Endurance Riding

The older I get, the more I value the importance of two things: being outdoors and building community.

Yesterday afternoon, two of my clients volunteered to help me clear some trail next door at the 500 acre ranch we have the privilege of riding on. As we are gearing up for the upcoming endurance season, there are a couple trails in particular I want us to train on and I knew these trails had been overgrown in the past.

Addison, Deborah, and I headed out as soon as Addy got out of school. The trail was wet from the morning’s rain, but the fog in the distance and the moss covered trees and rocks made for a beautiful landscape. It felt as though we had escaped to a fairytale land on the coast.

We headed down the trail in the side by side with power tools and pruners in tow and when we approached the first low hanging branches, Deborah jumped in the back to fire up the chain saw and get to work as I kept my foot on the brake. As we continued on the trail, stopping at each job, I was in awe watching 72 year old Deborah climb in and out of the back and handle the power tools better than most anybody I had seen. I remember looking at 14 year old Addy and saying, “Man, I want to be like Deborah when I grow up.”

About an hour and a half into our adventure, with still plenty of daylight left, I spotted a new trail and suggested we drive a little way down it to see where it might lead. We were no more than a half mile down that trail when I high centered the side by side and got us stuck. Mistake number one.

After assessing the situation, we decided the best thing to do was winch out, until we realized my winch was jammed. With no other option, I made the decision to leave Addy and Deborah with the vehicle and hike out to the neighbor’s house to borrow a shovel or two. It was a short hike but did include me hoofing it up a steep incline.

About thirty minutes later, I returned with two shovels. Addy and Deborah got to work, and I got behind the wheel. Shortly afterward – voilà – we were free! There was nowhere to safely turn around, so I carefully backed us up down the trail before being able to make what must have been a 20 point turn.

As we were driving down the easy trail to freedom, I got my passenger tires up on the embankment next to us, causing the side by side to feel like it was going to tip over on its driver’s side. As it was happening, Deborah yelled out, “Gosh, girl, what are you doing?!”

I responded with, “I don’t know!” and lots of nervous laughter. Without power steering, I had just failed to turn the wheel enough to meet the curve of the trail. Mistake number two.  

As Deborah was telling me to carefully back up off the embankment, I was yelling that I needed my seat belt on as I was afraid I was going to fall out of the vehicle. I was pulling at the seat belt and telling Addy to fasten it. Addy was yelling that the seat belt wouldn’t reach over my puffy jacket and Deborah was yelling to back the vehicle up.

In the end, we got the seat belt on, we backed up slowly, and we were on our way, but not before the three of us erupted in laughter.

“We should really start a YouTube channel. I am telling you; we would get 1 million likes!”

More laughter.

We made it home in time to see an incredible sunset beyond the horse paddocks on my own property. I stood and watched that sunset for a while, watching the clouds dance in the sky until I could no longer make out their shapes. I was filled with gratitude — for the great outdoors which surround me, the community which holds me up, and the laughter which provides the best medicine.

*Originally written on January 31, 2021, but not published until January 7, 2024.

I remember learning about the stages of grief in some high school or college psychology class. But as I learn about them now, in the depths of my own grief, I realize they don’t come packaged up neatly. You don’t feel one emotion, move through it, and move on. You sometimes skip some of the emotions altogether, get stuck in one, or continue to revisit one over and over and over again. And sometimes, you feel more than one emotion at once.

The night my father died, I suddenly felt much like I had two years ago, right after we lost everything in the Camp Fire. Like I had suddenly gained membership to some sort of club I never wanted to belong. Only this pain was deeper somehow and I doubted if I’d recover from the devastation at all.

It was a Tuesday, two days before his death, that I realized my dad was dying. I mean, I hadn’t been naïve to the possibility and had prepared my brother that Dad dying was a definite outcome, but it wasn’t until my visit with him on Tuesday that I realized he was really dying — as in, his death is coming — and it’s coming soon.

I sat at his bedside during the ICU medical rounds that morning, listening to report. The lab values that were given and his high ventilator settings told me he wasn’t going to recover — especially since he’d been intubated for more than a week now. But the staff was still hopeful, talking of a possible tracheostomy and a feeding tube as if that was something that was feasible, although I knew better — my dad never wanted to live that way.

When I spoke with the oncology team later in the day, I told them to be real with me. As a former ICU nurse, I knew what was happening – I knew he had had an adverse reaction to the drugs he was given as part of the clinical trial, and he wasn’t recovering from the subsequent damage. And a trach and a feeding tube weren’t going to cure him of the cancer he was so desperately trying to beat – it would only postpone the inevitable.

In the days immediately following my dad’s death, there were tears — lots of them. There was sobbing which shook my entire body and worried my three-year-old, who sweetly asked, on the way to his Papa’s viewing, if we could bring Papa home so mommy would stop crying. Then I arrived home, and safe in my own bed, the tears stopped for awhile — at least the intense, sobbing tears which threaten to engulf me. I could have a conversation about my dad as nonchalantly as if I was talking about the weather. I even found myself laughing at some of the memories of my dad. But then the dreams started — the ones I’d find myself in after having trouble falling asleep.

As I write this, my three year old has approached me and without me saying a word, he asks, “Does Mama miss Papa?” My eyes fill with tears and he says, “Will Papa wake up soon?” When I say, “Unfortunately, no, Papa isn’t going to wake up,” he says, “I sorry, Mama. Me miss Papa too.” The tears flow down my cheeks as I tell him he doesn’t have to be sorry, but that I miss Papa too and he says, “Don’t cry, Mama. Don’t cry.”

