Smoke was walking a slow circle around me and my eyes were half-closed while a pocket of sun warmed my face. SuzAnne was riding Lonza—asking her to gait, go backwards and walk the plank (a raised platform that’s been sitting in the middle of the arena lately)...
Beginnings do not always foretell the story. Power came into my life during a period of sadness, confusion, and stress. I had no business buying a horse. My father was dying. My mother was in a rehabilitation center with a broken pelvis. I was in the middle of a large consulting contract that required me to travel between Montana, Colorado, and Alaska.
Smoke and I are riding in an open valley. The two of us move in unison, and gracefully navigate all obstacles. We float over fallen logs; glide fluidly in an elegant sidestep along a meandering stream; throw in the occasional pirouette just for the heck of it; and canter with a style that rivals giraffes running in a blooming desert. We are backlit by the glow of a sun low on the horizon. Smoke’s mane shines with bronze glory and the sleek muscles in my arms (which by the way, have no need for reigns) are illuminated.
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