PART FIVE

The Road Is Ours

CHAMBERS, ARIZONA

A bright moon lit our way as we reached Chambers, Arizona, in darkness. We’d made it to the only motel within miles; one lone vehicle sat in the parking lot. Inside the motel, doors and hallways looked unfinished, and tools, boards, and signs of renovations were everywhere. The clerk at the desk looked up and smiled, though, setting me at ease.

“We’ve been expecting you!” he said in greeting.

I had no reservations, nor had I made any type of contact with the motel. I wondered who had made the arrangements for us…Candy and Barb? Douglas Sky? A friendly stranger? The clerk started writing on a paper in front of him.

“I guess I won’t ask what kind of vehicle you have!” he joked. “There’s a set of pens for livestock out back.” He held out a key. “How many nights will you be staying?” I opened my mouth to ask how much it would be, but before I could, he added quickly, “No charge, of course.”

“Two nights,” I heard myself say without thinking. Two nights in a real bed sounded grand and decadent.

I walked Rainy and Amanda around to the back of the motel’s main building. There was a sturdy corral and plenty of room for them. A fresh bale of hay sat near the gate. Someone was taking care of us. Bless the rural grapevine…again!

In the darkness, Rainy stood and raised his head very slightly; his nostrils fluttered just a little. Gypsy mirrored him, her nose in the air. I called it “checking the wind,” and I envied the way their noses and ears told them so much more than mine told me. I’d taken to stopping, staying still for a moment, and trying it, too. Sometimes I thought I could feel the coming weather in the air, or hear the sound of a far-off owl or a train in the distance. I stood in the moonlight in the company of my animals, still and quiet, trying to learn about the things around us. I sensed water and the smell of earth. I got a feel for the night and the big sky above me. When I looked up, I saw a blanket of stars in numbers like I’d never seen before.

THE ONLY DIRECTION

The clerk at the front desk and I hunched over a map of Arizona, trying to plan for water stops when my animals and I continued our journey. He shook his head.

“I can’t think of anything in that direction,” he said, frowning.

Another motel worker and a truck driver having coffee agreed—they thought there was a rest stop to the west, but no one was sure how far it was or if I could access it without being on the highway.

When it was time to leave, no option other than the highway rest stop had presented itself. I’d been warned more than once about undesirables seeking prey at rest areas at night. I worried about being vulnerable in a tent there, but I also knew I might have to choose our need for water over a place where no one would see us.

I had no way to guess what would come next as we headed out. Even if I veered to the south or the north, I found nothing on the map to aim for. I didn’t want to go north or south anyway. I rode forth with faith that something would work out, heading west, the only direction for us, and before long we were riding once again in a land forgotten by anyone who was in a hurry.

The road had a gentle rise and fall, wending around low mesas and dry arroyos. We shared the day with the occasional jackrabbit, bursting from the brush. It felt like I was the only human for miles, so I was surprised to hear a car approaching from the east.

It turned out to be a reporter and a cameraman from a television station in Phoenix who were in the area pursuing another story. Dan and Rick had heard of my journey in Chambers and decided to find us and do an interview. I enjoyed visiting with them—as did Gypsy, who got her belly rubbed. The time was brief, though, as they had their other story to finish, and while I had always said there was no hurry, I felt the pull to move on, too. Before they left, we exchanged contact information, and Dan reminded me on which channel the piece would appear, even though we all knew I was unlikely to be near a television when it aired.

When the plume of dust from the news crew’s car settled, it was just the brush, the open range, me, my animals, and the slow road once again.

REST STOP: YOU NEVER KNOW

As the breeze began to cool, signaling the coming of evening, our lonely track wound back toward the frontage road. As luck would have it, I could see the interstate and a place where a dirt parking area puffed out on each side of the highway. A few big rigs were pulled over, idling. I rode forward eagerly—this had to be the rest stop I’d discussed with the guys back at the motel. We followed a trail through the fence that led into the parking area. I looked around expectantly for a pump or fountain, then looked again more urgently. No matter how hard I searched, there was no sign of water.

I rested a hand on Rainy’s neck. I couldn’t let my travel companions down. I peered across to the twin of the rest area on the eastbound side of the highway. Maybe there was water there. It was a long shot, but it was the only idea I had at the moment. I tied Rainy and Amanda extra securely to a sign post, then Gypsy and I ran across the interstate and did the same fruitless hunt for water on that side.

As I was about to walk back, I was stopped short at the sight of a New York State license plate on the back of a big, dark-colored Lincoln. A man was in the reclined driver’s seat, trying to doze.

I glanced around. There were a few other cars and it wasn’t dark yet; there didn’t seem to be much danger in talking to the driver for a minute. I walked closer to the front of the car, and the man rolled down his window and scowled at me.

“What?” he said sharply, already suspicious. I figured he thought I was looking for money or a ride.

“Hi,” I started. “I just noticed your license plate. Where in New York are you from?”

“The City,” he answered. In my home state, people referred to New York City as “THE City,” like it was the only one.

“Ah.” I nodded, knowing now we wouldn’t be having one of those “we’re almost neighbors” conversations. Upstate and “The City” were pretty different. I still wanted to tell him I was from New York, though.

“I just asked ‘cause I’m from New York, too. Upstate,” I added.

“Oh, yeah?” He seemed a little interested.

I couldn’t resist telling him. “I rode here on my horse.” I turned and pointed toward the other side of the highway where Rainy and Amanda were visible, tied in the dusky light.

“No way. Are you serious?”

“Yes,” I answered, patting Gypsy’s head.

“Well, I’ll be.” He shook his head. “Only a crazy New Yorker would do something like that, huh?” he asked, his pride in eccentric city-dwellers extending to the whole state now.

“Yeah,” I said, to be agreeable. “Well, I better get going. I’m looking for water for my animals.” I glanced around once more, discouraged, at the desolate rest area.

I turned to walk away.

“Hey, wait,” my New York friend called. “How much water do you need?”

I looked back at him. “Enough to fill a bucket or two.”

“Take a look at this,” he said. The man opened his door and slid his large frame out of the car. He was a really big guy with salt-and-pepper hair (mostly salt) and a big bushy mustache. He walked around to the back of his vehicle, stretched stiffly, fumbled for a key, and opened the trunk.

“Look’it,” he said, pointing with the key into the trunk. “They don’t know how to make a good sub in L.A. You can’t find a sandwich there like they make in New York. So I buy a bunch of meat, rolls, you know, the works. I keep it all cold in these coolers so I have my own food on my drive. Now the ice is all melted.”

I looked in the trunk. There were two Styrofoam coolers, both about half full of water.

“You’ll let my horse and mule drink from those coolers?” I asked, hope flickering inside.

“You bet. Help yourself.”

“Fantastic!” I exclaimed. “Wait here—I’ll be right back!” I then caught myself before running back to get Rainy and Amanda, turning to him and vigorously shaking his hand, which cracked him up. “I’m Missy, by the way.”

“I’m Ron Karabatsos,” he said through his laughter. “Retired New York police detective.”

I felt like skipping across the highway.

I hurried my horse and mule across the double lanes and median as if the water in the trunk might disappear, like a cartoon mirage in the desert. I led them to the back of Ron’s car, and after a moment, Rainy dipped his head to the white coolers and Amanda followed. They drank deeply.

“I’ll be damned,” Ron said with a laugh. “Wish my buddies in New York could get a load of this!”

As I watched my horse and mule, packs and all, with their muzzles buried deep in the trunk of a Lincoln Continental, I smiled and shook my head. I always knew where we were going on this journey. I just never knew where we’d find ourselves.

While Rainy and Amanda lipped at what remained of the clear, cold water, my curiosity got the best of me. “Can I ask what a New York City detective is doing out here on reservation land?” I asked.

“Ah,” Ron began with a smile. “Funny story. I was a full-time detective and working a side job as a bouncer in a club.”

It was easy to imagine this with his tough-guy New York accent and big burly build.

“Some producers from Hollywood were in the club,” he continued, “and when they saw me, they asked if I’d do a bit part as a bodyguard in a movie. I thought they were pulling my leg, but it was for real. They got me out to L.A., and a new career was born. I’ve been in a couple of movies now, a television show, and a series. I’m a ‘character actor,’ I guess, always playing the role of ‘big tough guy from New York.’ But I hate flying. So when the work picked up, I started driving the whole way. I bring my food when I can. I’ve driven New York to L.A. and back a few times now.”

As Ron and I leaned on the bumper of his car, Rainy and Amanda turned from the coolers to search for bits of grass at the edge of the turn-off. Ron rattled off some of the projects he’d worked on: a well-known soap opera, a made-for-television movie with Elizabeth Montgomery, and a new show about a wanna-be rock band with John Stamos.

“But my favorite part is on a new show set in Boston,” he continued. “There’s a bartender named Sam who used to be a ball player, and this waitress, and all the characters are diehard Boston Red Sox fans. I come in, an obnoxious New York Yankees fan.” He smiled and joked, “Quite a stretch for my acting abilities.”

“Oh, I bet it is!” I laughed with him. “I know Yankees fans.”

“Anyway, the show’s called Cheers.” He then told me the date his episode was going to air, and I repeated it back to him so I’d remember.

“I don’t get near a TV very often these days,” I admitted. “But you never know. I can try.”

It was time to set up my camp across the highway. Ron noted he’d better get that nap I’d interrupted before he hit the road and drove through the night. He insisted I take some of his food.

“No, you need it!” I protested.

“Are you kidding? Look at me!” He placed his hands on his girth. “Besides, in a matter of an hour or two I’ll be able to get more food and water. Who knows when you will?”

I accepted it gratefully, giving him a big hug.

“I’m so happy I met you,” I said.

“Happy I could help,” he replied.

Gypsy, Rainy, Amanda, and I walked back across the interstate. Soon it would be dark. I’d never know when the New Yorker/detective/actor pulled out into the empty night, heading east.

REST STOP WEST: CIRCLE THE WAGONS

Things were a little more crowded back at the westbound rest stop. Several trucks had pulled in. A few big campers maneuvered into place, claiming spots for the night. Rainy and Amanda’s horseshoes made a distinctive sound on the pavement, and people turned and looked.

A fit-looking older couple with white hair and matching vivacious personalities came right over. He called her Jo, she called him Brownie, and as soon as they discover how far we’d ridden, Jo made numerous trips back and forth from their RV, bringing me food. I finally stopped her, laughing, as she started to head to the camper once more.

“I have enough,” I insisted. “This is a feast! Thank you!”

A few others from campers—all older, retired, outgoing—came over to visit, but I had to excuse myself.

“I really have to find a place to set up my tent so we won’t be visible to traffic at night,” I said, apologizing for having to leave the friendly chatter.

“Hold on a minute,” one of the men said. “Wouldn’t it make sense for you to camp right here, right where the vehicles park?” Looking around at the other couples and their campers parked nearby, he continued, “We could surround you. Your tent would be practically invisible from the road, and anyone who pulls in will think the tent goes with us. Who would bother this many people in a group?”

The white and gray heads around me nodded in agreement. They would circle the wagons, so to speak, and Rainy, Gypsy, Amanda, and I would be relatively safe, right in the middle.

“You’re right,” I acknowledged. “You guys think right here, maybe?” I pointed to a spot right beside the line of RVs. The men liked that I asked their opinion. They had plenty of advice and were happy to give it. Jo clapped her hands in delight.

“Now we can have a breakfast cookout in the morning!” she exclaimed happily.

Though I had worried about having to camp at a rest stop, there we were: Rainy and Amanda all settled, feed and forage nearby, with water now readily available from the RVs. The older folks and I roasted marshmallows on a portable grill as we visited and talked about our travels. The moon rose over the tops of the campers, making them glow in the darkness. Oceans of stars twinkled above us.

I woke only once that night, when Gypsy gave a whine and I let her out to chase a jackrabbit into the brush. Otherwise I slept in peace, knowing I was surrounded by my protectors and that we were adventurers in our own ways, all of us.

LITERAL

I picked up a trail and skirted through part of the Navajo Reservation. The land rose from the flats on a worn path along a ridgeline with an open view to the south. The ridge was void of most everything but sagebrush and wind until we came upon an old fence and a Navajo man tightening the wire. If he felt any surprise or curiosity upon seeing us here, it did not register on his smooth brown face.

The man stopped his work and turned to face us, leaning in a casual way against the fence post. I asked Rainy and Amanda to halt and waited for the man to acknowledge us, but he stood there without saying a word.

“Hello,” I offered.

After a pause, he replied: “Hello.” He met my eyes but remained expressionless.

Out of habit I asked, “How are you?”

“Why?” he responded.

Having expected something along the standard, “Fine, how are you?” I was a little flustered. I couldn’t think of an answer—why did I need to know how he was? I fidgeted in the saddle and decided to change the direction of our sort-of conversation to something more practical.

“Um, can you tell me how far it is to the next town?”

He appeared to give the question some consideration. He turned his gaze to Rainy, Gypsy, and Amanda, looking them over carefully.

“Too far,” he answered.

The man went back to his fence repairs. I waited, expecting him to laugh or say, “Just kidding!” but he had apparently answered honestly and to his satisfaction.

I felt funny just riding off without saying anything else—it wasn’t how I was taught to end a conversation—so I called out, “Well, okay. See you later.”

The man looked up at me once more and asked, “When?”

