The hill at the front of my usual Briones hike once caused me to gasp for breath. It felt near level yesterday. The road was full of horses, and I felt my left thumb ache. Ten years ago I foolishly wrapped reins around my left hand on an easy stretch of fire road in the Berkeley Hills. My ride, an Appaloosa mare, took advantage of my inattention to break into a gallop and jump a small creek. Becky’s mount was walking abreast of us and would not be denied his share of the fun. It is a pretty memory, the four of us gaining speed and leaping across the ditch like that, and so I minded the dislocated thumb a bit less and the chronic low ache makes me grin, a little.
Halfway up the hill I heard hoofbeats: Three riders, their horses running uphill and lathering. They were two chestnuts with an Appaloosa between them, and the spotted horse — an even coat of black pepper on a field of pale gray — stopped short in a spray of stones to examine me, near throwing his rider. A full Nalgene fell from the rider’s backpack. I picked it up, went to hand it to him, but the spotted boy blocked my arm with his face. He would not be denied his forehead-skritching.
“Nice horse,” I said, and the woman on the second chestnut grinned. “He’s a mustang, actually,” she said, and I skritched a bit more firmly mourning his old life in the sagebrush, before the breaking and the saddle blanket and the endless fences. And then they were off at a gallop. When I caught up with them at the top of the hill they were astonished to see me so soon, but yesterday my feet were wings.
And I got home to a letter from a monastery.
One of my strongest childhood memories is seeing brumbies ghosting free throught the trees in the forest on the floor of the Megalong Valley near Katoomba. We were bushwalking with a small group of serious walkers, and they moved off warily but didn’t spook because we weren’t spread out unnecessarily etc.
You never ever forget having seen wild horses. I’m glad you skritched that forehead good, Chris.
lovely story, chris! so, how is kat?
I didn’t know for sure that mustang always meant feral horse, and so I wasn’t clear on what you were saying (or rather what the woman was saying) so I looked it up and in the process found this picture:
yeah, I think I’d never forget seeing something like that.
Drive between Beatty and Tonopah the right time of day in Spring, and you stand a pretty good chance of seeing something much like that.
Oh, and Kat is doing well, and was pleased to find out they have coffee at the monastery after all.
Please tell me you are not
THINKING of RETIRING to a monastery
Shrug. OK, I am not thinking of retiring to a monastery.
The monastery is a Zen monastery, and it’s where CRN co-blogger Kat is living this summer.
Oh, I always love a good horsey story! You are inspiring me to start running (well, actually it’s a very slow jog) again.
No, no need, Kathy. I was a little telegraphic there.