Humans tend to avoid pain at all cost. So many people have said so many beautiful things to me since my dad’s passing… things I have often said to friends experiencing the pain of grief. “He is no longer in pain.” “You were so lucky to have such a wonderful dad for the time you did. Not every daughter has been blessed with a father as great as yours.” “Cherish the good memories – those will get you through.” “He will always be with you.” “We may not understand it now, but everything happens for a reason.” “He is in a better place.”

I have said these things to myself — especially when I have felt I may be overcome with sadness. I have swallowed that lump in my throat — the one that creeps up and stings and burns — and have carried on with a brave face and dry eyes.

This morning, in the early dawn hours, I dreamt my dad had written me a letter from his hospital bed. I woke up remembering parts of the letter. “I am fighting hard and I refuse to give up. I am fighting hard for you, for I don’t want you to be without a father. And I am fighting hard for me. I have more life to live – and I love living life. I can’t wait to meet my fourth grandchild. I want to retire and travel more. I want to take Jakob and Declan on more trips – and this time, with you and Asher. Let’s do a safari in Kenya and I will show you where I was born. I want to see Jakob graduate college and Declan graduate high school. We can throw big parties with lots of food and dancing and shots of tequila.”

And then I awoke. And I didn’t feel like crying. I felt nothing at all, actually, as if I was numb. And that was a good feeling — because it meant I had control. Control over my thoughts, control over my emotions, control to keep doing what it was I had planned to do today — wake up, make a cup of tea, have breakfast with Asher, feed the horses, and teach my nursing class later this afternoon.  Humans don’t want to feel pain, we also want to have control.

But what if I just surrendered to the pain? What if I just allowed myself to fall into a slump on the floor and cry those gut-wrenching cries? What if I allowed myself to feel the kind of pain which hurts so much you think you might never recover? What if I let myself scream in anger at the top of my lungs until my face felt hot? What if I didn’t believe all those beautiful things and instead believed how incredibly awful it was that I lost my dad? What if I thought, I am 38. I am too young to lose a parent. My dad was 65, he was too young to die. He had so much life to live. And yes, I may be lucky to have had so much time with my dad, but what if it wasn’t enough time?

Not every daughter is blessed with an amazing dad, but why should that fact lessen my pain? There were times in my life when, caught in the middle of a nasty divorce, I lost time with my dad. There was the time my mother wouldn’t let my brother and me travel to London with him – she had her reasons and I’m sure, at the time, she thought she was doing what was best – but the last time I was in London with my dad visiting family I was a toddler, thus too young to remember the trip. There were times we lived 3,000 miles apart because my mom was on one side of the country and my dad the other. And as a teenager and young adult, there were times I blindly didn’t speak to my dad — because I was siding with what I thought was the right side, or simply because I was in the throws of growing up, I was hormonal and defiant and angry, and I thought I knew better than my parents.

So, what if I decided to mourn all that? The loss of time, the loss of my dad and the man he was and the woman he taught me to be. The memories we made, which I will never experience again in the flesh. The future I thought I had with him, and the future I thought he had with my children. What if I just gave in to all the pain? Would I move through the grief faster?

I have watched my children as they grow — when they feel an emotion, they express it, immediately. And it doesn’t look pretty. It is unorganized and loud and messy and obnoxious. We call it temper tantrums and blame it on the inability to control their feelings. And it’s our job, as mature adults, to teach them to control themselves. But what if we embraced the temper tantrums? What if we let them feel those feels? And then, when they were done, we just moved on with our day. Why are we always trying to control everything? Why are we always trying to hide our emotions? Why do we tell our sons not to cry and our daughters to be strong? Isn’t all this just a part of being human? If we have the ability to cry, why don’t we?   

My dad passed away on January 7, 2021 at 11:15 pm. I listened to his heartbeat until it stopped and I will never be the same.  

I was not planning on driving through Paradise today or visiting the place we last lived 5 years ago. I awoke feeling pretty ambivalent about this anniversary.

But the kids had a well visit that had been scheduled months ago with their pediatrician in lower Paradise. So, we made the drive up Skyway.

Afterwards, I felt a pull to take the kids to our property. I thought a little picnic might be fun. I wasn’t feeling sad. Or angry. Or much of anything at all. It was a beautiful day and I didn’t have much of a schedule to stick to, so I told the kids we’d stop at Starbucks for some snacks to take up to Magalia with us.

As I pulled out onto Skyway from the Adventist Health building, I saw them… the flags… lining the road, one after another, each one representing a life lost to the Camp Fire.

I was immediately overcome with grief and memories of that day, five years ago. I barely held it together in the Starbucks drive-through, and by the time I turned into our old driveway, the kids knew I was upset.

Asher asked me why I was crying and I told him I was sad, remembering the home we lost 5 years ago. He knew this was the place he was born, inside the same room he was conceived in, but thankfully, he has no memories of the day we evacuated from this home, never to see it again.

The kids played in our old yard, explored the new growth, enjoyed the view, and found fun places to stop and rest. Soon after we arrived, I no longer felt sad. My tears left me almost as quickly as they had found me. Gratitude remained and I snapped a few impromptu photos of my growing babies.

Before we left, I took a moment to enjoy the gorgeous view of the canyon, which five years ago had been the fuel for the inferno. I gazed around our property, studying the spots where buildings and life had once been. I could picture it just as it had been and I appreciated that memory. I did not walk over to the place where our barn once stood, though. For me, the pain of losing Dippi was, and always will be, the most difficult part of the Camp Fire.