CANTEEN

Narrow dirt roads appeared and disappeared across the area where we traveled. Barely visible dirt tracks, hardly a lane wide, were used as ranch roads. The rough tracks would have been off-roading to a vehicle, but the lack of concrete was easy on Rainy and Amanda’s feet.

As we passed a faded sign for the Painted Desert and Petrified Forest, I reached back for my canteen. My hand felt nothing where it should have been.

I jumped to the ground and dug through my saddle packs, tossing aside rolled up t-shirts and horse brushes.

The canteen was missing.

I left Rainy and Amanda ground tied, and Gypsy and I walked back down the road. My boots kicked up puffs of dust as I scuffed along, my eyes on the tan-colored ground. After a short time I gave up and headed back, climbing into the saddle, dispirited. I turned Rainy around to ride back a little farther. All three animals walked slowly; it must have seemed strange to them to be heading east after all this time.

I had to admit the search was futile. The land here was a good place for things to hide. My canteen could have been anywhere. We swung around and resumed our westward journey.

I was discouraged and lost in my thoughts when I heard the sound of a car coming up behind us. To my surprise, I saw that it was Dan and Rick, the reporters we’d met on the road near Chambers.

“Hey, I can’t believe we found you!” Dan called as they get out of the car. “How are you doing?”

I smiled down at them from Rainy’s back. “Great to see you guys. I’m doing okay.”

The two bickered good-naturedly about whose idea it was to follow this particular road and which one had said they’d find us here. They told me about a few stories they were working on in the area and commiserated when I mentioned my lost canteen. They wished me luck, noting that we weren’t far outside of the town of Holbrook before driving off.

As my animals and I walked on, I started to feel thirsty. I knew it was a trick of my mind because I didn’t have the canteen, but boy, did I want a drink. Rainy’s pace seemed to drag just a bit, as if he, too, felt discouraged.

Time ticked by before I saw the reflection of late sun glinting off metal. It seemed crazy to see two cars within a few hours on the old road. It took me a minute to realize that it was Dan and Rick again. My smile grew wider when they stopped and got out, and I saw they were carrying a bag from McDonald’s and a big frosty Coke. The ice was melting from the drive, but it tasted so good. I stood beside Rainy and unwrapped my burger with gusto. Dan went back to their car and returned with a brand new canteen full of water. Bug spray, too.

“Oh my gosh! Thank you!” I gushed. “How did you get all this?” I clasped the canteen like it was solid gold. Rick and Dan laughed, pleased with my response to their unexpected gifts.

The two explained that Holbrook had an outdoor supply store and a McDonald’s—it was funny to think that I felt such a sense of space and isolation, yet stores and takeout food weren’t quite as far away as they seemed.

Dan and Rick leaned against the bumper of their car while I ate. Gypsy begged for food as we enjoyed each other’s company. My whole outlook brightened.

When it came time to head out again, I got back up in the saddle and picked up the reins, feeling refreshed. Dan and Rick waved and got into their car. We started walking, but then Dan’s door opened again, and he walked back to us, reaching up and rubbing Rainy’s forehead before speaking.

“You said you’re heading toward Flagstaff?” he asked.

I nodded. That was roughly my planned direction.

“I’m going to be up in that part of the state next week. Some friends of mine are having a big barbeque. I thought if you’re in Flagstaff by then, maybe you’d like to come with me. If you want to, I mean. To this party…”

His words trailed off as he suddenly seemed unsure of himself and got flustered. It was kind of endearing. Dan was nice, but I couldn’t imagine how it would work—it was hard to predict exactly where I’d be in a few days. And once in Flagstaff, I could maybe go out for a while if we had a place to stay where Rainy and Amanda were safely housed in a corral or barn. But if we were camping, I didn’t see how I could do it.

“Well, thanks for asking,” I smiled at Dan as he waited for my response. “But how would we get in touch? How would you know where I am, and when?”

The detail didn’t concern Dan in the least. “We found you twice already, didn’t we?”

I laughed and admitted he had a point. He wrote a phone number for his friend’s place near Flagstaff on a piece of paper, and I tucked it into my saddlebag, knowing it was unlikely that I’d see him again.

Dan left me with a wave and a smile. “See you next week,” he said.

HIGHWAY

With the shorter days, it grew dark while we were still on the road. I was trying to guess how much farther it was to Sun Valley, where we were spending the night, when a young man named Ron drove up, looking for us.

“You’re almost there,” he assured me. “Got a place all set for your horses. Just follow me.” He pulled ahead in front of us with his headlights on. The extra light made me feel better.

At the Stuart Ranch, Ron helped me untack Rainy and Amanda, check their feet and legs, and feed them, all in a short time. I’d forgotten how fast chores could go when you weren’t doing them alone.

The animals and I left Sun Valley in the morning, and after passing through part of Holbrook, we took an unpaved road leading west. By late afternoon, we came to its end—right at the interstate. I couldn’t see any other road in my line of sight or on my map for several miles. With no other option and unwilling to turn back, I rode up through an opening in the fence.

We’d been on frontage roads occasionally, but until this spot in Arizona, I’d been able to avoid being on a highway. Luckily, the ubiquitous fence that lined every interstate was quite a long way from the actual roadway, allowing for a wide stretch of grass between where we walked and the pavement. It was not the most peaceful or scenic route, but I told myself it was only for a short time.

After several miles I began to look for an opening in the fence to get us back to an old section of Route 66. Before I found one, I saw Ron’s pickup, moving along slowly in the right lane. He pulled onto the shoulder ahead of us and got out carrying a covered plate—a picnic meal for us to share along the roadside. He had water in buckets in the bed of the truck for Rainy, Gypsy, and Amanda.

We sat together on the ground, enjoying lunch, while Rainy and Amanda grazed the grassy stretch. We talked about what I’d find to the west. Ron knew ranches and horse people near Winslow and beyond, and said he would call ahead for us. He also gave me a list with several additional good contacts.

When the horses suddenly stopped grazing and looked up, we followed their gaze. A state trooper had slowed his police car to a stop behind Ron’s truck. The trooper got out and marched through the grass toward us. He stopped and stared at us but didn’t say a word. It was unnerving.

“Hi?” I mumbled. It came out sounding like a question rather than a greeting.

“You have animals here,” he stated.

The officer waited, as if he was expecting a story from Ron or from me. Somehow, this actually kept me from wanting to provide my usual explanation of our journey.

The trooper fiddled with his keys. “Horses on the interstate…” he finally said. “I think there’s some kind of law about that.”

He shook his head, walked back to his car, and drove away. For a few seconds, Ron and I were speechless as we watched the patrol car drive out of sight. Then we looked at each other and burst out laughing.

As soon as possible, I found our way off the interstate and rode once again on a secondary road. The sun was setting as we continued on, hoping to make it to Joseph City before dark.

WINSLOW

Ranching families in the west may be far apart in geography, but they are close in other ways, bonded by their shared lifestyle. Meeting a ranch family was always beneficial to me because I picked up more contacts that usually helped in some way down the road.

Bud and Julie Johnson were acquaintances of Ron Stuart’s family. The Johnsons raised livestock and sold feed at their place in Winslow. I rode onto their property about sunset. The barns and the house were bathed in warm light, and as I jumped off Rainy, dogs gathered around us in greeting.

As soon as I met Julie Johnson, I could tell she was a kind soul. She planned to ride with me the next day to a ranch on the other side of town. It had been quite a while since I’d had human company on the road, and it gave me something to look forward to.

In the morning, I asked Julie what she thought about Rainy’s weight and condition, which still had me concerned. She thought he looked okay but suggested they send us on with as much feed as we could carry. At the Johnsons’ suggestion, I also planned to leave our packs for the day so Rainy’s load would be light, and Amanda and Gypsy would remain behind, too. Bud would bring my gear and my animals at the end of the day when he met us to pick up Julie and her horse.

I expected Amanda to put up a fuss when we rode away without her, but surprisingly, she only called out a time or two. Gypsy, on the other hand, had to be taken inside the house.

Julie and her bay gelding led us on trails and across open land. Riding Rainy without packs felt light and free. The concern for my animals and the touch of loneliness that had been nagging at me melted away. The horses’ hooves made even footfalls and the saddles creaked in harmony. Glad for the company of another horse, Rainy stepped lightly, his ears flicking all around, showing his interest in our surroundings.

Mid-day, we detoured off the trails and went into Winslow for lunch. Unlike other places we’d ridden through, two horses walking the streets didn’t attract much attention in such a Western town. We tied the horses outside the Burger King, like that was the usual thing to do, and sat inside near a window, where we could watch them as we ate and chatted companionably.

The horses’ shoes rang out on the pavement as we set out again after our break, and a song played in my head as we rode past a street corner: The Eagles’ Take it Easy. I sang my own version to Julie, and we rode out of town laughing and singing out loud: “It’s a girl, my lord, on a buckskin horse, slowin’ down to take a look at me.”

TEEPEE ROCK RANCH/TURQUOISE RANCH

Past Winslow, I began to note changes in our environment. We were riding through tall, yellowed grass. A line of cottonwood trees stood in the distance.

Ahead of us, two cowboys rode into sight. Julie introduced me to Pete McKay and his son (also Pete), owners of the Teepee Rock Ranch. It was their land we were riding on, and it was where my animals and I would spend the night.

As all four horses walked together, the McKays told a little of the history of the ranch, which had also been known as “Turquoise Ranch” for the vein of semi-precious gemstone that could be found here.

The sight of a few trees, listening to Julie and the McKays talk of ranching life, a quick glimpse of a coyote along the trail—all this made my soul happy. My worries about Rainy’s health seemed unfounded with the sprightly way he was walking along. It was the kind of ride and the kind of day I wished could go on and on.

When Bud arrived at the McKays’ ranch, towing a trailer, Amanda let loose one of her crazy-loud calls. I immediately led her to Rainy. With happy grunts and squeaks, she nuzzled him along his flanks, then fell into step beside him, back in her place in the world.

Gypsy jumped and danced in circles, thrilled to have us all in the same place again. There was no mistaking the happiness swirling in the air around us. It was almost a physical feeling in my chest, how surely we belonged together.

As the McKays grilled steaks for dinner, Julie asked if she could talk to me for a minute, and we wandered side by side toward the horse corral.

“With our feed business, sometimes we let people barter items for feed,” Julie began. “One older Navajo woman trades handmade jewelry for feed for her sheep. I want you to have something to remember your ride, or at least the Arizona part, and I thought one of her pieces might be right.”

Julie opened her palm to me, revealing a ring, silver with turquoise stones set like a sunburst. The nuggets were organic in shape, not perfectly round or oval. The color was the same as the clear Arizona sky.

“That’s a beautiful ring,” I said with admiration.

Julie handed it to me. “It’s an old piece,” she explained. “You can tell by the silver and the style.”

I turned the ring in my hands, respecting the design and craftsmanship. It was big enough that you really noticed the color but not too big. It slid onto my finger and fit perfectly.

“I love it.”

Julie Johnson, in her generosity, had somehow figured out a perfect gift that symbolized the land I was beginning to love.

MOONRISE AT TWO GUNS

Our ride west of Winslow brought us near railroad tracks once again, though we never saw a train all day. We moseyed along, watching for glimpses of deer, coyote, hawks, and reptiles that rattle, but with the weather cooler now, snake sightings had dwindled.

With no set destination for the night, I pieced together the trails beside the railroad, and late in the afternoon, we were back on an old section of Route 66. Rainy and Amanda’s hoof beats made an easy sound in the quiet as we came to a sign for the turnoff to Two Guns. We followed the sign with the KOA (Kampgrounds of America) symbol down a narrow, unpaved road. It seemed strange that Two Guns was noted on the map because there clearly wasn’t a town in this place.

I hopped off Rainy and looked around. Only one aluminum camper was on the grounds that I could see, and from the look of it, it had been there a while. The last rest stop I’d passed along the highway had been full and busy, yet just a few miles away, there was nobody around.

The sign on the door of the campground office was turned to OPEN, however, and a handwritten paper tacked beneath it said, “Ring bell.” So I did. I waited. I looked back at Rainy and Amanda, tied to an old section of rail fence. Suddenly, the screen door to the KOA office creaked open. A young man looked out at me, disheveled in a hooded sweatshirt, unzipped and thrown over bare skin. I was sure I’d woken him up. He held the door open, and Gypsy squeezed in along with me. The guy looked over at my horse and mule but didn’t say anything.

Inside, the man went around to the other side of a counter and finally asked, “Can I help you?”

“Can I rent a campsite for the night?”

“Yep,” he answered.

“And my horses are okay here?”

He shrugged, then started quoting prices. The cost was more than I thought it would be. I was very conscious of how my funds had dwindled.

“Wow,” I started. “Do you have anything a little cheaper?”

He looked up from the form he’d been filling out. “Well, I got a few cheaper, out back, but there’s no electrical hook-up.”

I stole a good look at his face to see if he was being funny. I wondered if my mention of the horse and mule had registered. I felt a bit of a giggle building, but the young man looked at me in such a humorless way, I just said, “Cheaper will do. I don’t need electric hook-up.”

“You don’t need electric?”

“No.” I shook my head. “Just a tree to camp by, maybe. That’ll do.”

I set up the tent, and with the horses relaxed and dozing, Gypsy and I set out for a little exploring. It was a lucky thing to be out in the cool evening air, and a big round shining disc of a moon rose right in front of us.

