By DANIELLE LATTUGA
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.