ON THE PRAIRIE

I know it’s not for everyone, this camping thing — the bugs, the dark nights, at times the heat, the general dirtiness of it all. But I am alive when the wind lightly scratches my face and the fire crackles, watching the colors fade at dusk and listening to the coyotes yammering in the night. I know that I’ll wake in the morning and seeing nothing but earth, and if I stay up late enough I’m bound to see a shooting star.    

AT SAN ANGELO STATE PARK, the spring has brought the wildflowers, and fields of red and yellow burst forth from green stems unable to hold themselves back — the force of nature pushing unabashedly into the light. But it’s cold for May, and the cold runs up my feet, along my spine and into my heart. My marriage has ended, and the world is cloaked in pandemic.

I walk the horse, tipping my head in the wind and lifting it toward the sun. A thin gauze of clouds stretches across the horizon, ribbon of blue sky beneath. Yellow prairie grass waves like thick hair gently brushed, and a jackrabbit darts for cover. The trail slowly transforms from dust to rock as we climb the ridgeline, and we turn to overlook a small pond. In the distance, longhorn cattle browse their way across the prairie, reaching down to crop the grass every few steps. Time slows on the horse, and by day’s end my boots are the color of the trail, and my jeans are wet with sweat and dirt from the horse.

In the evening, the moon competes with the fire for light, each trying to outshine the other. I lean back and stretch with feet forward and glance up to catch a shooting star. The dog sits curled at my side, then suddenly bolts upright, seeing something I do not, nose twitching at a random scent. And somewhere between moon and sun, blue and overcast, warm and cold, I yearn for more — to lean into this beautiful glistening web of nature, and soak.    

AT THE BEACH

TRAVELING ALONE can change you, and over time it did. There’s no one to tell you where to park or what to bring, no one to catch you when you fall, no one to prop you up. After a month on the road and 14 state parks, I am different. I trust myself now, and, more importantly, I love myself. 

The season of alternating sunshine and clouds is over, and a salty breeze wafts across the ocean, waking my senses and gracing me with a smile.

Legs long in the stirrups, I sit watching rivets and washboards form on the beach below. Sun glistens off the wet sand, and with each step there is the crunch of broken shells underneath. I glance down at the shadow of the horse, dog trailing neatly inside, remove my hat and run a hand through my hair. The horse sidesteps, tossing his head at each wave.

At Sea Rim State Park, I camp with my door to the surf and the dunes at my back. Outside the trailer, the horse circles, dropping to a roll, and the beach absorbs any last remaining drop of sweat from our ride. I follow his lead and, with hair twisted up, lie in the sand, not caring about the trail of dirt down my back. I dig my toes in the sand, wiggling them as the water creeps around and through, filling the void I created. I let the dog play, and she returns to me wet and ragged yet smiling.

I have come to thirst for this — living not only in the mind, but in the body. I need it. I had lost myself in the changing narrative of life, in divorce, empty-nesting and pandemic. But in that loss, there was a ground, and from there I started over again.    

IN THE MOUNTAINS

FRANKLIN MOUNTAINS is the last park on my list, and it’s been months since I saddled up. There’s a certain magic about getting on the road after a long absence — nothing but sun on an empty highway. It’s like suddenly feeling well only to realize just how sick you’ve been. I drive past scrub brush pastures where shade trees mark an old homestead. A raven perches on a yucca bloom, and a flash of shimmering red catches my eye as a red racer winds his way across the road.

The craggy peaks of the Franklin Mountains rise above us as I tie the horse, saddle up and stretch to reach the stirrup. Hikers stand aside watching. I rein the horse around and squeeze him forward into a walk.

Slowly, we ease our way into desert wilderness through prickly pear, ocotillo and the sharp, brittle stalks of lechuguilla.

The trail switchbacks down into the foothills and through a dry creek where I stop to let the horse rest, then onward through another small arroyo where we trot up the other side — slowing only as the rock becomes slick. There I tie the reins around his neck and he follows me across, finding his own footing as I search for mine. Remounting, I turn my face to the sun, guessing at the time of day.

We ride through pockets of sunshine, and the horse stops to watch traffic along the distant TransMountain Highway. I dismount and meander alongside him. I love myself better here, in the natural world — the desert, the rivers, the arroyos, the scattered rock along the ridgeline. Back on the horse, I sway side to side, letting my mind run unhindered in the wind.

And I say to my past, to the one I was before, “I don’t think your idea of life was the right way. THIS is the way.” This right way is with desert silhouettes against the sunset, the flip of the horse’s tail, the grass bending and swaying with the wind.

There are no more state parks to ride, and in the completion of this goal I found my bridge, a bridge to the strength and perseverance I always had and never knew. I look down at dirt under jagged fingernails, calluses from leather reins, and I know I’m alive. I know this trail goes up and down, through thick brush, slick rock and cactus, and at the top there’s a view not to be missed. In this I complete myself, something I could not have accomplished by any other means.