I stopped in my tracks and said quietly, “Look at that moon,” though only a horse, a dog, and a mule could hear me. It hung in the sky with its bottom balanced at the edge of the earth. It bathed the rundown campground in a rose-gold light, and the dusty path we were camped beside was a silver ribbon, leading straight to it.

TRUCK STOP DINER, TWIN ARROWS

Near a few low buildings were two huge arrows stuck in the ground as if shot from the bow of a giant. The paint on the arrows was old and peeling, but they still got your attention.

It had to be Twin Arrows, which I’d seen on my map.

I stopped Rainy near a store and pair of gas pumps next to a single-wide trailer that served as a diner. Several tractor-trailers were parked at the diner, nose-in like horses tied to a hitching rail.

I tied Rainy and Amanda out front, pulling off their packs and saddles. I spread my jacket on the ground nearby, and Gypsy laid down on it as I headed toward the store with my collapsible bucket.

Inside, knives and other items were displayed along the wall. Turquoise jewelry and old-looking candy bars filled glass cases that hadn’t been dusted in a while. I helped myself to water and bought one of the candy bars to be courteous.

Once the animals had their water, I headed to the diner. I stepped up to the entrance, then hesitated, unsure if I should go on in. It was so narrow there were no tables—there was only a counter with stools, and each of the stools had a man sitting on it, except one. Even the person wiping the counter was a man. When the door banged shut behind me, every head turned my way.

I was not prone to self-consciousness, but the situation sure felt awkward. It was as if I’d stepped into a private men’s club. I looked over at the only empty stool, and with no other seat available, I headed over to it, my boots sounding unexpectedly loud.

I assumed the men around me were the drivers of the rigs parked out front. I squeezed in between two fellows of rather large proportions, keeping my elbows close to my sides, afraid of bumping one of them. No one said a word.

The counter man placed a plastic menu in front of me. I ordered a cheeseburger, periodically turning to look out the windows and check on Rainy, Amanda, and Gypsy. I was conscious of eyes following me, conscious that they saw the animals out there, resting where I’d left them.

I was pretty uncomfortable, and when I started to eat, it got worse. I felt the burn of one big truck driver’s stare. When I snuck a glance to my right, he didn’t even bother to look away. I was more aware than ever that I was the only female within miles, and I wished I hadn’t gone into the place.

Suddenly the Staring Man slammed his fork down on the counter.

“Miss! Excuse me!” he demanded.

I looked at him in surprise, as did everyone else.

“I drive a route from Pennsylvania all over the Midwest and the West. I been seeing you on that same damn horse for six months. WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU GOING?”

The small place erupted in laughter, thankfully breaking the tension. I laughed, too, in relief, and began to answer the questions that now filled the air. The guys cracked jokes and offered advice. They paid for my lunch and tried to give me money. They wrote names and addresses and places they knew as good rest stops on napkins and handed them to me as they prepared to leave. They patted me on the back, and outside, they stopped to admire Rainy, Amanda, and Gypsy, patting them too, wishing us all safe travels.

NUTS…AND GRATEFUL

We began to see the outline of the San Francisco Peaks in the Flagstaff area rise ahead of us. We’d left the high, flat desert behind, the flatlands gave way to foothills, and my animals and I found ourselves working our way uphill on a winding, tree-lined road to meet the Juarez family.

The Juarez place had a nice pen for horses behind the house. It had a roof and was clean, open, and airy.

I liked the Juarez family—Nick and Linda, and especially their teenage daughter, Alicia—and when they invited me to stay over an extra day, I said yes. There was a brief flurry of excitement when a Flagstaff reporter and his cameraman showed up, asking to film footage of my animals and ask me questions about the trip.

In the morning, Alicia’s parents reminded her that she’d promised to collect pinyon nuts to earn the money she needed to show her horse. I asked what they were talking about.

“Ah, pinyon nuts,” Nick began. “They’re very tasty and people use them for cooking. There are pinyon trees all around here, and kids collect them and sell them to markets as a way to make a little money.”

“They’re pretty easy to get,” Alicia added. “The trees aren’t too tall.”

“I like all kinds of nuts, but I have never heard of these,” I admitted.

“They’ve been picked for centuries,” Nick went on. “Historians think the Navajo, Hopi, Zuni, and the different Pueblos may even have established their cultures here on the Colorado Plateau because they learned to use the pinyon nuts for food, like the ancients before them.”

“Do you want to come with me?” Alicia asked.

I nodded eagerly. I definitely did. It was exciting to think of being amongst the trees. I’d been in farmlands, plains, and high plateau country for so long; I missed the woods.

It got even better when Alicia informed me that the best way to pick the nuts was on horseback. We headed out from the back of the property onto wooded trails with Alicia on her pretty red mare. We both rode bareback, our legs hanging loosely down the warm round sides of our horses. The sun shone down on the beautiful autumn afternoon.

As we entered the woods, everything became quieter. Soft needles coated the trail, and the nearness of the pines created a hushed, closed world. A breeze fluttered the needles and caused the branches and little cones to sway. By some tacit agreement, Alicia and I stopped our chatter. We let the woods, the soft hoof beats, the delicate piney scent, and the sound of the occasional jay and raven fill our senses.

Arizona was pretty amazing. A few days before we had been riding in the dry brushy land of red rocks. Today we were soaking in the cool evergreen forest. This whole country is amazing, I thought. And it’s Rainy who carried me here and showed me all of this.

I reached forward and placed my palm on his withers, feeling each stride and his sun-warmed coat.

Alicia and I were back, doing the evening chores, when Linda came to find me, saying I had a phone call. Who could be calling me here? I wondered.

I didn’t recognize the male voice on the other end. Then, when he asked about my canteen, I realized it was Dan, the reporter who had said he’d track me down in Flagstaff.

“Mike, the reporter who interviewed you yesterday, is a friend of mine,” he explained.

Dan had been right. It was easy to find me.

He asked about Rainy, Gypsy, and Amanda, and the last hundred miles or so since I’d last seen him. Then, Dan got to the point.

“I’m meeting some friends for dinner in Flagstaff, and I wonder if you could join us—in about half an hour?”

I’d been on the road a long time, making independent decisions and being self-reliant, but, “Hold on a minute,” is how I responded to Dan. Then I covered up the phone and turned to Linda and Alicia, who were watching me on the call with curiosity. “What should I do?” I whispered.

Because he was a reporter on a television station that covered the whole state, Dan was something of a familiar face—Alicia and Linda knew who he was and insisted I say I’d go, practically pushing me down the hall to Alicia’s room.

“Did he say where you’re going for dinner?” Linda asked. She and her daughter exchanged looks at my answer, and they started rifling through the closet, pulling out clothes for me to try on. Within seconds, a set of hot rollers was plugged in, heating on the edge of the bathroom sink. Apparently my twenty-five-cent sweater from the thrift store in Grants and my worn flannel would not do.

It felt weird after the way I’d been living to all of a sudden wonder how my hair looked and if I was wearing the appropriate thing. At the same time, it was sort of fun, too. It felt easy, in a way, because whatever happened, I’d be leaving soon, and would likely never see Dan again. It took the typical complications and expectations away.

Acting like a concerned father, Nick grilled Dan in a gruff but friendly way, and when Dan walked me to his truck, I turned back to see all three family members, and my dog, watching us from the door. I felt like I was sixteen again and almost laughed out loud.

Dan had a great sense of humor, and both of us had the “gift of gab,” so the night turned into a great deal of fun. Before we headed back to the Juarez place, Dan took me to see his friend Mike, the reporter from the television station in Flagstaff. The two had a surprise: They had collected the news clips of our story from several other stations and were able to play them for me. It was really special since I rarely got to see our interviews and news clips on television.

When Dan dropped me at the Juarez home, he asked again if I could go with him to his friends’ barbecue—the event he’d originally asked about when he brought me the new canteen.

“I have plans with the Juarez family tomorrow,” I said apologetically, but Dan assured me his party wasn’t until later in the day. “That should work, then,” I said, and we agreed on a time for him to pick me up.

Before going inside the house, I walked out back to say goodnight to Rainy and Amanda. It was the perfect way to end such a pleasant day—seeing them comfortable and at peace.

GOLD IN THE DAY

It was a beautiful fall morning. Gypsy and I rode along with the Juarez family to the Smith Ranch where Domingo, Linda’s horse, was being trained to drive. The road climbed away from town and up into the hills. The tall pines cast cool shadows over our vehicle.

Domingo was a tall Appaloosa with a black coat and a striking snowflake pattern. Nick, Alicia, and I watched Linda and Mr. Smith put the horse through his paces. He trotted around the ring, the wagon wheels making long lines in the raked dust. Then we jumped from the fence and hopped on the wagon for a ride around. Mr. Smith called “Gee” and “Haw” to the horse—the traditional way to signal a driving horse to the left or the right. The moment had its own music. Bits of chain and rings from the harness jingled, mixing with the hoof beats and creak of the wagon as it rounded each turn.

Dan pulled up in his small Ford pickup late in the afternoon. In quick order he managed to do two things that assured I would hold him in high regard: First, he brought his dog Heather along and invited Gypsy to come to the party, too. Second, before we set out, he asked to see Rainy and Amanda again.

Dan and I, Gypsy, and Heather squeezed into the cab of his truck and headed south with the mountain peaks behind us, and he said we had time for a hike in Oak Creek Canyon. Rust-colored rocks lay strewn on the canyon bottom, and crystal water sparkled and reflected the perfect blue sky above us. Fingers of rock the color of maple leaves reached upward. I took pictures like crazy because it was all so fantastically pretty. Dan and I even posed for pictures together, using the self-timer on my camera.

“Isn’t it weird that we’re taking pictures of each other and we’re practically strangers?” Dan asked.

We both laughed and took more pictures.

Somewhere during the small talk of the pleasant barbecue that followed, somewhere in the midst of answering questions about my trip, I pictured Rainy and Amanda and had an itch to be brushing Rainy’s soft coat. I felt a distinct pull to get back to my animals and began to wonder what awaited west of Flagstaff. I was having fun, but it was time to get back to my animals and back on the road. I had always felt pretty comfortable socially wherever I was, but I got the fleeting notion that I might not really belong around people anymore.

TRUST

My adventure made the connections I developed with people I met along the way happen more quickly and strongly than when meeting people in “the real world.” Others who have traveled recount experiencing the same phenomenon. With every new friend, there came a hard time with goodbyes, and I felt emotional leaving the Juarez family, where I’d been so welcomed into their home.

We all hugged, and I set out with sweet memories and extra clothes from Alicia’s closet. They said, “Call us when you get to California,” and “You’ll stop on your way back through, won’t you?” The doubts and the worries about a girl alone on the road had mostly been replaced with the assumption that if I’d come this far, I was probably going to make it all the way.

It was hard for me to think too broadly. I took each day as its own time, and I never assumed anything was a given. I knew that with each step we took and each road we rode on there were many ways things could go right or wrong. I took nothing for granted. California was still somewhere else. Arizona was here and now.

In this here and now, we had the woods again. After months on the plains and the desert plateaus, I felt welcomed into the arms of trees. I rode on trails through sweet-smelling pines and stands of aspens with gold leaves flickering in the wind like a million candle flames. The air was cool in a way that was both invigorating and familiar.

Rainy seemed to feel it, too. Both he and Amanda walked with spirit in their steps. The time of rest had been good for them, and the forest paths were easy on their feet and legs after the paved roads we’d traveled for so long.

The view changed as we rode, and vistas opened up when there was a break in the trees. We seemed to be ever climbing. The view was gorgeous, but it startled me to see how high up the trail had led us. The land sloped steeply down to the south, on my left, into meadows of yellow grass, and beyond that, more evergreen forest, and it sloped up on my right. I was not particularly comfortable with heights, so I tried to focus instead on the trail in front of us.

We moved forward, climbing more. Gypsy, who had been up in the saddle with me, suddenly wanted to get down. Once there, she did none of her usual sniffing and exploring—instead, she placed herself way in the back of our little line, following Amanda.

The trail narrowed further, and Amanda shifted away from her usual position—slightly to the back but alongside Rainy—and stepped directly behind him, instead. We were now all in one straight line: Rainy in front carrying me, then Amanda, then Gypsy. It was a good thing because the trail became so narrow there was no other way we’d fit. I no longer looked at the view or admired our surroundings. I was well past my comfort level with heights.

Rainy seemed focused on keeping his head level and picking his way carefully along the path. Though we were no longer climbing, the trail had shrunk to a width I was well aware we should not be on—a thin, worn line where you had to place one foot carefully in front of the other and hug the uphill side to keep from slipping.

What if the trail narrowed and ended? We couldn’t turn around, and I couldn’t imagine all four of us backing down what we had just come up. It was so steep on the side of the mountain that now, to my left, the drop was practically vertical. Boulders jutted out in spots and tenacious scrub trees reached out from places where their roots were able to take hold. I forced myself to take a peek, and a swoop of nausea overcame me.

