Missy's Bridal

All I wanted was a horse. Not just any horse. I wanted Missy.

A bay Quarter Horse, she belonged to Dale Tackett. He was a cowboy who worked summers as a wrangler on the guest ranch we visited every summer in Sisters, Oregon. Missy was gentle, wise, wicked good with cattle, and worked with a hackamore bridle called a Bosal. She had a light touch and seemed to know what he wanted before he asked it of her.

When I was eight years old I asked my dad if I could have a horse. I could when I was 12, he said, if I wanted to work hard enough to save the money to buy one. By the time I was 12 I had saved $350. On my 12th birthday my parents took me to Sisters for the weekend. The guest ranch was closed for the season, but we stopped by for a visit. Dale met us out by the barn, and after a little small talk, he climbed to the top rail of the fence and gave a long whistle. Over the rise in the field one horse came into view, cantered through the open gate and into the arena. It was Missy.

Dale wanted to sell her. To me. For $350.

Missy, Pistol’s Little Miss, and me. 1967

Missy came with her bridal, the only one I ever used on her, and from the time I was 12 until I left for college, summers were spent working as a wrangler on that same guest ranch. Work started early as the sun came up and didn’t stop until long after dark. The staff bunked near the barn, except for the few weeks that my parents rented a home at a nearby ranch. During that time I stayed with them, riding the several-mile trail through the woods to and from work. In the morning the sun warmed our faces, and at night, we traveled by starlight. It was dark and a little scary for a young girl. Night noises came from tree branches, underbrush, and the footfalls of creatures hidden in the shadows. I remember one night when a pair of yellow eyes followed us most of the way home. Turning my collar up against the chill, there was no moon that night and the woods were darker than usual. I wanted to cry out for help, but there was no one to call. It was just me and my horse, and I was at once grateful when the lights of the ranch house finally appeared, and gratified for braving one more ride home in the dark. It’s the first time I remember the sensation of being afraid and courageous all at the same time. Time in the saddle will do that to you.

On the back of a horse I found freedom and independence at an early age. I learned how to work hard, work long, and work well. Because of her, I am stronger and more courageous. I learned to trust the horse beneath me, knowing that she could see the trail even when I could not. If I lost my way in the woods, she would always get us home. I think Missy knew that I needed her more than she needed me. She saw me through my teenage years that often felt filled with as much pain, loneliness, and angst as laugher, friendship, and fun. Her patience, loyalty, forgiveness, and grace tended to my young heart in ways that even my parents couldn’t.

So many memories are wrapped up in my time spent on the back of my horse, reins held loose and low on her neck. It’s a magical thing how objects connect us to memory. Missy is long gone, but I’ve never been able to let go of that bridal.

Until now.

My great niece, Ashby (named for my mom), has fallen in love with horses too. We are sister hippophiles, and she is about the age when Missy, and her bridal, came into my life.

Now, it’s is time for me to pass the reins to Ashby.

I can’t wait to see where her ride takes her.


Climbing A Mountain

Do you think you two have another climb up Mt. Adams in you?

Because if you do, we want to do it with you.

Translation: We want to get up there with you while you still can.

That conversation last year with our niece and her husband started it all. Tom and I had to think about it, given that we’re not spring chickens anymore. On our morning walk the next day we decided that while we might not have multiple more climbs in us, we probably had at least one. With that in mind we opened the idea up to the rest of the generation behind us, and in the end, three couples threw their hats and hiking boots into the Mt. Adams 2022 ring.

We’ve been training for it for a year, readying ourselves to be strong enough to make the 12.2 mile trek to the 12,281’ summit. Over the course of that climb we would gain 6600 ft of elevation.

However.

You can train all you want and still not make it to the top.

Different obstacles got in the way for different people. Some of the hardest work we did was internal. Can I do this? What if I can’t. How can it be this hard? What if I slow everyone else down? Will I be able to overcome my fear of heights? What if I get altitude sickness? What if my old injury flairs up? What if I’m the weakest link?

In the end we had to come up against those fears, which is what happens in life on and off the mountain. Eventually we have to face them in order to be free of them.

