Prologue

My father rode his first horse home from Russia, through the mountains of Poland, in a blizzard. She was  a three year old filly named Carolina, a discarded work horse who hadn't known much kindness in her life. I am certain that there was vodka involved in the negotiations. When the border patrol showed up several days later, asking about the mysterious tracks in the freshly fallen snow, my father shrugged and played the fool. Meanwhile, the small, bay mare of partial Arabian breeding sat snug in her stable, working on a pile of hay. The story sticks out to me, years later, along with the image of my mother later galloping the same mare alongside the unpaved mountain roads in an army saddle while the tourists drove their cars alongside and gawked.

I was born in those same mountains some years later. My time there was brief and the memories have long since faded, until I can no longer tell if I remember them at all, or if I just recognize them from the black and white photographs that adorned my walls when I was a teenager, living in an apartment complex and dreaming of a horse of my own. All the same, I feel the pull of the mountains in my bones. If I close my eyes, I can see myself in the life I might have lived had my parents stayed in the snow capped ranges.

As a child, these visions were clear to me. I could picture myself gallivanting across the open, uninhabited land with a German Shepherd, like the many my parents owned, following faithfully in my wake. I would be astride a bay mare of my own. Perhaps it would be Carolina's filly, Kiwi, a sassy youngster, a few years older than myself, whose personality is burned into my memory from the stories my parents told.  We would burst from tree lines and gallop freely through passes high in the Carpathian Mountains. Bears and wolves and wild boars wouldn't scare me and I would scatter elk and reindeer as I gave my trusty steed a loose rein and let her feet make easy work of the hardy terrain.

In reality, my parents sold their hostel and moved to the states in search of a better life both for themselves and for their children. It was a wise decision. They fled communism as it prepared to collapse, and raised two successful children. When I opened my eyes, my life was a good one, full of love, support, and every day comforts. Still, when night fell and I would lie awake, alone with my thoughts, a wanderlust would set in. I could feel a deep longing for the open trail, for the companionship of a reliable horse over challenging miles, for a sense of freedom, accomplishment, and exhilaration that I feared would never be satisfied...