I was scared, but I didn’t want to stop Rainy because I was afraid to break his concentration or cause him to look down or step wrong. If one of us went down the side of the mountain, we were all going, and it would be a long fall. I began to tremble and willed it to stop so Rainy wouldn’t sense my fear, but I had no control over it. I could feel through the rope in my hand that Amanda was studiously keeping Rainy’s exact, careful pace. I didn’t let myself turn and look at her or Gypsy because I didn’t want to do anything that might shift our balance even one iota. Instead, I focused on a spot on Rainy’s neck. I looked at the way his black mane fell to one side and moved a little in the breeze. I watched the glide of his shoulder with each step he took. But my eyes shifted—I couldn’t help it—and I looked down again. That was it for me.

Rainy, my wonderful horse, though, he didn’t seem to be scared or hesitant. He wanted to keep going, so I leaned forward and slowly let the reins become a loose drape. Riders are taught that it is important to be the leader with a horse. We’re supposed to be in charge at all times, but I closed my eyes and put us all in Rainy’s care. Every ounce of trust and faith I had, I put in Rainy. He never faltered. He kept up his steady walk, placing each sturdy black hoof in the right place one step at a time.

After what felt like hours but could have been minutes, the trail began to widen. We kept moving forward slowly. Gradually, we descended, from the views and the cliff and my fear, until Rainy safely brought us all to a flat dirt road through the pines.

BEAUTY LARGE AND SMALL

I rode in the shadows of ponderosa pines outside Williams, Arizona, looking for the home of Bob and Peggy Dean. We followed dirt roads past small ponds and alongside clearings of goldenrod and snakeweed.

The Deans’ rustic home sat alone next to a corral. I found a note on the door, welcoming us. I brushed Rainy and Amanda and rubbed their legs with liniment. I paid extra attention to Rainy, checking to see if I could feel his ribs more than I should.

Deer skulls and antlers were tacked along the front of the Deans’ house. Rough-cut rail enclosed a porch where two rocking chairs sat. The beams supporting the roof were in their natural shape: Not perfectly straight like factory-cut wood, they showed the same lines and contours they had as trees. One was even forked, adding to the natural feel of the structure. I stacked my saddles and packs carefully in the corner, and sat down on one of the rocking chairs to wait. The wind was light in the evergreens and carried the smell of mountain air. Gypsy stretched out on the porch beside me.

When they arrived, Bob and Peggy Dean hustled me inside, where Bob made a fire while Peggy made us hot toddies.

“I promise it’ll take the chill out of you,” she said.

We traded tales over the steamy drinks, and I learned that Bob and Peggy were both native Arizonans from old ranch families. Their home had been built by Bob’s grandfather over a century before.

I shared what had happened on the high trail and told them how I’d closed my eyes and let Rainy take charge. They both nodded solemnly, and we raised our glasses to my horse.

“I truly believe,” Bob announced, “that you and your animals are being watched over by the Great Trail Boss in the Sky.”

The Deans let me leave Rainy and Amanda with them for a few hours the next morning, as Dan was in the area. When I’d told him the route we’d be riding after I left the Juarez family, he’d insisted I could not pass through Arizona without seeing the Grand Canyon. We’d made a loose plan for him to take me if things worked out.

Gypsy and I climbed into the cab of his truck and we headed out. Riding in a vehicle through the beautiful scenery around us felt strange, like it was all moving by too swiftly.

It was early on a fall weekday, and there were few people around as Dan, Gypsy, and I walked toward a spot along the south rim of the Grand Canyon. As we got closer, Dan said, “Close your eyes.” I took his arm, shut my eyes, and let him lead the way.

“Okay, you can open them now,” Dan told me, giving my arm a little squeeze. When I did, my hands covered my mouth in astonishment. There was no fence, no railing. It was just right there. The most spectacular sight I’d ever seen spread out inches from my toes: the canyon, carved over eons by the wild Colorado River far below.

At first glance, it seemed like just a massive display of red rock, but a longer look revealed how the sunlight, the fall season, even the very air seemed to create shadings and color variations in different directions. One direction had a protruding ledge of yellow and dark orange; across the way, it looked midnight blue and purple, and the shadows on the sides of the great chasm were deep gray. Hardy vegetation grew here and there—pinyon and juniper clinging to edges and sheer rock faces.

Dan grinned proudly, seeing my awe. Gypsy stood right at the edge, peering down, and I nervously called her to come to me. She turned, looked at me, then went right back to staring into the canyon.

As I remembered my camera and started to fiddle with it, a flash of bright blue on my finger caught my attention. I considered the beautiful turquoise in the Navajo ring I was wearing—the one Julie Johnson had given me. My gaze moved from the ring back out to the immense beauty of the canyon spread before us.

I turned to Dan, close beside me.

“Thank you,” I said.

I had seen the heart and the spirit of Arizona.

SADDLE TRAMP

I rode down from a hill trail and picked up Route 66 again somewhere near the town of Seligman. The road veered well away from the new highway and took a northerly turn into the low hills of Northwest Arizona. Here Route 66 was on its own, not demoted to a frontage road for the new interstate or paved over as part of another highway. I was too young to know much more about Route 66 than what I’d learned in songs and novels, but I had read The Grapes of Wrath. In that book, John Steinbeck sealed the road’s place in history by depicting the struggles of the refugees of the Dust Bowl as they migrated west, and it was he who coined the term “The Mother Road.”

It had surprised me to find the road mostly forgotten, but travelers had abandoned it in favor of the newer, faster interstate. The towns along it often felt like they were on the edge of survival. Other than a few closed and crumbling roadside stops, the miles between towns were often empty and quiet, much as I imagined they would have been long ago, before railroads or road trips had any impact on the area.

I was told someone would be watching for us out past Seligman, and as I rode near a well-kept, ranch-style home, a woman stepped out along the road, holding the neck of her cardigan closed against the chill air. I greeted her, and she said, “Let me show you where you and your horses can spend the night.”

My assumption that we were heading toward a barn out back was wrong. We were heading toward a row of maroon-colored boxcars, white lettering faded on the sides. I’d seen them all over the West, off the rails and sitting still, used for storage or as sheds for livestock.

I was a little surprised to be escorted to the railroad cars but also found it kind of cool. In my early childhood, my family lived in Pennsylvania in a coal-mining town with railroads running through. My mom had an uncle who would show up every now and then. When I asked where he came from, my mother explained that he rode on trains, and, as she put it, “went wherever the wind would take him.” She said it like his was a sad, failed life, but I was fascinated by the idea. At five or six years old I horrified my mother by saying I wanted to grow up to be a hobo.

I pushed my packs and saddles inside one of the boxcars, and while Rainy and Amanda grazed on the nearby grass, I filled our water bucket at the side of the house. It was almost dark when I led Rainy and Amanda into the train car. They stepped right up the little ramp and in, as if they were loading onto a horse trailer. It was not bad inside: Old straw bedding covered the floor, and there were tie rings bolted to the wall. The faint aroma of horses made us feel at home.

I poured out grain from plastic bags for my horse and mule. The feed was getting low; I had to find more grain at the next town or ranch we came to. I found the sandwiches and apples I’d saved from a previous stop and sat cross-legged on the floor, the animals and I sharing our meal together.

By the light of my lantern, I penned short notes to update the growing list of people who wrote to me. I answered everyone who sent me mail on the road, even if it was just a postcard. I finished the evening with a short “hello” to Reid, although letters from him were becoming fewer and farther between.

Dawn brought cold air blowing in but no clouds in the purple sky. I knew it would get warm later, when we were on the road and the sun rose at our backs. As I hopped out of the boxcar, I could see the lights were on in the house. After saddling Rainy and preparing our packs, I walked over to ask if there was a post office or feed supply anywhere near.

I knocked on the door, and the woman who’d shown me to the boxcar answered right away. She looked surprised to see me, like she’d forgotten we were out there.

“Good morning,” I said. “I wondered—”

“We’re just about to finish breakfast,” she interrupted. I could smell the wonderful aroma of bacon in the air. “When we’re done, if we have any left, I’ll put it on a plate and leave it outside for you.” She shut the door before I could say anything more.

I didn’t know what to think. I stepped back, rather stunned, and looked at my animals, packed and ready to conquer the road ahead. I walked over to them, patted each one of my friends, tightened Rainy’s cinch, and got on.

The bacon smelled amazing. But I was not going to take leftover food off her plate. I turned Rainy west, clucked to Amanda, and called to Gypsy. Like a wandering stray dog, we silently slipped away as the sun lightened the sky.

ON THE WILD TRAIL

I had a choice between staying on an old two-lane or riding along the railroad, and almost automatically, I turned Rainy to the tracks. Amanda and Gypsy followed steadily along. Everything was quiet.

It wasn’t long before we came to another split in the trail. One path stayed near the train tracks, but it was the other that intrigued me. It followed neither the tracks nor the road. Instead it made its own way, angling toward the hills in a westerly direction. Where did the trail lead? What was its reason for existing? I squeezed my calves, and Rainy walked forward.

We traveled all day on the dirt trail. We were in the rare situation where there were no signs of humans or their handiwork. I no longer knew where the road or railroad tracks were. There were no hogans—traditional Navajo dwellings; there were no ranch signs, no mailboxes. There were no inhabitants but the wild ones.

Gypsy roamed in wide circles, progressing with us but probably walking twice the miles that Rainy and Amanda did. The land rolled away from our trail in a landscape of faded gold, while the hills in the distance were cast in dark green, indicating trees were growing on their steep sides. The reins hung loosely on Rainy’s neck. With no worries or distractions, it was easy to be in tune with every step and every breath of my horse, and to notice every little thing around us.

A mule deer appeared from the brush on the side of the trail, crossing the path in front of us. Rainy and Amanda watched her pass with interest. The deer didn’t seem to be frightened by us, adding to the strange feeling I had that we belonged there, beneath the wide and blue sky.

Several times, Gypsy stopped and looked behind us. Rainy flicked his ears back. From the saddle, I turned and swept my gaze over the brush. I saw nothing but the squat, sharp-needled trees along the trail. But then there was a gentle tug on the lead line in my hand as Amanda, too, tried to take a look behind us. With my lesser senses, it took several minutes for me to finally spot what my friends had known for a while.

Blending in perfectly with the gray and brown landscape was a coyote. He was far enough away that it took me a minute to focus on him, but close enough that our eyes met. He seemed neither frightened nor aggressive.

I rode forward for a while, and he followed behind us. Intrigued, it occurred to me to get a picture of our new friend, and I reached into my saddlebag for the camera, turning Rainy sideways, to get the angle. But with no zoom lens and the way the coyote’s color blended softly into his surroundings, I couldn’t get a good shot.

Then I remembered the remains of lunch I carried in my packs. Perhaps the coyote would come closer to get food, and I could get the picture I wanted. I pulled out a square of wax paper and sandwich, and gave it a good toss, like a Frisbee. It fell loosely on the ground between us and the coyote. He cocked his ears forward and looked at the offering. He was interested! He took a step toward the bread. Slowly, I raised the camera to my eye. He crept a little closer, and I got him in the frame.

Suddenly, a flash of a different figure, low-slung and fast, ran into the camera’s sights. What the…?

It was Gypsy. Without slowing at all, she snatched that sandwich practically from under the coyote’s jaws and ran all out back to where I sat with Rainy and Amanda.

I lowered the camera, my mouth hanging open.

I felt a moment of fear that the coyote would chase Gypsy or fight her for the food, but he just stood there, looking perplexed. Then I felt a surge of affection. She thinks I dropped the sandwich, and she’s bringing it back to me! But Gypsy ran right past me, dropped to the ground on the other side of Rainy, and quickly gobbled down the sandwich. She glanced back at the coyote with the last piece of crust hanging from between her teeth. After a surprised moment, I tipped my head back and laughed and laughed.

We continued along, and following his humiliation by Gypsy, our coyote friend wandered away. We came to a place with three evergreen trees in a half circle, and I dismounted, cleared the cones that had fallen, and spread my jacket on the ground. I took everything off Rainy and Amanda, scratched their backs, and let them relax. They munched on the wild grass along the trail.

Gypsy and I sat on my jacket and I shared my water with her. The canteen was pretty full, but I needed to keep my eyes open for water if we stayed on this trail. I removed the sandwich from my pack and looked at my dog.

“Are you going to take this, too, Gyps?” I asked, roughing the top of her head. She flopped over so I’d get her belly, as well.

I unsnapped my knife from my belt and cut up apples to share with Rainy and Amanda. A blackbird flew in, hopping from branch to branch until he was as close as he dared, keeping an eye on us and any crumbs of food we might leave. A slight breeze touched the tips of the trees and bowed the heads of the tall grass. It lifted the manes of Rainy and Amanda, and gently wrapped their tails around their hocks from time to time.

I wondered when water from my canteen had become enough, and I’d stopped craving ice-cold soda. I wondered when I’d stopped wishing I had a napkin and just happily wiped my grimy fingers, sticky from feeding apples to horses, on my jeans. I wondered when I’d begun to feel like I was a part of all this: the blackbird and the horse and the mule and the dog and the wind and the yellow grass and the tiny gravel beneath our feet.

I wondered if a person could turn wild.

CHEERS, PEACE

The Leases’ barn in Yampai had two rows of stalls with a well-swept aisle down the middle. Their horses were in when we arrived and whinnied at the newcomers. A cot with fresh sheets and a blanket was set up in the tack room for me, and Mrs. Lease invited me to join them for dinner and to use their phone to call home.

