PART FOUR

The Road West

AMANDA, GYPSY

Tom and I had improvised a pack system for Amanda using an old Western saddle. We fit it with a breast collar and a crupper to keep the saddle in place on the mule’s barrel-shaped body, and we covered everything in fleece. We paid close attention to balance and placement of weight. Amanda and Rainy and I even took several trial runs around the fields before we left Yates Center.

Still, practice was not the same thing as being out there, on the road, and the first few days, I stopped often to rearrange things and adjust the packs.

We were almost to our night’s destination when a horse and rider came toward us along the road. They passed us at a fast trot, and for some reason, Rainy didn’t like that. He fussed and pawed for a minute.

Amanda picked up on this friskiness. She got her head down and started to buck, somehow managing to get her saddle and packs over her head—and off. Everything I owned went flying, ending up in heaps in the grass.

The whole incident was over in a minute. For a second, we all just stood there and looked at all my things on the ground. Then Amanda decided that bucking the packs off had worked out well, so she wandered off to eat grass. Then the sky opened up, and it began to pour.

I had one of those What I’m doing is crazy moments before I started grabbing my scattered belongings from where they’d landed and stuffing them in the disheveled packs before the rain soaked everything. I glanced to my left. Gypsy was coming toward me with one small bag in her teeth. She dragged it to where I knelt, sort of repacking, leaving it at my feet. I stared, open-mouthed, as she made a beeline to a plastic bag with some envelopes in it, and pawed at it, trying to grasp it in her teeth. My dog was trying to help me pick up the mess!

Now…now…I wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.

FLINT HILLS

Riding through the Flint Hills was the perfect way to re-acclimate to our traveling lifestyle. The land rolled and swelled in every direction. Red-brown cattle grazed on distant hills, and the great wide sky made me feel like we’d somewhere crossed an invisible line into The West.

These were the hills that were home to Indian nations and vast herds of buffalo just over a hundred years before our journey, until the mid-1800s, when the homesteaders came. Much farther back, something like 250 million years ago, shallow seas covered Kansas and Oklahoma. The land we were traveling through was rich in fossils of prehistoric sea creatures.

The hills were mostly treeless and largely uninterrupted by man-made structures. The grassy expanses were the deepest of green, the sky the clearest blue I’d yet seen. It seemed to touch the earth all around us.

Who knows what it is that draws different people to different places? Mountains, seashores, city skylines? I only knew I felt something special surrounded by simple beauty. I felt that if I breathed deeply the sky and the sunlight would fill me up inside.

In this way, I found my peace. It was the same way I’d always found it: being aware of the earth and the sun and the steady rhythm of Rainy’s hoof beats on the road.

LITTLE GUARDIAN

West of Wichita I had a host who was a veterinarian, which gave me the opportunity to have Rainy’s back and withers area checked. I was relieved when my horse received the all-clear.

While staying the night, Rainy and Amanda had to be turned out in a pen with an established herd of horses. There’s always a tense moment in such situations with equines when you watch the introductions and hold your breath.

As Rainy and Amanda checked out their new surroundings, one horse approached, but my mule immediately flattened her ears, bared her teeth, and charged, running the friendly neighbor off. I watched: If any of my host’s horses took even a step toward the newcomers, Amanda pinned those long ears and snaked her head at them. The other horses gave up, letting the little mule make the rules.

I camped right outside the corral, and I woke in the morning to the sight of Amanda, standing between Rainy and the herd, ears up, still on guard.

The animals and I gradually fell into the rhythm of being on the road again. My worries about Rainy’s sore back and Amanda’s inexperience eased up a little. The number of miles we traveled each day slowly increased.

We were near the town of Pratt when Amanda pulled back on the lead, hesitating to go forward. She’d been such a willing worker up until then, I immediately brought Rainy to a halt, dismounted, and took everything off the mule.

Sure enough, I found the beginning of a small girth sore low down on her belly. Although I’d caught it early, I didn’t want to make it worse. I loosened Amanda’s girth so it wouldn’t rub and transferred the packs from her to my patient buckskin standing near, hoping he’d be okay with the few miles we had left.

The family we were staying with in Pratt—Dennis and Sherry Leighty, along with their two young girls—invited us to stay with them an extra day even before I told them about the girth sore.

“Well then you have to stay!” said Sherry without hesitation. “Tomorrow we can have your mule see a vet.”

Rainy and Amanda got a surprise day off, and I soon had an antibiotic salve from the vet, and a new girth and fleece to protect my mule. Our second evening together, we cooked out on the back deck, where we could see Rainy and Amanda, snoozing in the Leightys’ backyard pen.

“We were thinking,” Dennis started, “that when you ride on tomorrow, you could leave Amanda here with us for a few days. The girls will give her tons of attention. When her sore looks better, we can haul her out to you on the road.”

“Besides,” Sherry added, “the girls have been begging for a pony, and this will give them a taste of what it will be like caring for one. It’ll be a good experience.”

So it was just Rainy, Gypsy, and I starting out in the morning. We had a light load and no little mule—I was glad for her opportunity to rest and felt sure she was in kind hands. Amanda didn’t fuss as much as I thought she would as I rode away. I decided she was smart enough to understand that she needed to heal and that she would be reunited with her pal soon. I’d spent enough time with Amanda to believe that she usually knew exactly what was going on.

As we slipped around the house, the last view I had before turning west was of the Leighty girls, Heather and Shonda, brushing Amanda in the pen.

DIAMOND DAY

I loved Amanda, and it sure had been a help to have her along to lighten Rainy’s load. But there was something free and easy about riding along the way we had started our journey—no extra packs, no lead rope to hang on to, Gypsy running around the grasslands.

There was an old John Denver song that said, “Some days are diamonds…” For me, this day was a diamond day. The sky was impossibly blue, the land was wide open, and there was so little traffic the road was mostly ours. I even got to canter Rainy for a nice stretch in the morning while the breeze kept the air cool. I had such a feeling of lightness and happiness while we were flying free, like the birds that soared over the prairie above us.

Midday brought us to a feed co-op where I stopped to get water, then led Rainy across the road from the grain elevator to the one big shade tree in sight. I pulled the saddle off his back, and he began contentedly grazing on the rich grass. Gypsy and I sat and shared the over-sized lunch Sherry Leighty had sent along with us.

It was a good spot—the tall tree and cool shade such a contrast to the bright sun and flat land all around. A balmy breeze kept us comfortable. Free from any care or worry, Rainy, Gypsy, and I—all three of us—fell asleep with the rustle of the leaves above and grass around us as our lullaby.

ROUND HOUSE, ROUND MOON

Being outside all day, I got caught up in the land and the natural world around us. But I still appreciated a unique and special building when I saw one.

My animals and I had been invited to stay in Greensburg with Bob James and his family. Their house was round and built partially into the earth, in a low hillside. This made use of the ground as natural insulation, keeping the house cool in summer and warm in winter. It also offered some protection from tornados.

In the evening, I went out back to see how Rainy was getting along with the Jameses’ horses. The pasture was on a gentle rise, and I stepped out in time to see a huge round moon rising. A warm breeze blew just enough to stir the grasses as the small herd made their way across the slope—three horses in a row, perfectly silhouetted against the wondrous moon. Their hooves rose and fell, making the rhythmic steps only horses make.

Never in the East had the moon looked so large and so mesmerizing, or had such a presence, as that wide Kansas moon. Never had I seen horses look more like art or poetry as the three against that giant disc of amber for one quiet moment.

WIDE OPEN LONESOME

The rolling land had flattened into the long view of West Kansas. We sweltered in the sun and grew accustomed to a hot, constant wind.

We watched for windmills, which meant water, their slowly turning blades working pumps that supplied stock ponds. They taught me the lesson of the flatlands: just because you could see it up ahead didn’t mean you were almost there.

My animals and I were staying the night with a woman minister. She lived by herself in a house that stood alone, the only structure on windswept fields. She had one horse in a pasture some ways down from the house—the horse was black, beautiful, and wild. He became aware of Rainy as we made our way up the long drive, and I watched as he pawed the ground and bugled out a shrill whinny, then trotted hard and fast along the fence line.

Rainy was usually so adaptable, but this big horse unnerved him. He didn’t relax or graze when I turned him loose in an enclosure. He stayed away from the fence that separated him from his pacing neighbor, keeping his head up and eyes on the black horse.

Reverend Betsy seemed glad to have us; it didn’t seem many visitors passed her way.

“That horse needs to be trained,” she answered when I asked about the black horse in the pasture. “I can’t ride him yet. I spend time with him, though. I brush and feed him and just spend time with him.” I could tell she loved her horse, but I thought he would likely be a handful for her.

Reverend Betsy wanted me to stay inside her home for the night so we could visit. I agreed but sat restlessly. I kept looking out the window at the hot-blooded black horse and my quiet Rainy.

Finally, late in the night, I went outside to Rainy. The wind had picked up. The land was as vast and wide as a black ocean, though the moon made enough light to see what was near. I saw the darkened house where the minister slept. I saw the big horse, still pushing against the fence, still anxious and excited. I saw my Rainy, awake and a little nervous all by himself out in all that space, without Amanda or anyone familiar nearby. He turned at the sound of my footsteps.

There are so many different kinds of alone. There on the same homestead, all of us were separate in the faint moonlight. I went to Rainy and stood with him. He turned and lowered his head to my touch.

The wind just kept blowing.

REUNION ROAD

Rainy, Gypsy, and I came to a crossroads, and my map showed the road going north would lead us to Dodge City. From Dodge City, we could ride straight west into Colorado. Or we could stay on Route 54 as it veered south, passed near the old hideout of the Dalton Gang, then headed into the panhandles of Oklahoma and Texas.

I’d loosely planned on riding through Colorado. After our extended time in Kansas, however, it was weeks later than I’d planned. Even though it was hard to imagine in the heat, summer would be ending soon, and riding toward the Rocky Mountains was maybe not the smartest idea.

Route 54 had been good to us, so the decision came easily. We headed south.

I’d let the Leightys know we were staying on Route 54 from a gas-station payphone, and soon they caught up to us, towing Amanda in a trailer. We all hugged, and I was happy to see familiar faces on the long lonely stretch we were traveling. Amanda squealed and grunted happily as she reunited with Rainy.

Sherry Leighty and the girls had faithfully treated the small girth sore, and I was pleased to see it had scabbed over well. The new and better-fitting girth would prevent any further problems. Amanda belonged with us, and she sure seemed ready to get back to work.

Wary of running low on supplies, I made a stop at the lone store in a very small town. I tied Rainy and Amanda outside, then searched the aisles inside for items that required no preparation and would be light in the saddle packs. I walked to the checkout line with some cans of tuna, a couple cans of fruit salad, and a soda. In front of me were several women, their backs to me, but I could hear them talking.

“Can you imagine calling up and asking to stay with someone you don’t even know?” I heard one of them say.

“What is a young girl doing, all alone like that? Asking for trouble, seems like,” replied another.

“What kind of mother would let her go off like that, anyway?”

I stood with my little bundle of groceries heavy in my hands. I felt my face burn, realizing it was me they were gossiping about. My instinct, always, was to avoid conflict…but these women had said something about my mother.

“Excuse me,” I said as forcefully as I could. “Are you talking about me?”

All three of the women turned, their mouths open in surprise, and immediately looked uncomfortable.

“I have a great mother,” I said first. “And everywhere I’ve been on this trip, people have treated us kindly.”

I didn’t know what to say next.

The women mumbled a few words I couldn’t understand and left quickly. The teenage cashier avoided meeting my eyes as I paid.

My initial anger slipped away, leaving in its place a vague feeling of depression. It really was the first time I’d felt unwelcome in a small town anywhere on our journey. The unpleasantness reminded me that sometimes I was very much alone. I suddenly missed my mom.

I found a payphone on the main street. I was afraid the story would make my mother feel bad, so I called Barb Kee instead. In her wise way, Barb reminded me that some people were not necessarily bad, but they mocked or feared what they didn’t understand. What did really bother kind Barb Kee was that the incident had taken place in her Kansas—as if she could make the whole state as nice as she was.

HEAT AND SWEETNESS

One hundred and five degrees—that’s what the static-y voice on my little radio said. The light wind only pushed the hot air around. The insects were worse than any we’d seen, causing crusty scabs inside Rainy and Amanda’s ears. I rode with my face scrunched up in a squint to try and keep the flies and gnats and the hard light of the sizzling sun out of my eyes.

We came to a wide spot off the shoulder of the road where a weathered picnic table sat and the remains of an old seesaw rose from the grass near one lone shade tree. I dismounted and stretched my stiff back, scratching Rainy’s withers for a moment.

I heard a vehicle on the road, and an old pickup truck chugged up, its paint a faded blue. It raised a small cloud of dust as it slowed to a stop. An old man stepped around from the passenger side, and a younger man did the same from the driver’s seat.

“There you are,” the old man said, as if we had been playing hide-and-seek. “We seen you on the news and wanted to bring you something.”

He was carrying a big oblong watermelon, which he handed to me. It was heavy and hard for me to get my arms around.

“Thanks,” I said to both men.

They nodded seriously, then, the older one spoke again: “We grew it, that.”

“Wow,” I replied, shuffling a little beneath the fruit’s weight. “It’s a big one…”

They nodded again, then got back in the truck and drove away.

I was grateful for their kindness but unsure what to do with the massive melon. It was too big and heavy to carry or pack, but I didn’t want to waste it either.