If you had told me a year ago that I would be riding a green broke stallion on his first 50 (which turned out to be a 55) while sponsoring not one, but two juniors (one who was riding a mare), I would have thought you were crazy… but that’s exactly what happened on Sunday at the Lava Cast Memorial Ride in La Pine, Oregon.

I have so much to say about this ride, but for now I will say this. I am incredibly proud of my stallion, who, at 5 years old, has really only been under saddle on the trail for the last 6 months. FV Aur Salute has a phenomenal temperament, which is a testament to his outstanding breeding.

I would also like to think he has a pretty good trainer. I have had Salute for almost a year now and there hasn’t been a week where I haven’t put hands on him at least 4 times a week. We have done all the things: desensitization, all kinds of groundwork, including long lining and liberty, trailering, camping, riding alone, riding in groups, riding with mares, riding in the front, middle, and back.

I have also picked the brains of all those I know who have successfully ridden and competed with a stud and I will never forget something a friend and mentor said to me, “Just never forget he’s a stallion.”

I have maintained strict boundaries with Salute and at the ride on Sunday, I discussed all those boundaries with my juniors and those two girls stayed vigilant throughout the entire day. They never forgot my rules about approaching me while I was handling my stud. They gave us a safe bubble on the trail, made sure they didn’t drink from the same water trough at the same time as us, and understood that I would approach the vet check area only when there wasn’t a crowd of horses.

I am so proud of my stud, my juniors, and myself. It was a tough ride on Sunday, one that was mentally and physically challenging for me. I had to ride out some shenanigans in the beginning and then in the end, when Salute was tired, he took a bad fall. He was okay and so was I, but it was then that I knew he needed a break, so I ended up doing a lot of the last loop on foot, including running the last two miles next to him.

We made cut off with 10 minutes to spare. It was a long day, but so worth it. Salute finished his first endurance ride with amazing heart rate recoveries (he pulsed at 30 at the vet-in, 44 at the first vet check, and 52 at the finish). Two juniors finished, leaving one junior 55 miles closer to qualifying for the Tevis Cup, and another junior with her 10th completion this season!

Thank you to ride management and vet Cassie and the volunteers, to Addy’s mom, Kristy, for crewing for us, and most importantly, to my incredible stallion, Salute.

And last, but definitely not least, to my two juniors, for keeping me company all day long and making my ride so much more enjoyable and worth it. I can honestly say they probably sponsored me, not the other way around.

Today, we logged 4.69 miles. Doesn’t seem like a lot, but this was a huge milestone for us. You see, this is FV Aur Salute, a 4 year old stud colt I had shipped from Canada last fall. He is the first horse I have ever purchased sight unseen, but my gut told me to go for him when I saw his photos and video.

While Salute isn’t the first horse I’ve started under saddle, he is the first stallion I have worked with. After weeks of groundwork and prepping him for under saddle work, he gave me permission to mount. Our first few rides in the roundpen around Thanksgiving were amazing. But then we had a short bolt followed immediately by a buck which landed me in the dirt, unharmed. His reaction gave me valuable information. He told me exactly where his holes were. So, we worked on those holes, built confidence back up, and started again.

We also battled the crazy winter weather this year and had the added challenge of Salute not being at home with me (he’s being boarded 45 minutes away while we get the second barn built, which was put behind schedule due to aforementioned crazy winter weather)… but we did what we could, when we could, and somehow I managed to be with him at least 4 times a week, even if it was just grooming him in his stall and hand walking him in the rain.

So, back to today, April 27th, 2023. Our third “real” trail ride (meaning I rode him, rather than hand walking or jogging him or ponying him on the trail). We encountered so many mountain bikers (even one with a trailer behind it), hikers, runners, dog walkers, strollers, and even a rattlesnake, but my proudest moment was when he passed two mares on the trail like a gentleman. We also did some long stretches of trotting, and he is getting so much better at balancing my weight at the trot. We looked like less of a drunken sailor today and more like old pros.

Horse training is so rewarding. And the bond that is built during the process is worth all the time and patience. I ended this ride today on Cloud 9.

While hauling Salute back to the barn this afternoon, I found myself crying happy tears. Those tears soon turned bittersweet though when I realized I wanted to call my dad and tell him all about our amazing ride, but he is no longer here with me. My dad wasn’t a horse person, but he always relished my horse stories.

I thought about all the happy changes that have occurred in my life since he passed — the birth of our daughter, our new place finally feeling like home (after losing our first one to the Camp Fire), restarting my horse business, making new connections that feel as deep and meaningful as old ones… all the things I wanted to share with him, but can’t. I felt the tears leaving clean imprints down my dust covered face and I began sobbing.

And then I remembered something a wise friend told me shortly after my dad had passed away:

“Grief ambushes you, even when you think you are doing well. But believe me, you will survive this. You will dance again. You will laugh again. And he will be by your side and in your heart no matter where you go.”

So I thought again about today. Today, I did dance. I danced with Salute. And I did laugh. I laughed with Salute. And my dad was right there with us, by my side and in my heart.

I don’t have any photos from this last week as I was alone for each training session, and I believe in 100% focus and connection with the horse when I am training. That is probably the single greatest lesson horses have taught me — being fully present in the moment, something I have often struggled with.

Salute got settled into a boarding facility mid-week last week. He will be there until my second barn is up (about 12 weeks) and I have a place for a stallion here at home. I spent four days in a row with him. I hand walked him all around the grounds of the stables, periodically stopping my feet, teaching him to halt with me. He has done well with backing up on the lead line and learning to stay out of my space. We have worked on ground tying, standing quiet while I groom him, fly spray him, and pick his feet. During our last session, I put a surcingle on him and lunged him on a lunge line at the walk, trot, and canter.