After supper, Gypsy and I returned to our little place in the barn. Lately, I’d spent so much time alone with the animals that it became necessary to sort of step back when I was around people. Roadside visits, interviews, and new acquaintances could be fun and broke up long days, but I felt more…more myself, maybe…riding alone in the company of Rainy, Gypsy, and Amanda. I was grateful for all that had been done for us by the people we had met along our road. But my soul had gotten used to solitude.

In the airy barn, I moved my cot in front of the stall doors where Rainy and Amanda were spending the night. As usual, I wrote in my journal—where we’d traveled that day, who we’d talked to, and the sights we’d seen. I looked at the date I’d inked at the top of the page. It had a familiarity…was one I’d made note of…but why?

When it came back to me, I knew I had to go back to the Leases’ house and make a weird request.

At my hesitant knock, Mrs. Lease peeked out the door, then opened it wide. “Come in,” she said with concern. “Is everything okay?”

I felt awkward. I’d had to ask for help many times on my journey, but I’d never asked to watch someone’s television before.

“Can I watch a show on your TV?” I felt sheepish, and Mrs. Lease looked surprised. I launched into the story of Ron Karabatsos, how I’d met the actor at a highway rest stop and that he was in an episode of a new television show—and that episode was airing that night.

Mr. Lease joined us, and the couple invited me inside, amused by the story of the big tough police investigator who was afraid to fly. They warned me they only got two channels, but as luck would have it, NBC was one of them.

When the man I met at that lonely rest stop appeared on the screen, I leaned forward with excitement. “There he is! That’s him!” I practically shouted. And it was him, playing an obnoxious Yankees fan to Ted Danson’s Red Sox fan, just like he told me.

We all agreed the show was pretty good, and I said goodnight to them once again as the credits rolled up on the screen. Mr. and Mrs. Lease invited me to sleep on their couch, but I assured them the space in the barn was perfect.

Gypsy squeezed right on the narrow cot beside me. I laid my hand on her head. The horses made soft noises: They turned in their stalls and lowered their heads, blowing gently from their nostrils as they drifted to sleep. Peace was all around us.

THE ROAD IS OURS

Route 66 was one of America’s first long-distance roads to be paved. In the 1930s it carried the hopes of farmers escaping the dust storms of the Midwest. Other Americans headed west on 66 during the Depression, and the road became synonymous with new beginnings. It’s credited with popularizing the American road trip in the fifties and for practically inventing the idea of roadside attractions: trading posts, souvenir shops, Wild West shows, reptile farms—any quirky idea that might entice motorists to stop. In the sixties it stood for freedom, self-exploration, and “movin’ on.”

There wasn’t a hint of its significance where I rode—no historical markers to be seen, no monuments awaiting our discovery. Toppled signs held messages too faded to read. Weeds poked through cracks in the pavement.

We’d passed from one small town to another: Ashfork to Seligman, on through Yampai, Truxton, Peach Springs, Valentine, Hackberry. We found water, and very occasionally, a general store to replenish supplies. The land was a series of hills, and the road climbed upward, wound around, then rolled back down again.

I’d acquired a habit of saying, “Okay, Rainy, the road is ours,” when there were no cars. On this empty stretch of two-lane, my animals and I rode in the middle of the road.

As I walked alongside Rainy, stretching my tired muscles with some time out of the saddle, he stopped and raised his head, focusing his big brown eyes upward. I followed his gaze and saw a hawk circling on the wind, riding the drafts of air in easy swooping circles. The animals and I all stopped to watch. What did that hawk see, as he flew effortlessly over the land that took us days to cover? I wondered if he could easily make it to California on the wind, the place that had seemed so distant for so long.

My attention was drawn back to earth as I heard a vehicle approaching, the first I’d seen in a while. An ancient pickup came into view, slowing to pass around us. The driver gave a friendly wave. He, too, looked up, probably curious about what had us stopped and staring at the sky. He’d see it was just a hawk, nothing out of the ordinary.

The truck moved on, over a hill, and was gone from sight. I looked behind us—nothing. I got back in the saddle and listened, but the only sound was the gentle whisper of the breeze as it rustled dry grass at the edge of the pavement. We walked on in the middle of the road, undisturbed. The road was ours. Ours and the ghosts’ of those who’d traveled here before.

HUALAPAI DINER

The sun sat high overhead as we rode through the southern section of the Hualapai Reservation. I stopped at a roadside café, eager for something to eat that was not out of my saddlebags.

Inside I found a couple empty round tables and a short counter where two men sat, chatting with a young American Indian woman standing on the other side, leaning on her elbows. The conversation stopped as I stepped inside. All three stared at me. They look surprised.

I wondered if I’d done something wrong—if the establishment was for Hualapai only. But it didn’t seem likely anyone would open a diner on the side of a road and then try to keep people out. I sat down at one of the small tables. The woman behind the counter said something to the two men, and they laughed.

After a long few minutes, the woman dragged herself over with a pad and pen and asked abruptly, “What do you want?”

“A grilled cheese and a Coke, please,” I replied self-consciously. Mostly I wanted to get out of there, but that would be even more awkward.

The two men and the woman talked while I waited. I didn’t know why, but it made me feel uncomfortable.

The woman came around the counter and dropped the sandwich on a plate in front of me with a clank.

“Thanks,” I said.

She walked away without responding.

A week or so before, as my animals and I were riding on reservation land, we’d come upon a Navajo Chapter house. Knowing there was usually a payphone at these administrative buildings, I had hopped off Rainy and asked a woman at the front desk if I could use the payphone. With a tip of her head, she indicated “in there.” I walked through the doors to find myself in a room where a Navajo tribal meeting was taking place.

All faces turned to stare that time, too, but with mild curiosity. Then they went back to their business. I’d made my call home, whispering that I was well and where we were, then waved silently in thanks as I tiptoed out the door.

The bigger, more heavyset of the two men at the counter turned partially toward me and said something a little louder than necessary. The woman responded and gestured toward Rainy and Amanda, visible outside the window. Mixed in with all the words I didn’t understand was a phrase I did: “New York.” When the woman said it, all three started laughing.

Pushing away the crusts from my sandwich, I left some money on the table and walked out the door. I untied my animals and started out on foot to clear my head. I hoped the feeling in the diner hadn’t been because of something I had said or done. I recognized I was a stranger, passing through their land.

HILLTOP HONKYTONK

We stayed on old 66 as it climbed steadily upward, looking for a place called “The Point.” We found it at a bend in the road, exactly at the hill’s summit.

The low-slung, older building appeared to have had several additions over the years. Part of the building was a bar, the “Open” sign lit up in the window, and four or five motel rooms faced a parking area in front. The whole structure was a faded mustard-yellow color, the paint, doors, and windows wearing a coat of dust. I tied Rainy and Amanda in the small post corral nearby.

We’d ridden past the ruins of such places before on Route 66. The difference was that although this one showed signs of age, it was clearly still alive.

The bar had only a few people in it, but I got a hearty welcome. I was continually amazed by how news had a way of getting around in these far-flung places. Everyone seemed to know I was “the girl on the horse.”

“The boss says you can use the corral,” the bartender said in response to my query about camping. “And you can have one of the rooms for five bucks, if you want. Dinner’s on us,” he added.

I couldn’t believe this place—a room and dinner for five dollars.

Out at the corral, I took my time brushing Rainy and Amanda. A bale of decent-looking hay sat outside the pen. I pulled a few flakes for them and filled their water bucket, then headed back to the bar to find out about that room, Gypsy trotting beside me.

A blonde woman of indeterminate age—I thought maybe twenties, maybe thirties—was now behind the bar. When I mentioned the room the other guy had promised, she introduced herself.

“I’m Barb. I don’t know about a key, but c’mon, let’s find Lee, the owner.” We wandered outside together, Gypsy with us, chatting as we walked.

“Hey, can you come to my birthday party?” Barb asked suddenly.

I responded the only way I could think of: “When is it?”

“Tonight!” she exclaimed. “We’re gonna have a steak dinner and music and cake! I want you to come!” Her enthusiasm was almost childlike.

“Oh, you don’t have to invite me,” I assured her with a smile.

She looked aghast. “But I want you to come!”

I said okay, laughing a little to myself as we headed back to the bar, our search for Lee outside having been unsuccessful.

We found Lee back at the bar. He greeted me warmly and told me my room number.

“We’re fixing the place up,” he offered as he reached under the bar for a key. Then, with a smile: “You can have the room that has a toilet and shower that work.” He slid the key across the bar to me.

“Thank you,” I said gratefully, thinking of a shower, maybe flopping down on a bed for a bit. But Lee filled a beer and put it in front of me, so I took a seat and a long, slow sip.

“What do you think of Arizona?” Lee asked. “How have people been treating you?”

Barb and Lee’s wife Connie pulled up stools on either side of me.

“Have there been any scary parts?” Barb asked.

“Any really good parts?” Connie added.

I told them about the storms in Indiana and the farms in Kansas and the rattlesnake in Texas. Barb shared a story of a time she stepped right on a baby rattler…and we laughed and more beer appeared in front of us.

It was getting dark outside the bar window. Cars pulled in, wheels crunching in the gravel lot. I got up often to go out and check on Rainy and Amanda. As it got more crowded, I took Gypsy and my packs to my motel room, letting the pup settle into a tired ball on the bed. Each time I left and came back, another beer was waiting.

Most everyone who came in walked over to Barb and wished her a happy birthday. I joined her as she wiped the tables and set them for the party. Someone turned up the background music as more people streamed in the front door.

There was no easy way to describe the demographics of the crowd. There were young people, a few oldsters, women in stretch pants and teased hair. They called each other “Hon” and hugged in greeting. All the men wore cowboy hats. No one treated me like an outsider. I never got my shower, but it didn’t matter; my worn jeans and dusty boots fit right in.

As steaks were brought out from the kitchen, and all of us were told to “sit and eat,” I learned it was not just a party—it was Open Mic Night!

The first participant stepped up to the microphone. He was about three hundred pounds and wore the requisite cowboy hat. He opened a guitar case, tuned his instrument for a minute, then started in with “Take These Chains from My Heart,” an old Hank Williams tune. Then he did Ernest Tubb and a few other songs that had their heyday forty years before. Still, everyone sang along.

The lady who followed him was in skintight pants and glasses in a style that I remembered my mom wearing when I was a little kid. People yelled out song requests—all decades old. It was like time had just passed this place by.

The singers changed and a band played next, and I got swung around the dance floor, laughing and shouting along with everyone else. It was long into the night when the main lights came on, the signal to all that it was closing time, time to go home, and in my case, time to go check on Rainy and Amanda and head to my five-dollar motel room, where Gypsy waited patiently.

Outside, pickup trucks pulled away from the parking lot. Horns tooted cheerily, and one or two drivers rolled down their windows and yelled, “Good luck!” when they saw me standing by Rainy and Amanda. I watched them all leave, mostly trucks, all older models. They had hitches in back; the beds were scratched and dented from fence posts and tools and rolls of barbed wire. They wore a coat of dust and gave off the feeling of having worked hard and come far. I could picture them, driving in from out in the hills, following the same rough roads under the same big sky that my animals and I had been riding over and beneath each day. Sometimes, out here, it looked like a land empty of inhabitants, but that wasn’t the case. Whatever was needed—help, or water, or company, or even a rowdy Saturday night at a hilltop honkytonk—we all seemed to find it.

CLOSENESS

A good relationship with a horse is a special thing, unlike anything else. There’s a physical aspect: The connection of riding is like actually being a part of your horse, and vice versa. When I sat on Rainy’s back, he understood the twitch of a muscle, the tightening of fingers on the reins, or a shift of weight in the saddle. And we spent other physical time together. There was grooming him, checking his legs, and cleaning his hooves. Each day I laid my ear against his side, listening to his gut sounds to make sure all systems were go. I ran my hands along his spine, his ribs, just to see how his weight was and where any soreness might be.

But our special connection also had a psychological component. It was a very positive thing in my life. I liked being near my horse. When I packed up in the mornings, I often stopped and leaned on his shoulder—the strength it gave me was internal. When I was cold, I held my hands against his neck, in the place where his body heat was trapped under his mane. He never moved away from these moments of affection or closeness. There was a level of communication between us that surpassed anything I’ve known with any other animal.

We were still where I’d come to think of as “up in the hills,” riding the long, quiet road as it followed the contours of the land. When we came to a trail leading away from the road, I turned down it to find a place to take our break. Once the packs were pulled free, Rainy and Amanda stood side by side, resting. Gypsy sniffed the roots of a stunted juniper tree. After a few minutes, I noticed Rainy watching me, his big brown eyes on me in what seemed a thoughtful way. Amanda had gone back to foraging for blades of grass, but Rainy’s gaze stayed steady. I walked to him and ran my hand along the slope of his shoulder.

“Hey, Bud,” I murmured, scratching his withers. He leaned slightly into the scratching.

“You’re such a good boy,” I told him. Rainy turned his head toward me. In a deliberate yet delicate manner, he touched his muzzle to my cheekbone. Then he lowered his head and rested his chin on my chest. I leaned my forehead against his, and we stood quietly in this way for a few moments.

I treasured my horse and our connection. But this time I felt like Rainy was trying to tell me something. I stayed with him for as long as he was still.

CAMERA-CONSCIOUS

The sun rose behind us, casting new color along the sides of the distant hills, turning them caramel, briefly, and making gray-green shadows where the pine trees stood. Though it was early, I could tell it was going to be a beautiful day. I peeled off layers of outerwear as we made our way. The air was soft and warm, and even the worn-out pavement looked like a road of gold.

