him, the man leaned forward with a twinkle in his eye and whispered two words in my ear. It took me a moment as he walked away to realize that he just told me what his initials stood for. I laughed out loud, waving an affectionate goodbye to the lovely character who brightened the past two days of my trip.

What?

You don’t think I’m going to tell, do you?

GRIER SCHOOL

Everything was newly washed by rain on the road that wound through the tall oak trees lining the entrance to Grier School’s campus. As we rounded a curve imposing stone buildings came into view. Rainy’s iron shoes on the wet pavement echoed loudly in the quiet of the stately campus.

As we approached, the sound of sweet voices singing in harmony floated in the air. I brought Rainy to a halt to listen. My horse and dog waited silently, as if they, too, could hear the beauty in the faint sound. A door at the top of stone steps flew open and two teenage girls pounded down the stairs—all over the place and graceful at the same time.

Sophie and Ann Marie, having heard I was coming, had been watching from the window while in choir practice.

“Are you going to get in trouble for being out here?” I asked them with a smile. They laughed and shrugged. Sure enough, soon, we were surrounded by a group of chattering girls. Sophie and Ann Marie, the older “horse girls,” took up the role of our guardians. This included special proprietary rights, having been the first to find us.

Jill, the riding instructor RB had introduced me to the day before, was waiting for us at the school barn. Two local reporters were there as well, asking me about my trip, but I was distracted and more interested in making sure Rainy was taken care of. Luckily, the Grier girls were more than happy to give the reporters their attention.

I’d read in one of the articles later that Rainy, Gypsy, and I were treated like “visiting royalty” by the students at Grier School. It was true—some girls went off to find me dry clothes to borrow, others ministered to Rainy’s every possible need, while another group gushed over Gypsy, who charmed them with all her puppy ways.

The school barn housed equitation horses, and hunters and jumpers of distinction, but that night it was Rainy who received all the attention of a Kentucky Derby winner. He was bathed, rubbed down, legs wrapped, and mane and tail combed. I thought he actually looked embarrassed when they covered him with a blanket a size or two too large for him.

Jill had made arrangements for me to have a bed and shower at the school infirmary, and my gaggle of girls escorted me there.

“You’ve created chaos,” the infirmary nurse, Adelaide, said good-naturedly when we arrived. “We’ll have to address the situation,” she warned. “But you’ll eat a sandwich and some soup first.”

Like one of the Grier School girls, I didn’t question her authority.

The infirmary was a quiet, comfortable place to sleep, and Gypsy was given the distinction of being the first canine ever allowed to bed down there. I was, as always, grateful for the latitude allowed me and my animal companions.

I woke, startled to find it was already half past nine in the morning. The blinds were down and there was complete silence. Adelaide had decided that I needed my sleep. It was too late in the day to start out on a long ride… so I got another day to be a schoolgirl again.

I helped Jill and the students set up a hunt course for an upcoming competition, and with the help of a half-dozen girls, gave Rainy all the “day-off” attention he could handle. Gypsy gamboled on the manicured lawns and was generally spoiled. Dogs weren’t normally allowed on campus, and the girls couldn’t seem to get enough of her.

During the day, Jill was told the school’s headmaster received a call from the local television station, asking permission to do a story about my journey and stop at Grier School. Word that the news crew was on its way set off a flurry of excitement among the girls.

The reporter who showed up, however, seemed more concerned with how he looked than hearing about our journey. He kept pulling a comb out of his pocket and checking his reflection in his van window. When he could manage to turn his attention back to our story, the guy appeared almost skeptical that Rainy, Gypsy, and I had come as far as I said we had, and this was not lost on my gaggle of girls. I could hear their muttered remarks and snickering as the interview proceeded under the shade of a tree. The reporter wanted Gypsy on my lap during the filming, but she soon grew bored and began to tug and chew on his microphone wire. I held onto her haunches as I tried to answer his questions, and my pup rolled around, making goofy noises. Muffled giggles could then be heard from the students gathered round, and I felt like the bad kid in school—no matter how old you are, trying to hold in a laugh only makes it want to come out more.