The first day we hiked for eight hours, most of it on soft snow, with 40+ pound packs on our backs. It was a harder, longer day than any of us had anticipated, and as the sun dropped lower in the sky we began to give out. The altitude was having its way with some of us, and it was clear we needed to make camp soon. Apparently my speech was getting very slow, nausea and serious dehydration arrived on our scene, and I knew we were in trouble when Tom couldn’t seem to figure out how to put up our tent.

We found ourselves on a rocky outcrop with just enough room for four tents. Except for the ground beneath our tents, we had to maneuver over uneven boulders and rocks that were just a sprained ankle, broken leg, or worse waiting to happen. The temperature dropped, the light grew dim, and the wind came up. I was reminded, in the way that only nature can illuminate, that we are always hovering between life and death. We are so much smaller than we like to think in the big scheme of things. It’s good to be reminded of that now and then, lest I take myself and my brief presence on the planet too seriously.

At times like these, the best of who we are shows up. Those of us who could, took over for those of us who couldn’t, because that is what love does. While we had worked to get our bodies strong, in the end it was our hearts and our love and commitment to one another that got us up there.

The summit awaited us in the morning.

For the last year we have imagined ourselves at the top, each of us believing that we could do this hard thing. Together, eight of us were going to summit Mt. Adams on Friday, July 15th, 2022.

In the end four did.

I wasn’t one of them.

Stay tuned.

I’m dedicating the next few posts to what I learned by not summiting a mountain.

Being Brave

Here’s a secret that not many people know. Fear and bravery are partners. You can’t be brave without first being afraid.
— From A Boy Like You by Frank Murphy

There is no accounting for fear.

The tiniest of things can trigger the biggest of fears. Take a spider for instance.

For reasons beyond reason, one of these eight-legged arachnids flood my otherwise fierce daughter with the kind of fear that once landed her on her kitchen counter for three hours as she waited for her boyfriend to return home and hunt down the long gone culprit.

That was years ago.

Fast forward to this morning. Her dad and I were sitting on the porch with our coffee when she tried to reach us on FaceTime. I didn’t answer, thinking I would call back in a little while. When a phone call immediately followed, my spidey sense kicked in and I picked up. A Black Widow spider was crawling up the side of her kitchen counter. Blinded by fear, she couldn’t see the forest for the trees. That same boyfriend is now her husband, and it has always been his job to deal with the inevitable spider. A tough situation when he is gone on a business trip. I mean a girl can only stay on a kitchen counter for so long.

Her: (Shaking) There’s a Black Widow climbing up the side of the counter and I don’t know what to do.

Me: Get a roll of pater towels. The whole roll.

Her: (Shaking) I don’t think I can do it.

Me: Yes. You can.

Her: (Still shaking) OK

Me: Get close to it, and smash it with the roll of paper towels.

Her: (Still shaking) OK…It’s done.

As those words came out of her mouth standing in her kitchen a hundred miles away, a herd of elk burst out of the pine woods and across our snow covered field. Heads held high, their steamy breath creating little clouds in the air, we’ve been waiting for a rare closeup glimpse of them all winter. They chose that precise moment to show up. The moment when her seedling of courage burst out of an old-growth fear.

Her: (No longer shaking) I did it!

This is a fear that has gripped her for years. This morning she loosened its grasp and will never be the same again. That’s what happens when we choose to be brave. Sometimes a herd of elk even shows up to celebrate.

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The Road Less Traveled

There is nothing quite as inspiring to me as watching someone choose to take the road less traveled.

The road less traveled is the one that when facing the difficult and painful challenges that life throws in every one of our paths at one time or another, leads them through the difficulty rather than skirting around it.

The road less traveled is the one that while every step may be painful, is the only one that leads to healing and transformation.

The road less traveled is the one that calls upon our courage to keep going in spite of our fear.

Tempting thought it may be to take the well-worn easier route, the road less traveled is always worth the trip.

Always.

Pixabay

Pixabay


Bearing Witness

Today I had the privilege of witnessing courage under fire.

Courage means speaking the truth in the face of attack.

Courage means standing our ground when the earth is crumbling beneath our feet.

Courage means standing in the presence of fear without flinching.

Courage means facing our own demons.

Courage means holding ourselves to account.

Courage means risking losing it all in service to saving our soul.

Acts of courage abound, and when one of us is brave, the rest of us might dare to be so too.

Onward.

Upward.

Together.

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