mystery revealed

The magic truck arrived at 10:45 pm.

For weeks I have heard about the "mystery truck" that would suspiciously pull up to Barb's house late on a random night. What was exchanged between Barb and the driver of the truck was the source of constant speculation and intrigue. We joked about the ridiculous possibilities: Barb had a secret trucker boyfriend that stops by on occassion; she's an underground druglord in Termo (she only says that's alfalfa growing in that field...); and so on and so forth.

Well, the truth was far less sinister than all that. The mysterious truck that pulls in late in the night is the Schwan's man - a frozen food delivery service. He drives around in a truck that is essentially a well-stocked freezer on wheels and has a catalog from which you can order everything from sirloin steaks, to shrimp scampi, to strawberry shortcake ice cream popsicles (all items on my list, by the way). You simply tell him what you want, and he'll go from one door to the next collecting your wished-for items and making your dietary dreams come true. Equating him to the ice cream man would be doing him a disservice. This is the Santa Claus of the food industry.

Mary has been ranting and raving about the "magic truck" for weeks now and I'd be lying if I said she hadn't gotten us all worked up into a bit of a frenzy about his impending arrival. Last week she stole the catalog from Barb and it has been sitting on the coffee table with her list tucked in it since then. It has become increasingly crumpled as day by day each of us flipped through its pages of edible wonder and wrote and rewrote our lists of desired items. Yesterday I seriously spent over an hour calculating the number of days left here, and from that the number of meals left, and wrote my list accordingly. The magic truck is no joking matter.

All today Mary was in a state of anxious excitement, like a kid on Christmas morning before her parents released her to tear into the stack of presents beneath the tree. I think the first thing I heard her say this morning was "Today's the day the magic truck is supposed to come!" and before she left for work at two she took me aside and very seriously said, "If the magic truck comes while I am still at work I want you to get these things for me," and she handed me a list and some cash. With the degree of gravity in her voice, I felt as though she had just placed her first-born child in my hands.

Alas, the Schwan's man had not yet come when Mary got home from work at 10 pm, and thank goodness because the pressure I felt to get her order completely and correctly was no light burden - I think all her future happiness rested on this evening's success. She burst wide-eyed into the house and the first words out of her mouth were, "Has the magic truck come yet?!" I told her no, and from that moment on she was standing at the window with her hands clasped together, watching the road and commenting every few moments:

"Barb said she thought he had come last week, but she must not haev seen the note that he'll be here today."

"What day is it? The 28th? Yes, that's right, he's coming tonight."

"He'd better not be out of my ice cream. We're the last stop on his route, you know. Sometimes people hog all the good stuff so he's out of some thigns by the time he gets here. Don't worry though, I'm sure he'll be well stocked."

Claudia and I sat on the couch just watching her and laughing at how excited and nervous she was about his arrival. Her enthusiasm was such that when Barb finally walked over and said, "The Schwan's guy is coming, he's turning down the driveway as we speak," even I felt my heart skip a beat. The magic truck was here!!

And what a magic truck it was. It was stocked with every kind of food anyone could ever want and the thing was lined with lights like a ride at a carnival. Mary stood grinning and eager with her list and money held out in front of her like a child who was next in line with a ticket to ride the Scrambler. She chatted giddily and incessantly to the man about how wonderful the magic truck was and how we'd been talking about it for weeks. Claudia and I stood back and were dying of laughter behind the catalogs we were holding in front of our faces. The hilarity of the situation was almost too much to bear - here we were, at 11 o'clock at night in the middle of absolutely nowhere, standing next to a carnival-esque truck stocked with food, making small talk with the driver about where we were from and how long we were staying, while Mary chattered on about every single thing that came into her head, and one by one we each collected our bags full of goodies and scampered back inside to see how we would make it all fit into our freezer.

It was truly a memorable moment, and I'll be sure to think on it every day for the next few weeks as I eat my 24 strawberry shortcake bars, 12 cream cheese stuffed graham cracker coverd soft pretzels, bourbon grilled steaks, shrimp scampi, broccoli and cheese filled chicken breasts, and fire-grilled vegetable medley mix. Magic truck indeed.

life goes on

When the old mare died, she left behind a piece of herself in her two young foals - and what spirit they possess! The female foal she rejected was adopted by another mare, and Barb said she saw her the other day pushing her way through a crowd of adult mustangs, determined to get herself a drink out of the water tank.

As for the orphaned boy foal, we paired him up with one of our domestics, Jelly, who has wanted a baby for some time now. Each time a new baby was born at the sanctuary she'd hang around it, staring longingly as thought she wished it was her own. When we finally united the orphan and Jelly, she was obviously nervous, but quickly warmed to him and let all the other horses know that this baby was hers.

The two twins are now doing fantastically - the little girl out with the mustang herd out on the 800 acres, and the boy in the barn with Jelly and the domestics. Both have fireball personalities and not the slightest fear of people. We've named them (appropriately I think) Rocky and Adrian; Two healthy, spunky little fighters that do their mother great justice as continuations of the spirited life she passed on to them.

apologies to those with weak stomachs

Two in the same week.

Yesterday we noticed that there were suddenly two newborn foals out in the mustang pasture, one with a mare that we had thought might be pregnant, but ultimately decided wasn't since she'd not yet given birth, and the other with a mare that had foaled only a couple months ago. After a great deal of speculation and bewilderment, I suggested maybe the one mare had given birth to twins and rejected the one which was then taken in by the other mare. It was agreed that, though extremely rare, this was the most logical explanation, and it was accepted as the ruling theory.

My theory was further validated the next day when the mare that we guessed had birthed the twins started looking very unwell. It was later in the evening before Barbara and I realized it, but as we went to feed we noticed she no longer had a baby with her. We then saw it had been taken away by a "baby stealer," another mare that had no foal and, unfortunately, also had no milk for the baby to drink. We managed to get the real mother into a catch pen, and it was then that we noticed her feet were dragging and she was stumbling as though simply standing was an unbearable struggle. While we were feeding, the mother laid down and didn't get up. We knew that was a very bad sign. We also knew that if we didn't get that baby away from the baby stealer and back to its mother so it could nurse, we'd risk losing it too. After feeding, we managed to get the baby stealer and the baby in with the mom and we eventually got the baby stealer out, leaving the baby to nurse with its mother. Before long though, she collapsed again.