The reporter then asked to borrow a school horse so we could be filmed riding alongside each other.

“Have you ridden before?” one of the girls asked him.

“No,” he responded briskly, adjusting his carefully pressed pants. “Will that be a problem?”

I felt a current of joy ripple through the group of students as they set off to get the horse that would be “best” for him.

They returned from the barn minutes later leading an incredibly tall chestnut gelding (called Silo) in an English saddle, a choice that would make the man’s mounting and staying in the saddle a little trickier. I looked away to hide my smile at their schoolgirl pranks. How would this fellow get on board?

The reporter wanted us to ride side by side for the piece, just two riders on our horses, walking along talking, but Silo kept veering off the walkway, putting his head down, and eating grass. The reporter pulled uselessly on the reins as Silo totally ignored him until one or two smirking girls came to his rescue and led the horse back to start the shot over again.

Undeterred, the reporter brushed back his blow-dried hair, adjusted his microphone, and started once more: “If you think the days of traveling by horse are gone…” he’d start, leaning awkwardly in the saddle—and there went Silo again, back to the grass, while the reporter pulled and tried not to tumble off what was probably the tallest horse in the Grier School stable. The girls kept calling out suggestions as to how to handle the wandering animal, and I wasn’t at all sure what I was hearing was the best advice…. There was just no way this guy was going to look cool—even his camera crew was stifling laughter. The interview was over too soon, and with all the laughter and shenanigans, it was the most fun I’d had on the trip so far.

Late in the afternoon, there was much debate and negotiation over whose table I would sit at during dinner. Then the girls remembered that they had to “dress” for dinner—no exceptions. The clothes I had clearly did not meet the dress code. In no time I found myself in sandals and a skirt and blouse. Less than a month on the road and already I felt like a wild child brought in and cleaned up to be presented to civilized society.

After dinner, I walked back to the barns in the warm and lovely May evening so I could check on Rainy. Two girls accompanied me, Tracy and Alex, and we threw the horses an extra leaf of hay for the night.

“I think I need a swim,” said Tracy with a laugh, brushing the hay from her blouse. I watched as the girls’ eyes met and could see an idea being hatched.

It wasn’t long before I was in a borrowed bathing suit and we’d picked up other girls, the idea of an illicit nighttime swim in the school pool catching on.

“But the pool’s not officially opened yet!” someone whispered.

Someone else worried, “We’re not supposed to go in without a grownup…”

“She’s a grownup,” Tracy said, referring to me.

I didn’t feel like a grownup.

The night was balmy, and soon I was floating on my back, enjoying the first swim of the year, listening to the sounds of the Grier girls talking and giggling in subdued tones while the moon rose round and white through the branches of the oak trees.

The headmaster had given the students special permission to stay up and watch the eleven o’clock news in a lounge called “The Smoker.” With damp hair and suits hidden beneath clothes, we vied for good seats in the small room. While the story ran, the laughter flowed, because we all knew what was going on during the shoot. Despite the shenanigans, it was agreed that the story of my trip and my stay at Grier School came across pretty well.

I had what seemed like a hundred helpers, getting Rainy ready the next morning. We chatted comfortably and exchanged addresses, our sneakers turning damp in the morning dew. When Rainy stood, packed and ready, and Gypsy waited at his feet, one of my new friends started crying. Then we were all hugging, sniffling, and wiping away tears.

I can’t explain it. It’s a girl thing.

LOUIE’S LOUNGE

We followed a trail the Grier girls showed us, and I was instantly reminded of the pleasures of a grassy green path under four hooves. I listened to birdsong and the mild buzz of insects. For me, the smell of spring grass and wildflowers were all the more precious when taken in from the back of a horse.

Rainy, Gypsy, and I enjoyed the quiet trail much of the day, but it came to an abrupt end, feeding out onto a busy road just as it clouded up and started to rain with gusto. All three of us stood at the edge of the pavement, shocked by the soaking downpour, when I heard someone shouting.

“Over here! Right here!” A barely visible figure on the other side of the street was waving and jumping up and down. I looked for a break in the traffic and urged Rainy across the road.