Salute is sweet, eager to please, and joins up quickly with me. He is a sensitive soul and is teaching me more about body awareness. I don’t have to be big with him, just clear. I am learning to bring my energy down and realizing that just because I do doesn’t mean I can’t still be firm in what I am asking.

Zahra, on the other hand, is spicy and opinionated. Some might say she’s a typical redheaded mare! She arrived from Canada with less handling than Salute and I can already tell it is going to take a bit more time with her before I’m on her back. The first time I haltered her, it took me nearly 25 minutes to catch her, but now I can walk right up to her and halter her.

I have been free lunging or hand walking Zahra at least every other day. We have had some moments… there has been some planting of the feet, some bucking, some near crowding, some almost running through my carrot stick, but last night she was more agreeable and stayed with me after the initial join up.

We have been working on ground tying as well, and last night she was perfectly still while I groomed her and picked her feet. We got into a bit of an argument over the wormer, but eventually she decided it must not be that bad and was pleasantly surprised by the apple flavor when she gave in.

Zahra is teaching me to stand my ground. She doesn’t believe me unless I believe in myself. She demands that I prove my worthiness as a leader.

I haven’t started a horse under saddle since before the Camp Fire, and it has been years since I have had young horses of my own in my barn. As a young woman, I struggled with insecurities, low self-esteem, and a lack of self-worth. While I had ridden horses most of my life, it wasn’t until I started training horses that I faced my disbelief in myself head on. I learned I couldn’t pretend with horses. They’d call my bluff every time. And they knew if I wasn’t fully focused. Through my horse training, my confidence began to soar, but before it turned to arrogance, I would be quickly and quietly humbled. Horses are good at that — building your confidence, but also keeping you humble. And if you don’t believe in yourself, they won’t believe in you either.

It has been almost four years since the Camp Fire and a year and a half since I lost my dad. There hasn’t been a roadmap for my grief and often times I have felt completely lost. When I was originally thinking about purchasing two new horses, I questioned if I had the energy to train. I was filled with doubt, and I had a friend who compassionately asked if I was buying these horses because I was trying to run away from my grief rather than face it.

In the end, I purchased the horses and put them on a trailer from Canada to California. Maybe it was too quick of a decision, fueled by the fact that my dad taught me to take risks – and my husband said, “If it scares you, you should do it.” It scared me, so I did it.

Maybe I am in some way trying to run from my grief, but what I do know is this — I have lost myself in the last several years. What defined me – and our family – in the house we purchased in Magalia and turned into a home – was gone in a day. Our place in our community no longer existed. Relationships were lost, simply because we had to scatter without saying goodbye and distance suddenly separated us from friends who had been impactful in our lives.

And then I became a fatherless daughter.

I am not sure how to find myself again, but I do know that when I’ve been lost, horses have helped pave the trail to myself again.

Robert Burns, in 1785, said, “The best laid plans of mice and men, often go awry.”

By the time I had made it to the Pacific Crest Endurance Ride near Ashland, Oregon on the evening of June 16^th, I think I was on Plan Q. Everything had changed – from who was watching the baby while I rode, to the horses I was bringing, to the riders who were riding those horses, to the distances we were all riding. I really had no idea how the weekend was going to pan out.

About a week before this ride, when my backup plan to my backup plan which had been the backup plan to that plan failed, I sent a FaceBook message to a gal I had recently become friends with after meeting at an endurance ride earlier in the season. I had been racking my brain about who to ask to catch ride for me. While I have myself been a catch rider, I have never had a catch rider ride one of my horses. I have had students under my instruction ride with me, but I haven’t ever needed to utilize a catch rider… but now I was in the unique position of having my Tevis plans shift gear at the last minute and needing multiple horses ridden. Since there was no way I could ride two horses at the same time while sponsoring a junior and nursing a baby throughout the weekend (imagine that!), I reached out to Ali. At the time I messaged her, a part of me was worried about asking her — Do I really know her riding ability? Has she had enough experience on different horses before? Has she ever ridden a gaited horse? All these thoughts which could have quickly sabotaged my asking her, but I went with my gut instead, even though I couldn’t explain the intuition.

Ali was immediately excited — she didn’t currently have an endurance horse to compete on as she was working out some metabolic issues with her gelding — and she had been wanting to do an Oregon ride. And, as it turns out, she didn’t have plans for the weekend and was able to get the time off work. One thing led to another (due to yet another plan change), and we decided she should ride both Friday and Saturday, not just Saturday. Friday she would ride with me so I could get her and Cali totally dialed in before they rode the 55 on Saturday by themselves.  

On Friday morning, we learned that the only distance – the 25 mile ride – wouldn’t start until 2 pm. Ride management was down a vet due to an illness and the other vet couldn’t get into camp until later in the day. I took advantage of our freed up morning to nap with the baby who hadn’t slept as well as I’d hoped the night before.

At 2 pm, we found ourselves at the starting line – me on my friend Karen’s horse, Zee, Ali on my horse Cali, and my 13 year old riding student, Lia, on Sham. This was Lia’s first endurance experience, and you could tell she was pretty jazzed about the ride. Her grandma watched my baby, Avani, and Lia’s younger brother, Devin, naturally became our head crew with all his initiative and hard work.

The first loop was 20 miles long. The horses settled into a good pace, with me leading, Ali behind me, and Lia and Sham in the back. Most of the trail was single track with absolutely gorgeous scenery decorating both sides of it. It rained on us off and on and while we were pretty wet and cold coming into the 30 minute hold, we didn’t care. Other than Zee bolting up a quick steep hill and me knocking my knee on a tree while I tried to stop him, the ride had been nothing but enjoyable and beautiful. The section of the Pacific Crest trail we traversed held special pause for me – holding all its stories and secrets of its through hikers and Ali and I talked about hiking its paths one day.