I was daydreaming, lost in my thoughts, when a car came from the west and stopped near us. My animals and I waited while a woman got out of the driver’s seat and strode toward us.

“You must be Missy!” she exclaimed, shielding her eyes with her hand so she could see us in the sun. I nodded. “I’m Arlene Allison, and that’s my daughter Jeanine, back in the car,” she offered with a friendly smile. “We couldn’t wait to meet you, so we came out to find you! When you get to our feed shop in Kingman, we’ll walk your horse and mule over to the fairgrounds where our horses live.”

It sounded like an easy ride to Kingman, and it was nice to know the Allisons would be waiting for us. When Arlene and Jeanine drove away, it felt good to be able to enjoy the day’s ride, free from worry about where we’d find water or a place to stay. But as we followed the twists and turns of the road, I felt a little twinge of sadness. The last few days had been an interesting mix of the forgotten lanes of old Route 66 and the wildness of the trails up in the hills. I’d felt separate from the busy human world and very connected with the rugged landscape.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about leaving that yet.

Traffic increased as we neared town. When Rainy stopped with no cue from me, I knew why: Someone had gotten out of a car across the road and was aiming a camera at us. Rainy and Amanda waited with ears pricked forward, looking directly at the camera. Gypsy, who was riding in the saddle with me, focused forward, ears up. When they heard the distinct click of the camera shutter, the animals all relaxed and Rainy started forward again, without a cue from me.

Rainy, Gypsy, and Amanda’s actions were the comical result of the many times they’d been photographed on our journey. Whenever we were in a scenic area or at a landmark, I positioned my animals, told them to stay, and took a picture. Countless others had taken our photo, too: reporters, tourists, friends. The result was my three smart animals had learned the drill. When someone pointed a camera, they posed.

Gypsy was the biggest ham of all. If only Rainy and Amanda were being photographed, she’d usually sneak into the picture. And, of course, people found it funny that she rode in the saddle. “Can I get a picture of the dog riding the horse?” was a common request. Gypsy had had her picture taken so many times, and been praised for it, that now when she saw someone with a camera, she faced the person, model-ready, head held high and proud. She wouldn’t budge until she heard that click.

DECISION

In Kingman, the whole Allison family—Arlene and husband Bob, Jeanine, and her brother Shawn—greeted me. Shawn and Jeanine walked me to the local fairgrounds where Amanda and Rainy would stay for the night.

As we sat sharing a meal, I looked around at the family’s friendly faces. I recognized that strange bit of luck that happens as we travel: sometimes, things fall into place perfectly. I got the feeling that meeting up with the Allisons was one of those special connections that was meant to be.

Arlene was so intrigued by our cross-country horseback journey that she seemed to adopt it as her cause.

“New York to California,” she mused over bites of dinner. “Wow. You know you’re almost to California now, don’t you?”

I nodded.

“So where in California are you riding to? Where are you stopping?”

I felt Gypsy, lying across my feet under the table as I took a deep breath. Maybe it was the fact that the border of California was not so far away, and I had to acknowledge it sooner or later. Maybe it was the warmth that I felt in the Allisons’ home. Whatever the reason, for the first time, I said the words out loud.

“We’re stopping at Needles.”

Arlene looked surprised. “Needles! That’s not too far away!”

I nodded again.

“This is so exciting, that we get to be part of this!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands.

It was a sweet thing to say, and I smiled at her as I explained that from studying my maps, I’d learned that Needles was the first town we would come to once we crossed the border into California. Beyond that was desert in every direction. My gambles with water—for my animals and for me—would reach a new level of danger if we continued west from Needles.

I had other reasons, too, but for now, just saying the decision out loud was enough.

KINGMAN

Arlene was a planner, and she took my haphazard approach of dealing with things as they came as a personal challenge. She and I, along with Bob, sat at their kitchen table with maps, a list, and the phone.

“From here,” Bob explained, “there’s no way to get to California without crossing the Colorado River. You’re probably going to have to cross at Davis Dam.”

Arlene shook her head. “I don’t know if a horse can go that way,” she said.

“Who’s going to stop her?” Bob exclaimed with a shrug. “And it’s not that bad. The road is wide across the dam, and this time of year, on a weekday, there’s not much traffic. It’s the only way. I don’t think they’ll have a problem riding across.”

“What about the mountains?” Arlene worried.

Bob looked at me.

“To get into Nevada and California, you have to go over mountains that border the Colorado River. Then you start the downhill ride to the desert floor on the other side. I think your best bet is to stay on 68 after Golden Valley, and climb up through Union Pass.” Bob paused. “It’s a rough road, steep and winding, but there’s little traffic up that way. You guys should be all right.”

There was no way to prepare for everything, but knowing a little of what to expect was a good thing. I appreciated that the Allisons were making arrangements for places to stay, and it was touching to see how much it all worried Arlene.

I had learned on my journey that riding through a town could be either stressful or fun, and seeing the rest of Kingman on our way out the next day was enjoyable. We walked down Main Street through the downtown business area. I wanted to slow things down a little, now that I knew California was not too far ahead, and every time we got stopped to answer questions or pose for a picture, I took my time and visited with the people who wished us well.

Gypsy rode in the saddle as we headed toward the outskirts of town and the road to Golden Valley. As we passed through the last of the business area, I pondered what it was that made small Western cities like Kingman so likable. Was it the way they maintained strong ties to their heritage, with the rodeo or fairgrounds right in the middle of town? Was it because you were more likely to encounter people who were glad to see a horse and mule in town than those who would grumble about livestock not belonging on city streets?

The storefronts in Kingman were right up against the sidewalk, so I looked into the windows from my perch in the saddle. We passed one outdoor gear store where the lights were off. I stopped Rainy and Amanda and leaned over to read the handwritten note tacked on the shop door.

Gone fishin’. Be back Thursday.

I smiled as we rode out of town.

HAUNTED

South and west of Kingman, the land revealed itself as true desert. It was open and flat, but in every direction, hard jagged mountains were visible. The sun dipped behind the giant hills of rock, draining the light from the day before it should.

I reached Golden Valley and located Dennis and Sandy, contacts through the Allisons. Dennis explained that, at the moment, they lived in a small camper while they poured their resources into finding old buildings throughout the West. They moved the structures to their land and restored them to their original state, hoping to eventually recreate a Western town that they would open as a tourist stop. I could see past their camper where a couple old structures stood: one made with clay walls and wooden beams, and another, a small cabin-like shack. A red-and-white horse dozed in a nearby corral.

“Our camper is really small,” Sandy said apologetically. “We thought you’d probably be more comfortable in one of the other buildings.”

We walked to the structure closest to the corral.

“We think this might have been a miner or prospector’s cabin,” said Dennis, tapping the wooden floor with his boot. “It’s in pretty good shape.”

The place was maybe twelve by twelve feet, empty but for a piece of plywood, leaning against the wall. The one window had no glass in it, but it looked like they’d swept the room, and it was clean and dry.

“This will be fine,” I assured them.

After Dennis and Sandy grilled burgers for dinner, I walked with Gypsy to the little building by the corral. No moon lit the night, and it was very dark inside the cabin. I dragged my packs in and looked around with the beam of my flashlight. I set up my sleeping bag near the window so I could look out at Rainy and Amanda, then peeled off my jeans and crawled into my sleeping bag. Gypsy thumped down beside me. My lantern cast a small circle of light onto my journal, and my small radio played quietly.

Most of my life I had dealt with insomnia, even as a child, but this trip had cured it. I supposed it was because I was out in the wind and the sun all day. Whatever the reason, even in the unusual places we often found ourselves, sleep came to me pretty quickly.

My head got heavy. I turned off the lantern and turned the radio down to a low murmur. I slept a while before a weird sound jarred me awake. It was the radio—it sounded like it was losing its station. It sounded like English, then gibberish, as signals from different stations came and went. It faded then got loud, as if some invisible thumb was twirling the dials.

Gypsy raised her head and looked at me as I picked up the radio and shook it. I turned it off and lay back down.

I wasn’t sure how much time had passed when I was awakened again. I stayed very still, waiting for some sense of what it was that had brought me to wakefulness.

Something was scratching at the side of the cabin.

What could be making the noise? The scratching sounded like a branch when the wind causes it to scrape against a building. But there was no wind blowing. There were no trees around.

I tightened my grip on the edge of my sleeping bag. Gypsy unwound herself from her curled-up position and sat upright. It must be some kind of desert rat or something, I told myself. Of all people, I shouldn’t be bothered by nature noises at night.

Suddenly, I sat up, pulling the sleeping bag up to my neck. Knock knock. A new sound. Then, louder: KNOCK KNOCK.

It continued: A couple knocks, followed by silence, then scratching again. Then there was a rattle—not like a rattlesnake but like the outside door clattering.

Gypsy jumped to her feet. She cocked her head sideways, listening, then tipped her nose in the air like she was checking a scent. She began pacing. I was more frightened when she moved away from my side.

“Gypsy!” I whispered frantically. “Gypsy!”

I wanted my dog next to me, but for some reason, I was afraid to make any noise. She came to me and sat on the edge of the sleeping bag, but whined nervously. I slid my hand out of the bag and laid it on her. My breathing was shallow and fast.

Suddenly Gypsy darted over to one of the empty corners of the cabin. The hair along her back stood on end. She growled and snapped her teeth while looking at the corner as if something was there.

I squeezed my eyes shut—I didn’t want to see. I was afraid to move, paralyzed with fear, terrified of something I couldn’t see or understand.

Gypsy came back to me, but she was agitated, turning back to the same corner and growling. I didn’t know what to do.

I heard the scraping noise again. Then the plywood sheet leaning against the wall came crashing down on top of me!

I screeched without meaning to, shoving the wood off and leaping to my feet. I was shaking, and my legs felt like they wouldn’t hold me up. Holding the sleeping bag in front of me, I bolted across the room and out the door.

I didn’t know what might be outside but nothing would keep me in that old cabin a moment longer. I ran the few steps to the corral where Rainy and Amanda were. They were spooked, too, snorting and trotting from end to end of their enclosure. Rainy came over to me, Amanda right behind him, both of them restless and jumpy, unlike most nights—they were usually tired and took advantage of the opportunity to rest.

I climbed onto the top rail and wrapped the sleeping bag around my shoulders. Gypsy stayed right near my feet, and Rainy and Amanda stood close by. We all drew comfort from each other, feeling safer together. We remained in our huddle for a long time, until the sun came up over the desert, turning everything red and casting shadows around the old cabin.

I was packed and ready to leave when the morning brightened enough to see well. Dennis asked me how I slept, and not wanting to be impolite, I said, “Okay.” In the light of day, I didn’t know how to explain the night’s events and not sound crazy.

Dennis saddled up the pinto to ride with us for a ways. I was quiet and distracted, my rational, logical side busy trying to come up with an explanation for the strange happenings inside the cabin. I decided to bring it up cautiously with Dennis.

“What did you say that cabin I slept in was used for?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“Well, we were told it was an old miner’s cabin,” he replied. “But I was going to ask you. I thought maybe you’d know more about it than me.”

I stared at him. What did that mean? Had he had a weird experience in the cabin, too? Had he expected something to happen out there?

“Why would I know anything about the history of the cabin?”

I tried to gauge his reaction, looking for clues, but he just shrugged and said, “I don’t know.” It seemed Dennis was done talking, as he was quiet for a minute before suddenly reining his horse around and announcing, “Well, time to head back. Hope it all goes well for you.”

Then he rode away, east, back to his place.

BLACK MOUNTAINS

The road leaving Golden Valley was straight and flat and pretty easy going for Rainy and Amanda. But in my line of vision rose the rough-looking Black Mountain Range, looming up in front of us. We were riding right toward those mountains.

The Black Mountain Range was what had Arlene Allison worried for us: The narrow road over the mountains, the continual steep climb until we reached the summit, and the tough walk down the western side.

It felt like I’d ridden several miles when the road started to rise, and we found ourselves in rough territory of rocks and jagged formations. We worked our way upward without the bother of traffic, though this added to a sense of isolation in the rugged, lonely place.

I got off and walked—it was enough of an effort for Rainy and Amanda to work at the steep ascent, carrying the packs and saddles. When at last it seemed we’d reached the highest point, there was a wide spot of gravel off to one side of the road, and I led the animals over to take a look at the view.

From the height of the pass I could see for miles and miles. It took my breath away. Slivers of the Colorado River wound through the valley below, and imposing peaks rose all around, the grays and blacks of the stone mountains contrasting with startlingly blue glimpses of water and sky. It was a picture of stark but incredible beauty.

I inhaled sharply. I knew the mountains on the other side of the water were in Nevada. And beyond that? The farther peaks? Could they be in California?

I thought of the Mojave Indians who must have worn the first footpaths over this pass, then later the miners and prospectors, climbing their way through, working toward their dreams. I kept one arm slung over Rainy’s neck while his breathing slowed back to normal. A deep wave of emotion rose in me at seeing the land we’d been chasing for so many months.

Rainy, Gypsy, Amanda, and I had found our way here. Now we were connected in our own way to this place, to the footsteps of a thousand other journeys, to the dreams of other dreamers, and to the land, harsh and stunning, that lay below us and before us.