The man continued shouting, even though I stopped right in front of him.

“Hey! Are you the girl who’s riding the horse around the world?”

I laughed and nodded as he gestured for me to follow him down a driveway and through a garage door. I leaned over and put Gypsy on the ground, then pulled off my hood and jumped down from the saddle. I was surprised to find myself surrounded by people in white aprons, beaming at us. Everyone was talking at once, and I heard several comments of disbelief that “Louie” was actually backing his Cadillac out into the rain for us.

We’d stumbled upon Louie’s Coral Lounge, a tavern and restaurant tucked in the hills of western Pennsylvania. It was Louie himself who pulled me, with Gypsy at my heels, into the kitchen of the restaurant, assuring me his workers would take good care of Rainy while I had something to eat. He handed me a bunch of white tablecloths to use to dry myself off.

“We got a horse in the garage!” Louie proudly informed the staff as he led me through a set of swinging doors into the dining area.

The room had gleaming hardwood floors and tables set with the same white tablecloths I’d just used as towels. Half a dozen men ate sandwiches and drank mugs of cold beer in the bar area; they nodded hello as Louie deposited me at a table with my journal and pen, and orders to choose whatever I wanted from the menu. Before going back to the kitchen, Louie dumped a handful of quarters in front of me.

“Here,” he cheerfully insisted. “Put some songs on the jukebox to listen to while you eat.”

I walked a little self-consciously into the bar area and flipped through the jukebox, punching in the numbers until Louie’s quarters were gone. The strains of the first song filled the restaurant: Ricky Skaggs’ “Crying my Heart Out Over You.” One of the men at the bar murmured, “Good choice,” and I smiled over my shoulder at him before peeking out the window at Rainy, still peaceful in the garage. I knew Gypsy was where I’d left her, resting contentedly on the pile of tablecloths in the kitchen. I returned to my table and wrote notes in my journal while the rain drummed a steady beat on the tavern window, as if part of the song in the background.

The men who’d been sitting at the bar made their way over to talk to me—all of them truck drivers, stopping for lunch. We shared our traveling stories, as outside the rain slowed, then stopped. One by one, the truckers took their leave, having schedules to keep. The first tried to pay for my lunch, but Louie wouldn’t hear of it. So in passing, the man placed a five-dollar bill on my table, telling me, “For lunch down the road.” I promised I’d remember him with my next cheeseburger.

The other drivers tried to give me money, too. “I’m okay, really!” I protested, but they left it anyway, shaking my hand, kissing my cheek, and wishing me luck and safety on my journey.

The last truck driver paid his bill at the bar and walked over to my table.

“Your parents must be worried about you,” he observed. I nodded in agreement.

“I have a daughter of my own,” he went on, “and if she wanted to do something like this….” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “But y’know,” he said after the pause, “I think I’d give her my blessings.”

The man reached out and tucked a tightly folded five-dollar bill into my hand. I objected, offering it back, but he again shook his head.

“Just take it, please,” he insisted. “It’ll make me feel good and make me think that someday, someone will do something nice for my daughter, too, when she’s out there in the world.”

We smiled at each other in understanding. I asked him if he wanted me to send him a postcard from California.

“Naw,” he replied. “Just remember Ed the truck driver from Jamestown, New York.”

The man turned to leave, stopping to wave again from the doorway, the sun now out and shining brightly behind him.

I watched his truck pull out of the parking lot, then unfolded the five-dollar bill, still clutched in my fist.

It wasn’t a five-dollar bill. It was a fifty. A fifty-dollar bill that had been folded up so I could not insist it was too much. A fifty-dollar bill from Ed the truck driver, with a daughter of his own, back in Jamestown, New York.

STORM ON THE MOUNTAIN

A need for fresh batteries meant I had to ride into Duncansville, and after being featured on the news for several nights, arriving in town slowed our progress to a crawl. People approached and called us by name. They took pictures and offered us meals. Twice, I was asked to sign my autograph.

While I made polite conversation with the group around us, a policeman approached.