I shuffled to the oval of shade the tree cast on the ground and set the watermelon down with relief. I pulled my knife from its leather sheath on my belt and plunged it into the green hide, carving out ragged shaped chunks of the deep pink center. I cupped my hands under the dripping treat as I bit in, the sweet juice running down my chin and my wrists and my forearms.

I offered a piece to Gypsy, who licked a little but soon lost interest. Amanda liked her piece, although Rainy seemed unsure. We sat like this for a while, until full of watermelon. I surveyed the scene. There was still a lot left.

I poured a little of the canteen water on my hands to clear the stickiness, then saddled up. Before we left, I stabbed into the melon again, cutting what remained into pieces and spreading them out on the ground.

This is for the crows and coyotes and kangaroo rats that will come forward onto this dusty patch after we’re gone, I thought, so they can have a sweet dripping feast in the hot sun, as we did.

STATE LINE

The grasslands changed over to low brush and gravelly ground as we made our way to the state line, where the worn sign for a new state had a pinwheel of color on it. I looked back behind us, thinking about our time in Kansas, then turned forward as we passed on into the wide spaces of the narrow panhandle of Oklahoma.

There was something age-old and natural-feeling about camping with a horse. Staying outside and sleeping on the ground was like putting myself in the horse’s world for a while. It felt tied to the past and a more natural state for me and all my animals, when our species were somewhat nomadic and slept out in the open with the earth beneath us and the sky above.

I didn’t often make a campfire, but on the nights that I did, I admitted it was not for warmth or cooking but because it was cheery. Perhaps it was old Westerns I’d watched that made this seem like a familiar comfort. Maybe it had to do with the debated American “collective memory”—the idea that most of us descended from someone who came from somewhere else, giving us our desire for wandering and finding new places. Westward movement, being part of the outdoors, and the urge to wander… all of these things were far older than me.

I sat with my tin cup and watched the animals settle as my small fire sent sparks spiraling upward to join the blanket of stars spread over us.

WINNING OVER THE MULE

I’ve always wanted horses in my world, but I wanted to be a part of their world, too. I wanted to not just be able to ride but to understand and have a connection with them. I was fortunate to have that with Rainy. Our bond showed in the way we communicated, and in the way he wanted to be with me. I was always hugging him, leaning on him, and Rainy followed me, often laying his head on my shoulder.

I hoped Amanda would become attached to me in that way, too, once we had more time together. But when I hugged her neck, the mule swished her tail and stepped away. She was well-behaved and did her new job like a pro…but she wanted no part of the mushy love fest I lavished on Rainy and Gypsy all the time.

Each evening I spent time grooming Rainy and Amanda, going over every inch of them with a brush, cleaning hooves, combing manes and tails. One night, as I used the soft brush for Amanda’s ears and face, I noticed she was standing perfectly still. I continued, going over her coat, even where I’d already groomed.

By the time I was combing her tail, the little mule had dropped her head. Her lip drooped and her eyes closed halfway. She got so relaxed that her muzzle actually touched the ground in front of her. It was like she was hypnotized! I wanted to laugh, but I held it in so I didn’t disturb her.

I groomed and massaged the mule until my hands were tired. She never moved a muscle—and now I had the key to bonding with Amanda.

BORDERS

I was pulling a few things from my packs in the guest room of the ranch house on the Oklahoma-Texas border when I heard a car pull up on the gravel outside. Soon there was a soft tap at my door. My host poked her head in; I couldn’t quite read the expression on her face.

“There’s a policeman here,” she said. “He’s looking for you.”

Does everyone have the same reaction to a policeman? My conscience was clear, but still my heart began to beat nervously. Did I trespass somewhere or leave a spark of a campfire burning? Was there some kind of bad news from home? I followed the woman to the front room.

“I’m Missy Priblo,” I said to the officer who was standing just inside the door.

His face was inscrutable. “Can I talk to you outside?” he replied.

I started to feel really nervous as I walked out with him.

“Come with me to my car,” he instructed. And then, perhaps seeing my anxiety, went on: “I am the friend of someone you know. That someone is worried about you traveling all alone. That someone made arrangements for me to find you. That’s all I’m going to say.”

From the back of his patrol car, the officer retrieved a little canvas bag. He unsnapped the flap and pulled out a gun.

“This is a .25 caliber automatic,” he explained. “It’s small and easy to work with. You should be able to carry it right on your saddle without anyone knowing you have it.”

I looked over the gun, then back at the policeman. I didn’t know what to say.

“Tonight, you should probably just get used to the feel of it,” he went on. “Keep the safety on and practice holding it and carrying it. I’ll be back tomorrow morning, and we’ll practice shooting when the light is better.”

We set a time, and the officer drove away, leaving me with a gun and a lot of questions. Who was the mysterious friend that sent him with this? Should I take it? Why wouldn’t he tell me anything else?

Early the next morning, the policeman and I took his patrol car out into the surrounding brushlands. I pulled out the weapon. It felt heavy and unfamiliar in my hand.

“Hold it steady and brace your shooting arm with your other arm,” he instructed. Then the officer showed me how to load rounds and hit the clip in the right way. He indicated an area with a low bank and told me to aim and shoot. “Not bad. Try again. Keep your eyes open and be as still as you can. Just get comfortable with it.”

It was a strange feeling, hearing the sound and then seeing the spurt of dirt that puffed up from the little hill.

Eventually the officer said, “Okay. We’re good.”

And that was that. We walked back to his car together, where I thanked him and he nodded acknowledgment. We barely spoke as he returned me to my hosts; he stayed quiet when I asked questions, unless it was specifically related to the gun or shooting. He was apparently perfectly fine with sending me out on the road with an unregistered gun and a box of ammo hanging from my saddle horn.

TEXAS

Amanda was packed, Rainy was saddled, and Gypsy trotted between the two. After my early-morning shooting lesson, we were back out on the road. A few miles out of town, the road narrowed and traffic died out. We shared the roadside with only a line of telephone poles and cattle in the distance.

The heat that had been our constant companion for months had lifted slightly. It was no longer a heavy, exhausting temperature. Now there was a warm and lazy breeze. It rustled around us all the time.

A granite stone was visible ahead on the side of the roadway, carved into the shape of the state of Texas.

What lay ahead in this land that looked so open and spare? What kind of place had policemen who gave guns to complete strangers? And what about me? Why did I accept it? I had taken a gun when it was offered to me, though I’d never wanted one, or even really thought about one. Now it was hanging on my saddle horn, concealed in its little bag, like it belonged there.

Rainy kept his pace, and we passed the hard rock monument—just like that, Rainy, Gypsy, Amanda, and I crossed the invisible line into the Lone Star State.

The wind whipped bits of grit and dry twigs around Rainy’s feet. I noticed the Texas rock had graffiti on it.

When the end-of-day-sun was sitting low in the sky, a car pulled over and the driver rolled down his window. The passenger tilted across the seat so he could see us, too.

“Where you headed?” the driver asked.

“California,” I answered.

The two men burst out laughing.

“HA!” the driver barked at me. “You’ll never make it!” And they roared off in a cloud of dust.

I wanted to shout, Hey, do you know how far we’ve already come? But I just sat there on the side of the road, smarting from the unaccustomed rudeness.

After a night camping in a rancher’s pasture, Rainy came to me in the morning with a cut on his hip and a puffy eye. The other horses must have had a scuffle with him. I cast a look at Amanda. What happened to his Little Guardian? I washed out the cut and put salve on it, and looked over his eye. Neither one looked too serious, but seeing that Rainy had been a little beat up made me feel guilty.

I walked quite a bit that day. With few distractions or changes in the land, I had too much time to think, and a kind of melancholy enveloped me. I questioned decisions and choices I’d made, before and during the trip, and apologized to my animals for having them out on what seemed at the moment like an endless walk.

We finally arrived at the northern Texas town of Stratford only to discover there was a problem with our connections for the night. We walked the streets of the small town, eventually finding our way to the county agent who agreed to let us use the local arena for the night. He looked surprised when I asked if it was okay that I stayed with my animals, but he shrugged and said sure.

I pulled the big heavy doors shut and look around the indoor arena. The ground was covered with soft dirt, and the space was huge. I unrolled my tarp and put it under my sleeping bag, but I figured I’d likely be covered by a fine layer of grime by morning anyway. As darkness arrived fully, I was settled in, and the effect of my small lantern was like a candle in a cave: it made the space around us seem even bigger and darker.

It was hard to sleep. I didn’t know how long I stared into blackness before I got up and used my flashlight to scan the arena—I spotted a phone sitting on the announcer’s desk. I picked it up and dialed “0.” The operator answered immediately with, “What number please?”

“What time is it?” I asked.

“3:10 a.m.” she responded in a business-like voice.

I didn’t tell her that the time didn’t really matter, that I just wanted to hear a voice out there.

Sometime later in the wee dark hours, I heard the unexpected sound of raindrops pinging on the tin roof high above. Rain had been a constant issue in the early months of my journey, but now I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard it. The shower lasted only briefly.

Morning saw us up and out early, the arena locked behind us. There was no sign anywhere that there had been rain in the night. We headed out of town, where everything was still closed up tight. We saw no one.

NOWHERE

My map showed a small town, Conlen, about twelve or thirteen miles away from Stratford. My plan was to pick up a few supplies there, ride another ten miles, and find a place to camp. The county agent in Stratford had mentioned an abandoned ranch between Stratford and Dalhart, and I kept it in mind in case no other option came our way. The “chain of people” that had been calling ahead, watching out for us, and giving us places to stay was not working in the long desolate stretches of the North Texas Panhandle.

A pickup passed and made a U-turn, pulling over on the opposite side of the two-lane road. A couple of cowboys jumped out.

“Hey, we saw you on the news!” one of them said in greeting. “I’m Darryl, and this is Randy. We’re rodeo riders, heading up to Las Vegas.”

Randy pulled a bottle from a cooler in their truck bed. “Welcome to Texas!” he said, grinning as he cracked open a Lone Star beer and handed it to me. I smiled gratefully and took a long swig.

Darryl nodded toward my saddle packs where my boots were tied. It had just been too hot to wear them, so I’d been riding in my sneakers. “Is that what New Yorkers do with cowboy boots?” he teased.

Another car pulled up later that day, and the driver called out to me, “Girl, you better put them boots on! And watch for snakes with the horse there.”

I started to answer, but he just shook his head at me and drove off. What was it with Texans and cowboy boots anyway?

As we neared what should have been the town of Conlen, according to my map, what came into sight were railroad tracks and a few homes. An old sign for a saloon or restaurant stood broken and peeling and mostly unreadable. The only store looked like it had been closed for some time. I peered in the building’s grimy windows, searching for signs of life.

“What do you want?” a woman snapped from behind me, startling me. Gypsy, usually friendly by nature, pressed close to my legs.

“I need to get food and water, and I thought there was a store here,” I explained.

“Can’t help you,” she responded, scowling, hands on hips.

I tried again, explaining who I was and what I was doing. The woman grudgingly allowed us a little water from a hose, then grumbled that she’d see if “someone” could open up and let us inside the pitiful store. She was the only someone I’d seen for miles.

She returned a few minutes later with a set of keys.

We entered the dim store together, with Gypsy at my feet. The woman kept her eye on me as I sized up the few choices. I picked a faded can of corn and one of fruit cocktail, age unknown. She charged too much for the few items, taking my money like she was doing me a favor. I asked if she knew any place I could camp farther along the road, and she bit back, “No. I do not!”

I felt relief when I was back in the saddle, heading out, glad to leave the depressing place behind. We were not much better off than we had been: I had little food and less money, and many of the people we’d encountered lately had not been nice.

We returned to the long empty stretch of two-lane asphalt. No hospitality to be found there, either. Not today.

ALONG THE TRACKS

Wind blew through the brush. Vultures circled overhead, waiting for us to pass so they could glide down once again toward something dead and unrecognizable on the yellow line in the road.

Railroad tracks ran parallel to us, as they had for miles. I looked over and contemplated the gravel access trail that ran alongside them. It would be nice to get away from the paved road for a while. I turned Rainy and we climbed up a low bank to the path along the tracks, Amanda following behind.

The brush and the rise and fall of the land made the tracks seem far from the road. The world for us was only the sound of hoof beats, the creak of the saddle leather, and Gypsy’s steady breathing on the saddle in front of me.

Then, my senses registered a different sound—not loud, but a clear and certain rattling.

Our world exploded.

In the same flash of a second I heard the rattle, Rainy heard it, too. In front of us, the snake was stacked in fat coils, wrapped around itself like a pile of deadly hose. Rainy, contrary to anything I’d ever have imagined him doing, shied hard to the right and then reared straight up in the air. I hung on, but the packs slid, and before I could grab hold of her, Gypsy fell off.

My pup stood looking at the venomous creature before her. The tail of the snake continued to emit its ominous warning. The rattler’s head rose, its mouth open enough to see the fangs as it readied itself to strike. Rainy tossed his head and jigged in fear as I struggled to hold on to the reins and Amanda’s lead rope.

“GYPSY!” I screamed.

My dog turned at the sound just as the rattlesnake, fast as lightning, plunged toward her. The fangs hit air right where Gypsy’s face had been a half-second before. The snake’s rattle seemed to grow louder as it pulled its head back, ready to strike again, but Gypsy thankfully trotted a few steps toward me and Rainy. With a pounding heart and shaking hands, I managed to pull my pup back up into the saddle, half dragging her by her front legs in my hurry to get her away from the rattler. Rainy moved forward at a fast pace, making a wide berth around the danger.