WILD WATCHERS

I mounted up, and we began our long and careful downhill trek. Surrounded by peaks and cliffs and odd-shaped rocks, distance was hard to judge. We followed the road, trusting it would take us where we needed to go. I avoided the edges, which were high and open to a long, steep drop. It felt desolate in the barren, craggy cliffs, as if we were the only creatures around.

Observant, sensitive Rainy was usually the first to notice anything out of the ordinary, catching the slightest movement or change in our surroundings. But this time, it was Amanda who gave a little tug on her lead rope as we walked the narrow roadway. I turned to see what had caused her to pull on the lead, but my eyes caught nothing other than rocks and mountains.

A few steps later, Amanda stopped. Again, she was looking toward the peaks to the south of the road. This time I waited, watching her watch the ridge. The stillness and patience I’d learned from the animals paid off.

Up above us, four wild burros looked over the side of their rocky perch. The sight of the long donkey faces crowned with impressive ears pleased my spirit. I’d heard that wild Mustangs and burros roamed this unpopulated area of the desert Southwest, but I’d figured it was too much to hope for that we’d ever catch a glimpse of them. A moment with the wild burros felt like a gift, and it was thanks to Amanda.

“Those’re your cousins up there, ’Manda,” I whispered. She kept her gaze on the four burros, her own lovely ears pointing their way. I was happy to remain still for as long as the wild equines and my domestic ones remained curious about each other. I hoped to let the moment go on as long as possible.

DAVIS DAM

The same two-lane road that wound over the mountain pass led us to the impressive structure of Davis Dam, one of two that harnessed the Colorado River, creating Lake Mead and Lake Mohave. To get any farther, my animals and I had to walk across the top of the massive wall that made up the dam.

I assessed the situation. The size and magnitude of Davis Dam were impressive. It was big and intimidating. On our side I could see a power station, a parking area, and a car with a security logo on it. I didn’t spot anyone on foot, though cars and trucks were driving across. They slowed down when they saw our little caravan, and the drivers and passengers stared and waved.

The road across the dam looked wide with some shoulder lane, just as Bob Allison had promised. There was a sturdy barrier along the edge, which made me feel a little better about riding along the top of a high wall. My animals had crossed many bridges: high, low, wide, and narrow. I didn’t think what was below mattered to Rainy and Amanda. As long as they didn’t sense danger, they would treat the dam like any other part of the road, if I asked them to. Such was our faith in each other.

I looked back over my shoulder at the road behind us, then ahead again. When no cars were coming from either direction, I gave a little squeeze with my legs, and we began our long, high walk.

Some surprising incongruities were to be found in Arizona, and now it seemed ironic to think of how much time I had spent searching for and worrying about water. The same road that had led us through sandy desert devoid of water took us to this place where we could literally stand above billions of gallons of it.

If I’d read my map right, the state line between Arizona and Nevada was partway across the Colorado River. With no vehicles in sight, I stopped and took it all in: The road across the giant dam and the water below. The sharp-edged mountains, surrounding everything. I fixed the way it looked and felt in my mind.

“Okay, guys,” I said, patting Rainy’s neck, laying my hand on Gypsy’s back. We stepped forward and into Nevada.

CASINO NIGHT, LAUGHLIN

In Kingman, people had described Laughlin as “a mini Las Vegas, but with a river.” It was accurate, as long as the emphasis was on the “mini” part. The Colorado River was a presence in Laughlin, flowing along one side of the “strip,” which held only a few casinos. Other than that, it didn’t really even look like a city.

I rode in on a quiet road in open desert—no houses, schools, or stores in sight. Then suddenly we were in the mini-sprawl near the casinos and hotels, with the accompanying lights and neon. Bright signs enticed people to come inside. Cars passed up and down the street. Where did they come from? I wondered. My animals and I dodged in and out of traffic.

In the middle of Laughlin’s bustling strip was a casino called the Crystal Palace. I had to laugh when I saw the marquee out front, which read: “Welcome Missy, Raindance, Gypsy, and Amanda.”

I turned Rainy in at the place, pleased to have the nice welcome but unsure what to do. It didn’t look like accommodation for a horse and mule.

I didn’t stand outside feeling unsure for long. A man hurried toward us, saying, “Come on out back!” I jumped off and followed him around the side of the casino. We stopped at a pen, built right in the parking area. There were shavings thick on the ground for Rainy and Amanda’s tired feet. The hastily built enclosure was not far from the kitchen door where several women in waitress outfits were standing, smoking. They came to say hi to Rainy and Amanda, and cooed and fussed over Gypsy.

“There’s a room inside for you,” the man who greeted us told me. “Everything you need while here is compliments of the Crystal Palace. Enjoy your stay.”

In the evening, Bob and Arlene Allison drove over and joined me for dinner, admitting they were the force behind the wonderful welcome. As we enjoyed our meal together in the hotel restaurant, I was paged over the loudspeaker to take a call from the Chamber of Commerce; then, paged again for another call from the radio station KBAS, who arranged an interview over at the Colorado Belle. People approached our table throughout the evening to say hello and offer good wishes, and the hotel picked up our tab.

When the Allisons had headed back to Kingman, I retrieved Gypsy from my hotel room for an evening ramble. We went out to Rainy and Amanda’s pen where they were working on some hay. Both of them raised their heads in greeting as I stroked their necks. I heard cars passing on the street out front, the hum of electricity, and the muffled sound of voices. For the first time in a long while, I felt a touch of moisture in the night air from the nearby river.

I couldn’t really see the stars—there were too many competing lights from the little strip. In Laughlin, there were wheelers and dealers, people who rode the Colorado and docked their boats, and others who drove in with campers and RVs. And there stood Rainy and Amanda, having arrived the old-fashioned way, as if stepping in from a different time. We’d had evenings by railroad tracks, in barns, boxcars, and backyards, but behind the casino was perhaps the oddest place yet that my horse and mule had spent a night.

A security guard came over to talk. “Don’t worry about them,” he said, gesturing toward Rainy and Amanda. “There’s security at the back door all night. We’ll keep an eye on them.”

“Thanks.” I smiled at him in appreciation. “That’s good to know.”

Suddenly, I realized I didn’t see Gypsy.

“Where’s my dog?” I interrupted the guard, who was telling me about Laughlin. “Where’s my dog?”

The man took his foot off the bottom rung of the pen where he’d been leaning and stepped back, looking around.

“She can’t be far. Probably right around here.”

I hurried toward the front of the casino, panicked at the thought of the busy street. I broke into a run, calling, “Gypsy! Gypsy!” There was no sign of her out front, no sense of disruption in the street. I ran around the back again. The guard was shining his flashlight around some parked cars, looking for her.

Gypsy never let me out of her sight. I fought a sinking feeling, jogging to the back entrance to ask if anyone had seen her.

As soon as I stepped into the kitchen, I stopped short. In one corner, the waitresses had made a pile of soft tablecloths. Sprawled like a canine queen in the middle was my dog. Her belly looked distinctly more round than it had twenty minutes before.

With relief, I said her name out loud: “Gypsy!” The pup lifted her head and looked at me, thumping her tail a time or two, then let her head fall back onto the bed of tablecloths.

With her extended belly and lethargic reaction, I worried for a second that she had eaten something bad that had made her sick. I knelt to pet her, and as usual, she rolled over so I could scratch her stomach. One waitress looked at me, commenting, “She’s so sweet! We love her!”

I nodded my head, still rubbing Gypsy’s belly. “She’s the best. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

“And she sure likes prime rib, doesn’t she?”

That solved the fat-belly-and-lethargy mystery.

“So, she’s had some prime rib, has she?” I asked.

“She came in the back door all by herself and sat down and watched us. We gave her all kinds of stuff. She doesn’t grab at it or bite your hand; she just waits nicely until you hand it to her. She’s so sweet and smart, too.”

“She’s definitely smart,” I agreed.

Gypsy raised her head again, making sure I was still there. She wagged her tail against the tablecloths as she once more let her head fall back down. I swear if she could have, she would have winked at me.

NEVADA SILVER

On our second day’s ride in Nevada’s brushy, sandy terrain, a worn and battered pickup slowed to a stop and a young guy hopped out. In dusty boots and faded jeans, he strode over to where we stood on the side of the road.

“I heard your interview on the radio,” he said as a way of introduction. “I think it’s great what you’re doing.”

“Thanks,” I answered. “It means a lot to hear things like that.”

He nodded in acknowledgment. “I own a silver mine, up between Jean and Searchlight.”

“Wow, that’s cool.”

“Not getting much yet.” He shrugged. “But who knows.” The guy paused, and then: “I want to give you something to welcome you to the state of Nevada.” He handed me a small, red velvet bag. The pouch was heavy, substantial. Inside were four silver coins.

“Nevada is the Silver State,” he went on. “Now you have silver to remember it by. Who knows…maybe you’ll give them to your kids someday.”

I was struck by the gesture, made even more meaningful that he’d given me four coins. Four was my lucky number. Four winds, four seasons, four directions. I was one of four children. My little traveling troupe numbered four friends.

I’d received a lot of good luck charms and tokens from people on my trip—so many, in fact, that I couldn’t carry them all. I had mailed some things home along the way. The four silver coins, though, had a special meaning. I’d keep them right in my saddlebag.

SIGN IN THE DESERT

The last few days had brought remarkable changes in the environment, from the imposing mountains where I bundled in flannel, to a drop in elevation of several thousand feet, back down to the heat of the desert floor. My cold-weather clothes were rolled up and stashed in the saddle packs once again. The vegetation was sparse, spread in clusters on the sand. Our two-lane road through the southernmost part of Nevada was paved, but little traveled and usually empty of vehicles.

We headed out early in the morning. We were in our zone, steady and quiet as we walked. Among the ridges of sand and the clusters of spiky succulents, I noticed a shape that stood out, the lines too straight to be made in nature. The vertical column was set away from the road, and a faint trail led to it. The column looked like it was made of metal, though oxidation had turned it a dark burnished shade. Words were carved on its side.

I jumped down onto the sand. Rainy and Amanda stood where I dropped the reins; Gypsy was at my feet. I reached my hand to the monument, which jutted out from a concrete base and was taller than me, now that I was on foot.

On one side, carved in large block letters, was the word “NEVADA.” I stepped around the base to the other side, squinting in the sun.

It said, “CALIFORNIA.”

I traced the letters with my fingers, then let my hand drop to Gypsy’s head beside me. I stepped back to rub Rainy’s forehead, then Amanda’s.

I looked around the state boundary monument, as if I might be able to make out a real line or something else of significance. But there was only the desert. The very air was bright, quiet, and golden.

There was not another soul around for miles.

Rainy, Gypsy, Amanda, and I stood together.

After all the news reporters and photographs, the attention, and all the people who had helped us, wished us well, and wondered if we’d make it, it was just us four, out in this place, alone. It felt somehow fitting that an unobtrusive marker on the desert floor showed where the final state line was being crossed. Despite that occasional excitement to indicate progress, for all the months and all the miles we’d traveled, it had really just been us four, out here, making our footprints on the earth together.

I got my camera from the packs and took pictures of my friends near the California side of the marker. They stood patiently, like they always did when a camera was pointed at them. I hugged each of them.

“We did it, guys,” I said.

I put my foot back in the stirrup and climbed into the saddle. I looked at the desert all around us, the mountains in the distance.

The breezes that had been our constant companions were still. It was just me and my dearest friends, the land we stood upon, the desert stillness, and the sky we rode under.

We were in California.

NEAR

The long road from the Nevada-California line veered close again to the Colorado River, changing the foliage and the scent in the air. I followed trails near the west bank, which rolled along to our left as we now traveled on the California side.

The trails brought us near unexpected strips of vegetation. Gnats and other insects suddenly filled the air. The oasis of green tempted Rainy and Amanda. Any time we stopped, they lowered their heads immediately to taste the shoots of grass.

For the better part of a year now, people had seen Rainy and Amanda all packed up and asked, “Where are you going?” My response—“California”—had invariably gotten a surprised or skeptical reaction. I was not sure what I would say if someone stopped and asked that question now. We were in California. Needles, the town I had chosen as our final destination, was not far away. I didn’t have the words to describe what I was feeling with the end of our journey so near. A California morning began like all the other days: I got up early and thanked the Deasons, the family who’d let us stay at their place for the night. I fed and brushed and saddled Rainy and then Amanda. I balanced the saddle packs. Then I mounted up and we rode out, heading west. The morning sun shone down on us. Gypsy ran free, as the road was ours in the quiet morning hours. Yes, it was just like other mornings on the trip, yet different.

I had a sense of heightened awareness—of feeling things more deeply than ever. The sky seemed more intensely blue, the few feathery clouds a purer white. A desert bird flitted behind a cactus, startled by us, and I noticed the light speckles of its wing feathers and how small and delicate it looked in contrast to its surroundings.

The desert was a quiet place to ride. It was a much quieter natural place than the woods, where streams gurgled and leaves rustled and birds chirped. The life in the desert was hidden and required stillness and silence to observe.

Rainy’s solid clip-clop and Amanda’s more delicate tap-tap and the creak of the saddle leather formed the music I lived by; it matched the beat of my heart. I’d felt connected to our surroundings for a while now, but the last few days had also brought a sense of peace and belonging, as if the land and the sky and the road we traveled were all a part of us, and we were now a part of all that was. It was us alone out here, yet not alone. After all that we’d experienced, how could I not feel that all of us were weavings from the same cloth?