“Can I make a suggestion?” he asked, pointing toward the railroad tracks that led out of town. “If you’re going to get out of here before dark, that’s the way you want to go. There’s some bad weather headed this way.”

I said a hastened goodbye to the kind Duncansville folks, and in minutes, we were riding along empty tracks through a patch of dense forest. The air was so heavy with moisture it felt like we were walking through cobwebs of mist. Then the rain started, cloaking the already shadowy woods in a heavy veil of gray. Ahead, I could just make out a break in the trees and headed toward it.

When we came out of the woods, I knew we were riding into trouble. I could just barely see the wet, darkened road and the little strip of gravel shoulder beside it, where Rainy carefully trod. The road disappeared in front of us, around a curve, heading up the mountain. Cars splashed past, their headlights reflecting off the damp pavement.

The road cut into Cresson Mountain, part of the Allegheny Mountain Range. Steep, almost vertical outcroppings rose on either side, clothed in thick swathes of pine trees that clung to the rocks, adding to the darkness the storm had brought. It was a bad place for us to be, but I had little choice but to keep going forward. Turning back would put us on the equally narrow downhill side of the road, and there was more traffic going that way. I watched in vain for a side road or turnoff, cringing every time a vehicle swooshed within inches of us.

Feeling unsure and nervous in the saddle, I dismounted as quickly as I could, given the shivering puppy in my arms. Passing vehicles showered us with water, coming so close that my rain poncho swirled around. As a bitter reminder that things could always get worse, thunder rolled and a flash of lightning momentarily brightened the road before us. I could see there was so little room between where the cars passed and the steep incline on our right, it couldn’t even be called a shoulder. Yet this was where I guided Rainy, keeping myself between him and the traffic. Being on foot made us a wider target, but I figured if we were going to get hit by a car, it was better if it was me that took the impact. I knew that someone would call an ambulance and try to save me. If Rainy got hit, no one would know what to do.

So I plodded on, a death grip on the reins in my right hand, struggling to hold Gypsy at the same time. My back and arms ached, but there was no way I could put the dog down in the situation.

It hardly seemed possible, but it got darker and steeper. The thunder got louder. I could barely see, and I knew drivers, rushing up the road through the rain, could barely see us. I thought of my parents and said prayers.

Through the sound of the wind whipping my poncho, I sensed something close behind us. I turned and tugged at my hood to find a pickup truck hovering a dozen feet back. Weary and scared, I thought, What now? The truck stopped and a guy got out, standing behind his open door and cupping his hands to his mouth.

“Stay in front of my truck!” he shouted. “I‘ll be behind you and keep cars from coming up on you—I’ve got a friend who is going to box you in up front!”

I watched as another vehicle carefully eased by us and slowed, waiting with its hazard lights throwing strange red flashes into the night.

“Come on!” the guy behind me yelled. “Let’s get going! Keep between us to the top of the hill—let’s get you off this road!”

The man climbed back in his truck as the car in front started forward, and we began to move slowly up the hill. I could move more freely now with our escorts and the room they made for us, so I thankfully let Gypsy down on a short leash and unclamped my cramping arm. The two vehicles crawled along at the walking pace of a tired horse, girl, and dog, struggling up the steep roadway.

Gradually the incline leveled out and soon the shoulder widened enough to ride, though I stayed on the ground for Rainy’s sake—he’d worked so hard and been so brave. I figured my jeans were too heavy with water and the saddle too soaked for me to manage to get on anyway.

As the rain let up and the sky brightened, I could see the side road ahead that would lead us to the Egers’ house—our resting place for the night. My intense relief sent a tremble through my body. I felt weak and helpless in the face of how scary the situation we’d just come through had been. I felt a rush of need to thank my rescuers, but the front car had already increased its pace, and soon was gone, out of sight. I turned as the pickup pulled up beside us, and through the window, opened slightly, my hero asked if we were all right. I could now see he had really red hair.

I nodded, then called out, “What’s your name?” He just smiled and waved, accelerating away.

“Thank you!” I shouted after the truck. “Thank you.” I said again, quietly this time, knowing he couldn’t hear me. “Thank you, thank you,” I whispered as his taillights disappeared.