The packs were askew, the reins were uneven, and I was hanging on to Gypsy in an awkward position. Rainy snorted and tossed his head, on high alert. My hands trembled on the reins. Amanda, bless her, remained steady behind us. I was afraid to let Gypsy down on the ground again. I was afraid to dismount and fix the saddle and the packs. I now saw rattlesnakes hidden in every mound of dirt and behind every rock. Now I knew why Texans told me to put my boots on…why they said Rainy would spook over a snake.

I cut back to the road as soon as I could, where I could see what was around us. I hopped off Rainy and quickly changed from my sneakers to my boots. With a sense of unease, we worked our way onward, looking and listening for that deadly rattle with every step.

The land was tough in the North Texas Panhandle. And so were the few people we’d met. This was not welcoming country.

SIGNS

It was hard to feel anything but lonesome and discouraged as we rode on. It didn’t help that we were riding to…nowhere—we didn’t have a destination…no family farm or cozy campsite. I started to look for houses as the day wore on, but they were few and far between. Sometimes we passed a long drive or dirt road turning off the pavement, but the signs posted near them felt like they went beyond the ordinary “No Trespassing.” The signs in this part of Texas had stronger warning messages, like: “STAY OUT! GUARD DOG ON DUTY.” One place we passed had at least four signs so that you would make no mistake: “NO TRESPASSING!” “PROTECTED BY SMITH AND WESSON!” “PRIVATE PROPERTY STAY OUT!” And just in case you still didn’t get it: “ABSOLUTELY DO NOT TURN DOWN THIS PRIVATE ROAD!”

I was getting concerned about being able to find water, but I could also take a hint. Up until very recently, finding water hadn’t been a big problem. Normally we came across a feedlot, a grain elevator, or a windmill with a stock tank. Today, it just wasn’t working out that way.

The sun was burning its way down through the atmosphere when up ahead on the opposite side of the road, I saw a long driveway. A relatively mild “Private Property” notice was posted. I felt this was our chance for water. I also harbored some hope that making contact with someone would bring about good things as it so often had on our trip—an offer of a meal or a place to camp. Hope bloomed as we headed toward the house.

Riding closer, I made out the shadowy shape of someone just inside the screen door, watching us approach.

“Hello?” I called, my hand shading my eyes. No response. “Hello?” I tried again. I heard the sound of a lock sliding shut.

“What do you want!” a woman’s voice shrieked from inside the house.

“Um, I …” I was taken aback by the hostility in her voice. “I just wondered if I could possibly get some water for my horse and mule? They haven’t had a drink all day and—”

The woman cut me off: “NO! No, you cannot have water!”

I was flabbergasted. Just water? She couldn’t be serious.

Optimist that I was, I tried again, thinking that maybe she just didn’t really understand. Maybe she was scared, like Barb Kee had explained to me. There was a garden hose lying just a few feet away.

“I can just get it from the hose. You don’t even have to come out.”

“Get off my property now. Get going! GET OUT NOW!” she shouted, as if my animals and I were junkyard dogs she’d found tearing up her trash cans. “GO ON. I’m sick of people asking me for things!”

I felt emotion inside me, bubbling its way up. I turned Rainy slowly around, passing the green hose lying right by his feet…oh so close. Amanda followed around and we walked back up the dirt drive that somehow felt longer now than it did going in. I could feel the bubble trembling like something about to burst, and when I knew we were clear of the awful house, the tears started pouring out of me in a way I couldn’t hold back. Real hard tears spilled out, and I kept snuffling and crying as we walked. On the main road, we turned south again. I cried for several more minutes as we rode onward, until the tears dried up, like everything else in this place.

THE DARKEST NIGHT

Several times I noticed a gully or a ditch that looked like it should have water, but we’d ride up to find everything dry, dry, dry. We came upon the abandoned homestead I’d heard of, and I turned down its gravel road, praying there would be water there.

The grounds were forlorn and neglected; the windows of the empty home cracked and broken. It had the hollow feel of a long abandonment. The place certainly wasn’t ideal, but we needed to get off the road and put the rotten day behind us.

I walked around looking for a spot for the horses and the tent, stomping my feet and making noise in the hope it would scare away any resident reptiles. I jolted to a stop several times, thinking some old stick was a snake. I finally settled on a small gravelly area clear of prickly plants, near an old lean-to and a fallen down wire fence.

I untied our collapsible bucket from the saddle pack and walked to the faucet on the side of the house. As soon as I gave it a turn, a rusty spurt of water rushed out. Then it stopped.

“Oh no!” I gasped. I ran with the little bit of water over to Rainy. He lipped at the bottom of the bucket and sucked it in, drying it in a second.

I sat back on my heels to think for a moment. The water to the house looked like it was shut off, but maybe the pump in the yard connected right to the well. I hurried to the pump and grabbed the handle, using both arms to pump. The water flowed at first and the bucket filled to almost half. Then it stopped. I felt myself crumble a little. I tried again but no more water came out. I got angry and pumped like crazy, as if all the strength I had could change the situation.

I let Amanda have some first this time, then pulled it back and gave the rest to Rainy, amounting to about a quarter of a bucket each. Amanda went right back to nibbling at grass. But Rainy nudged the bucket, nosing it around, looking for more water. It made me want to cry.

I considered packing back up and going onward in search of more water, but if the road behind us was any indication, we’d have little luck riding on. I had to hope and pray that my animals would be okay all night, and in the morning, I would get them water, no matter what. It killed me to think of the way Rainy and Amanda depended on me, the way they went on every mile for me, and now here they were, thirsty and tied to an old fence behind an abandoned house.

I replayed what had happened earlier at the angry woman’s house. I should have jumped off Rainy, grabbed the hose and filled our bucket. What could she have done? Called the police? I hadn’t thought quickly enough; I was so unprepared to be treated in such a way.

With the dusky fading light, the old building loomed like every child’s vision of a haunted house. Though the land looked flat, it was deceptive: there were dips and rises, with bunches of grass and weeds, and sitting on the ground, we were hidden from view from any direction, including from the road, about a quarter mile away. It should have made me feel safe, but after a day like we’d had, it just made me feel more alone.

The light was fading fast. I set up the tent, trying to remember anything I’d ever learned about rattlesnakes, knowing most of it probably consisted of old wives’ tales. I got up and walked backward, dragging my boot heel in the dirt, making a little furrow circling the campsite. I’d heard that kept away snakes. I hugged Rainy and Amanda, then crawled into the tent, feeling battered from the worries and the miles. Gypsy crawled in beside me, and I zipped us in.

Gypsy and I shared a few sips of water from the canteen, saving a small amount inside. Darkness became complete. I couldn’t see a thing if I peeked out the screen window, but hearing Rainy and Amanda stir now and then was a comfort to me.

As I lay still, the emptiness of my belly started to nag at me. I turned the lantern back on. I held the unappetizing cans of cold corn and fruit cocktail near the light, but the labels were so faded they didn’t tell me much. My stomach was making noises—I hadn’t eaten since the day before. I plunged the can opener on my knife into the can of corn and cranked it around the top. I cupped a handful of dry dog food and placed it on the sleeping bag for Gypsy. She picked at it delicately, and I patted her head affectionately. She showed no interest in my food, which was rare…and probably not a good sign. I used my camp spoon to scoop out kernels of the watery corn, eating about half the can, then pushing it away, hoping maybe the fruit would be better. A minute later I pushed that away, too. I was hungry, but not desperate yet.

I turned off the lantern, listening to mostly silence and the shuffle of hooves, a few insect noises, and the rustle of the brush in the breeze. These sounds lulled me to sleep.

My eyes opened as I felt a feather-like tickle against my calf. I could see Gypsy looking at me in the dark. I felt another movement on my leg—like a pinch this time. I scratched at my head and sat up, grabbing for my flashlight.

The beam illuminated a shadowy column-like shape, like a thick, dark line, out of focus on the tent wall. I scooched backward, unsure of what I was seeing. From the glow of the light, it almost looked like a strange streak of dirt. But was it moving? I rubbed my eyes, still swatting distractedly at the itchy sensation on my arms and legs.

My eyes focused. The dark column moving up the side of the tent was ants.

And they were not on the outside.

I slapped at the spots on my arms and legs even more as I saw the ants crawling down the sides of my tent and over everything in it, including me. They were heading for the open cans of unfinished corn and fruit that I had pushed aside and forgotten.

I scratched and brushed and tried to get all the tiny demons off me, but they fell from the ceiling back into my hair. Desperate, I started to step outside to shake out my sleeping bag when I remembered my new fear of rattlesnakes. What a choice! I grabbed my boots (vigorously shaking them first), pulled them on, then dragged everything out of my tent. I must be a sight, I thought, standing there in nothing but a t-shirt and cowboy boots, shaking things wildly like a dog with a rag.

It wasn’t working. In the blackness of night, quiet except for my antics, I took the whole tent down and turned it inside out, shaking it until I could shine my light along the seams and the corners and see that the last of the ants were gone. I wearily set it all back up again in the dark. I had no idea what time it was when Gypsy and I crawled in, and at last sleep came again.

For a while.

There’s a feeling that comes with being awakened from the depths of sleep by something unknown. It’s not the normal stirrings, the ebb and flow of slumber, but a buried knowledge that tangles dreams and sounds together. It was from that primal place that something caused my eyes to open once again, my heart to race, and my sense of recognition to claw its way back to the surface.

My eyes opened to the blackness. I gathered my senses and tried to understand why, in this moment, the one thing I felt was fear.

My mind began to clear and then I knew.

The sound that woke me was the slow turning of tires, crunching on the gravel of the long driveway that led behind the old house, to my tent, to my animals, and to me.

I sat up. Gypsy was up, too, her ears and eyes pointed in the direction of the sound. Why would a vehicle be driving slowly toward this abandoned ranch house in the wee hours of the night?

I crawled onto my hands and knees, instinct making me move as quietly as possible, and peered out the zippered opening of my tent.

Only a little light from the stars filtered through the deep darkness, allowing me to make out a dark-colored truck moving stealthily down the private road. Chillingly, the headlights were turned off. Adrenaline sent my heart rate up.

I tried, for a moment, to calculate the reasons that someone would be coming toward my tent, in the darkest hour, in this darkest spot in the middle of nowhere—and none of them were good. Out the back screen, I saw Rainy and Amanda, two familiar shapes, alert now, too, watching and listening.

There was no one point where I was aware of making a decision. There was just me, and the three animals I would do anything to protect. I did not move impulsively but in a measured, calculated fashion. I unzipped the back of the tent in case I had to run. I did it slowly, but the small clicking of the zipper sounded loud in the darkness.

I reached over to the canvas bag that held the gun and slid the weapon out. With the heel of my palm I shoved the magazine in and turned toward the front of the tent. The truck was almost to me. I used one arm to brace and keep the gun steady, and aimed, flipping the safety off.

I sat in perfect stillness. All thoughts in my brain receded; I focused entirely on keeping my aim steady.

The tires ground to a halt, the sound so close now it made me shiver. I heard the door quietly opening, then the “snick” of it being shut carefully. The sound of boots on gravel, approaching.

I couldn’t breathe correctly, as if the right amount of air wouldn’t come into my lungs. I heard the person stop right outside the tent. I saw the dark shape of a pair of boots and legs through my screen. Rainy and Amanda stirred and pawed, sensing something in the air. The intruder stood there. I was as still as any human could will herself to be.

“You in there?” came a gruff voice, startlingly near, the sound magnified by the night.

I shrank further into my stillness and didn’t answer.

“Hey—you in there?” the man called again.

I weighed whether to warn him I had a loaded gun trained on him, in hopes it would scare him away, or whether I should take advantage of the element of surprise.

“What do you want?” I tried to sound assertive and my voice sounded strange, even to me.

I tensed, waiting for him to take one step closer. My finger on the trigger moved just a hair.

“You awake?” he asked.

Again, I growled, “What do you want?”

His steps had ceased. “Uh, are you the girl that’s riding the horse through here?”

“WHAT DO YOU WANT?” I shouted.

“Uh.” He paused, his voice sounding almost nervous. “You was lookin’ for water earlier? Stopped up the road lookin’ for water?”

“Yeah? So?” Who was this guy? For a moment, there was only silence between us. The gun began to feel heavy in my hand.

“Well…” Another pause. “Sorry if I scared you. I know it’s late, I just…” The boots shuffled and shifted a little. “I been lookin’ for you since I got home and my wife told me a gal had ridden up lookin’ for water…” He paused, discomfort apparent in his voice.

I kept the gun trained on his torso, but my edge, the high tense edge that kept the gun steady, had eased ever so slightly.

“She, well, I don’t know why she’d do that. I tol’ her she shoulda helped you,” he went on. “Give you some water at least. Anyway. I’m sorry for that. That’s not how we was raised. I’m sorry you didn’t get no help at our place.”

The man sounded old, I realized, and tired. But my nerves were wound way too tight to just shut down my fear. I didn’t lower the gun yet, but I relaxed a notch more. I stayed silent.

“So I been lookin for you, to say sorry my wife treated you that way.”

After a moment I said, “Okay.”

He shuffled again. “And, uh, I got five dollars here for you. In the morning you’ll ride up on a diner, this side of Dalhart. I’m leaving this here so you can buy breakfast. On me.” Another pause. “And my wife.”

“Okay,” I repeated. Then, quietly, “Thanks.”

“It’s right here. I’ll put a rock on it so the wind don’t blow it away.”

I heard him move away, the gravelly sound distinct in the predawn quiet. His black silhouette faded from my tent screen.

There was the sound of the truck door opening, then he called back, “You take care, now, hear?”