The last 5 mile loop was muddy and caused us to slow down, but it gave us the opportunity to take more photos and soak in the scenery. Just shy of the finish line, we were worried we wouldn’t make time, but we carefully picked up the pace, guiding the horses through the mud with care, and we made it in at 8 pm on the dot, with all the horses pulsing down immediately.

After our finish, we immediately jumped into gear for the next day. I nursed the baby and got her to bed while Ali, Lia, and Devin took care of the horses. Then, Lia headed back to the hotel with her grandma, leaving Devin with me for the night since he decided he wanted to camp and crew. We got Ali and Cali ready for the next day’s 55 before heading to bed.

At 5:30 am, after nursing the baby, I tacked up Cali and saw her and Ali off at the start. It was about 36 degrees and very wet out. It had rained all night long and was still drizzling. I was happy to crawl back into my sleeping bag after the 6 am start, but I didn’t get a chance to fall back asleep before Avani had Devin and I both up for the day. Devin and I bundled up as much as we could (we were slightly ill prepared for Oregon weather in June), ate some warm oatmeal, and then set out to walk Avani. Devin wheeled her around in the stroller and then we went for a second walk with the geldings (Zee and Sham) before putting Avani down for a morning nap.

While Avani slept in the tack room covered in 4 blankets and a bath towel, Devin and I found ourselves sitting in the back of the horse trailer huddled by my little propane heater, trying to dry out his wet socks. It was so chilly we could see our own breath. Had I been by myself, I would have been pretty miserable, but instead of complaining, Devin found beauty in this otherwise uncomfortable moment. We sat there and watched the fog roll in. We talked about how the fog was getting so thick we couldn’t even see the nearest bush or the trees which dotted the meadow. We watched as that fog moved towards us, overtook us, and then kept on going. That moment — the stillness of slowly watching this fog float through the sky — made me appreciate the times in life when we are forced to slow down and pay attention to the beauty that surrounds us.

Shortly after the fog rolled by us, Lia and her grandma, Christine, showed up with hot food for us — an omelet, hash browns, toast, and French toast with butter and syrup. And a hot cocoa for Devin. As the two of them handed us our food, they couldn’t get over the ridiculous site of us huddled in the back of the horse trailer trying to dry out wet socks in front of the tiniest propane heater. We all had a good laugh about how crazy the weather was and how unprepared we were for it. Luckily, Christine was able to dig out a pair of dry shoes from her car’s trunk for Devin to wear and I found an extra pair of riding socks for him.

Despite the cold, wet weather, Lia decided she wanted to ride again, so I got us signed up for the 10-mile fun ride while we waited for Ali to arrive with Cali for their midday vet check. After we got the two of them vetted through, Lia and I departed on our 10-mile loop, an enchanting mix of forest roads and winding single track. We saw a doe with her newborn who was still struggling to walk, trees dripping with black lichen and moss, towering redwoods, and stunning views of the Western Cascades. It felt almost as if we’d ridden out of a wardrobe and onto the pages of a C.S. Lewis fantasy. And when we took one wrong turn, we got just a little bit of extra beauty and I had the opportunity to teach my student to properly read ribbons (which I had not done).

Just as we were starting to break down camp in preparation for the next day’s departure, we heard Ali’s voice and Lia and I went running to greet her and Cali at the finish line of their 55 mile ride. Cali looked incredible at the final vet out. She was perky and forward and appeared to float during her trot out for the veterinarian. As the vet congratulated Ali on a ride well ridden, I remember looking at her with tears in my eyes. I was filled with so much gratitude at how well she had cared for my horse throughout the 80 miles they shared together and knew I couldn’t have asked for a better catch rider for my mare. Ali had conquered a lot of firsts over the weekend — the first time she had catch rode, the first time she had ridden two back to back rides — and she ended Saturday evening that much closer to herself qualifying for the 100 Mile Tevis Cup Ride. Looking at my horse, this strong, substantial, forward Bay Tobiano mare with just enough attitude to keep our rides from being anything but boring, I knew I was Tevis bound with her this year, and I was filled with excitement.

That night, Christine insisted we all go back to the cabin she had rented on the nearby lake and Ali, Lia, and I blissfully soaked our sore muscles in the hot tub while we reminisced about the weekend. We binged on sweet potato fries, grilled cheese, and homemade ice cream and we deemed our weekend Magical.

Sunday morning, the sun came out and warmed us all. I breastfed Avani while overlooking the lush green meadow in front of us. Over the last few days, I had watched a young man overcome his fear of horses and discover how fun camping can be, I saw a young talented equestrian gain maturity and care for her horse before she took care of herself, I witnessed a grandmother make lasting memories with her grandchildren and take pride in their growth, and I made a new lifelong friend in a fellow endurance rider who inspired me.

When we stopped in Weed on our way home, we posed for a photo with the majestic Mt Shasta in the background. The smiles on the kids’ faces say it all and I couldn’t help but think, this weekend, which hadn’t worked out according to plan, happened just the way it was supposed to.  And this is how our children are supposed to be raised – in nature, with adventure. There is a saying that goes something like, Fill your life with adventures, not things. Have stories to tell, not stuff to show. And, just like Kris Kristofferson’s character in the movie Dreamer, “Horse stories are all I got.”