I pressed my forehead against Rainy’s steaming, wet neck. “Thank you,” I whispered to him, too.

TUNNEL

The tunnel ahead of us looked cartoon-like, the arched entryway filled with darkness. I gently brought Rainy to a stop. Peering in, the blackness robbed me of perspective—I couldn’t see how long it might be. Every now and then, a car rushed out, headlights on.

Rainy stood patiently with Gypsy sprawled across the saddle as I looked around for an alternative route. A cursory glance revealed roughhewn steps winding up and around, but they were narrow and crumbling, and it was impossible to tell where they led. Forward it had to be, then. Through the tunnel was the only way.

I urged Rainy on, then halted him again before entering the passage. I could see there wasn’t a sidewalk or breakdown lane, just two lanes for traffic. It was quiet, though, with no cars coming, so I gripped Gypsy a little tighter and gave Rainy his cue to start through the cave-like arch.

Our senses on edge, we all three tensed for the sound that would signal an oncoming car in the dark space, but there was only the echo of Rainy’s hoof beats. Our trip through the tunnel felt endless. I’d freeze up for a second, thinking I heard the sound of an approaching vehicle; then I’d realize it was only a little wind. I nervously looked back over my shoulder every few minutes to make sure no one came up behind us unexpectedly. Gypsy gave a little whine, looking up at me, and I realized I must be holding her collar too tight. I rarely asked Rainy for any gait but a walk when he was packed, but I squeezed my legs, asking him to trot. At last I saw light up ahead. As we approached the tunnel’s exit, I blew out a big sigh of relief, thankful for the good fortune that was on our side once again.

Stepping out of the shadows and into the bright sun, for some reason, made me laugh out loud. Gypsy looked up at me again and thumped her tail, sensing the lightening of the tension we’d all felt as we hurried our way through the dark, damp tunnel. I clapped Rainy on the neck in celebration.

“You’re a trooper, buddy!” I exclaimed, my heart surging with appreciation for my brave four-legged partner. “You’re such a good boy!”

Rainy’s ears twitched back and forth and he extended his pace as we continued on into the sunlight.

RAINY’S TWIN…AND THE NEWS

On the outskirts of Johnstown we stayed with the Harties, a horse family connection I’d made through the Egers. Charlie Harties asked if I’d come to the local saddle club meeting and say a few words to the members about my trip. I was happy to—who would better appreciate hearing about Rainy and the remarkable strength he’d shown so far than a group of horse people?

The riding club was a friendly group, full of questions. They were especially intrigued by the way people connected to the horse world along our route had begun passing us along, from one to another, ensuring we had places to stay as our journey continued. By the time the meeting was over, I’d collected dozens of new names and addresses, many in Ohio, of families and individuals who were willing to help. Everyone in the saddle club just assumed Rainy, Gypsy, and I would make it past Pennsylvania…and beyond. It strengthened my faith knowing others believed in us.

The Harties and I looked over maps and city directories to find a way my animals and I could go on without going through Johnstown, but there didn’t seem to be a way around that made sense. So right through the city it would be. Rainy had handled traffic and people, but this would be a first. Charlie Harties thought if we got going really early, it should still be quiet on the streets, and it being Sunday, most of the businesses would be closed.

With the sun just rising, we said goodbye to the Harties family, and Rainy, Gypsy, and I set out in the morning sunshine. Before long, we were in the city, winding our way up one empty street and down another, past row houses and apartments and storefronts. In an area of commerce, with businesses on one side of the avenue and apartment houses backed into the hillside on the other, we came to a building with a huge plate-glass window-front. The glass reflected the street, the buildings, and the blue sky back at us like a mirror.

It reflected our images, too.

Rainy, perhaps tired of being the only equine around, pricked his ears and raised his head in excitement at seeing “another horse” looking back at him. His muscles tensed, and his head rose to the fullest height he could manage as he bugled out great, loud whinnies, over and over again. The concrete and glass echoed his calls back, making them seem louder and longer as they broke the easy silence of the early morning.