I waited for the truck door to slam shut and the engine to come to life and the wheels to crunch on the stones as he turned around. Only then did I lower the gun. Through the screen, I watched the dark shape of the truck crawl up the road and the small red flash of brake lights before he turned east on the two-lane.

I looked down at the weapon in my hand, like I didn’t know how it had gotten there. I switched the safety back on and set the gun down beside me, the handle warm from my grip. I pulled my knees up close and wrapped my arms around them, my body shaking all over as if it were cold. Resting my forehead on my knees, I sat for a long time, until the stars grew dim in the endless sky above.

FULL CIRCLE

At first light we set out toward Dalhart. True to the word of our late-night visitor, after several miles, we came upon a diner on 54 West. I tied Rainy and Amanda, and Gypsy and I walked in with my collapsible bucket.

“I need to get water for my horse and mule,” I said to the man at the counter, wasting no time for a greeting or to request permission. Friendly enough, he showed me right away where to fill the bucket.

I watched as at last, Rainy and Amanda had their good long drink. Some of the tension I’d been carrying began to fade with each slurp the two made. In my pocket, I felt the five-dollar bill that had been placed under a rock in the middle of the night. I allowed myself to hope we were working our way back to our usual good fortune.

In Dalhart there was a veterinary clinic with small pens in the back where Rainy and Amanda could stay the night. The vet offered to give both of them wellness exams…and when he charged me twenty dollars, I knew it was a fair price. I silently handed him my last twenty, telling him I’d be back to check on Rainy and Amanda in a bit. I did not mention I had nowhere to go.

I walked into town without one cent on me. I had no plans for food or shelter that night, but along with the pressure to figure it out, there was actually a bit of a thrill, because I didn’t know how the day would play out. It was faith and foolishness that provided that strange anticipation and sense of challenge that came from not knowing what would happen next. The way things turned out was up to my wits, and my luck, and completely up to me.

Gypsy and I wandered around, trying to get a feel for the town. I half-scouted for spots I could sleep if I had to. I knew I would be able to reach my parents at some point and have them wire me some of my cash, but in the meantime, I was on my own in Dalhart.

By the time I headed back to the vet clinic, I’d pretty much decided to ask the vet if I could sleep on the ground near my animals. But before I had a chance, he handed me a scrap of paper.

“This guy wants to interview you,” he mentioned casually. “Said he hoped you’d call before five.” The clock on the wall showed five minutes before five o’clock.

I looked at the scrap. Bob Wilcoxson, Dalhart Times. I dialed the number from the clinic phone.

“Can I ask you a few questions?” Bob Wilcoxson asked. “I’d also like to show you around and tell you a little about Dalhart.”

“Sure,” I answer, happy for the company.

Bob turned out to be a kind-eyed older gentleman, and after talking with him a bit, I felt comfortable enough to take a drive and hear about Dalhart and its history. Before long, I’d learned all about the famous XIT Ranch and the big cowboy reunion that the whole town took part in every year. I was entertained with tales of the railroad, Indians, and tornados. Bob stopped to make a phone call and came back with a smile, saying, “My wife Betty would like to meet you. She wants to know if you—and Gypsy, too, of course—can have dinner with us.”

“That would be nice,” I replied, knowing then that our luck had indeed changed. While eating dinner, the invitation was extended for me to spend the night, and I couldn’t help but grin.

As I left the next morning I learned the invitation was a special kindness. In the car Bob explained that Betty was battling a serious illness and hadn’t been up to having visitors. He lingered as I packed up Rainy and Amanda, then asked me to write and let them know how we were doing, farther along the road. He handed me a folded-up bill as we said goodbye.

I didn’t protest as much as I usually did when people tried to give me money, but I asked, “Are you sure?”

Bob smiled warmly. “Please take it.”

I looked down at the twenty dollar bill in my hand and thought of how I’d handed over my last twenty to the vet when we’d arrived in town the day before. What happened was not just up to me and my wits and my luck. The kindness of strangers had played much more of a role in our journey. My animals and I had walked pretty much in a straight line, east to west, across the country. But in Dalhart, Texas, I saw it, I really got it, how things went full circle.

ANTELOPE

As we made our way on the road west of Dalhart, Rainy stopped and focused his ears forward on the open land to the south. I looked to see what had captured his attention. Movement caught my eye as a herd of antelope bounded over the brushland—long antlers and splashes of white on their chests. The pronghorns leapt, fast and soundless, across the high desert, graceful and delicate at the same time.

I reached forward and stroked Rainy’s neck. “Thanks, Bud.”

Not long after seeing the antelope we rode down a private road on the ranch where my next contacts, JD and Kim Hieman, lived and worked. A cowboy stepped out from one of the barns and reached to take the reins and Amanda’s lead like it was proper manners for him to take care of my animals for me. His knowledgeable eyes appraised my horse as he patted my buckskin’s neck.

“What do you call this fella?” he asked.

“Well, his real name is Arizona Raindance,” I said proudly, “but I call him Rainy.”

“Oh,” he replied. “Okay.” As he gathered the reins and led my horse to the barn, I heard him say quietly, “C’mon, Ol’ Buck.”

Several horses whinnied when Rainy and Amanda entered the barn. A young dark colt in a box stall caught my eye. He had lovely conformation but his face—most of his head, actually—was misshapen and swollen way beyond normal size.

“Oh my gosh!” I exclaimed. “What happened to this guy?”

“Snake-bit,” was the succinct answer I got.

“Wow.” I reached a hand over the stall door. The colt looked at me but lacked the usual energy and curiosity of a horse so young.

“Is he going to be all right?” I asked.

The cowboy shrugged. “Up to him now. We’ve done all we can.” He swung my saddle and packs up onto a saddle rack, looked over at my face, then added, “I think he’ll make it, though.”

JD and Kim were a young couple with two children, Myah and Cody. Kim had a way of reaching out and making me feel like I was part of the family, too. We did the dishes together, standing shoulder to shoulder, Kim washing while I dried. I asked about the snake-bit colt, and learned that most of the big fat snakes around the ranch weren’t rattlers.

“Don’t worry about those king snakes,” Kim said. “They’re actually good; they keep the rattlers away!”

Kim told me how she met JD and wound up on a ranch in such a lonely part of the Texas Panhandle.

“I swore I wouldn’t fall in love with a cowboy,” she said with a sigh, shrugging as if to say, Who can argue with the forces of love?

I swiped a dishtowel across a plate while Kim told her children to get ready for bed. I hoped I would remember these things, the lessons about how amongst the cranky folks and the disappointments, turning down the next road could lead to a place of warmth and kindness. A place where they know there can be good snakes as well as bad. A place where they know it’s worth it to nurse a sick colt back to health.

The hard experiences and the good ones can be all mixed together in the same place. It’s like riding through barren lands. Look around. There may be antelope.

WEST

We made our way onward through the brush and sage, over the rolling road, until, looking right between Rainy’s ears, I read the block lettering on a roadside notice that said, “Entering Mountain Time Zone.”

I’d had a sense that I could feel the rise of the land as we worked our way west. This confirmed to me that I was in touch with the land beneath our feet in a way I’d never known before.

Not long after the change in time zone, we came upon another sign. I felt a lifting inside, and I knew that the hard Texas part of our journey was finally ending. I jumped from the saddle to pose the animals for pictures near the colorful monument that announced, “WELCOME TO NEW MEXICO, LAND OF ENCHANTMENT.”

JD and Kim had arranged a stop for us with George and Tink Nixon at Nara Visa, just over the line in New Mexico. When we arrived, George Nixon pumped my hand with enthusiasm, and then—unlike most people, who wanted to know all about Rainy—he lit up at the sight of Amanda. George was a mule man. Thrilled to see that I’d discovered what a mule was capable of, he expounded their virtues in a way only one who truly appreciates mules can do. He even gave me a reining demonstration on his lovely red mule, Kate.

We stayed an extra day with George and Tink, enjoying an overdue day of rest. The Nixons introduced me to the culinary pleasure of taco pie, and George made arrangements for us in Tucumcari and other towns to the west.

“Tink and I don’t like the idea of a little gal like you riding out alone in this country,” he said.

For much of the ride from the small town of Logan toward Tucumcari, a large flat-top mesa was visible in front of us. Tucumcari Mountain broke up the horizon, its shape and colors revealed as Rainy carried me nearer, with Gypsy draped across the saddle. Originally, I’d believed the area to be spare and empty, but now I knew there were more colors and shades to rock and shadow than I’d imagined.

Winding our way past the mountain was a mark of our progress, a sign that the flatlands of the Great Plains were to our backs.

There are a few explanations for the unusual name “Tucumcari,” but they sound modern and contrived. The explanation most widely accepted by historians is that the name is derived from the Comanche language, and means something similar to “to lie in wait for something to approach.” It’s believed that Comanche raiders and war parties used the flat mesa top to do just that—watching for enemies and prey, and cowboys and Mexicans driving cattle along the many trails that crossed the area.

If land had a spirit, I believed that this place’s spirit was represented by the mysterious mountain. If spirits were to lie in wait on the flat mountain top and watch for something to approach, on this day, they would see four travelers—horse, rider, dog, and mule—riding west together, dusty and tired, but moving in harmony.

TUCUMCARI

The area around Tucumcari was full of connections to the past. Preserved dinosaur tracks could be found in Quay County, and the town’s beginning was tied to the railroad and the colorful era thought of as the “Wild West.” Route 66 eventually put Tucumcari on the map as people following the famous road from its start in Chicago found the town a welcome respite from the barren drive across the Texas Panhandle. If Tucumcari Mountain was the spirit of the town, then Route 66, “The Mother Road,” was its heart. Of course, with the interstate pulling travelers away from the two-lane roads, reminders of Tucumcari’s heyday had faded to just a few candy-colored neon signs, still glowing in the hope of leading travelers to mom-and-pop diners and lodgings.

West of town, Route 54 ran together with Route 66. My animals and I took a break at Stuckey’s Truck Stop, where we posed for pictures and a trucker bought me lunch. I was warned that there wasn’t much out the way we were riding but railroads and ghost towns.

I set up camp near the tracks at the tiny town of Montoya. It was a well-hidden spot, with old cattle pens for Rainy and Amanda. I had a dinner invitation at the Bidegan Ranch nearby, so when Rainy and Amanda seemed settled, I walked with Gypsy up the long private road to the house.

For no particular reason, I looked down, and when I did, I stopped mid-step. Inches from my boot, marching along and about to crawl right over my foot, was a big, black tarantula.

Gypsy froze right beside me. A spider was not something that would normally catch her attention, but this one was so large she stared down at it, ears fully upright. The creature was as big as the palm of my hand. I could see every detail of its hairy body.

I looked at Gypsy and she looked at me, but other than that, we didn’t move. The tarantula veered away just before it reached the toe of my boot, turning and crawling up the red dirt road ahead of us.

I mulled over the gritty land, full of beauty and hidden dangers, as we walked on. Had it really been just a few weeks before that I was walking around in my sneakers?

HITCHHIKER

After camping and riding along the tracks, red dirt clung to everything. All four of us wore a fine coat of it as we rode along a narrow two-lane road with cracked and broken pavement.

Somewhere off to the right, Interstate 40 rolled on. Once in a while, parts of the old road and the highway would wind closer together, but mostly the sight and sound of trucks and cars were obscured by low hills as we trod a more meandering route.

At one of the points where the old and new byways were within sight of each other, we were somewhat startled to come upon a dark-haired man, standing on the opposite side of the highway fence. This was not the land of pedestrians.

The guy waved enthusiastically, then swung himself over the fence with a lively leap, jogging toward us. He carried nothing, though he wore the look of someone who’d been on the road a while. I stayed on Rainy and tried to get a read on him. He looked young. He had a few days’ worth of beard going and hair in need of a trim, but there was a definite spark of life about him…as well as a winning smile.

“Hey! What’s up? I can’t believe you’re out here!” he greeted me with enthusiasm. “Hey, good dog!” He reached down and ruffled Gypsy’s fur. I rolled my eyes as she immediately sprawled tummy up at his feet.

“What are you doing out here?” I countered, looking at the high desert terrain around us.

“I’m John,” he said, happy, it would seem, to tell his story. “I’m hitching all around the country, and it’s been great, man. But here’s the bummer.” John paused for emphasis. “Someone stole my backpack in Dallas. Sleeping bag, clothes, everything I had. But I decided to still try to make it to California hitching and meet up with my friends there.”

Dallas, Texas, was a long way from where we were. John reminded me of a half-grown pup that wandered away from home, got into a bit of trouble, but was good-natured enough to still have a lark. I wondered how he’d made it to New Mexico with no money and no food…but if anyone believed in impractical journeys, it was me. I hopped off Rainy and opened my packs.

John asked what my story was, and I filled him in, handing him my canteen. He drank greedily but briefly, leaving most of the water. I pulled out every bit of food I had and offered it—he picked carefully and ate hungrily, although he was hesitant to take much. I insisted he pocket a few packs of crackers and a candy bar for later. We talked in the way of people who have not enjoyed conversation in a while: too fast, interrupting each other, exclaiming happily at each other’s tales of both incredible kindnesses and dangers narrowly averted.

We walked together a ways, me leading Rainy and Amanda so we could keep chatting. As the sun sank lower in the sky, he glanced a time or two over in the direction of the highway.

“I guess I’d better get back out there if I’m gonna get a ride,” he eventually said. He gave me a friendly hug and stroked Gypsy again. Then he left us, looking over his shoulder and waving once more before he jumped the fence and disappeared into the brush, making his way toward the highway.