Barb said she doubted the mare would make it through the night and she went up to get some medicine (morphine for horses) for her. She asked if I wanted to go, but I opted to stay with the mare. She was obviously in tremendous pain and was terrified, so I thought if I could stay and simply stroke her face and nose while she lay there it would at least be some other kind of sensation that might to some slight degree distract from the immense pain she felt. It was well after 9 pm by this time, the sun was completely set, and after Barb left all was silent except for the mare's loud, unnatural breathing. I was all alone in the dark with just the mare and her foal, and as I sat in the dirt next to where she lay her head, stroking her face rhythmically and telling her everything would be ok and that all the pain would be over soon, I thought the sound of my voice might help calm her and further distract her from the hurt.

I tried to think of a song to sing. I rarely sing aloud, and never do in front of other people unless it's along to the tune of the radio, but here in the vast silence where my only audience was the mustang herd, the desire felt natural. Besides, even if they thought my voice was terrible, I at least knew I needn't worry about them telling anybody about it. So I racked my brain for a song and, of course, when I tried to think of a mellow song to sing I drew a blank. After a few minutes I came up with one to which I at least knew the chorus and some of the first verse. I thought of the way my mom used to sing to my brother and I when we were young, and I tried to mimc her tone, singing to the mare low and soft, humming when I didn't know the words, barely brushing her face with my fingertips, and searching her frenzied eyes for some indicator that my attempts might be bringing her the slightest relief. I could find find none, but continued nonetheless, perhaps as much for my sake as hers so I could reassure myself that I at least tried to ease her pain. Barb eventually returned with the medicine, and after injecting her with a large dose and waiting fifteen minutes for the drugs to take their effect, we retired for the night. It was 10:30 pm and I silently hoped that she would be gone when I woke in the morning.

At 8 am the next day I stepped outside and my heart sank. She was standing in her pen, still with us, and I felt awful. I felt I lied to her the night before by telling her the pain would be over soon. She lasted the rest of the day, and that evening when Adam and I got back with the first load of hay to feed, we saw Claudia waving us down from the mare's pen. When I saw her I thought she was already dead. She was laying on her back and her legs were all tangled in the pipe panels that made up one side of the pen. Unfortunately she was not yet gone, but was clearly in her final, tortured moments. Claudia said something was coming out of her back end, possibly organs or the placenta of yet another baby horse. I felt my teeth grit together and my jaw tighten with the realization of what it probably was. Barb had said that giving birth to these two had most likely torn up the mare inside and she was probably bleeding internally. I feared that what we saw was in fact the remains of her uterine wall. Barb was gone, so I left Adam and Claudiato watch the mare and keep the foal away from her, and I ran up to make some formula for the baby and call Barb. She said she was on her way back, so after grabbing cell phones and making sure Claudia was alright, Adam and I ran out to the hay barn to get the second load for the evening's feed. By the time we got back Barb was there with Claudia who was clutching the foal, and and the mare had passed.

Barb told me that I was right in thinking it was likely her destroyed uterus that we saw coming out. I watched Adam and Claudia tow her down the same path to the bone yard they had taken Annie down only four days before. Claudia told me later that evening before she went in her room to sleep that I should be glad I wasn't there for her last moments. She said she'd never seen anything like it - the mare's tongue had been hanging out and she'd been flailing about in a frenzy. Claudia said it was an image that would be sure to haunt her forever. I thought back on the ends of the two old horses we lost this week - one leaving peacefully without pain, the other after days of suffering - and I marveled at the unfairness of life.

Annie

I should have known better to write an entry about death and be brave enough to state that we had not lost any horses since I’d been here.

On Tuesday, Barbara decided it was time to put Annie to sleep. The vet was coming to x-ray Emily’s hoof, and Barbara felt that she had delayed the inevitable long enough. Annie, a thoroughbred, one of our older horses at nearly 30, has been suffering from laminitis. It took some time before I really understood what it is, but at its most basic level it is a condition where the bone in the hoof rotates and begins pushing through the bottom of the hoof. It causes lameness in the horse, but more significantly, it is extremely painful and there is no cure. Laminitis is what caused Barbaro to have to be put down – the feet are just so crucial to the operation of all a horse’s basic functions that if something goes horribly wrong in the hoof, the options are apparently very limited. Annie had been operating for months now on high doses of crushed Bute tablets (painkillers), and apparently if laminitis didn’t kill her the Bute eventually would as it deteriorates the liver over time. So to put an end to her suffering, Barbara told the vet to plan on putting Annie to sleep when he came.

The evening before was a somber one. I was the one feeding the seniors that night and Claudia made mention that I could feel free to spoil Annie, giving her extra senior, some grains, and all the alfalfa she wanted. After feeding everyone, and giving Annie extras of all the good stuff, I’d found that I finished ahead of Adam and Claudia who were on hay duty. I stood outside Annie’s stall for a bit, resting my head and hands on the bars, and just watched the gentle old lady eat and I wondered if she had any idea what the next morning was to bring. I tried to think what I could do as a final gesture of appreciation for her. I knew that Annie was one of Claudia’s favorites and that Claudia was planning on coming down later in the evening to feed her carrots and groom her, so I wanted to do her some other kind of service. I decided that I would clean her stall for her. I went and got a rake, and another flake of alfalfa since she was finishing the first one, and I began to meticulously rake out her corral. It was not a lot, but I thought that at the very least she deserved to spend her last moments comfortably, and if when euthanized she should fall, she had the right to lay dignified in a clean space. After spending close to an hour scraping out every corner, and re-raking the areas where she had messed, I put up my rake and went to her. Claudia had told me that she loved to have her neck scratched, so I took this advice and did my best to give her the best neck rub she’d ever had. Mary had come down to the barn and started laughing as she watched me because Annie not only stopped eating to enjoy the treatment, but she stretched her neck out, let her eyes close, and she curled her lip in euphoria. When I finished, my nails were blackened with horse grime, and I felt contented to know that I did what I felt I could to make her final hours good ones. I stroked her mane and kissed the side of her face and bid her goodnight. After dinner I stepped out on our back deck and gazed down the hill to her stall and saw her eating her hay peacefully and content.

Tuesday was my off-day, but since the vet was to arrive at 8:30 am I was up early. I felt I owed it to Annie to be there, and I also felt it was something that I needed to experience. The vet first x-rayed Emily’s ankle (and it turned out the problem was just an abscess, not a fracture thank goodness), and when he was packing up and Emily was taken back down, I walked down to Annie’s stall. Again I propped my foot on the bottom rung and laid my arms and chin on the top and just looked at her as if concentrating extra hard on her in her last moments could really solidify her in my mind and might be able to communicate to her a level of concern that couldn’t be vocalized in another way.