Doors and windows popped open. People stepped outside their doors and gestured for their kids and spouses to come out and see, too. My face turned red, now that we were suddenly on display, and so out of place on the urban street—my dog and horse and I, who had been trying to sneak through the city undetected.

I turned Rainy away from the “other horse” in the window. He called out once or twice more, and even tried to turn back for another glimpse as I urged him on down the block.

We weren’t much farther along when a reporter showed up and asked if I’d stop and talk a bit, which I did. We were often stopped by reporters now, and I thought back to the first reporter who’d asked me for an interview. At first, I didn’t want to be in the news for fear that someone unsavory would see the story and realize I was a female traveling alone. In the end, I had agreed to that first interview, and that decision had led to something interesting. It turned out that being in the news actually helped rather than hurt me and my animals. It gave us credibility. It meant that I often didn’t have to introduce and explain myself—many people knew all about us and our story before we even met. They began to watch for us. Folks who’d seen or read the story would come looking for us to see if we needed anything, like the army veteran who had given me his army rain poncho. It was much sturdier than the one I had and big enough to cover me, the packs, and Gypsy, when she was riding with me.

I rarely got to see the news stories, though I did, of course, see the one with the Grier School girls, and another when I stayed with Dale and Nina Siedell, trainers at a Tennessee Walking Horse facility. A cameraman had filmed us on the road during different parts of the day, and the piece ran the scenes while “California Dreamin’” by The Mamas and the Papas played in the background. Dale and Nina watched it wistfully.

“I wish we could go with you,” both of them said, more than once.

It made me realize how lucky I was, on the road with my animals. We moseyed along each day, part of the world around us yet in our own world, too.

Between my chain of helpful horse people passing the word along and the different news stories on television and radio, and in print, people were looking out for us, watching for when we would come through their town, chasing a dream.

DEAD HEAD

We rode in the shade of tall oak trees that lined the streets of a quiet neighborhood, then turned toward a local corner market where I could see a cluster of young folks were hanging out, drinking sodas and soaking up the sun. I halted near the group, and Rainy stood politely while several approached to pet him as I went inside to buy a few provisions.

As I came back out, a heavyset fellow in an oversized tie-dye shirt pushed himself off the store wall he was leaning against and ambled over, his happy, vacant grin reflecting the distinctive smoky smell that lingered around him. He stared at Rainy as I added items to my saddlebags, and after picking up bits of the conversation I was having with the others, he turned his gaze to me.

“Whoa…whoa….” he said, dragging out the words while slowly shaking his head from side to side. “Dude. You rode this big boy here all the way from New York?”

“Dude,” I replied, grinning at his mannerisms. “I did.”

Tie-dye guy rocked on his feet a little, still shaking his head. “Where’re you goin’?”

“California,” I told him.

“No way! California!” He paused, thinking. “Dude, you must be going out there to see the Dead. They’re playing in Bakersfield on the nineteenth!”

“No, I don’t think I’m going to make it to see the Dead,” I said with a laugh. “I’m going to be on the road for a long time still before I’m anywhere near California.”

But the idea had obviously taken hold.

I put my foot in the stirrup, about to mount up again, and my new friend clumsily patted me on the back, shaking his head and staring at me with admiration in his eyes.

“Dude,” he said again. “You’re riding a horse from New York to California to see the Grateful Dead. It’s like the ultimate pilgrimage, man. The. Ultimate. Pilgrimage.”

ANIMAL RIGHTS

HOOOONK!

A horn broke the quiet of our morning on the road, coming up behind Rainy, going around us, making me grimace. I thought again how lucky I was that Rainy had very steady nerves.

A well-dressed woman emerged from the driver’s side of the new Jeep, which she’d pulled over just ahead, and her high heels clacked on the pavement as she approached us, a clipboard in one hand. Her off-white skirt and muted pastel blouse looked perfect…for a business meeting or a lunch date. She gave me, Rainy, and Gypsy a visual going over—one that made me realize that I now knew what the expression “looking down your nose” at someone meant.