What must have been an hour or so later, the highway was once again running within sight of the old road. Suddenly, a sound usually reserved for rock concerts and rowdy taverns punctured the quiet heat of the day. “WOO-WOO! OW-WOO!” A green van rolled down the interstate, and there, with most of his upper body hanging out a side window, was John, yelling as loudly as he could.

“Awright! Awright, John!” I shouted back, laughing out loud at his antics. I raised my fist high in the air for him—for him getting a ride, for him having his adventure.

“GO FOR IT, BABE!” were the last words I could distinguish as the van drove on into the sun, and the wind and the road carried him away.

CUERVO

In Eastern New Mexico, we no longer stayed in houses most nights like we had earlier in the trip. Instead, a contact usually meant I had permission to use a set of pens or camp on ranchlands.

One morning I woke to chilly air and a cold drizzle soaking everything. I started out wearing my flannel and my sweatshirt, but the dampness seeped in, no matter how I covered up.

We were traveling what remained of Route 66 where it ran together with Route 54 when we came upon the town of Cuervo. It was easy to see why the truckers called it a ghost town. We rode past a few broken-down and decaying buildings, and a feeling of lifelessness permeated the area, so I was surprised to discover a diner open on the north side of the road. I tied Rainy and Amanda nearby, and went in, Gypsy at my heels.

A man and a woman at the counter turned in mild surprise at the sound of the door opening. The place was tiny—just a counter and a half-dozen stools. A garage was attached next door. There was an awkward moment of silence as I wondered where to sit. The woman got up and wiped a spot clean at the counter, which I took as an invitation. I got the impression there wasn’t a whole lot on the menu, so I kept it simple.

“I’ll have a cheeseburger.”

The woman stopped wiping. “We’re out of cheese,” she stated.

“That’s okay. A plain burger is fine,” I assured her, as the man got up and headed to the garage without a word.

Though it was gray and dingy in the diner, it was a comfort to hear the sizzle of the burger she threw on the grill. The scent of it mingled with a faint automotive smell of oil and gas from the garage, which might seem unpleasant but was actually the opposite. The man came back in the door at one point, stared at me for a moment, then left again. There was no sign of anyone else around. No cars passed on the road as I sat and ate, Gypsy dozing at my feet.

The woman behind the counter made small talk, and when it was time for me to pay the bill, she wouldn’t take my money. I thanked her, feeling guilty for the gesture when it looked like I would probably be the only customer to wander in that day. I got the feeling that when I rode away, the man and the woman would look at each other and say, Well, that’s it. We tried. They’d turn the sign in the window to “Closed,” turn out the lights, and soon the faded diner and the garage next door would tilt and crumble and become just another ghost in this old town.

WHAT GYPSY UNCOVERED

As we traveled, people often asked if I was scared to camp alone. I always told them no, that I found it to be peaceful. The absence of manmade noise opened my senses to the sounds of the evening: the little contented noises of the animals and the quiet of the land around us.

Deep in New Mexico, a rancher gave us permission to camp by his pens in the hills, and the night found us in lovely surroundings. The wide sky turned shades of dark gray and navy blue. I sat contentedly on the ground, and Gypsy came over, nudging me for attention. She squeezed herself right under my arm. It took me a minute to realize she seemed slightly agitated and wanted more than just petting.

She trotted back over to where she’d been scratching and nosing the dirt, worked at the spot a little more, then came back to sit by me again.

“What’s the matter, gal? Having trouble with your project?” The pup looked up at me, and I scratched behind her ears. She leaned against me for a minute more, then went back to digging.

Tired as I was, it was tempting to just sit there, but I couldn’t pretend Gypsy hadn’t gotten herself into something. Her hind end was in the air, her front feet scrabbled furiously, and chunks of soil sprayed up from around her paws.

Curiosity got the best of me, and I stood up and brushed off my seat. Gypsy ran over with excitement, whirling in circles in front of me, obviously pleased that I was finally going to see what she’d found. Her anxious whine told me to hurry up.

The light was not good—we were in the sliver of time after dusk and before dark, when everything has a veil of gray over it. Gypsy scratched at the ground a little more, then stopped digging and looked up at me. Despite the fading light, I could see what she had just about uncovered. I froze mid-step.

It was a cowboy boot.

My heart lurched as I made out another cowboy boot next to it.

And they both appeared to be attached to something…something solid, in the shape of legs.

The loveliness of the night was forgotten. A chill ran through me. I didn’t know what to do, so I just stood there, looking down in a sort of horror. Where Gypsy had been digging I could see a form that was the size and shape of only one thing—a human.

The growing darkness didn’t hide the two legs spread, toes pointed down, or the narrow torso, the shape of shoulders, and the arms out to the sides, making two rows in the dirt like miniature speed bumps.

Even as my eyes registered what lay before me, my mind was denying it. I couldn’t process the possibility that we were camping alone, way out in in the uninhabited hills, and that Gypsy had just uncovered what appeared to be a shallow grave. My mind just said, NO. My body was rooted in place.

Gypsy was grunting with her effort now, digging with her front paws and periodically stopping to run back to me. I didn’t know if she was anxious or if she was trying to get me to come closer.

I let my feet move, just a small, slow inch. My hands flew up to cover most of my face.

I tried to think what to do. Then, slowly, my brain began to wonder why there was no smell—no scent of rot or decay. I looked over at Rainy and Amanda, peacefully standing at rest, undisturbed. Whenever we passed a flattened animal on the road, Rainy made an extra wide berth around it—he had a strong dislike for dead things. So why, right now, in the presence of what appeared to be a human corpse, was he so perfectly calm and relaxed?

I forced myself to move one step closer.

Something about the body now didn’t look quite right. Trying to steady my nerves, I inched forward. The parts visible in the dark and the dirt were definitely dressed in a masculine fashion, and yet the figure didn’t look like the right size for a grown man. But it didn’t look like a child’s body, either.

I went closer.

It looked…fake.

My whole posture changed. I straightened up a little and my hands dropped from my face back to my sides. I stepped more confidently toward “it,” and Gypsy jumped up at me, glad we were finally checking it out together. I stared down from my closer vantage, bolder now—but I still didn’t want to touch it.

I returned to our tent and came back with the flashlight, running its beam along the outline on the ground. The jeans were hiked up above the top of one boot, and I could now see that the “leg” under the clothes was a rusty metal pole. Bending closer, I glimpsed just a hint of stuffing poking out where Gypsy had dug at the edge of the tattered flannel shirt.

My breathing and heart rate began to normalize. We were not camping with a dead body, after all.

Still. I glanced around at our complete aloneness, the darkening sky and the horizon. I called Gypsy to me so she wouldn’t uncover more of “him.” I didn’t want to turn it over and see the face. I didn’t want to touch it at all, not even with the toe of my own cowboy boot.

It was a restless night. Although I wasn’t scared, I was aware of the shadow the strange presence cast on our high lonesome campsite.

GOODBYE ROAD

A pamphlet I read in a truck stop described this part of New Mexico as “where the Great Plains meets the Rockies.” Mesas stood out in the miles and miles of dry, desert-like gritty soil spotted with tufts of bunch grass and sage.

The brochure described the stretch of road from Tucumcari to Albuquerque as “featureless,” but whoever wrote that was missing so much. At the slow walking pace of my horse, I noticed the muted shades of rock and plant life. I felt the ever-present breeze, getting cooler by the day. We crossed paths with roadrunners and antelope. Gypsy developed a skill for flushing out jackrabbits, hidden to me until their sudden burst of movement.

We’d been traveling on a composite of three roads: old Route 40, Route 66, and Route 54—the secondary road my animals and I had been following for months. In Santa Rosa we came upon a split, marked with a collection of signs.

I jumped from the saddle and pulled out my map, laying it open against Rainy’s side. Route 54 took a deep dive south, all the way to Mexico. Route 40 continued west with 66, going along with it for a while.

West was where we were going. The decision of direction should have been easy enough. Still, it felt like I was severing a tie somehow. We’d been on or near Route 54 since early summer, back in Missouri. It had taken us through farmlands, small towns, and high prairies.

I looked at the faded signs and the windswept road, then climbed back in the saddle. I twisted around, looking back and squinting a bit, as if, if I could just look hard enough, right down that center line, I might be able to see the green Flint Hills and Yates Center where Tom and Barb would be fixing supper and talking. I’d see Fort Scott, where Reid was probably wrestling an unruly calf or doctoring some horse about now. I’d see the sticky heat and colored sunsets of Missouri. I liked that we’d been on the same road for so long. It made me feel like my animals and I were still connected somehow to all the helping hands and kindness of the Midwest.

I turned back around and looked forward at Route 66, the worn old road in front of us, heading to where the sun set. I clucked to Rainy and Amanda, and we stepped onto the shoulder, saying goodbye once again.

SKINS

The road wound upward into high, desert-like hills. If it hadn’t been for the sun, I’d have worried we were getting turned around, veering from the direction I wanted to go.

The summer heat was gone, replaced by pleasant days and cool nights. The downward dip in the temperature brought out the snakes: In the mornings they sunned themselves on the pavement. Vehicles were a rarity; it was just Rainy, Gypsy, Amanda, and me, passing the rattlers carefully as they unfurled their long bodies on the road, soaking up the lingering warmth it offered. The animals and I grew used to seeing them in this sluggish state.

I spied a windmill ahead, which meant water. As we got closer, I could see a house, too—the first one in a while.

The conditions underfoot deteriorated when we turned onto the track leading toward the structures. Both appeared ancient and dry, like they’d grown there in the sand. What looked like bundles of twigs dangled along the edge of the low roof of the house. I thought they might be herbs and mesquite hung to dry. The door was open a crack.

“Hello?” I called.

No one came. No dogs barked. Abandonment hung in the air.

I turned toward the windmill. There was just enough breeze to turn the blades with a slow faint creak. It was on the other side of a barbed-wire fence, the line of posts and wire spreading far in each direction and out of sight. What appeared to be dozens and dozens of rattlesnake skins, and jackrabbit and coyote pelts, were draped along the fence, baking in the sun.

I considered our need for the water that might or might not be in the stock tank near the windmill. It was pretty unappealing to think of ducking under the skins, hanging there like a macabre laundry line, but I did it anyway, grimacing, and was relieved to find I was not unrewarded. I filled our collapsible bucket quickly.

As I got back on Rainy, the breeze picked up a little. The windmill turned lazily for a few seconds, and the skins on the fence blew in a strange dance. I sat unmoving—we all did—as if our silence was a part of the place. Then we turned back to the road and kept moving on.

COLD NIGHT NEAR GRANTS

Our time alone together on the stretch of road that passed south of Albuquerque deepened the special connection I had with my animals. I spoke only to them, and they seemed to listen. However, the isolation wore me down a bit, making me wish for human contact and a little friendly conversation.

After several long lonely days, we arrived at a feed store outside Grants. The owner had left a bale of hay for us near the horse pens, along with a few apples and sandwiches next to the empty horse trailer where Gypsy and I were welcome to sleep that night. It was a simple thing, but it made me feel a little better that someone knew where we were.

I expected to have mail waiting for me, care of General Delivery, at the Grants Post Office. I also hoped to restock our meager supplies in town and try to find something warm to wear now that cooler temperatures had arrived—both while being very conservative with my money. I called to Gypsy and started the walk to Grants.

As luck would have it, there was a thrift shop, and I paid only twenty-five cents for a heavy wool sweater with a turtleneck to keep the wind from blowing down my shirt. With the warm sweater, a hot meal in my belly, and a pleasingly heavy sack of mail to read, I felt a lift in my spirits as we walked back to the feed store. There was a cool, clear feeling in the air, and I put my hands in my pockets. I didn’t need the autumn leaves of home to remind me that fall had arrived and change was in the air.

I threw a little more hay to Rainy and Amanda as the evening turned colder. I crawled inside my sleeping bag on the floor of the horse trailer, pulling the top of the bag over my shoulders to keep warm as I read my mail by the light of my lantern. Letters described what was happening back home: A favorite hangout was closing. Two of my close friends were getting married, and with some of my mail weeks old, the weddings were happening soon. It was a bit shocking to think of all that was going on without me. “We wish you could be here,” my friend Kevin wrote, knowing that I’d still be traveling when his wedding took place. I couldn’t be there. I was thousands of miles away, lying on the floor of a horse trailer in the middle of the high desert.

I felt Gypsy stir beside me. A few seconds later I heard the cry of a coyote.

I saved Reid’s letter for last, but it was brief and impersonal. I pushed the mail aside and laid my head down, my thoughts restless. I turned over, and through the trailer’s back door, I stared at the patch of stars visible in the cold, clear sky. I listened for the coyote again, but all was quiet.

AN OLD MAN, HIS COWBOY HAT, AND HIS SON

My feeling of separateness stayed with me as we rode out in the morning light. The wind had settled a bit and the sky was clear as we followed an old frontage road somewhere west of the town of Thoreau. I saw a figure way off in the distance, but it took some time to reach an elderly man, standing still, watching us. I reined Rainy to a stop next to the man, and my horse lowered his head, waiting in his gentle way for the man to reach out and pet him. Amanda tucked in beside Rainy, a little shy, waiting to see what took place.

“Name’s Bill,” the old man said. “I’ve seen you on the news, and I been out here, watching for you.”

I smiled at him, thankful for the friendly gesture.

“How are you?” I asked.

“Fine, fine,” he replied, brushing it off with a wave. “I saw you on the TV and saw how you said people are being real nice to you, so I wanted to give you this.”

I noticed a cowboy hat in one hand. He held it up for me to see.

