I was hoping my next post would be to detail an amazing ride on a Pacific beach, but no such luck.  Once ordinary life was resumed, it came on with a vengeance.  There simply was no way to break loose from the web of work, farm chores, and family to make possible a trip back out to Oregon with time enough for a weekend trip to the coast.

So, we reluctantly gave up that dream and arranged for transport home for the boys.  After nearly a month of R&R in Oregon, their eastward trip was quite a bit different from their way west.  They left Oregon on Friday morning; made a stop in California to pick up a mare; then hightailed along a southern route to drop the mare in Kentucky before turning northeast.  This jet-fuel-driven trip had them pulling into Maryland Monday morning around 5:30. 

Given that I’d spent weeks developing a westward itinerary that never had the boys confined to the trailer for more than a 6-hour stretch for fear of them stocking up, the fact that they were going to spend 72 consecutive hours in a trailer was hard for me to accept.  But this transport was recommended by our friends in Oregon who, with some regularity, move much more valuable stock via this kind of arrangement.  They promised that box stalls that allow the horses to move about as they wish and continuous access to water are the key.  Well, that and Lisa.

Lisa is Seattle based and, in a previous life, drove tourists around that city’s historic district in a carriage.  In other words, she intimately knows horses and bonehead drivers – an unusual combination of skill sets but one essential for the task of moving horses fast from one coast to the other.    She and I spoke a few times on the phone and I’d built a mental image of her -- brassy broad that liked to laugh but probably could take Idris Elba’s lunch money.  This image was much informed by her voice which sounds like she’s spent more than a few years smoking camel unfiltered cigarettes. She asked all the right questions and told all the best stories. Twenty minutes shooting the shit and I was sold.    

Pulling her enormous truck and trailer up in front of my driveway in the predawn dark, I wasn’t disappointed; Lisa pretty much matched my imagined picture of her.  With a laugh, she told me that Guillermo was crazy herd-bound to Juneau.  He’d apparently set the trailer rocking with his fevered pacing when, on their first night’s drive, it had grown dark and he’d lost sight of his leader.  The rest of the trip was spent with the internal trailer lights on (like a kid with a night light).  This nutty dynamic meant unloading had to be handled with care.  To avoid a G-man freak-out, both horses had to be haltered and ready to go so Juneau could lead and G-man quickly follow.

The sun was rising as Lisa pulled away, headed again for Kentucky to pick up a Thoroughbred destined for a grass-free life on the West Coast.  Let loose in the pasture, the boys enjoyed a roll in the dew.

Dew?  Grass?  What are these strange but wonderous things?

This isn’t Kansas, boys.  Or Colorado.  Or Utah.  Or Idaho.  Or Oregon.  This is Maryland. Welcome home.