The woman introduced herself as a representative of an animal welfare agency. “There are some things I need to find out from you,” she stated sternly. I waited in silence for her to continue. Rainy cocked one hind foot, taking advantage of our unplanned stop to relax a bit. Gypsy looked expectantly at the woman—she was used to people fussing over her—but no attention came her way.

“We’ve seen you in the newspaper.” The woman looked down at the clipboard. “You’re having this horse carry you all the way to California—is that right?”

I nodded.

“Don’t you think that’s cruel?”

That’s what this was about? I was used to addressing questions about Rainy and his welfare, but I had to think carefully about how I wanted to answer her. The woman was probably well meaning, although obviously not well informed. Anyone who knew anything about horses would not pull up behind one and lean on her car horn.

“Walking all day is what horses do naturally in the wild,” I began politely. “Studies show wild Mustangs walk over fifteen miles a day, just foraging and grazing.”

The woman looked at her clipboard. I could tell she was not listening, but I plowed on with my speech: Rainy was in good shape; we’d conditioned for the trip; he had custom-made shoes; I had veterinarians regularly check him.

Without acknowledging a thing I said, the woman finally looked up and proclaimed, “We think you’re making him work too hard.”

There she stood, off to the side, away from Rainy. She hadn’t reached a hand out to stroke his neck, or cast an eye down the clean, unblemished lines of his legs, or considered his trimmed and shod hooves. She didn’t see the sleek healthy shine to his coat, his excellent muscle tone. His behavior and condition spoke volumes about his training and care.

“I think it’s cruel what you’re doing to him,” she said accusingly.

“Look, lady,” I snapped. Gypsy looked up at me in surprise at my sharp tone. “There are horses all over that really need someone to watch out for them. Do you have any idea how many people buy horses and then lose interest? I bet you can find a horse within a few miles of here, not ‘working too hard’ in a tiny stall full of manure. But look at my horse!” I took a deep breath, aiming a glare at her heavily made-up face. “You’re not qualified to talk to me about this. If your group or whatever has any real questions about horse welfare, I’ll talk to someone who knows something about the subject. Now excuse me. You’re in my way.”

I woke Rainy with a nudge of my heels, urging him past her. She blinked, but didn’t move, and seemingly unfazed by my rant, turned her attention to Gypsy, sprawled on the saddle in front of me.

“What’s wrong with your dog?” she demanded. “Why is it panting like that?”

I wanted to shout, “Because she’s hot! That’s what dogs do when they’re hot!”

But what good would it do? I shook my head in disgust as we rode on, walking into the road to get around the shiny Jeep. I didn’t look back.

All the rest of the day, I kept thinking of things I wish I’d said to the woman, the better ways I could have handled her. In the weeks that followed, I prepared myself for another confrontation, but we never did see her or anyone else from her animal welfare agency—if there really was one—again.

COUNTRY CLUB

A luxury car stopped just ahead, and I cued Rainy to a halt, watching warily. I was braced for anything, the encounter with the animal welfare lady fresh in my mind. A distinguished-looking older woman stepped out and walked to Rainy’s head, which he lowered obligingly for her, and she stroked him gently. She then came to my side, reached up, and offered me a firm handshake.

“My name is Ted,” she said, meeting my eyes. “I’d like you to be my guest for lunch at the Ligonier Country Club.”

My hesitation clearly showed, because the woman smiled reassuringly and patted my leg.

“My lady friends and I would love to hear your stories. I saw you on the news, and it’s funny, I just knew I’d meet you when you came through town.”

There was something about Ted that I liked, and lunch sure did sound tempting, but a country club? I gestured toward my dusty clothing, stating, “This is all I have to wear.”

“Don’t worry.” Ted waved off my concern. “I’ll meet you there. Just tell them you’re with Ted Beebe. Up ahead, you’ll see a driveway to the left. There’s no sign. Follow it. We’ll watch for you.” She smiled, returned to her big car, and drove off.

Would Rainy and Gypsy and I really be welcome on the grounds of a fancy-schmancy country club? Ted Beebe’s car had faded into the distance, and she was now expecting me. She did seem like a cool lady. And there was that free lunch.