“A lot of stories are in this hat,” he informed me. I could see it was well-worn, faded from days in the sun, the hat band stained dark. I didn’t really want a cowboy hat, but I wanted to be gracious. When he held the hat out to me, I reached down from Rainy’s back to take it.

“Thank you,” I said quietly. “This is very nice of you.”

He nodded his acknowledgment, looking serious. “I just want to know why you didn’t do The Big One.”

“Pardon me?” I replied, puzzled.

“Why aren’t you riding The Big One? North to south? Canada to Mexico? Riding east to west is the easy way.”

The easy way? I studied Bill and decided he was what my mom would kindly call “a little off.”

“Well, I don’t know,” I ventured. “I think it’s more miles from east to west, don’t you?”

“My son, he might ride The Big One someday,” the man said, ignoring my question. “That’s what he talked about, a ride like you’re doing. Only the hard way.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t sure how to respond. “That would be nice. I hope he gets to do it.”

The old man nodded, staring off into the distance as if he could see something we couldn’t.

“My son can ride. I taught him to ride. He grew up on a horse.”

I sensed grief or regret in the old man. I wanted to say I was sorry but didn’t even know why.

“Well, I’d better be moving on,” I said.

“Don’t be in a hurry now,” Bill insisted, looking at me intently. “Wait a bit.”

Rainy and Amanda were starting to fidget, bored with standing on the side of the road. Rainy pawed a little, and I felt a small tug from Amanda on the lead rope. Gypsy sat quietly as the old man rambled on about his son and some things I couldn’t quite hear or understand. I once more mentioned that we’d better go, but Bill again asked me to stay a bit longer.

The old service road had been empty all afternoon, but now a brown sedan drove into view and stopped behind our little gathering. A man got out of the car and approached us, notebook in hand—a reporter.

This intrusion bothered Bill, who interrupted the reporter’s questions to tell him that his son would be doing the Big One someday. When the reporter mildly brushed him off, the old man said goodbye and turned to leave.

“Thank you for the hat!” I called to his retreating back. I wanted to think of something else to say, something kind, something that would matter to him as he walked stiffly along the dusty road, but the words failed to come.

I knew why he’d stayed talking so long, why he hadn’t wanted me to ride on. He wore his loneliness like an old shirt; his aloneness far outweighed mine. I hoped maybe it was a little lighter for having found us.

THE GREAT DIVIDE

Making our way toward Gallup, we stopped at a marker on the south side of the road. Solidly built of wood and stone, it informed us that we were crossing the Continental Divide. Even on a little-used road, crossing the backbone of America was worthy of a monument.

The Continental Divide is a line of mountain ranges, the most notable being the Rockies, that stretches all the way from Alaska into Mexico. It’s sometimes referred to as “The Great Divide,” and when you think of the distance and all the rugged slopes it encompasses, it is great indeed. It’s the watershed line of where the continent’s water goes: the creeks, streams, and rivers to the east of the Divide flow in an easterly direction and eventually end up in the Atlantic Ocean. The waters on the other side run west, to the Pacific.

In front of us rose layers of mountains, outlined against the sky. To the north, a line of red mesas marched parallel to our road. I’d seen them in the distance for a while, but they seemed closer, with shading and shadows now visible.

I tightened my collar around my neck, then sat on my hands to warm them for a minute. My goodness, we’d come so far. All those months ago, we’d stepped out of the farm driveway, and now here we were, riding across the spine of the United States. Like the drops of rain and the mountain streams, I could only hope the Divide would keep us in its westward flow.

As if to remind me of the unpredictability of where we were, the spit of the season’s first snow—tight and tiny snowflakes—swirled on the wind, dancing crazily around us. They didn’t seem to be falling from the sky; instead, it was like they’d just appeared, riding on the drafts of air, moving all around us and never making it to the dry ground. I studied the intricate details of each one as they landed on Amanda’s dark coat, before her body heat made them vanish.

I shivered a minute and did up the last button on the neck of my sweater. I clucked to Rainy and Amanda, saying, “Okay, gal, let’s go,” to Gypsy, and we proudly took our first step across the Great Divide.

LINES (CATTLE GUARD)

Things were going our way. We had the name of someone who’d offered us a place to stay for the night, and just as daylight faded, I saw a group of houses up ahead, on the other side of the new highway being built. There was an open space in the fence line that marked a cattle guard crossing.

Cattle guards are usually made of steel beams that cross a narrow pit in the ground, although some cattle guards are created by simply painting three-dimensional lines on the pavement to create the same effect. Because cattle, horses, and other livestock have less detailed vision than we do and have difficulty with depth perception, a cattle guard can create a visual barrier that prevents the animals from stepping across a fence line. This means you don’t have to have a gate that needs to be opened and shut behind you.

The fence meant to keep livestock off the interstate was not built to accommodate a traveler on horseback—there was no gate that I could see. With a sigh I urged Rainy and Amanda forward toward the cattle guard, as if getting closer and staring at the problem would help me figure out a plan to get across it.

My relief was great as I looked down at the cattle guard and saw that this one was made up of lines painted on the pavement. Hallelujah! My horse and mule could walk right over it.

Rainy stopped and planted his hooves right at the “edge.” I gave another little squeeze; he only extended his neck, lowering his nose to the pavement to inspect the “cattle guard” more closely. I gave him a moment, assuming my smart horse would figure out that it was not real and step forward across it. My assumption was wrong. I felt him shift his body slightly back, away from the painted lines

I dismounted and stood near Rainy and Amanda, patting each of them in turn. Reins in my hand, I stepped onto the false cattle guard in a casual manner. My horse did not step along with me. I tugged a little, murmuring reassuringly, and again asked him to walk forward. He would not move.

I dropped the reins and walked back and forth across the lines on the road to show Rainy and Amanda that they wouldn’t get their feet stuck, but they weren’t buying it. I pulled Rainy’s reins until they were stretched to the other side of the cattle guard and tugged again. Nothing. Neither horse nor mule would budge.

A man came out from one of the nearby houses and offered to help get my horse across, but I knew that a strange person pulling at him would just annoy Rainy. Soon the man’s wife came out, too, and together, they suggested putting Amanda in front to see if she’d take the lead, but I knew better. There was no way she’d move from Rainy’s side, not when he’d communicated his distrust of the situation in no uncertain terms.

I ignored my growling stomach and the growing dusk. A few lights glowed in the homes across the way. A truck stopped and the driver offered his thoughts on getting my animals across. Then, all on his own, Rainy reached his left front hoof out and laid it on the first line of the cattle guard grid. He looked down as if he was making sure, then the other hoof came forward. Clip, clop—slowly, lifting each hoof with care, Rainy finally walked across the painted lines.

Hooray! I thought. Problem solved!

Except it wasn’t.

For the very first time since she’d joined us, Amanda decided she wasn’t going to follow Rainy. She’s decided that if it wasn’t safe to walk across before, then it wasn’t safe to walk across now. And this created an even bigger problem: Now that Rainy had crossed the painted surface and she hadn’t, the rope I had casually wrapped around the saddle horn was stretched so taut a circus performer could have danced across it. The pressure of the mule’s backward pull had caused Rainy to pull up short, and there we stood, more stuck than ever, with Rainy on one side not moving, and Amanda on the other…not moving.

By now, several cars and trucks had stopped on the side of the highway. Everyone seemed to have an idea of how to get us out of our predicament. One cowboy suggested blindfolding Amanda, so a helpful fellow ran to one of the nearby houses and returned with an old rag. I covered the mule’s eyes, tucking the ends of the cloth in her halter straps to be sure she couldn’t see. She still refused to give an inch.

Another man had a rake in his truck, which he offered to use to prod Amanda from behind. This only earned him a few kicks from her back feet that he just barely managed to dodge, along with laughter from the small crowd that had gathered.

Another guy claimed he could get any horse on a trailer. He produced a coil of rope from behind the seat of his pickup. “This always works with horses that won’t load,” he assured me. He asked two people from those gathered to get on either end of the rope, and then slowly had them close in, putting forward pressure on Amanda’s rump. The mule didn’t seem to be anywhere near changing her mind.

It was fully dark. Some people left, new ones arrived, and some offered a few unexplored ideas. Several trucks were parked along the side of the road, lighting up the scene. I was still contemplating our predicament when I noticed Amanda make an odd motion, tipping her head slightly and looking down. Before I could think about what she was cooking up, Amanda shifted her weight back a little and then leaped into the air from a complete standstill, flying over the entire width of the cattle guard and landing neatly and precisely on the other side.

A collective gasp rose from the small crowd, followed by exclamations of disbelief, and then a smattering of applause. We were past the obstacle—those simple yet immensely complicated lines painted on the road. When the last of the truck doors slammed and we were left alone in the darkness, I picked up the packs I’d taken off the animals earlier. Rainy, other than looking sort of surprised when Amanda suddenly landed beside him, appeared no worse for the delay. I loosened his girth and we all started to walk toward the houses nearby.

I cast one last look at the lines on the road. The cattle guard must have been at least ten feet across. I ran my eyes over Amanda’s little body and shook my head. The mule had decided she wasn’t going to step on those lines, and she hadn’t. In her own time, she’d found her own spectacular way across.

UNPLANNED

On a dirt road, we came upon a trading post. The small store looked like someone had tacked a creaky porch onto an old cabin. I jumped down and tied Rainy’s neck rope and Amanda’s lead to the railing out front. Gypsy sniffed about, showing interest in an old gum wrapper and other debris the wind had distributed. I let her go about her dog business while I went inside.

I was in the store only a few short minutes, but when I stepped back out, I was greeted by a horrifying sight: There was my little Gypsy, in the middle of being bred by a big, furry, black dog.

I yelled at them without thinking, and Gypsy turned her face toward me. But she remained coupled with the black dog. I did not want to believe what I was seeing.

After what felt like far too long, Gypsy and the big dog separated, and he casually ambled off, disappearing as quickly as he’d materialized. I was traumatized. I had seen no signs of my dog being in heat. I clung to the hope that Gypsy was so young, it would be an unproductive mating.

I carried Gypsy in the saddle with me for the rest of the day.

The next day, still feeling awful about the incident, I found a convenience store with an outside payphone and called Tom and Barb in Kansas. They each picked up a line so we could all talk at once. As I launched into my story about Gypsy, I could hear Tom’s low chuckle; even Barb sounded like she was trying not to laugh.

“And the worst part of it is, I would never have chosen that dog for her!” I wailed.

This proved too much for Barb, who finally burst out laughing. “That’s how parents always feel!”

“I just hope it didn’t take,” I said dejectedly. I heard another round of laughter from them and demanded, “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, honey,” Barb said. “It’s just one of those things. It’s…well…when you don’t want it to, that’s when it always takes!”

I didn’t want to believe her. It was the height of irresponsible dog ownership to have Gypsy, not even a year old, impregnated with a litter of puppies when we didn’t even have a home or a regular vet, or for that matter, anything normal about our lives at all. I felt just terrible about the possibility.

FORT WINGATE

We spent a day and night with Candido (“Candy” to his friends) Garcia and his friend Barbara Dains. They helped me figure out my riding route for the days to come.

“Gallup is a wild town,” Candy warned. “I wish there was another way to go, but there are no roads that don’t go far out of your way. The weekends are crazy with bars and fights and all the drunks.”

I was surprised a small town had such a bad reputation, and I didn’t take his warnings all that seriously. Rainy, Gypsy, Amanda, and I would just pass through and be gone.

Candy presented me with three things before we set out: First was a full rain-suit cover-up—waterproof gear that would be invaluable. The second item was a pair of soft leather gloves. Every morning my fingers had been stiff and sore from the cold. Last, and perhaps most important, was a fencing tool. About the size of a pair of pliers, one end was a wire cutter, and the other part grabbed the wire, wrapped it, and pulled it tight. With it I could both cut wire and repair it. It would be invaluable the next time we encountered a cattle guard with no nearby gate. Candy and I didn’t need to discuss the importance of rewrapping any wire I cut—anyone who had ever worked around livestock knew that.

Candy and Barb were both guards at Fort Wingate and had arranged for us to stay there before we reached Gallup. Since the 1940s, Fort Wingate had been used to store and demilitarize munitions for the United States Military. Its thousands of acres of land were also a refuge to herds of Mustangs, antelope, and buffalo. The area was connected to both the Zuni and Navajo cultures, and archaeological ruins existed on the land that could be traced back as far as the Anasazi—the ancient people of the Southwest whose disappearance as a society is the subject of study and debate.

Fort Wingate was a stronghold during the Apache wars, in the days of Kit Carson. It had the sad distinction of being the staging point for The Long Walk, when the Navajo were driven off their own lands. The last armed expedition the United States government ever made against Native Americans was from Fort Wingate, when the 5^th Cavalry was sent to the Four Corners area after a group of Navajos in the early 1900s. It was later used as a refuge for Mexicans displaced by the Mexican Civil War and the Pancho Villa uprising in 1914.

Almost a century beyond these events, Rainy, Gypsy, Amanda, and I made our way to the fort. The guards on duty seemed to get a kick out of our arrival—my animals and I were a diversion from their regular work duties. We obligingly posed for pictures, and when the guards flirted with me, I flirted right back.

Still, I was aware that our light-hearted visit was like a slight breeze passing through, compared to all that had happened at Fort Wingate in its past. I was quietly awed by the idea that on this personal journey, our inconsequential footsteps stirred up the same dust where so many lives had been changed, and the history of this land, good and bad, was made.