The vet came down and, as this was the first time Adam, Claudia, and I were to experience a horse being put down, he explained the process. Holding a huge syringe filled with translucent pink fluid in his hand, he told us that it essentially shuts down her system starting with her brain. He said the only pain she would feel was the prick of the needle and that after a few moments she would collapse, but that before she even fell her mind would already be gone. He said that though she would feel nothing, he liked to try to keep the horses’ heads from hitting the ground when they fell and he would try to do the same for Annie. I stood close between Claudia and Mary as we all leaned on the corral gate, watching while Barb put a harness on the unsuspecting Annie. Barb stroked her and talked to her calmly as the vet stuck the syringe in her neck. I watched the pink liquid drain out of the needle, and then he removed it and he and Barbara stepped back.

Until that moment I’d held myself together. But those ten seconds after the injection, when she stood by herself as the euthanasia took her over, and she looked at each of us in turn with her gentle stare, I couldn’t help feeling horrible that she was alone in her final seconds – without fingers in her mane or a hand on her neck, simply standing there unaccompanied, possibly confused by the changes she felt in her body, while the rest of us stood around like an audience, waiting expectantly for the end she didn’t know was coming. Then she fell. Claudia and I were sniffling and I felt glad that we each had our sunglasses on so we could both fake a degree of strength that we didn’t really have. I knew I had tears cascading out below the frames of my glasses, but I felt a little more protected knowing that my eyes themselves were hidden. Mary took my arm.

A few minutes later, after Annie’s diaphragm released and her body had taken its final reflexive breaths, the vet checked her heart and told us she was gone. I then helped Claudia and Barbara take the harness off of her, and I lifted her back legs as they attached the rope around her hips so to pull her to the bone yard. After her body was securely connected, I stroked her face one more time, and then they took her. I watched as her body was towed away and the other horses turned to see her pass. I walked back up to the house thinking I might cry again. For whatever reason, I didn’t.

Can I take him home and love him forever?

It took close to a month, but I've finally found a favorite. Joel is, I believe, the most comical horse on the ranch. He is a vividly red saddlebred that gets special treatment because no matter what we do we can't get the damn fellow to put on weight. Most horses get hay once daily, and the old or skinny ones will get two scoops of senior once or twice a day depending on the need. Joel gets three scoops of senior three times a day plus a dollop of corn oil with each serving. Were he a person I think we'd be one step away from intravenous feeding.

Joel's unusual appearance is accentuated by his other amusing features: an extraordinarily long neck that makes him tower above the other shorter and fatter horses, and an abnormally wide white strip down his muzzle that makes it appear as though he has a very large nose. Joel also has what I call "Disney eyes," large, dewy, doe-eyes that make your teeth ache from sweetness just by looking at him. When analyzing Joel from the side he still looks adorable, but it is when he's staring at me head on from across the ranch that his super-thin, gangly, big-nosed, Disney-eyed self just makes me grin.

Beyond the quirkiness of his physical appearance, the challenge of his personality draws me. Joel is what many would label "skittish." Some here might call that a bit of an understatement. Basically, he's afraid of everything and everyone. He also seems to fear being caged, exhibited by the "twinkle toes" dance he does at the front of the pen when he's done eating and wants to be released to dart across the ranch to the safety of his rather rotund horse girlfriend, Bonita. I asked Barbara if she knew Joel's story. She told me he was a show horse and that with saddlebreds it isn't uncommon for trainers to use cruel methods to get them to develop a high-stepping trot, including tying weights to their legs and utilizing pain-inducing mechanisms to get desired results. Joel was a victim of this kind of torture and as a result trusts no one and jumps at the slightests noise or movement - fearing it all might be the revivial of one of the nightmares of his past.

I think it is the difficulty of winning his affection and trust that makes finally befriending him all the more rewarding. He and I have reached the point where if I call to him he will walk over. He follows me with less and less hesitation into a pen, trusting that I will not be serving up devices of torture, but bowlfuls of food. If I walk slowly up to him I can pet his face and even hug his neck. He has let me groom him - both inside and outside of the pen. Having been here a month and being able to see the drastic progress I've made in befriending a damaged and difficult horse is absolutely wonderful, and I'm reminded of that each time I catch his goofy profile peering at me, as he wonders when his next helping of fattening-up food will be.

the inevitable

I've had one pleasant day after another for over a month, therefore my streak was bound to end. Not even in paradise could a person escape the inevitable bad day. They happen to the best of us. Today was mine.

I woke up this morning to find that I had started peeling from the "not too bad" sunburn that I got while hiking around on my day off last week. Stumbling into the bathroom to better assess the situation, I saw in the mirror what looked like a person who suffered from leprosy. I realized it would most likely take me the rest of the summer to undo the damage of losing those several layers of skin to four hours of California sun. Awesome.

Just before lunch I got an uppercut to the chin by the muzzle of a horse who suddenly wanted to be where my face was. The teeth on inner lip contact that resulted ended with the loss of a little bit of said inner lip. No big trauma, but I feel confident in assuming most people prefer to keep all pieces of their body parts attached and functioning, and they may get rather cross when a chunk or two goes missing.

Post-lunch I had horse conflict number two where I came between a one-eyed horse and her meal bucket. An accidental headbutt resulted. The horse obviously was not phased. I was merely startled and wondered what sort of new alignment my jaw had just taken.

Late this afternoon I had the good fortune to witness chaos ensue from my first real mistake on the job since my arrival. I had shut and slid closed the handle on the gate to the colts' pen, but apparently neglected to flip (or else flipped but not locked) the latch that keeps smarty-pants horses from sliding the lever over and opening the gate to the pen. My mistake was made aware to me by Barbara hollering to us across the ranch that horses were out. From where I was I could see the colts were the escapees. Twenty-plus pubescent, not yet "fixed" colts wrecking havoc freely among 100 other, mostly female, horses. Suuuuuuuper. Gold star for me.

Once the horses had been returned to their proper locales, and everyone was fed and happy, I quickly retired for the evening. It was one of those days where I realized the sooner I got myself quarantined, the less likely I'd be to cause myself any further damage. Thus, I called it a night and took a warm shower, trying to rinse the day away. Afterwards, thinking I'd escaped the day with a sore jaw, a swollen lip, a bruised ego, and a suit of skin that looked as though it had been exposed to nuclear radiation, I went to retrieve a spoonful of some much needed cookie dough ice cream. In doing so I smashed my thumb between the refrigerator and freezer door.

What a day.

"Hi! I'm Carolyn of Planet Middle Class! From where do you hail?"

(I retell this story at Barbara's request that I put it in writing.)

"Guess how much I got this for!"