The driveway was easy to locate, and having turned down it, we found ourselves in a world of manicured green. I carefully kept Rainy off the grass as we made our way to the clubhouse. There was a reasonable place where I could tie Rainy in the shade of a tree outside the main building, and I did so hesitantly, ready at any moment for someone in one of the golf carts that buzzed around to come and tell me to get my scruffy self out of there. With misgivings, I left Rainy behind and opened the door to the clubhouse, stepping inside. Gypsy was pressed tightly against my leg.

We entered a large room, one I could imagine had been the site of many a wedding reception and gala event. Today it was filled with country clubbers who did lunch. Glasses and silverware clinked delicately, and a conversational murmur ebbed and flowed. Not everyone was dressed up, but they were all well dressed. I stood there like the stable help who’d taken a wrong turn, ready to bolt as I scanned the tables for Ted. Finally, a braceleted wrist rose from the tables, beckoning me toward a group of four women. As I self-consciously headed their way, they all turned toward me and smiled warmly.

Ted Beebe introduced me as I apologized for my attire. The women laughed, and one of them announced that she loved it as she motioned toward an empty chair.

“What are you supposed to be wearing when you’re riding a horse across the country?” she asked, putting me at ease. The others immediately peppered me with questions, and I warmed to the subjects: Rainy, Gypsy, our travels. A waiter in a white jacket took my lunch order.

Suddenly Ted noticed Gypsy, sitting quietly by my feet. “Oh dear, we forgot to get something for your dog!” She called the waiter back to our table to order something for the pup, but I was concerned that someone would insist Gypsy go outside to eat. My companions laughed at my worries. “No one will bother us, dear,” Ted assured me, and no one did.

I wasn’t sure who these ladies were but they counted. They wanted to hear all the details of my cross-country trip; they didn’t want to talk about golf or gossip with the other members who stopped by our table. In fact, they seemed to delight in not introducing me or explaining the dog under the table or the horse tied outside. I was amused that no one questioned these four ladies, the obvious queens of the country club, and began to relax, enjoying their banter and their interest. And we all had a really good laugh when the waiter came bearing Gypsy’s hamburger… on a silver tray covered in glass!

Much later I learned that the area I rode through that day and its country club was home to some of the richest families in America. Gypsy and I had lunched with a “who’s who” in banking and steel. None of it mattered then, though—they were just kind women getting together to eat and talk and make a stranger feel like a friend.

A SIGN

The morning sky was heavy with rain and it never really got all-the-way light. We traveled along a grassy strip between the road and the woods, where the leaves on the trees were shiny green, fluttering and waving in the moist, blowing air. Branches hung low, forcing me to duck down over Rainy’s neck at times under the heavy canopy. It was an unexpected place to come upon a sign, its words partially obscured by limbs and leaves.

Welcome to West Virginia.

I gasped, and Rainy stood quietly while I savored the colored words, flowers, and birds on a faded white background. We had ridden from New York all the way to West Virginia! My jubilation spread to the animals: Gypsy looked at me, wagging her tail, and Rainy took the opportunity to steal a celebratory bite of grass. We lingered in the rain, getting double soaked as the branches above dripped water onto us, too—but I didn’t care. We’d ridden to West Virginia!

In West Virginia, it rained and rained. In the drab army poncho that covered us, we were not a color. We were drier than we would have been in the old, bright, plastic raincoat I’d used early in the trip, but now we didn’t stand out at all amongst the green of the trees and the gray of the pavement beside us. It felt fitting, symbolic of what we were becoming, how we were more a part of what was around us, blending in with the woods and the grass and the raindrops dancing on the road.

I saw a sudden flash of color—a deep violet blue against the canopy of trees. It was a delicate bird; a flying jewel whose color had not found a perfect name yet.

At my host’s house that evening, I described the bird we saw.

“Ah,” she said with a smile. “That must’ve been an Indigo Bunting.”

In bed, with Gypsy curled beside me, my eyes closed as images from the day drifted through my mind. I again saw the sign welcoming us to West Virginia. I saw green leaves and everything dark and wet…and the Indigo Bunting fluttering by like something enchanted in the rain.