FEELINGS FOR NEW MEXICO

From Fort Wingate on toward Gallup the landscape around us became even more dramatic. From desert with sandy soil and prickly succulents here and there, we rode into red-rock country, the land of wind-carved mesas and mysterious rock formations.

Occasionally we crossed long dirt drives that led to small homes, miles from the nearest neighbor. I’d come to realize that the people in them were there because they were born to this land. I could imagine how hard it would be to leave the wide vistas, the swirling dust devils and the tiny orange and yellow flowers hidden low to the ground. I saw the beauty and felt the pull, too, but I understood that no one lived there because it was easy.

The wind was a presence that never left. There were times as we walked along when I thought, for a moment, The wind’s gone. Then from somewhere across the vast openness, a breeze would come and lift Rainy’s mane in front of me, rippling it up his neck, and ruffling the thick fur along Gypsy’s shoulders. The wind carried a new coolness, a feeling of something distant, like the coming season or a faraway mountain. Even with the chill, the air was softer, taking the edge off a land that seemed hard and unforgiving, unless you breathed in the air fully and let it touch you.

EAST OF GALLUP

As I rode along Route 66 near the outskirts of Gallup, we passed a group of about a dozen men, young and old, lounging under the only tree in sight. Empty glass bottles lay scattered on the ground. We were almost upon them before one of the young men looked up, and spotting us, yelled hello.

I greeted him back and as soon as my voice was heard, all the heads swiveled around in my direction.

I had to give Rainy a subtle squeeze with my legs, because he was so used to stopping when we encountered people on the road. I didn’t want to be rude. I was not scared. But I knew this was not a good place to linger.

One guy said something I couldn’t understand, and they all hooted with laughter. A few others chimed in, and I got the tone as they all snickered and laughed. One young man jumped up from where he was reclining, and in a ridiculous high voice intended to make his buddies laugh asked, “Where are you going?”

“Meeting some people up the road,” I answered in a clipped manner.

“Stay here and have a drink!” he called. I shook my head. “We don’t bite!” Then a moment later, “Hey, where you from?”

“I’m from far away,” I answered, keeping Rainy moving forward, past their laughter, past their empty bottles.

Less than a half-mile down the road, I saw an odd shape, heavy and dark, lying motionless on the side of the road. Rainy raised his head and snorted as we got closer, the smell upsetting his sensitive nose. To my dismay, it was a dead horse, stiff and bloated.

Where I was from was far away indeed.

SIDEWALKS OF GALLUP

Old 66 became the main street of Gallup, and arriving in the afternoon put us right in the middle of a mix of people and traffic in the little city. It was busier than I expected, and Rainy, Amanda, Gypsy, and I had to work our way around parked cars and wait for breaks in traffic to cross side streets. We made slow progress.

We came to a point where a concrete wall on the north side of the road shielded the commerce area from the railroad tracks, and the road narrowed and made riding on that side of the busy street difficult. We crossed over and stepped up onto the sidewalk, so we were passing just a few feet in front of the neon signs and storefronts squeezed in tight together in the downtown blocks. People stepped around to let us pass. No one seemed to mind the horse and mule downtown, and I tried to be extra careful of pedestrians.

We rode by one place where the only windows were small and set up high, about seven or eight feet off the ground. Beer signs cast colorful reflections in the glass. I always thought windows like this were meant to keep a bar dimly lit, and probably keep the patrons inside from being on view to sidewalk passersby. On Rainy, I was high enough to look in, and I did as we rode past.

A second or two later, I heard a door pushed open hard and wide enough to hit the wall and the sound of voices behind us. I turned in the saddle and looked back.

A stoutly built American Indian followed by a few other bar patrons had spilled onto the sidewalk. He had a long-neck bottle in one hand and oddly, a top hat on his head.

“OH, WHOA!” he blurted loudly. “Lady, you had me going for a minute there!”

His friends, also holding beer bottles, laughed and jostled him with their shoulders. They walked over to where my animals and I had stopped.

“Lady,” he said again, looking up at me, shaking his head in disbelief. “I’m just sitting there, having my beer, right?”

I nodded to indicate I was listening. His lilting soft accent, where he rolled the Ls, made me smile and completed the comical picture of his round squat body with the incongruous hat on top of his head and the incredulous expression on his face.

“I’m having my beer,” he continued, “and I look up at the window and there is the tallest lady on earth walking by! I thought I was dreaming or something, but then I look to the next window, and there she goes, walking by again! I said to everyone, ‘Run outside! I want to see the ten-foot-tall lady that just walked by!’” Then, as if he was just figuring it out, he added, “And it’s you!”

The small crowd laughed; I did, too.

“I’m only five-feet-something,” I assured the man, “except when I’m sitting on this guy.” I patted Rainy affectionately.

“Yeah! Yeah!” he agreed, raising his beer bottle in salute. “Man you got me going!” He and a few of the others came closer and reached out to touch Rainy and Amanda. Top Hat noticed Gypsy in the saddle, calmly observing the scene. “Look at your dog, riding the horse, too!” he marveled.

“Yep, she’s something, isn’t she?” I replied proudly.

“What’s up? Like, what’s this all about?” one of the other guys from the bar asked, tipping his bottle toward my animals and packs. “Where’re you from?”

“I’m from New York.”

Top Hat’s mouth opened in surprise. “New York!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t know they had horses in New York!”

A few more minutes passed as questions were asked and answered; it was a genial little group. Then my bar buddies realized they’d emptied their beers, and so wished us luck and headed back inside.

As I started Rainy forward again, Amanda stepping beside us, we heard the whoop of a siren, and the heads of the people around us turned toward the street. A police car barreled toward us, lights flashing. Vehicles on the street pulled over to the side, and the squad car came at us at an angle, stopping with one front tire up on the sidewalk, uncomfortably close to me and my animals.

There was no choice but to stay right where I was. The front doors of the police car opened simultaneously, and a uniformed officer stepped out from each side, then strode toward me.

People all around me froze in their steps, waiting to see what was going to happen, wondering what sort of crime had been committed. I was wondering the same thing.

One of the policemen stepped right up to Rainy’s side and looked up at me. “You’ll have to get off the sidewalk,” he commanded in a deep, stern voice. “Now.”

I smile nicely at him. “What?” Buying time. “Why?”

“You can’t ride a horse on the sidewalk. It’s unsafe,” he answered. “It’s a violation.”

More people gathered, beckoned by the flashing lights.

I pointed across the main street to the lack of shoulder along the cement wall. “Look,” I said. “It’s more unsafe for us to be in the street.” Rainy and Amanda stood perfectly still, as if watching the scene unfold around them, unfazed.

“You can’t be on the sidewalk with a horse. This is a commerce area!”

“Okay. Just let me go up to there,” I tried, pointing up ahead, not knowing but hoping there was a spot where the wall and the railroad tracks veered away and made the roadway a little wider.

Before I got a chance to argue further, my top-hat friend from the bar reappeared, stepping in quite close to the cop. “Aw, leave her alone,” he said. “She ain’t hurting nobody.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the curious crowd. I heard someone say, “Don’t you have anything more important to do?” and someone else call out, “Leave ‘em alone, they got a right to walk through town!”

It was an easy guess that the police weren’t very popular with this group. I didn’t know whether to laugh at the commentary or worry that the cops were really getting mad. The verbal back-and-forth got a little louder, and the two cops seemed unsure about their next step.

“It’s okay,” I announced. “I’ll go back on the street.” I looked directly at the policeman nearest to Rainy and me. I turned Rainy to the right, he stepped down over the curb, and we began to weave around parked cars. I waved goodbye to my crowd of defenders, shouting, “Thanks, you guys!” with a smile.

After watching me ride in the street for a minute, the policemen got back in their car and drove away. As soon as they were out of sight, I cued Rainy to the left, and we got back on the sidewalk to make our way through the rest of downtown, safe from the traffic. We were stopped a few more times—now by friendly passersby, offering their coats and hats. By the time we reached the western end of Gallup with the wind swirling grittily around us, I had three or four of each tied to my packs.

We’d been surprised a few times by unexpected bursts of hard rain, so when the sky got gray, I dismounted and unrolled my rain poncho, laying it across Amanda and the gear she carried. Not two minutes later, I was back on Rainy, and a blast of wind peeled the poncho back, wrapping it around the mule’s hindquarters and back legs.

She exploded, bucking and kicking like crazy. Someone yelled, “YEE HAW!” from a passing pickup as Rainy twisted around to stay with her, and I tried to keep the lead from tangling around his legs. Amanda hopped and twisted in the air, tossing her head while her back end moved in a different direction. I held onto the lead rope and the reins and did all I could to stay in the saddle.

Finally, the rodeo was over. Amanda stood still again, breathing hard, with Rainy beside her, braced for more shenanigans. She was docile once more, waiting calmly for me to untangle the poncho that dragged behind her. I removed the offending article, rolled it up, and tied it behind my saddle. I’d take my chances on our stuff getting wet.

NAVAJO WOMAN

We had crossed paths with a lot of different people as we rode through Gallup. One old Navajo woman caught my eye as we made our way because of her blouse—it was a beautiful rich velvet in a deep shade of midnight blue, and I had wondered, in passing, how she could be warm enough without a jacket on such a blustery day.

I hadn’t thought of her again, but as I fixed Amanda’s packs after her bronco routine, I noticed the same woman standing nearby, smiling at me. I said hello, and her smile got wider as she started to chatter, but she was speaking Navajo, and I couldn’t understand her. I just smiled again.

Seeing more room on the opposite side of the main road, I looked over my shoulder to see if it was safe to cross over. The old Navajo woman was there. She crossed the street, too.

We were past the main part of town, but whenever I looked back, there she was, behind us, smiling and waving. I smiled and waved, too. Her pace was much slower than ours, and a couple times she fell quite a ways back, and I lost sight of her.

Outside of Gallup I stopped to give the animals a brief break, jumping down from the saddle and loosening Rainy and Amanda’s girths. I rubbed Gypsy’s belly when she rolled over, feet in the air, then reached into my saddle bag for the McDonald’s hamburgers we’d been given and unwrapped one for Gypsy. I jumped when I turned and found the old woman standing right behind me.

“Oh, hi,” I said, startled.

She smiled. “Hello,” she said in English.

She was carrying two tote bags. I could see a few colorful skeins of yarn poking out the top of one. She was round—chubby in a solid sort of way—and neat in her pretty velvet top and long full skirt. She wore one glorious piece of turquoise-and-silver jewelry around her neck. The brown skin of her face was crinkled with age and years of sun. If she was cold, she showed no sign of it.

“How are you?” I tried. No answer, just the same big smile. I turned back to tighten the girth again, and she began to mutter something. I shook my head to show her I didn’t understand.

I’d put my foot in the stirrup to pull myself up on Rainy’s back when I heard, “Go with you.” This, I understood. I put my foot back on the ground and turned to the woman.

“Oh, no,” I said. “We’re going far, very far.” I made a pushing motion with my arm, palm facing west, trying to indicate a great distance.

“Go with you,” she repeated.

The old woman’s arms hung straight down at her sides. She was very still, making no movement at all, like she was waiting for me to mount up so we could all start walking again.

I shook my head. “Too far. Too far,” I repeated. I had a brief vision of myself, knocking on someone’s door down the road: “Hi, can we camp here for the night? It’s just me, my horse, my mule, my dog, and an old woman…”

“I’m sorry.” I said it a few times, trying to say no but be friendly at the same time.

Finally I got on Rainy, saying goodbye. It felt mean to walk away. But I didn’t know what else to do.

The pace of a horse is somewhat faster than that of a human walking, especially a heavyset, older woman in a skirt. I thought she had only caught up with us at all because of the many times we stopped in Gallup. But I looked back and still, she was following. At first I could hear her chatter and see her smile. But as we gradually outpaced her, she got smaller in the distance behind us. I waved each time, hoping she understood my well-meaning gestures.

The last time I turned in the saddle and waved, I yelled, “Take care!” She was a short plump figure, far back in the fading light, far enough now so I couldn’t be sure if she was moving or standing still. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

KINDRED SPIRIT

After a windy night in the corrals at the “horse hotel” west of Gallup, we rode on in the morning sunlight. We hadn’t gotten far when a police car came to a stop in front of us. What now? I thought. A New Mexico state trooper stepped out and walked over to where I’d brought Rainy to a halt. His eyes took us all in, pausing on Amanda, who had her long ears turned toward him as he approached.

“So it’s true, then? You’re riding across the country?” he asked.

“Yep, it’s true,” I answered. The officer reached his hand toward Amanda; she let him pet her nose.

“I’ve also heard that you’re out prospecting for gold.”

I laughed. With her small size, long ears, and the packs she carried, Amanda did bear a resemblance to every cartoonist’s version of an old prospector’s donkey. The trooper broke into a grin, and I shared with him some of the other rumors that had preceded or followed us. My favorite was from Ohio, where we had passed a schoolyard full of children at recess. By the time we reached the farm that was our destination that night, the family there had heard in town that I was a teen runaway with a gun and a wild fox that rode with me.

“Well, I’m glad I found you,” said the trooper. “I was asked to give you something.” He pulled a crumpled and worn envelope from his back pocket and handed it to me. Written in a shaky scrawl were the words: “For the lady riding across the country.” I slid my finger under the flap of the envelope.

Inside was a crumpled ten dollar bill and a torn scrap of paper. In the same shaky writing, on the paper were the words, God bless you.

I looked up at the policeman, who had been watching me. “Who is this from?” I asked. “Is there a name so I can say thank you?”

He paused, taking his time before speaking.