Elena (the new intern that arrived the evening before) showed off the small black messenger bag on her shoulder as we waited in the grocery checkout. "It's real Prada." Sure enough, the small silver insignia sewed on the flap of the bag reflected at me as if determined to set itself apart, to not be lumped together with its essentially identical Walmart or Old Navy-produced counterparts. Elena gave me a hint. "I got it at a consignment shop!" I mentally formulated my guess:

Ok...Prada. I can do this. Just have to make sure I don't guess too low. I always ruin the storyteller's joy that way. Let's see...the most expensive brands I've ever come in contact with are Coach and Burberry. Though I've never actually owned anything by either of them, I'm fairly certain a small purse could cost around $150...and I bet Prada stuff runs at least twice that...so if she got it at a consignment shop maybe she spent...

"Fifty dollars?"

Elena pouted. Damn it. Too low. "Well, at (insert name of some store I've never heard of) it runs at five-ninety-five, but at the shop I got it ritzy women sell their designer stuff for cheap and they get a percentage so I go there somtimes and..."

I was confused and had to cut in. "Five-ninety-five? Five hundred and ninety-five dollars!?"

She in return looked confused. "Well yeah, it's Prada! You know, like Gucci?" Apparently I did not know. I had thought maybe I had, but I was mistaken. "Anyway, it's originally five-ninety-five, but at the consignment shop I got it for just one-seventy-five!!"

One hundred and seventy-five dollars for what was essentially an Old Navy bag with a shiny badge.

"Wow, that is a deal then..." I was dumbfounded. For the first time in quite a while I realized I had just entered a world in which I had absolutely no bearings whatsoever. As the cashier scanned my groceries, I took my wallet from my purse and remembered how I had agonized over whether to buy it or not. I wasn't sure I could justify spending $40 on a bag.

"It's the circle of liiiiiife..." Sing it Elton.

The cycles of life and death are very natural here. Natural isn't quite the word. Brutal? Too harsh. Blunt. Yes, that's it - the patterns of life and death are direct and without a sugar coating to soften the blow. Life and death are the two certainties we have here, and they are recognized as such. All of us succumb to death at one point or another, and until that time we're alive and we damn well ought make the best of it. We may not be sure if the motor for the irrigation lines is going to start today, and we don't know what time the hay will arrive (hopefully early), but those simple truths of life and death are ever present, lingering in the background of each moment. My second day here, like I mentioned in a previous entry, we experienced both the near-loss of one of our oldest horses and the birth of two mustang foals, a pairing of events that struck me as significant.

Furthermore, this place is like The Discovery Channel brought to your back door. As I can sometimes view the animal kingdom with a sort of Walt Disney/Lisa Frank fuzzy-wuzzyness, this has been a shock to the senses. To date I've witnessed one of our dogs, Buddy, cause the unfortunate end of, and then consume, three poor doomed creatures. One day while Barb, Mary and I were heading out, the dogs prancing around the car, a prairie dog made the poor choice to dart across the grounds. We saw Buddy bolt and we all shrieked and cried, "Get under the car!! Get under the car!!" Alas, if the prairie dog did in fact get under the car he did not stay there, for a moment later he was being devoured. Our squeals of concern quickly became groans of disgust and we coudn't drive away from Buddy and his meal fast enough. Yesterday, while we were moving hay, Buddy got himself two field mice. We tried to distract him and simultaneously guide the small things to the nearest sanctuary of piled bales, but our efforts were thwarted. Once again, groans of disgust and aversion of eyes. Mom told me last week that Moppy got two baby bunnies (sad, yet I was still proud of the old hound dog) and in reply I told her that the dogs here brought Barbara an antelope head the other morning.

The passing of horses is obviously another form of death that must be faced. I've not experienced this yet, though apparently the couple weeks before I arrived were difficult ones in which babies were lost - "Bucket" the premature baby burro that was taken and cared for in the house and seemed to be doing well until he suddenly died, "Crash" the baby foal who was fatally injured by a yearling, and the baby foal born stillborn from its mustang mother. These, and the more common losses of the aged horses are a part of life here. And how do you deal with it? When I was young we would bury each of our pets or send fish via toilet bowl to the big body of water in the sky, but how do you dispose of a cherished horse? The same way you do any other horse. Barb made a comment to me one time while in the truck that the rope at my feet had "pulled many dead horse in its time." She said it matter-of-factly, not delving into the desire for a more reverent, cereomonious way of doing it, but simply stating the reality of it as it was. When the sanctuary got a tractor a month ago everyone was thrilled because this now meant the horses could be picked up and carried to their final resting places - a far more respectful process. Bucket was actually buried and was carried in this way.

The rest of the horses go to what is called the "bone yard" which is exactly as it sounds. Far out in one of the fields past the two old barns is a sectioned off area that houses the remains of horses that have died on the ranch. Barb believes that as the horses are part of the natural pattern of life, their bodies should rejoin the cycle in that way, providing nourishment for the wildlife in the area and the rest of their remains being consumed by the earth. I visited the bone yard for the first time with Claudia and Adam this week and I was intrigued and quieted by the skeletons that were strewn about the yard. It was fascinating to be able to see the inner workings of the horses - the shape of the rib cage, the way the cartilage lines their joints, the large gap between sets of teeth in their mouth that allows the bridle to slip in nicely. It was certainly educational, but not without sentiment. Claudia found Crash's remains. I was captivated by her ability to recognize them as a former young foal they knew and cared for and at the same time appreciate them for their scientific quality. As I said before, the realities of life are recognized and faced head on. We cherish these animals and give them the best lives we can offer, but death too is natural and when it comes we are allowed a few mintes to grieve, but then jobs have to be done, herds have to be fed, and life keeps going, with past horses continuing on through their remains which nourish the earth, the bodies of other animals, and the scientific mind.

haven't escaped it all quite yet

As today was my second off day, when Mary knocked on my bedroom door this afternoon I was napping. Barbara had company and Mary needed a ride to work (at a campground resort about 20 minutes from the ranch). I eagerly agreed to take her - anxious to make my first drive on a real road topping at speeds well above the tortoise pace of 10 mph I only rarely reach when driving the ranch truck around the sanctuary. I dropped Mary off at work and excitedly prepped for my 20 minute drive home. I put on my Audrey Hepburn sunglasses, plugged in my ipod and put on the Arctic Monkeys loud. Very loud in fact. I took off, averaging a speed of about 65 or 70 (at Mary's suggestion), cruising along the empty two-lane road soaking up the sunshine and admiring the way holes in the clouds fell on the mountains. I only slowed down when it appeared that a prairie dog in the middle of the road couldn't quite decide whether it ought to subject itself to death by tire or finish crossing the road to live another day. When I pulled onto the dirt road that led up to the sanctuary gate - the return to the simple, the dust-coated, the rugged - I had to smile to myself. I do love it out here, but I'd be lying to myself to think I threw off the holds of the city and modernity so quickly. So I entered the bunkhouse, put my Asics sneakers back in the closet, and set my Audrey glasses in my purse. But my ipod I still have on. Gonna listen to "Still Take You Home" for a few more rounds. :-)

elderly canines and their wise ways

I love old dogs. Most people melt at the sight of tiny puppies, and granted their adorableness is incontestable, but give me an old fella with some gray in his beard or a pooch whose face has gone white and I'll scoop up their old creaky bones and love them til their dying day. Ruger here is 10, Elsie is 14, and my absolute favorite dog in the whole world, my old lady beagle Moppy, is 15. Old dogs simply understand several truths about the world that we both appreciate:

1) even if you have to get up in the early morning to go to the bathroom, there is good merit in sleeping in

2) once you've found a perfectly comfortable spot, things important enough to require you to get up and go peer out the front window are few and far between (we can see the events well enough from the couch anyhow)

3) when you are forced to move, a lot of stretching and groaning is an essential part of the movement process (and it often takes more than one attempt to get up)

4) food is always a good excuse for starting one of these movement processes

5) drama is never worth the effort

6) running sucks, but slow walks and road trips on a pretty day are magnificent

7) nothing compares to a good head rub, and

8) late afternoon naps are completely underrated

observations during a day off

The dogs outside woke me up this morning. It's my day off so I didn't stir when Elena jumped down from the top bunk at 7:15. Emerging from my double layer of blankets two hours later, I shuffle to the living room to get a glimpse of today's weather. Leaning my forehead against the sliding glass door I make three observations: it's cold (maybe 45), it's cloudy, and it's wet and threatens to get wetter. Damn. Today was going to be the day that I go explore the acreage across the street, but part of the plan was to take lots of magnificent scenery shots and go swimming in the pond - both activities being less than ideal in the current circumstances. So instead of storing a pack with which to go hiking for the day, I arm myself with a sandwich and an extra blanket from the closet. I tuck myself in, call the two labs to cuddle with me on the couch (Elsie to my left, Ruger to my right), and eat and read Desert Solitaire (Edward Abbey) while Manchester Orchestra plays in my headphones. Bliss.

The silence here is stunning. If I take my headphones off the only sounds I hear are Ruger's nasally breathing and the wind outside. There's the occasional declaration of self by one of the horses or burros as well of course. It's amazing how much sounds can take on a far greater significance when they are rare. For example, when I hear a vehicle coming down the road, I stop what I'm doing and turn to stare. As Termo-Grasshopper Road isn't exactly the most convenient of bypasses, it's not odd to think that vehicles traveling down it might have business here. Those that do turn into our driveway provoke further questions as one never ends up here by happenstance. Those vehicles that don't turn in also raise questions, such as why on earth did that semi choose this way to get to Route 139?

The chatter of the dogs also take on greater significance. Their eruption in unanimous howls and barks...

Sorry, had to break for half an hour. Ruger decided to drape his great big bear-like front half across my lap and honestly, what option do you really have at that point other than to give his head and chest a good scratching? As my world today is dictated not by an agenda but simply the hours of daylight, loving on an old dog can quickly become a top, and time-consuming, priority. Now that the balances are restored - my bear-like black lab sleeping to my left and my petite yellow lab snoosing to my right, I can resume. The eruption of the kenneled dogs into unanimouls howls and barks suggest one of two things: Barbara is either entering her house, or leaving it. The dogs therefore become the siren for the two major points in the day: the beginning of the workday and the end of the lunch hour. When they burst into a clamor of border collie voices at about 830 am and 1 pm we know the sound of the ranch truck engine starting up will soon follow, and it's thus time to pull our work boots back on.

The animals dictate the course of our days a lot that way. If I leave my door open, Elsie wanders in around 530 or 6 am to inform me she needs to go out and I have a couple more hours of early morning silence to soak up before the day begins. At 815/830 the dogs outside let me know it's time to get to work. At 1 pm they let me know it's time to get back to work. And late in the day, the horses obligingly let me know it's getting close to suppertime by all wandering down to the front gate and standing and staring at the hay in the field until we finally load it up and bring it to them. Then the day ends. Again, bliss.

Wyatt Earp

Eight-year-old Wyatt is the son of Tim, our hay guy. He's come twice now to help his dad with delivering and unloading the bales, and both times I've hated myself for not having a camera. With his own hay hook he yanks and pulls at these bales that weigh at least twice what he does, sometimes succeeding, sometimes simply tumbling over backwards. Every now and then our little cowboy, complete with hat, chaps, and cowboy boots, would stand on top of the bales of hay, hook his thumbs in his belt loops, and just stare off at the horses - our own little Wyatt Earp.

The last time he was here his younger brother Garrett came along. After the bales were stacked and the trailer was loaded, Wyatt and Garrett treated me to an invigorating, and very animated, story about the latest episode of their favorite show in which the hero saved the day by killing a mad bear that was attacking the camp. What show might that be you may ask? None other than the total classic, Walker Texas Ranger. I made not the slightest attempt to hide my amusement at their Chuck Norris idolization, and there was no reason to - these two were incredibly entertaining storytellers, often times one getting so excited that he'd cut off the other and finish describing the scene and Chuck Norris' death-defying escape in detail. They stood at varying distances from each other trying to show me just how close the bear got to catching Walker, asked me if I thought a .22 could kill a bear, and decided without question that a shotgun would definitely do the trick.

The current supply of hay should run out in about a week, and I cannot wait. I'm hanging on the edge of my seat just waiting for my miniature reenactment of how Walker saved Trivette from near disaster this time.

new pictures!

http://umaine.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2011501&l=9441e&id=151200584
and the old:

http://umaine.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2011373&l=0d69a&id=151200584

http://umaine.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2011272&l=a16e4&id=151200584

one week down

So it's been a week now since I wrote last. I've dived headfirst into every task I 've been given and, out of necessity, I've learned a lot very quickly. Two days after my last entry Adam and Claudia left for about a week. They're due back sometime this weekend. This meant that during the week it was Barbara, Esteban, Diana, and myself that worked, and on the weekend it was up to just Barbara and me to keep things running. I've gotten the feeding schedule of who gets what and when down. I'm also learning the art that is loading and tossing bales of hay. Each morning and evening we load 29 bales on the open trailer connected to the pickup and we disperse them accordingly around the grounds. Since Barbara and I have been the only two working in the evenings I've had the pleasure of both helping drive the pickup, as well as be the one who tosses the 120 lb. bales. Personally, I prefer the latter of the two roles as every dog here seems to have a death wish and enjoys running practically under the truck tires giving me a slight anxiety attack.