The morning after we found out we were pregnant with you, we were sitting at the kitchen table when a lightning storm lit up the sky. I had my hands wrapped around a mug of warm herbal tea, with Asher to my left, sitting on Dad’s lap, a front row seat to the show the sky was giving us. I sat there wondering where we’d be in 15 years, with two teenagers, the last of our children, in the house. I wondered if we’d remember this moment, before our last child was even born. I hoped, wherever we were, we were still in love, and we still had an open view to a sprawling horse paddock in the front of our home.

Today, you are a year old. And I am not thinking about 15 years from now. I am remembering your birth, longing to relive it. I am holding on to the memory and as I sit here while you sleep, I am both overjoyed at your growth and saddened by the time which has passed. I am celebrating your entry into toddlerhood and mourning the loss of the infant stage you are leaving behind.

You were born on Easter Sunday, more than two weeks before your due date. I had woken up the morning of your birth after a restful sleep, with no signs of labor, texting my family that I didn’t think today would be the day. But the moment I climbed out of bed, I felt a trickle down my leg and knew my water had broken. I excitedly let everyone know and moments later, your Aunt Natalie came joyfully running in the house. Her and my brother had been visiting and staying in our RV for the weekend and Natalie was secretly hoping you’d make your appearance while they were there.

The first several hours of my labor were easy. We carried on our morning as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. We ate breakfast, Asher watched some cartoons, your dad checked his email on the computer. Natalie and I made deviled eggs, baked brownies, and when Grandma Lacie arrived, we went for a walk and prepared an Easter Egg hunt for your brother Asher. I even snuck away into my room for a bit, sat at my desk, and wrote in my journal: It’s just shy of 10:00 am now and all I’m experiencing are mild contractions – a beautiful start to an early labor. We enjoyed an Easter breakfast and the boys opened their baskets and I’m getting some quiet time of reflection before meeting my next and final child…

The weather was beautiful and by 2 pm, Lacie, Natalie, Asher, and I were out walking with the dogs. My midwives, Katarra and Jana, continued to check in, but nothing exciting was really happening in terms of labor. There was, however, a lot of laughter. There was conversation, there was music, there was dancing. The house was filled with joy, and it felt like an amazing welcoming party.

It was just about 3 pm, though, when it had been 7 hours since my water broke, and I was growing impatient. I texted Jana and asked if I should hook up to a breast pump. She suggested crawling around on all fours which can help strengthen contractions. I tried that, and hooked up to a breast pump, saving the little bit of colostrum I was able to extract.

A couple hours later the energy in the house shifted. Something sacred was happening and those who were there gathered to embrace it. We had moved from the kitchen to the living room to the bathroom to the bedroom. I was leaning over our bed, a pillow curled underneath me, when Jana calmly told me I didn’t have to continue announcing when I was having a contraction. The contractions were heard. I remember taking a breath and feeling a wave of sadness overcome me. It was poignant and strong and for the first time in labor, I was moved to tears. This sadness came from deep inside me, from the knowledge that I would never give birth again. I hung onto the moment as long as I could, not wanting to forget this rite of passage I would never again claim. And then I clutched my necklace, the fingerprint of my father etched in silver. I was overcome by another fact — my father would not be here to meet you. I claimed this sadness. I felt it. I let it overtake me. But I wasn’t lost in it. I was quickly awakened by another rush, the tightening in my abdomen, and I felt robbed of my grief. But I was forced to move forward out of my mourning and into the work my body was doing.

It wasn’t long before I was in the birth tub, vocalizing through each contraction. At one point, Asher came in to see me before Grandma Lacie got him ready for bed. He kissed me — one kiss, two, three, four, until another contraction overcame me. Your dad’s hands held mine and when I looked up at him, I saw into him. We shared something no one else in the room did. It was in that moment he said he felt like he had a front row seat in the Red Tent and he felt honored to be able to witness what was to come.

I exited the birth tub to use the restroom and when I walked out of the bathroom, I collapsed on all fours. I felt the rapid decent of the child inside me – you, my daughter – and I let out a primal grunt. Jana squatted down behind me and squeezed my hips together, relieving some of the intense pressure I felt. It the next moment, she and Dad had me up and like a choregraphed dance, they spun me towards the birth tub. I was emerged by the warmth of the water when the uncontrollable urge to push occurred. I cupped my hands at the base of my birth canal and felt your head emerge with the first push. But then a calmness… you stayed there. I looked down and saw the top of your tiny head. I saw your small ear, the profile of your face. Your head was outside my body, the rest of you still inside and I wondered why you weren’t making your entrance all at once. Katarra quietly told me I had lost my contraction and you would probably come with the next one. I felt Jana bring my right leg out to open my pelvis as Katarra’s two fingers gently pressed on your anterior shoulder just inside my vagina. Almost immediately, you came swimming out and I scooped you up onto my chest as I lay back against the back of the tub. I heard you cry – a beautiful, enthusiastic cry, as if you were saying, “Whew! That was a wild ride. Hello world, I am here.” Around me, the room disappeared.

With laughter sing, oh life begin.

I was blissful.

Oh joy begin.

I held you on my heart. Time stopped.

More precious there’ll be nothing, no. Oh joy begin.

Your daddy kissed me. He was crying. He touched his hand to your little body. He kissed me again. I was blissful. Oh joy begin.

It was several minutes before he finally asked me if we should check what you were. Didn’t I want to know? He asked. I didn’t care. I could have stayed there forever, in the warmth of the water, feeling light, your placenta still inside me. But I lifted you up — just enough so he could see.

“Holy shit, Babe! It’s a GIRL!”

The room was full — everyone was there, including your brothers and my brother, and they all rejoiced.