“There was this guy, this really old man, who came into the police barracks,” he began. “He was looking for you—said he’d heard there was a lady with a horse and a donkey, riding across the country. He figured we’d know where you were. I didn’t, but I knew I’d find you sooner or later. There are only so many roads you could be on.

“The thing is, the old man walked to the barracks. He has no car or truck. One of the guys I work with sort of knows him, says he’s a hermit or something and lives way out in the hills—a squatter on the land. This is the part you’ll like: he came to these parts years ago on foot. I guess he walked all over with a couple of donkeys. All packed up, like yours.” The trooper nodded toward Amanda. “He traveled around the reservation and all over the West, and ended up staying in these parts. That was a long time ago. He’s really old now.”

I imagined a young man, wandering and free, faithful little burros on the road with him. And I envisioned him now, bent and slowed by age, walking through stone and brush, on dusty roads and trails. All so he could give me ten dollars. And wish us blessings. My eyes filled as I again looked down at the money and the note.

“Good luck to you,” said the policeman. “Be careful.”

I thanked him, gathered up the reins, and called to Gypsy, waiting patiently at Rainy’s feet. When I looked back, the officer was standing with his hand on his car door handle, watching us ride off. He touched his hat in a little salute.

Much of the time I felt like my animals and I were so alone on this journey. But we were not. We really were not.

HERE AND NOW

It took some time in the beginning of our trip to adjust to the unstructured, fluid lifestyle on the road. I spent my energy worrying about what was up ahead, what was going on at home, what the future held. But now, each day felt like the only thing that mattered; each minute and each hour was a time in and of itself. I had to be in the moment to stay safe, and to see and feel all that was around us. There was no room for fretting about the future or the past. I didn’t think about my final goal or what would happen after we reached it. Learning to live in the present was not a conscious effort; it was a natural result of our journey.

For some unexplainable reason, I became aware of the feeling of a westward pull on the far side of Gallup. Everything was flowing west: the traffic on the highway, the waters of the Rio Puerco River, and the trains on the tracks that ran together along with the roads.

On an unmarked road we passed a small sign for the Arizona line. The wind had calmed. The sky was clear and turquoise. I almost felt warm. Rainy’s ears were forward as he stepped along smartly. Red rocks cast shadows on the sagebrush and brown earth.

I pulled the hat off my head and felt the breeze run through my hair. We were in Arizona! I wished I could call someone immediately and share the news. But the space was vast in front of us, hard-edged mountains rose in the distance, and I knew we wouldn’t get to a phone for quite some time. I smiled to myself. That was okay. I had my three best friends right there with me. We’d share in the accomplishment together, like we shared everything, every day.

NEAR LUPTON, ARIZONA

Just past the Arizona line, we veered back onto 66. Huge rock formations that seemed to be in the distance grew near, and the road wrapped along the foot of one great rock wall, leaving us in shadows as I rode under it.

Timing was on our side when just before dark, we came upon a small group of mobile homes. I walked Rainy and Amanda over to one of the trailers, its shell a flat white color, identical to the others around it. There were no yard decorations, no planters beside doors. Nothing twirled or chimed from the eaves. It was as if the hard wind and hard sun kept everything outside to a minimum.

I heard the sound of a light aluminum door banging open and voices. A young Navajo girl came from behind the nearest trailer. She had her eyes lowered as she walked; when she looked up and saw us, her mouth made a little “O” in surprise.

“I’m sorry!” I apologized. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

She quietly waited for me to say something else. She was strikingly pretty.

“Do you live here?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Do you think I could ask your parents if I could camp near here tonight?”

She shrugged, moving closer and reaching to stroke Rainy’s neck and shoulder. “He’s soft,” she said quietly. Then she looked at me. “You better ask them.” She motioned with her chin toward the trailer.

I tied Rainy and Amanda while the young girl continued petting them. I walked to the nearest trailer door with Gypsy at my heels. I stepped up on the one thin metal step and the aluminum door opened before I could knock. A Navajo woman stood before me.

“Hi,” I said. She didn’t respond. She just waited, like the girl had done.

“My name is Missy. This is my dog and that’s my horse and mule over there.” I paused. Still no response.

“I’m riding from New York to California.” Usually this got a reaction, but not this time. “Could I just tie my horse and mule here and get some water? I’d be camping just for tonight. We don’t need anything else…”

“Okay,” she said, unmoving in the doorway.

“It’s okay?” I confirmed, unsure with so few words exchanged.

She nodded, then closed the door.

I didn’t know what to make of it—the woman didn’t seem mad or bothered, really, but it was hard to be sure. I unpacked Rainy and Amanda. As I started to brush them, I was joined by the girl, who shyly told me her name was Frances. A few other children materialized, including one little boy named Leander who quickly became my favorite. He told me proudly that he was nine as he reached out and gently touched Rainy’s neck.

The day wound down with the children and I quietly sharing the peaceful ritual of caring for Rainy and Amanda. The wind settled. The air had a softer feel and carried the faint scent of distant desert.

The next morning started the same way. Frances and Leander were up and ready to help me, long before school bus time. Leander wore a maroon jacket with “Rio Puerco Braves” printed on the upper left side.

“That’s my school,” he announced with pride, pointing to the logo. Then he asked, “Will you and Rainy be here when I come home?”

I’d almost finished saddling Rainy and Amanda; I shook my head apologetically as I answered, “Sorry, Leander. Rainy and I will be farther down the road.” The boy nodded solemnly. All I could think to say to him before swinging onto Rainy’s back was, “I hope you get a horse someday.”

It earned a smile from him.

The morning sun rose behind us as we set out. We were a few miles down the road when the loud yellow school bus passed us, heading toward the highway. I raised my hand and, rising up in the stirrups, waved until the bus was gone from sight, just in case one of the round, open little faces pressed against the windows was Frances or Leander.

A DIFFERENT VIEW

I followed dusty tracks, ranch roads, and parts of the almost abandoned Route 66. All these eventually led back to or near the new interstate. One of these forays brought us to where we could hear the hum of trucks on the highway. The trail became narrower and ended in a cluster of distinctive rocks that formed the backside of a rest stop. As we made our way around to the front, I could see a parking area and restrooms. After the solitude that had mostly filled my day, it was disconcerting to see people walking around and taking pictures of the rocks.

I unsaddled Rainy and Amanda for a break, and a few tourists came over to say hello. One couple, visiting from Japan, snapped what seemed like a hundred pictures.

Pleased at the unexpected bonus of finding this place, I hurried as I made my way toward the restrooms where there would be running water to fill my canteen and bucket. Real soap to wash my hands and face! And maybe even vending machines with cold soda and sweets!

Feeling fresher and cleaner than I had in a long while, I returned to my animals. It was pleasant out, with the sun at its high point in the sky. I was back to wearing just a t-shirt, the wool and flannel of previous days stashed in my saddle packs. I sat with my back against the warm rocks and watched Rainy and Amanda search for grass along the base of the red stone. It was hard to believe that we’d already seen flakes of snow and ridden through harsh, cold winds.

The colors of Rainy and Amanda and Gypsy stood out against the red rock and blue sky. I found my camera and climbed onto a nearby stone, framing Rainy in the sights. I stopped short and lowered the camera from my eye. I wasn’t accustomed to seeing Rainy from this unusual vantage point. I stared at him. The smooth rounded curves of his hips were slightly, just slightly, more angular. He had lost weight.

I let the camera hang around my neck, jumped down, and went to my horse. I ran my hand along his ribcage. I felt the flesh along his neck. The difference was subtle. He had good muscle tone but…. Now that I was looking at him with a searching eye, I thought his coat was just a shade less shiny and vibrant-looking than usual. It was autumn, and back home he’d be growing his winter coat. I hoped that was all it was.

Being on the road was not an easy life, but it had seemed like Rainy was thriving. Throughout the trip, he’d looked like a healthy robust example of a Quarter Horse in his prime. I’d received quite a few compliments on his appearance. This was the first time I could see that he’d lost a little of that healthy bloom.

When I got back in the saddle, we rode into the sun, everyone in their place. Rainy’s pace was steady and strong. But I chewed my lip, wondering what the change in Rainy’s appearance might mean.

DOUGLAS SKY

We traveled on through open land. Tall mesas rose here and there while hills seemed forever in the distance. As we neared a cluster of tall trees, I heard, “Hello!” and a man jumped down from the branches.

Gypsy, who’d been walking alongside Rainy, seemed the least surprised of all of us, wagging her tail and immediately trotting over to the fellow. She stopped at his feet and looked at him, waiting for him to pet her.

“Douglas Sky,” he introduced himself. “I heard about your journey and was hoping to meet you.”

I was amused by the idea of Douglas, waiting up in a tree, hoping we’d come along. Granted, there were not many other roads we were likely to be on, but his friendly faith that we would meet this way was endearing.

“Would you join my wife and me for a meal at our home?” Douglas asked. He assured me that my animals were expected to eat at his place, too.

I jumped off Rainy and walked alongside Douglas on a rough trail leading away from the road. We stopped at a small lean-to built into the slope of the sandy ground. Inside were two open stalls for Rainy and Amanda. Douglas poured a scoop of grain into the mangers for each of them; then we walked up to the house.

Douglas Sky’s wife registered no surprise when she saw me on the doorstep with her husband. I figured I was not the only “stray” this friendly man had brought home. Mrs. Sky had a kind smile and was quiet and reserved, letting her husband do most of the talking.

They explained they were working on finishing their home themselves. It was small and very rustic, made out of juniper logs. In its two rooms, sunlight leaked in through cracks between the logs. It wasn’t chilly, though; it was quite warm and homey inside.

There was no phone, no television. When Douglas asked if I’d like to wash up before eating, his wife heated a bowl of water over the flame of a gas stove. We sat down together at a small table, and when they clasped their hands and bowed their heads, I did the same. Mrs. Sky said a prayer in Navajo, adding a prayer for me and my animals, and our journey. We ate Navajo fry bread and vegetables grown in the garden I’d seen right outside the house.

As we talked during the humble and lovely meal, I began to understand Douglas’ ability to empathize with me being a stranger on the reservation and in this land. He was from somewhere far away, like me. Douglas was a Lakota Sioux who had fallen in love with and married a Navajo woman.

Sharing time with the Skys showed me that there were all different ways of finding peace and a simple life. Everyone’s quest for peace and simplicity was uniquely their own—whether the kind of road you traveled or the kind of home you made.

FRIEND AMANDA

Amanda had been a trooper, carrying our load and adapting admirably to life on the road. Always a willing worker, she regularly demonstrated her allegiance to Rainy. While it felt like Rainy and Gypsy and I trusted each other implicitly, it still was different with the little mule. I would have been happy to have even a bit of that connection with Amanda.

We walked steadily, lost in the southwest wind and the beauty of the country. When we reached our place for the night, near some old cattle pens, I fixed a spot for Rainy and Amanda, checked hooves, and groomed them both. With them settled, I called to Gypsy. She ran over, darting back and forth as I walked around the area, studying the rocks and tracks in the sand.

Then I heard Amanda’s unique call.

The mule used a variety of noises to express herself, and I recognized this sound as one of anxiety. I immediately turned and quickened my step to see what was wrong.

Nothing appeared to be amiss in the pens. Rainy had his nose to the ground, foraging. The only unusual thing was the way Amanda watched Gypsy and I approach, her large radar ears pointed toward us.

I went to her and scratched her neck. She gave a contented grunt or two as I pressed my hip against her and laid my arm across her withers while I scratched her shoulder.

Gypsy, sensing that our walk around camp was delayed, stretched out with a sigh and rested her head on her paws. I didn’t want to do anything to disturb the moment. Even with her equine companion nearby, Amanda had called out to me.

We stood together in the last of the day’s light. The air carried the fragrance of sage and the scent of the horses. I kept scratching Amanda, occasionally rubbing her ears or threading my fingers through her bristly mane. She leaned into me, ever so slightly. Actually, we both leaned a little on each other.

SUNSETS, SEASONS

If you tried to paint the incredible sunsets we rode into in Arizona, there’s no way you could make it look real. Only Mother Nature could get those colors to come together in that way. The sky before us melted into streaks of amber with violet edges, and all the colors blended into a horizon that spread flat and forever in front of us.

One sunset leading us westward was so absorbing that it was only when the light finally faded and left us riding in evening’s dusk that I wondered why we were still on the road so late in the day.

No two days were exactly alike for my animals and me, but generally we managed to be near each day’s end destination before darkness set upon us. That day’s ride had felt easy enough, and I thought we were making good time.

I rarely ever knew the time, but timing mattered. I knew how many miles we could do in a day, and how many hours we should travel. My animals and my own body let me know if I pushed it. So the dark coming on before we’d reached a place to stop for the night didn’t seem right.

Then I realized we weren’t making bad time. My sense of mileage and pace was not off. It was something else.

The days were getting shorter.

I’d lost sight of all the markers that normally signaled that autumn was here. I’d heard no talk of “back to school” plans; I was a world away from “new fall fashion.” There were no tree-covered hills turning orange, red, and gold, and my hands had not yet felt the new growth of a winter coat starting on Rainy.

I thought back to times in Illinois or Missouri when I’d be brushing Rainy, settling in for the night, and we could still see the sun, and my little radio would tell me it was past eight o’clock. I remembered being at the Kees’, riding around with Reid and Gypsy when the day’s chores were done, and the sun would still be sinking over the Great Plains.

It happened no matter where you were or what kind of journey you were caught up in. The planet turned slowly, making its way around the sun, and the seasons kept changing. My animals and I had gotten farther away—farther from the bright green fields of the early spring when we’d set out from home, thousands of miles behind us.