Aside from getting a handle on the normal day to day requirements I also helped Barbara with some "projects" this weekend. We made a 24 foot wide wire gate to close a hole in the fence dividing our property and that of our neighbors. Luckily we opted not to go with barbed wire as I fear that probably would not have bode well for me. We also built a step for the generator room, a task which involved the use of a hammer, nails, and power tools (hope you're busting with pride, Dad).

In the past week we've gotten some new residents as well! First we received three mustang mares. They were rounded up a few years back and a horse rescue group offered to take them to try to domesticate them and adopt them out, but apparently these three simply wouldn't hear of it (which frankly, I was happy about). They've gotten to be too much for the rescue group to handle so we said we'd take them. We took them straight across the street and released them on the 800 acres. It was really cool to see them run. What was not really cool was the two ladies getting their truck and horse trailer stuck on the dirt road across the street. We tried to use our truck and ultimately had to go get the tractor to pull them out. We released the horses at 7:30 pm. It was 11 pm before we got back to the house. Fun fun.

Our newest arrival is Joe, a 25 yr old Paint who was the horse of an old cowboy that just passed away. The cowboy's son and a couple friends asked us to take Joe in. He's been a bit crazy since he got here and we later found out why - the poor horse had been kept in the same pen for 24 years, being let out only when taken for a ride (but who knows how often that really was). So here he is for the first time in 24 years out in a new place and surrounded by a good 100+ females. He's kinda lost his mind.

A funny note relating to Joe - and a little food for thought - one of the people who brought Joe to us was a lady that was friends with the son of the cowboy. They all talked about how Joe was this old cowboy's "baby" and how they loved Joe so much and he was a sweet horse and they were so glad we could take him because they would hate to have to put him to sleep, but there would have been no other options! Barb gets an email from this lady later. In it she says she just wanted to check on Joe, and she also mentioned that they used to breed Joe and if we decide to breed him she wouldn't mind taking a colt. A couple thoughts came to mind when Barb told me this: 1) we're a sanctuary. we take in and care for horses that people don't want, we don't breed horses to feed back into situations we're trying to save them from, and 2) I realized (and got very angry after realizing) that this woman is asking us for a colt after she just dropped off a horse that she "loves" and "couldn't bear the thought of putting him to sleep" because they couldn't care for him. So apparently she has the means to care for a young horse, but not for an old horse that can no longer be ridden and thus "serves no purpose." I mentioned this to Barbara and it got her fired up too. Apparently whenever Barbara is asked to give lectures she talks about the problems of our "disposable culture" - this situation with Joe being a perfect example. We're a society where once a living thing stops being useful to us, it's tossed without a second thought. I was shocked by the woman's own inability to recognize how contradicting her statement was, but it's just a testimony of the societal mindset in general I guess. Just a little tidbit to think on.

the first official day

Today was my first official day of work. I got up at quarter til 8, double layered my hoodies, put on my jeans, boots and work gloves and followed Claudia down to the barn. I'll be her constant shadow for the next two days. It was cold this morning, with a bit of a breeze, but the way that the sun hit the hills through the holes in the clouds made bearing the cool weather well worth it if only to have that view. Claudia instructed me in feeding the older horses and which ones require water in their Senior so to make it easier to chew. It looks as though we spend most of our time working with the older horses, which makes sense as they require a great deal more care than the rest. The mustangs are pretty much self-sufficient, needing only for hay to be tossed their way and that their water buckets be checked daily. The younger domestics are similar.

It is at this time that I think I will take a moment to introduce you all to the horses whose names I have learned thus far. There are about 200 horses on the sanctuary grounds, plus the 12 new mustang foals, so I don’t expect to learn the names of them all, or even half, but I’m told there are several horses, primarily due to their pestering, that I will grow to know quite well. First, I have already introduced you to Annie, the ancient thoroughbred who is perhaps the most docile horse in the park and a particular favorite of Claudia. Her other favorite, Rio, you’ve also met - the former champion thoroughbred who seems to think he’s a bit too good for the rest of the horses here and tends to be a loner, but at the same time feels the need to observe your every action. Then there’s Memphis, the beast of a horse that I got to ride bareback. There’s Jelly, an incredibly sweet and aging white Arabian who has melanoma on her jaw. Cloudy, a gorgeous cream colored Arabian who has only one eye. He’s constantly followed by who everyone simply calls “Claudie’s girlfriend,” a bay colored horse that I’ve settled on calling either “Nuzzle” or “Nudge” depending on whether I decide her tendency to rub her head against me is an act of affection or a demand that I move out of her way. That determination will come with time. There is also Derby, a gorgeous horse whose breed I don’t know but he is what they call a “white” because he is pure white with blue eyes. He apparently loves people and was one of the domestics that introduced himself to Lauren and myself on our first day here. He is also apparently at the top of the pecking order amongst the domestics. Let’s see, there’s Rosie and Georgie, a mother-son pair that though separated by the colts being grouped together in a corral, are normally found side by side, Rosie outside the gate and Georgie just on the other side. Lucy and Lady are two elder reds that I’ve met. Sierra is a bay-colored saddlebred known as the “baby stealer” since she apparently tries to take any young foals that are born on the ranch away from their mothers and raise them as her own. There’s also “the witch” a white horse with brown speckles whose actual name seems to be unknown, but who was banned from the barn since she apparently beat up on the other old horses regularly. She spends most of her time now sadly hanging around the gate to the barn, not quite understanding why she’s not allowed back in. There are two gorgeous Paints, mother and daughter, one brown, one black, who apparently were great riding horses, but contracted a lung disease that apparently causes bleeding in their lungs when they get too worked up. Last but not least, is the elderly horse that I think is becoming my personal favorite. She’s an appaloosa named Emily. She has a lame front leg so she walks with a limp, but she’s full of personality. Claudia said before that if her dog Elsie was a horse she think she would be like Jelly, and I think I can say the same of my old lady beagle and Emily. Miss Emily loves attention and is incredibly affectionate, but is also constantly on the hunt for food and that motive underlies her every action. Before my time here is done I’ll have pictures of each of these horses so that names can be connected with faces.