Far ahead of us, I thought I saw a distant shape, but with the lay of the land and the tricks of the light, it didn’t last. Then I registered the out-of-place noise of a helicopter, although the sound was very distant. Not long after, a lone car approached from the west. My eyes noted the black-and-white paint and lights on top—a police car.

My imagination ran wild with possibilities: Was a search on for someone missing in the desert? Was a posse out looking for a criminal on the run?

When the squad car was at last near us, it pulled to the roadside, careful to keep two wheels on the pavement. A young policeman stepped out.

“Hey there!” he called. “They’re looking for you up ahead.”

“They are? Who?” I asked, puzzled.

“Local saddle club. They’re riding out to escort you into town.”

I squinted into the distance ahead but didn’t see anything.

“Okay,” I acknowledged with a nod, unsure of what else to say.

“I’ll meet you that way,” he replied, pointing down the road. The policeman got into his car, made a U-turn, and headed back the way he’d come.

Rainy started to walk again. Town was just up ahead? I felt a whirl of emotion. The winds of change had just blown through the quiet morning.

When I saw what I now knew were the figures of horses and riders, still small in the distance, I stopped Rainy and covered my mouth with the palm of my hand, as if that could contain or hold back all that I was feeling. Gypsy, who’d been roaming around, came and sat beside Rainy, looking up at me, her eyes asking, What should we do? Are we ready for this?

I didn’t know.

When I finally squeezed my legs slightly, as always, Rainy stepped forward, Amanda fell into her place beside us, and Gypsy trotted along at their heels. We moved on. We rode forward toward whatever was waiting on the road ahead of us, like we always did.

NEEDLES, CALIFORNIA

On the outskirts of the little town of Needles, California, I met up with the policeman and a small group of horses and their riders. I heard a friendly cheer as we rode into view.

I had only a moment to bury my emotions. Then I greeted everyone and smiled while they offered congratulations and peppered me with questions.

“We’re going to escort you as you ride into town!” one young rider excitedly informed me.

Another asked if I would ride to the local radio station for an interview. I said yes—I had no other plan in place, no real idea what I would do when I reached Needles.

The policeman turned on his lights but no siren, and the saddle club and I fell into a loose formation behind him as he drove slowly toward the edge of town.

Cars were pulled over to watch us parade by. To my utter amazement, the children of the elementary school had been let out to greet us, and they lined the side of the road, waving and cheering as we rode in. The horses of the saddle club members, many of them Arabians, snorted and pranced nervously in all the excitement. Rainy and Amanda walked on calmly. Crowds? Cars? Noise? No big deal. I reached to pat them both, immensely proud of them for the millionth time.

Of the many miles we’d traveled, most of them had been just Rainy, Gypsy, Amanda, and me, alone together. And yet this was how we walked the last miles of our journey: with a police and mounted escort, and a large noisy group of people and horses. Overhead, I heard the helicopter again.

I pushed back at the overwhelming feeling inside of an ending taking place, and I let all the other things I was feeling rise to the surface: pride, happiness, a sense of accomplishment, the excitement at seeing all the different people who had come to cheer us on through the last steps of making my dream come true. I smiled and waved, let people take pictures, and tried to call out answers to all the questions being shouted at me.

We rode up to the radio station in our dusty glory. I was delighted to spy the grinning faces of the Allisons—of course, these wonderful people had planned most of this. Several reporters stood by with notebooks, microphones, and cameras. A crowd of well-wishers waited for me to jump down off Rainy.

I hesitated to move from the saddle. I was suddenly hit again by the enormity of it ending. I fought back tears.

Then I dismounted.

I hugged Rainy’s neck, hiding my face for a moment. Then I hugged Amanda, too, and Gypsy. Everyone laughed and clapped and cameras clicked.

But this was what I did with my animals all the time.

Leading Rainy, I walked over to a table that had been set out for the occasion. On it was a sheet cake, decorated with a trail of hoof prints and words that read, “New York to California. Congratulations Missy, Rainy, Gypsy, and Amanda.” There was also a bottle of champagne with my name on it, two silver buckets full of grain, and a big dog bone.

I threw my arms around Bob and Arlene Allison, and Shawn and Jeanine, too, overwhelmed by all that they had done.

There was a wild gust of wind and a thumping sound, and we all watched as the helicopter landed, right in the parking lot, the familiar logo of ABC on its side. The door opened, and out stepped Dan, microphone ready, looking great in a suit. Rick followed with his camera. I hugged both of them, too, laughing and crying at the same time.

I suddenly knew it was time to call my family and tell them we’d made it—we were in California. The radio station disc jockey, Pete, was orchestrating interviews and a local broadcast of the event. He arranged for my call home to feed live on-air.

With the time difference, I would just catch my mom at the end of her workday back East. She taught at the elementary school I had attended as a child. Since I’d started my journey in the spring, the school had displayed a map of the United States, and the kids had tracked my progress with pushpins. Classes talked a little about the geography and history related to each part of the country I’d traveled through. In this way, everyone at my old school had followed our progress all these months.

I called the principal’s office, and after offering his own congratulations, he hooked his phone up to the public-address system so the whole school could hear as my mom got on the phone.

“Hello? Missy?” She sounded tentative and worried, as she had always sounded throughout this trip, unsure what a call from me might mean.

“Mom? It’s me. I’m calling to tell you…well, guess where we are.” Then I blurted it out: “WE DID IT! WE’RE IN CALIFORNIA!”

Over the phone, across thousands of miles, I heard the voices of the school children at Horace Mann Elementary rise up in one giant unified cheer.

That’s when I started to really cry. I put my face in my hands and wept. I couldn’t help it.

When I got ahold of myself, I looked up to see I’d made everyone else cry, too: Pete the DJ had turned off his microphone, tears were streaming down Arlene’s cheeks, and even Dan had turned away and was pretending to fiddle with some wires.

Pete, knowing it was time to lighten the mood, announced: “Here’s a song for Missy and the horse that walked across the United States!” On came “Celebrate” by Kool and the Gang, and everyone relaxed and started laughing and talking again.

Throughout a celebratory luncheon, speeches, and toasts, I kept going over to check on my animals. I was antsy to get back to them.

Arrangements had been made with Judy Browder, a photographer in town, who offered her barn and pens for Rainy and Amanda. Gypsy and I had a room at the Best Western for as long as we needed it. I would forever be grateful to all those who had planned and attended the celebration. It meant the world to me that my animals and I had been so honored by the day’s festivities. But I needed some time alone with my traveling companions. I was a little overwhelmed.

I took a lead rope in each hand and called to Gypsy, and we walked. The familiar sound of hooves on pavement and the nearness of my best friends restored the natural balance in me. I knew that a place just outside town had a monument honoring the early pioneers who crossed the country and came to this part of California. We headed in that direction.

A carved bear, the California state symbol, was at the top of the plaque embedded in stone. For the last time, I said to Rainy, Gypsy, and Amanda, “Go stand by that monument; I’ll take your picture.”

Through the viewfinder of the camera, I saw the small monument. There was brush and sand and desert behind it. Beside that stood a little mule, still carrying our packs, still feeling that all was right as long as she was beside Rainy. I saw my mixed-breed dog, my constant companion who slept in my sleeping bag and cheered me when I felt lonely. It was not my imagination that she looked proud as could be.

And there with them stood the greatest horse that ever lived. The horse who never faltered, never hesitated. The horse who led us all on an arduous journey across this great and vast land. The horse who gave me stories to tell and who carried me and my dream, and made it come true.

I saw my most beloved friends.

It didn’t seem possible for one heart to hold so much love and happiness, and sadness, too, all at the same time.

I took the picture. At the click of the shutter, my friends all moved toward me.

ABOUT ENDING…

Needles, California, was where my animals and I stopped our westward wandering. But it’s not where our story ended.

I chose Needles as our final destination for several reasons. The Mojave Desert was to the west, where I knew our struggles with water would reach a new level. We’d also been on the road almost seven months, and it had been a time filled with joy, but some of it had been really hard. Traveling in the way we had could be scary and dangerous and very lonely. It was a fair price to pay for the freedom we found, the days in the wild, the feeling of the road unrolling before us, and getting to know the wide expanse of country as viewed from the back of a wonderful horse.

Once in a while, I daydreamed about resting a while, then doing another trip with my companions. Then I got the feeling that maybe I’d be pushing our luck to try. Luck and fate had been on our side for so long, I felt almost superstitious about it—like it would be too much to ask for more.

And there was Rainy. The weight-loss and lack of gleam in his coat had worried me all through Arizona. I had the veterinarian in Needles check the animals over and was relieved to hear there was nothing wrong with my horse; he was okay. He’d suffered no real ill effects from the many miles he’d walked and the adventures he’d been a part of. But I knew there was more to good horse care than him just being “okay.” The vet agreed that Rainy would benefit from time off, some easy trail riding, and a steady diet that wasn’t changing all the time.

Rainy had proven over and over again that he was incredibly willing and full of heart. He would have kept going, I was sure, if I’d asked it of him. But that evening, up in the Arizona hills, when he laid his head on my chest, I knew he was telling me something. That very night I looked at my map, judging the distance to California, and tried to figure out the first town we’d come to in the state. All I had to do was pick a place and say we did it—we rode from New York to California. Needles was “California enough” for us.

Amanda, of course, looked about the same as the day she screeched and ran toward Rainy in the Kees’ pasture back in Kansas. I had no doubt that if the rest of us were up to it, she would easily have gone on, crossed the desert, traversed the West Coast, and trod on in her steady way to Oregon and Washington, up to Alaska, and right through to the Yukon.

And as for Gypsy—the vet confirmed what I’d suspected for weeks, more news that meant our journey was ending at the right time. My little dog was, indeed, pregnant.

“Don’t worry,” he said after palpating her belly. “A dog’s gestation is a little more than two months. Sometimes animals will wait if they can and have their babies in a place that feels safe and comfortable to them—like home.”

I thought about the unplanned mating at the trading post and wondered how much time we had.

As we rested in Needles, I hopped on Rainy bareback for short, easy jaunts into the desert surrounding the Browders’ home. It was a good way to spend time with him and help me deal with my uneasy feelings about re-entering “the real world.” I made a lot of phone calls and wrote a lot of letters, too. Many people had helped us get to California, and I wanted them all to share in the joy of our success. I was reminded by many in reply that we had a place to stay or a trailer ride for part of the way back if we needed it.

I was blessed. I knew this. I felt that for a while, Rainy, Gypsy, Amanda, and I were truly America’s children.

During all the excitement when we first rode into town, reporters had asked me, “How are you going to get back home?” When I replied, “I have absolutely no idea,” it produced a wave of laughter—they thought I was kidding. I wasn’t. I believed the right thing would present itself, and sure enough, after our little time of respite, things came together.

I wish I could write another book about us piecing our way home across the country. Believe it or not, there are more tales to tell. We got a ride in a truck with chickens, goats, and some jolly pot-smoking hippies who drove us to the Route 66 town of Valentine on their way to a commune. Dan borrowed a trailer and met us there, then took us south to Phoenix, where a Quarter Horse trainer was hauling a rig to the Quarter Horse World Show in Oklahoma City, and he had space for Rainy and Amanda on his truck. (A woman screamed, “What the hell is that?” when Amanda stepped off the trailer amongst the world’s top Quarter Horses.) A kind person in Oklahoma, Dave Jolly, boarded Rainy and Amanda at his place until we got a trailer ride from the World Show to Ohio. Butch and Nancy Goodman met us there…and took us all the way home to New York.

The “chain of people” that helped us get to California was the same support system that got us home to New York. Such an abundance of help and kindness was a lesson to me and will color the way I treat others for the rest of my life.

AT “HOME,” IN KANSAS

While we waited for our trailer ride from Oklahoma City, Reid met us and took Gypsy and me to visit Tom and Barb Kee in Yates Center, Kansas. On the second day of our visit, Gypsy made a nest of clothes on the closet floor, plunked down, and started to breathe heavily. I grabbed the phone and called Reid at work.

“Reid! I think Gypsy’s starting to have her puppies! What should I do?”

I heard a somewhat annoying chuckle on the other end of the phone.

“Here’s what I want you to do,” Reid said seriously.

I listened intently.

Then, sounding amused, he said, “Leave her alone.” He laughed, this time without trying to hide it. “Missy, I’m serious. Dogs have been having puppies for many years without you.”

By the time I hung up, the first pup was out. Soon another came, then another, and another. I watched in wonder at how perfectly it all worked. Reid was right: My dog knew just what to do, and so did the pups. When she finally seemed finished, a calm, relaxed Gypsy had delivered a total of ten puppies.

I could hardly tear my eyes away. I watched Gypsy wash them and nudge them, and how the babies squeaked and nursed. Barb joined me, and the two of us sat together, enjoying the little miracle.

“Mercy,” Barb whispered. “I hope she’s done!”

We laughed together, a relieved, joyful laugh. Gypsy looked up and wagged her tail.

Well into the night I sat on the floor near the closet, watching my dog and her babies. It occurred to me I had better call my parents and make sure they still wanted us to come home. I’d left in the spring with a horse and a dog. Now I was heading home with a horse, a dog, a mule, and ten puppies!