I was still for a moment, you, on me. I soaked in the shock, the pure joy, the love. I sobbed. I had never been so happy — or so devastated — at the same time. “My dad had always wanted a granddaughter.” Lacie came to my side and kissed my cheek and held my face. And I held you.

That night, I lay awake all night. We stayed skin to skin as you slept. My hands caressed all of you. I explored you, this being I birthed. I counted your toes, and I counted your fingers. I felt your skin and I listened to your breathing. I touched your hair and I ran my finger down your back, feeling your spine. I watched as you latched at my breast and drank your fill. I promised to love you and hold you and protect you as I watch you grow, just as I had promised your brothers.

Welcome to our family, sweet little one.

Oh joy begin.

Photos by Kristi Carlson

Lyrics: Samurai Cop (Oh Joy Begin), Dave Matthews Band

Redwoods. Coastal breezes. Cooler temperatures. Mist, fog, and the magic of shaded forests… Cuneo Creek was always a ride I wanted to enter, but after more than a decade of competing in the sport of endurance, it still hadn’t made it on my list (mostly because I never wanted to brave driving the long, curvy, narrow Highway 36 alone with a horse trailer in tow).

I was easily convinced this year, however, when a young rider, a gal I’ve been mentoring and who has been leasing my Tevis horse, suggested we go. We left early on Friday morning, with baby in tow, kidnapping my close friend (Avani’s adopted grandma) on the way, who had graciously agreed to stay in ride camp with my 5 month old so that Nyah and I could ride the 50. It would be my first 50 post-baby and my new Missouri Fox Trotter’s first 50 ever.

I entered this ride unaware of some of the challenges it presented. I also entered knowing that I was going to have to ride exceptionally conservatively — my horse was packing around a few extra pounds, as the smoke, the heat, and my breastfeeding schedule meant we didn’t get all the training rides in I had hoped for. I am also not as fit as I have been in the past, mostly because I am still carrying around an extra 15 pounds of weight left over from my pregnancy. So, needless to say, Cali and I were a pair, but I thought we’d give it a shot anyway and if I rode smart and slow, we might just finish…

Our day on Saturday began earlier than the other riders, as we had a 40 minute drive into ride camp from our hotel and I had to nurse a hungry baby before mounting and riding off. And then, before we were even a couple miles into the ride, Asali threw a back hoof boot. It didn’t take long to get the boot secured and back on, though, and we were soon back on the trail and enjoyed the company of one of my good endurance friends, Amber Clark, as we made the climb up the hill into the forest.

The first loop went smoothly. We enjoyed the majestic beauty of the towering Redwoods before us as we paced down the trail, snapping photos, chatting, watching ribbons, and putting one hoof in front of the other. I did a steep uphill climb on foot to give my horse a break, tailing my Tevis horse as Nyah rode her and I led Cali behind us. The shaded forest changed to open, sunny meadows and we were intrigued by the changing landscape. We made it into the first – and only hold – in 4 hours and 45 minutes. I was just as happy to see my baby as she was to see me and the horses vetted well, so it was a pleasant one-hour hold all around.

The second loop began the same way the first had, with the same climb and several switchbacks out of camp. A black bear stared us down in the middle of the trail and stopped us in our tracks before realizing he wasn’t interested in us, and he moved on. We continued on down the trail, anticipating that this loop would take us 5 hours, maybe a bit less, since it was the same mileage as the first – 25.

However, we faced many challenges on that second loop. I was dealing with a tired horse and the uphill climbs just didn’t seem to relent. I made the decision to walk on foot to give my horse a break, thus slowing us further down. I jogged some of the steep downhills, but then finally decided I needed to ride when we started getting nervous about cut-off. This was about the time my breasts began getting engorged, swelling with the nutrient rich milk my infant thrives on. I was becoming increasingly more uncomfortable as we rode on, so I finally lifted my shirt and my sports bra, exposing both of my breasts. I dropped the reins and double hand expressed breastmilk, spraying it both on my saddle and the forest floor beneath us. I complained that I hated wasting milk, while also joking that next year we’d come back and see wildflowers where my milk had sprinkled the trail.

We really picked up the speed when it seemed like the ascents on the trail were over. The horses were moving along at a good clip, thankful the ground had become more forgiving. But I could tell my horse was still tired and just several miles from the finish line, she tripped, falling to her knees, and sending me jolting over her shoulder, landing hard on my back. I jumped up and immediately began jogging down the trail, knowing I needed to “walk it off.” Nyah was concerned about how hard I had fallen, and I was pretty sure I had suffered a little bit of whiplash, but there was nothing we could do but keep moving forward. At the final street crossing, we knew we only had 3 miles to the finish and were confident we could make it. The volunteers were gracious, cheered us on, and said they would radio ahead to let the finish line crew know we were coming.

We crossed the finish line with just 8 minutes to spare. A wonderful volunteer, Natalie Herman, grabbed my horse, began cooling her and caring for her while I sat and nursed my baby. Her and Nyah vetted the horses with Dr. Dan Chapman, who congratulated us when both horses passed the final check. I looked over at Nyah just in time to see her huge smile. Tears of pride welled up in her eyes — she had just completed her second 50-mile ride and was that much closer to qualifying for the 100-mile, one-day Tevis Cup ride.

The next day, the junior we had paid to feed and water our horses for us while we were at the hotel did so again so that we could spend the day exploring the Avenue of the Giants while the horses rested. We completed an incredible two and a half mile hike through a mystical part of the Redwood Forest, drove almost the entire Avenue of the Giants, walked through the visitor center, purchased some souvenirs, and enjoyed a relaxing lunch. We had a great time, but all our playing around meant I was going to be driving most of the harrowing 36 in the dark.