So after we fed the older horses and made our rounds checking and filling up the water buckets, we started the fun job of raking out the corrals. Once a week we thoroughly rake out each of the eight corrals and the rest of the week we just clean up any large messes they’ve made. Today was the day for the massive cleanup. We got through four before other more pressing requirements demanded our attention. That seems to happen a lot here. Barbara decided today was the day to move the last mustang stallion. He was residing with the colts in the large corral next to the barn but needed to be moved across the road to the large field where the other mustang stallions are kept. He had managed to stake his claim to half of the corral, not letting others near the section where the old lady horses bordered the corral. After several attempts we managed to guide him out of the corral and across the road by blocking alternative exits. Once we had him safely removed we moved the rest of the colts from a pen next to the mustangs over to the corral with the other colts. The whole event caused quite a stir. The newly relocated colts were devastated by their removal from their mothers and they yelled back and forth across the lot for most the afternoon. Also unhappy with the relocation was Jelly, who apparently was quite taken with the mustang stallion that we just moved to the other side of the road. She threw quite a tantrum and we had to do our best to quiet her for fear the stallion might jump the fence.

After the move and our break for lunch Claudia showed me how to properly groom the horses. She was going to be leaving for the afternoon to run errands since she and Adam are leaving Thursday morning for 10 days so to return to New York and drive back with the rest of their belongings, and she thought grooming Annie and Emily might be a good way for me to spend my last couple hours. So since I had no other items on the agenda for the day I took my time. I probably spent close to an hour on each horse, first brushing the dirt off, then using a softer brush to make their coats shine, then using the massage brush and ending by brushing out their manes. It was a calming experience and allowed me, as Claudia said, to really get to know the horses. There’s a lot of trust involved in grooming, on both sides of the equation. When grooming you hug right up against the horses, thus one wrong step and you could end up with a crushed foot, and if you get too far behind the horse she might back into you or kick you because you’re out of her line of vision. On the other side, these old horses have a lot of battle wounds they have acquired over the years and they have to trust you to be careful with all their trouble spots when grooming them. When brushing their manes I found myself treating them as I would another person whose hair I was brushing knots out of, grasping tightly at a clump of hair and brushing out the ends so they wouldn’t feel the pull while I tugged at them. Miss Emily tended to rest her head and neck on your shoulder while you brushed her from the front. A tendency I absolutely loved though sometimes she would rest so heavily that you would have to duck out from under her due to the weight.

While grooming Emily I found myself left on my own. Esteban and Diana, the two permanent workers, left for the day, Barbara had run in town to get parts for the truck that had broken down (broken equipment is apparently a constant happening), Claudia was running errands, and Adam was taking a few hours break before having to go switch the irrigation wheels again. The grounds were completely vacated of human activity save for myself. For the next half hour it was just me and Emily, and the 200+ other equine occupants of the grounds. Not even a car passed by to break the isolation (but then again why would one pass since we were 14 miles off the nearest highway on a road that appeared to lead only to our sanctuary and a few other deserted-seeming ranches). I was detached from humanity to a degree that I feel fairly certain I have never experienced before in my life. It was thirty minutes of a kind of tranquility that will stick with me for a lifetime.

After I finished with Emily I called it a day and spent the rest of the evening journaling in an attempt to catch up on the first few days of activity. Oh yeah, two other events: 1) the last of the pregnant Spanish mustangs apparently had her baby yesterday too – it’s a baby Paint; 2) we have a new resident, Prairie, the two-year-old daughter of another of our residents. She’s absolutely gorgeous and for those of you who watch Disney movies, she looks exactly like Spirit – a yellow/cream coat with a black mane. Gorgeous horse. So yeah, that was the end of my first day. Excellent times.

A day of observation

I didn’t really sleep last night. I think it was the utter silence of the place. The occasional braying of a random burro and the darting of my rabbit across the carpet floor seem all the more jarring when disrupting the quiet that completely envelops the sanctuary at night. Nonetheless, I woke up this morning ready to confront the challenges of the day.

Today was spent for the most part “observing.” At 9:30 ReeAnn, a friend of Barbara’s who owns a feed store and trains horses came to work with Adam and Claudia. Claudia, originally from Germany, plans to be come a veterinarian and aspires to open a center here in California for retired race horses, like “Old Friends” outside Georgetown in Kentucky. Adam, a music major in undergrad, is primarily interested in the sustainable farming side of the sanctuary here so he works with Barbara on taking care of the alfalfa field and he “fixes” things around the farm. ReeAnn is working with them weekly on both riding bareback and on training horses, with the goal that eventually three already domesticated horses will be able to be ridden around the perimeters so the fences can be checked. I got to watch them ride Memphis, a crossbreed called a “warmblood” – the explanation of which I can’t remember at present, but suffice it to say he is a very large bay colored horse with a black mane. Memphis is at the “top of the pecking order” Barbara says, and understandably so since he’s a good three hands taller than the rest of the domestics.

After they each rode him for a bit, ReeAnn brought out Rio – a former winning race horse who apparently broke time records at race tracks in L.A. He’s a good deal smaller than Memphis, but that also means he has a lot more movement. He’s a lighter bay colored thoroughbred, recognizable by the branded numbers on the back of his neck right under his mane, a reminder of his former life. ReeAnn rides him first, and this is the first time he’s been ridden for a number of years. And even then, it’s unknown whether he’d ever ridden for purposes other than racing. However, he’s seems a bit familiar with having a normal-sized person on his back and though a bit spunky, generally recognizes the role of the harness and trots about at a pace lighter and faster than Memphis. Adam finally jumps up and its obvious that due to Rio’s smaller size a good deal more balance is required to keep your place on his back and not on the barn floor. I watched Claudia stride about on Memphis while Adam did his best to remain in his seat and gallivanted around on Rio.

Finally they dismounted and, to my surprise, ReeAnn told me to give it a shot. So with a boost I jumped up on the back of Memphis and Claudia walked me around for a bit. I’ve only ridden once before, and that was on a saddled horse. I can tell you this – riding bareback is much different! I scooted up to right behind his shoulder blades and wrapped my fingers in his mane, clamped my legs against his sides and just did my best to relax and balance myself with each jutting step he took. I managed to stay put, but I couldn’t imagine the balance it would take to stay put if he decided to jump into a trot, or even more difficult, if I was on a smaller horse! After dismounting I helped brush the two horses down and I got to watch them catch and begin to harness train two young colts.

After a day of observation, around 2 pm we took a break for lunch. After lunch I went with Barbara to pick up Mary, the lady who mans the office here, and then go on to “town” – Susanville, a town half the size of Georgetown about an hour’s drive away – to get dog food, Senior (pellet food) for the older horses, and to get my groceries. Just as we were dropping Mary back off at the sanctuary we say Claudia waving us down. She was standing in the carrel of Annie, a thoroughbred and one of the sanctuary’s oldest horses, and Annie was laying down and wouldn’t get up. We all went over and they began to try to coax her up. Claudia said she just went down and then kept looking at her stomach – a bad sign of possible colic, one of the major killers of horses apparently. They finally got a harness around her and got the elderly lady to her feet. Barbara came back with shot of “Vicadin for horses” and injected Annie with it. Claudia then took her out of the carrel and walked with her a bit to make sure she wouldn’t lay down again. Annie threw up a couple times during the walk. Claudia told me later that they’re not sure how much longer she will last. She has lemonitis and they give her painkillers each morning with her Senior. She could go any day now. She’s pretty old for a horse apparently. The barn and the carrels next to it are reserved for the oldest domestics. They lost their oldest horse this December, at an age of 36. Apparently to calculate a horse’s age you multiply its years by 3.3. Thus, any horse over the age of 20 is considered older, and those in their 30s are ancient. Annie is about 28.

