Mugs/Big K Clinic 2013

Come ride with us..Clinic 2014.

We stopped in Ft. Collins that night. Kathy coaxed me into stopping for dinner and meeting up with a friend. I was gnashing my teeth -- I wanted to make it to Sheridan that night -- but Kathy reserves the right to eat a meal once in a while.

We have logged enough miles hauling horses for her to know I'm quite capable of driving all night with a water bottle and a bag of granola. She also knows I turn into a raging psychotic bitch the next day. For some reason she objects to spending her precious vacation days with the Jekyll and Hyde version of Mugs. Whatever.

By the time dinner was over I was crashing, I was getting my first lesson in travelling with PD. Push too hard and watch my blood pressure plummet. So, we spent the night with the horses tied to the trailer and me out cold on the couch.

The next morning I was up and pacing before daylight. I had recovered my manners and gratitude and gave Kathy time for coffee before we loaded up and took off. My mind was on Montana and the pull of the road was so strong it hurt.

My breathing didn't slow until we passed Cheyenne. People complain about crossing Wyoming. The land is harsh and empty, the wind is strong and never stops. I love it. The open space soothes me, and I find endless variety in the terrain. Most of all, I love the play of light and sky on the prairie.

It soothes something wild that lives deep inside of me. When I'm alone, I cross Wyoming  with my windows down and the radio off, and lose myself in the harmonies of the wind and the tires on the pavement, backed up with the percussion of a growling diesel engine. When I have company, I crank my road music to the max. Music is totally my pick through Wyoming, no exceptions.

My music choices aren't for the faint of heart. Try The Execution of Stepen Razin Op.119 at 6:00 a.m. and see if you still call me friend. Ask the kidlette how she feels about Desi Arnez, Joni Mitchell and Edith Piaf. She'll tell you my road music is the sole reason she applied for Emancipation of a Minor when she was 11.

Be afraid, Becky Bean, be very afraid.

I watch for livestock and antelope. The babies were big enough to be up and running.There are more this year than the last few, but not by many. The drought and the market have brought breeding to a halt in ranch country. The only time I saw more than one or two foals was the herd of mini's at a K.O.A. campground. There had to be at least a dozen of the cute little things on the ground. There was a sign on the pasture fence - Herd Reduction! Champion Bloodlines! - of course there was.

The horses tend to be a better quality across the board out here. They have good bone, pretty heads and appealing color. I like to think about the why's and how's behind that one. There seems to be a direct correlation between ugly horses and 5 acre ranchettes.

Travelling through Wyoming makes the occasional oasis much sweeter, every time we pass one I think about living in a tiny cabin with big windows and a giant deck. I could watch the sky and light roll by forever if I was settled in a bit of trees.

The closer we get to the Montana border, the lighter I feel. My world has become so small. My days are spent inside, my work is repetitive, and my time with my horses is usually short and anxious. I feel my old self come flooding back, the relief to know I'm still in there, somewhere, is enormous. As we cross into Montana, Kathy leans over, yanks my "Sambo Mia"  c.d. out of the player and turns on the radio. I can see her fight the urge to chuck it out the window.