After a couple hours of driving, we found ourselves setting up a little tailgate party just off the highway, next to a beautiful meadow. I lounged in a camp chair with my feet up, nursing my baby and watching the sun set. Nyah and I shared more stories of the trail — and our challenges — from the day before as Lacie listened intently. I admitted that had I known this ride was going to be so difficult, with only one vet check, I would not have done it with a horse new to 50s or as a breastfeeding mom. And as we talked about how weary we all felt and the long drive ahead of us through the night, Nyah and I joked that we must be just a little crazy to keep wanting to go to rides… Lacie asked what the draw was, what kept us wanting more, with all the expenses, the sacrifice, the long, stressful hauls into camp, and the countless hours in the backcountry on the backs of our horses. I knew the answer right away…

At almost every ride, you hit a moment where you question why you’re doing this. Maybe you missed a ribbon and you’re lost. Maybe you’re tired. Maybe you’re hot, thirsty, and hungry. Maybe you’re cold and wishing you had packed a pair of gloves or an extra jacket. Maybe you’re alone because your friend’s horse got pulled at the last vet check. But whatever you are — you are there, in the backcountry, with no one to get you through but yourself. You have no choice but to keep moving forward. One foot in front of the other. One hoof in front of the other.

And it’s in those moments of weakness when you find your strength.

And so, I keep on riding…

I want to tell you about a horse. A little grey half-Arab mare named Dippi. Five and a half years ago, she came into our lives as a gift from my mentor, hoof trimmer, and friend. She immediately became the favorite on our farm with her larger-than-life how-come-I-can’t-just-sit-in-your-lap personality. She was the sweetest mare in our herd, with her soft eye and kind heart.

Dippi would let you kiss her muzzle and stroke her ears. She would let you sit on her back when she was resting. Dippi would mutually groom you when you stroked her neck, her whiskers tickling your back. She would stand quiet and let you look into her eyes. She would let you dress her up on Halloween and she’d wear party hats at every party.

Dippi was more than a pet. She was more than a companion, more than a friend. She was a teacher.

Dippi came to me with only a dozen rides on her. I was the first to canter her under saddle, the first to ride her over and through many obstacles on the trail. I was the first to jump her. I was the first to compete on the trail with her. Dippi was a gentle mount. She was smart, and true to her nature, she was honest.

She gave me confidence. She gave me the confidence to take on more difficult horses. She gave me the confidence to challenge myself as a rider and a trainer. She taught me to believe that I could always be better.

She taught me to trust. She was never a dangerous mount, but she was a freight train on the trail with a gigantic trot and an even bigger “can-do” attitude. She taught me to put my big girl panties on and hold on tight, that sometimes it is okay to just be a passenger.

She taught me to love more deeply and to laugh more often. She would follow me around the paddock. She would nibble at my hair and my clothing and beg for treats.

Dippi also taught me to dream bigger. With her amazing heart rate recoveries and ground covering gait, I believed she was going to be our next Tevis horse, and that she would be the first of ours to earn a Best Condition award in a 50-mile race.

Dippi was also going to heal a broken heart. Six weeks before the Camp Fire broke out and raged through our town, destroying everything in its path, my son’s beloved horse, Beauty, succumbed to an episode of colic. Although I rushed Beauty to UC Davis Veterinary Hospital, surgery was not an option as she had over 20 feet of necrotic bowel, which was the result of a strangulating lipoma.

When Beauty died, my sixteen-year-old was devastated, but he still had Dippi. He shared a special bond with her and the two of them had completed many rides together, including the 100-mile Twenty Mule Team ride in Southern California. After Beauty died, I knew Dippi would heal his broken heart and he’d continue riding, for he loved competing on her just as much as he had Beauty.

There is always another horse, they say. Things happen for a reason, they say. It could have been so much worse, they say.

But it wasn’t just a horse that died. Dreams died with her. Dreams died with her and it shouldn’t have been her.

It shouldn’t have been Dippi.

Dippi wasn’t just any horse. She was one of our most valuable, both in emotional worth and financial value. We did not choose to leave her behind. We had just simply loaded other horses up first. And when we realized that the trailer coming for her and ZaZa wasn’t going to make it, it was too late to try to load 3 horses into the two-horse trailer and 4 horses into the three-horse, for the two-horse trailer had already left, leaving us to wait for the trailer which never showed.

And then the fire raged, moving a football field a second, taking down trees and power lines in its wake, enclosing roads, blocking routes. It became an entrapment, merciless, and rescue was impossible.  

Dippi survived the fire, but she suffered such severe hoof burns that she developed laminitis. For weeks, UC Davis Veterinary Hospital tried to save her. I consulted with outside veterinarians, collaborated with hoof trimmers and body workers. I spoke with horse owners who had successfully rehabbed horses who had foundered. I had money to spend and far more hope than that.

But ultimately, there was nothing left that could be done.

On the morning I decided to have her euthanized, Dippi was no longer standing to eat. Her left hind hoof was leaking synovial fluid. Her coffin bone had rotated and sunken so badly that it was protruding down into the sole of her foot.

I instructed the veterinarians to dose her with as much pain medication as she needed, and when we — my two older boys and me, along with our friend Nyah and her mother, Shasta — arrived that Tuesday afternoon, Dippi was standing, waiting for us.

Things don’t always happen for a reason. Sometimes things just happen, and all that is left is to say good-bye.

Dippi died peacefully on January 15, 2019, surrounded by love, as we whispered good-bye.