Old Dominion
The heat is heavy already, though we start on the trail at dawn. It sits in the still air around me as a sea of horses embarks on the day-long journey into the wilderness of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The air is thick, drenched, humid. I struggle to breathe as the trees seem to close in around us, whispering with old man breath, beckoning us less than alluringly into the darkness of the forest ahead. Vultures circle lazily above, and I catch the stench of something rotting just beyond the treeline, as I repeat my mantra-for-the-day under my carefully-held breath.
I will not puke or cry. I will not puke or cry.
I will not puke or cry.
My horse is eager, fresh, and fit, fit, fit. He flags his tail and extends his stride, seeming to float briefly between each step, suspended on air for just a touch longer than his large, leggy frame should allow. His ears are up and his eyes are bright. He is what they call a campaigner and he has more miles than I do. He knows this trail and walks before the rough parts appear around the next bend, riding from memory and instinct and experience.
The seventeen-year cicadas are hiding in the trees, screaming their fire-siren song until we are deafened by it and can hear nothing else. The trees vibrate with the beating of their wings as they dance in a furious ritual, the final, fading chapter of their subterranean lives. They emerge into the woodlands to mate, then die, and my skin crawls just to hear them. Soon we find ourselves away from the other riders and I am lost in the sound of dog-day locusts and the scraping of my horse's shod hooves over countless stones along the quickly narrowing path.
We move away from the world; away from camp, away from civilization, away from any hope of rescue should things go awry. We begin an endless climb, and my horse seems to channel his inner mountain goat, picking his way from rock to boulder and back to rock again. He was born for this, and he places his feet carefully as we climb. His nostrils flare as he inhales the thick, soupy air around us.
We sojourn on. Up, up, up, until the cicadas cease their incessant hum, and the dense trees are replaced with blossoming mountain laurel. We ride carefully across the ridge, where our progress is slowed by the bedrock formed during the prehistoric clashes of the earth, when the mountains rose above the sea. As we wind our way along wooded cliffs, I dare to gaze on the landscape around us; first at the vistas of jagged mountains around us, fading from indigo to cobalt, and then eventually blending into the sky some place before the distant horizon, lost in the muggy haze; then down the plummeting slope to my right, where certain death awaits on the other side of any misstep. I fix my eyes on the single track trail ahead, and feel comforted by the deliberate, careful nature of my horse's foot falls.
Some time around mid day, we emerge into a rolling meadow at the peak. The mountain is devoid of trees at this altitude, standing bald in the glaring sun. A strong wind blows, billowing the expanse of grass around us. Waves of pasture undulate around us and my horse drops his head to graze while I finally catch my first deep breath.
What goes up must come down, and soon we begin the descent to lower ground. I pull my feet out of the stirrups, then dismount and lead the way down the slope on foot. Rocks tumble end over end around us and the trail seems to shift constantly. Slowly, carefully, we stride down, down, down whence we came, never once able to slacken, constantly seeking the next crag to place a foot, a hoof.
The air thickens around us, congealing as the leaves grow dense again. The wind is blocked by the forest, and the cicadas hum once more. The cool respite of the ridge line is behind us and the day is hotter than before. Near the base of the mountain a cool stream trickles, and my thirsty horse drinks deeply in the shade while I pour water over his neck and shoulders.
Soon after, we reach a logging road and are able to move out in earnest. My horse stretches his legs, grateful for the change of pace. His mane flows in the sticky air, lifting and falling with every powerful stride. The terrain has eased, but now we're racing the clock. I glance down, briefly, counting the seconds and realizing it will all be for naught if we don't go, go, go with all we've got.
Once more, I push my horse, reluctant to ask for more than he has already given me, but he is game. Sensing my urgency, he raises his ears, head, and tail, and steps out boldly once again. The hills have changed from threatening precipice to gentling rolling knolls and we step from trot to canter, then gallop.
My horse is fast, sure-footed, brave, and so very strong, both in body and in heart. He is all heart. We fly until I can't hear anything, not even cicadas, over the rush of the wind in my ears. Every time I think we can't go any faster, he digs in, switches leads, finds another gear. We are at a dead sprint and the world is blurring around us. My body is sore, but I can't feel it as I balance carefully, quietly over his withers, staying out of his way, feeling each push of his muscles. He is sinewy and elegant and rhythmic, and I am grateful to be the one astride.
We are alone as we burst out of the tree line and back into everyone's line of sight. People look up as the staccato of his hooves echoes through the hidden valley, and someone in the crowd recognizes us, and shouts. I hear the cheers as we pound towards the finish line, and I find myself crying out with them, patting my horse's neck, barely damp with sweat, as he makes one last herculean effort, crossing the line with moments to spare.
The sun has dropped behind the summit and we stand blissfully in the shade, icing and cooling. We've done what seemed daunting, impossible hours before, and my horse is still bright eyed, eager, and ready for more. Soon, it is all behind us, and all I have is a dull ache in my muscles and a shiny, silver belt buckle to stir the memory of my time on the Old Dominion trail.
I will not puke or cry. I will not puke or cry.
I will not puke or cry.
My horse is eager, fresh, and fit, fit, fit. He flags his tail and extends his stride, seeming to float briefly between each step, suspended on air for just a touch longer than his large, leggy frame should allow. His ears are up and his eyes are bright. He is what they call a campaigner and he has more miles than I do. He knows this trail and walks before the rough parts appear around the next bend, riding from memory and instinct and experience.
The seventeen-year cicadas are hiding in the trees, screaming their fire-siren song until we are deafened by it and can hear nothing else. The trees vibrate with the beating of their wings as they dance in a furious ritual, the final, fading chapter of their subterranean lives. They emerge into the woodlands to mate, then die, and my skin crawls just to hear them. Soon we find ourselves away from the other riders and I am lost in the sound of dog-day locusts and the scraping of my horse's shod hooves over countless stones along the quickly narrowing path.
We move away from the world; away from camp, away from civilization, away from any hope of rescue should things go awry. We begin an endless climb, and my horse seems to channel his inner mountain goat, picking his way from rock to boulder and back to rock again. He was born for this, and he places his feet carefully as we climb. His nostrils flare as he inhales the thick, soupy air around us.
We sojourn on. Up, up, up, until the cicadas cease their incessant hum, and the dense trees are replaced with blossoming mountain laurel. We ride carefully across the ridge, where our progress is slowed by the bedrock formed during the prehistoric clashes of the earth, when the mountains rose above the sea. As we wind our way along wooded cliffs, I dare to gaze on the landscape around us; first at the vistas of jagged mountains around us, fading from indigo to cobalt, and then eventually blending into the sky some place before the distant horizon, lost in the muggy haze; then down the plummeting slope to my right, where certain death awaits on the other side of any misstep. I fix my eyes on the single track trail ahead, and feel comforted by the deliberate, careful nature of my horse's foot falls.
Some time around mid day, we emerge into a rolling meadow at the peak. The mountain is devoid of trees at this altitude, standing bald in the glaring sun. A strong wind blows, billowing the expanse of grass around us. Waves of pasture undulate around us and my horse drops his head to graze while I finally catch my first deep breath.
What goes up must come down, and soon we begin the descent to lower ground. I pull my feet out of the stirrups, then dismount and lead the way down the slope on foot. Rocks tumble end over end around us and the trail seems to shift constantly. Slowly, carefully, we stride down, down, down whence we came, never once able to slacken, constantly seeking the next crag to place a foot, a hoof.
The air thickens around us, congealing as the leaves grow dense again. The wind is blocked by the forest, and the cicadas hum once more. The cool respite of the ridge line is behind us and the day is hotter than before. Near the base of the mountain a cool stream trickles, and my thirsty horse drinks deeply in the shade while I pour water over his neck and shoulders.
Soon after, we reach a logging road and are able to move out in earnest. My horse stretches his legs, grateful for the change of pace. His mane flows in the sticky air, lifting and falling with every powerful stride. The terrain has eased, but now we're racing the clock. I glance down, briefly, counting the seconds and realizing it will all be for naught if we don't go, go, go with all we've got.
Once more, I push my horse, reluctant to ask for more than he has already given me, but he is game. Sensing my urgency, he raises his ears, head, and tail, and steps out boldly once again. The hills have changed from threatening precipice to gentling rolling knolls and we step from trot to canter, then gallop.
My horse is fast, sure-footed, brave, and so very strong, both in body and in heart. He is all heart. We fly until I can't hear anything, not even cicadas, over the rush of the wind in my ears. Every time I think we can't go any faster, he digs in, switches leads, finds another gear. We are at a dead sprint and the world is blurring around us. My body is sore, but I can't feel it as I balance carefully, quietly over his withers, staying out of his way, feeling each push of his muscles. He is sinewy and elegant and rhythmic, and I am grateful to be the one astride.
We are alone as we burst out of the tree line and back into everyone's line of sight. People look up as the staccato of his hooves echoes through the hidden valley, and someone in the crowd recognizes us, and shouts. I hear the cheers as we pound towards the finish line, and I find myself crying out with them, patting my horse's neck, barely damp with sweat, as he makes one last herculean effort, crossing the line with moments to spare.
The sun has dropped behind the summit and we stand blissfully in the shade, icing and cooling. We've done what seemed daunting, impossible hours before, and my horse is still bright eyed, eager, and ready for more. Soon, it is all behind us, and all I have is a dull ache in my muscles and a shiny, silver belt buckle to stir the memory of my time on the Old Dominion trail.
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