After we decided Annie was going to make it through at least one more day, Barbara and I headed to Susanville. With an hour’s worth of silence to break, we chatted about tons of things – her old job, my future job and the various possibilities as to what it might be, the way kids are raised today, her friend that published the only case law book on animal law out there today, her aspirations for the sanctuary among other things. Once in range of town, and therefore also cell phone towers, I made the crucial call to the family to let them know I was alive and well and that Dreamcatcher Horse Sanctuary was in fact a horse sanctuary and not merely a cover up for a cult or something. After buying far more groceries than I needed (likely in part due to my being on the phone all the while thus allowing me to buy more cereal and cookies than I realized), Barbara and I headed back.

This time our conversation was more focused. I asked her what BLM was because she had mentioned the name earlier without much fondness in her voice. She told me it is the Bureau of Land Management, the controller of the expanse of public lands that surrounded us as we drove back to the sanctuary. As controllers of the public lands they therefore also control the Wild Mustangs that roam on them, or rather, did. A law was passed in 1971 that set aside 300 reserves across the country on which wild mustangs could live. Somehow, they’ve managed to eliminate all but four of them and now there are hardly any wild mustangs actually out on these reserves and there are somewhere in the range of 28,000 in government holding centers waiting to be sold to willing buyers. On a related note also unbeknownst to me, horse slaughter has been primarily outlawed and only three slaughterhouses still exist and those three are currently shut down, most likely permanently. Apparently the thoroughbred industry, formerly advocates of slaughter, did a complete 360 and argued in Congress against it. So though she does dislike horse racing, Barbara says she has nothing bad to say about the thoroughbred industry. So back to my point, Barbara said she’s been just waiting for someone to find a way to take the BLM to court over the displacement and sale of the wild mustangs without Congressional permission. She gave me her copy of her friend’s Animal Law book to browse through. She got me incredibly interested in this situation to the point that I think I’ve now discovered my IWP topic.

When we returned we looked out to the pasture of Spanish Mustang mares and Barbara noticed a new baby that had to of been born during the short time we were gone. It was only a few hours old at most and it was already hobbling along on legs that were far too long for its body. It struck me that in the same day we nearly lost one of our elderly horses and a new baby mustang was born. I realized I am going to learn a lot about life and its courses over these next two months.

Arriving at the sanctuary

After a few wrong turns we arrived around 2 pm and I looked down at my phone. I think it almost laughed at me for even bothering to see if service was a possibility. From Lauren’s phone I called the sanctuary director, Barbara. She was over in the alfalfa fields so she told us to just let ourselves in and get me settled in my room in the bunkhouse. We unloaded my gear and stepped into the house that smells intensely of dog – lots of dogs actually, and rightly so as there are 10+ sanctuary dogs that roam, often in and out of the house, at will. I found my room, a two-person one possibly to be occupied by another young 20-something (hope she likes rabbits), and Barbara came and greeted us. She basically said “Welcome, get settled, look around the grounds as much as you like, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Lauren and I hardly knew where to start but we just walked down the hill from the house as the entire place is lined with horses trotting here and there. As neither Lauren nor myself had any real experience with horses I was unsure about this whole “just go mingle” idea, but Barbara said that so long as I made my presence known, I was good to go. So we gave it a shot, and quickly made friends with several of the domestics who either just really love people or thought it was about time for dinner and a meal could be found in either our jackets or shoes and they should try to eat them to find out. Within the first minute of making my acquaintance with a large bay-colored mare I found myself streaked with horse snot and drool. I grinned and knew this was going to be an excellent summer.

We socialized with several of the domestics and then ventured into the pasture of Spanish Mustang mares. Among them were several new foals – 11 to date – and a bunch of young colts that needed to be weaned away from their mothers before they started getting too frisky with the other ladies and started producing more foals than the sanctuary really had the room or resources for. The mustangs were a bit more wary, but a few did come up, and I counted my day an utter triumph after I was approached by one of the new little fuzzy foals. At that point it was getting late and Lauren needed to start back to Reno. We hugged our goodbyes and she left. I leaned against the doorframe of the bunkhouse and just soaked in my newfound solitude. No phone. No internet at my fingertips. Just me, Barbara, the other two married interns Adam and Claudia, and our 200 non-human sanctuary residents. I was content. I finished getting myself organized, chatted up Adam and Claudia for a bit, then settled down with a movie and a book and went to sleep.

Reno with Lauren!

Ah! Where to start? I’ve got so much to write about I feel I need to just start typing before it all starts draining out of my head.

I don’t think the reality of what it was I’d chosen to do this summer really hit me until I neared the end of my flight from D.C. to Salt Lake City. The plane took off from the normal, busy city center and I soon after turned to writing my four-page “hey here’s how my life has been the past nine months” email that I sent to family and friends at home. At the close of my writing, and just as it was announced that we were beginning our descent and at that time it would be in our best interests to turn our laptops and ipods off lest they be the cause of our utter demise by interfering with the airplanes frequencies, I chanced to glance out my window. I drew in my breath and felt my eyes enlarge a degree as I realized the gray and washed out scene of suburbia had been replaced with a red-colored mountainous landscape. At that moment I realized the leap I had taken and I felt a twinge of panic course through my nerves though it was quickly washed over by a wave of anxious excitement. After one more layover in Salt Lake City, my day that started at 7 am in Portland finally came to an end with my 1 am arrival (Louisville/Portland time) in Reno. Lauren picked me up at the airport, we exchanged hugs long overdue, and she swept me off to her apartment where I stayed up far later than I should have and finally crashed with exhaustion.

Lauren began her “let’s get Carolyn to move to Reno” plan the very next day. After getting breakfast burritos and smoothies at a local coffee shop she wasted no time in introducing me to that which persuaded her to settle in Nevada – Lake Tahoe. We took the long scenic drive up there and we finally came around a bend that opened and revealed the expansive and incredible scene. I thought I’d seen blue waters before, but I fear I’ve been gravely mistaken until now. The waters were a shade of turquoise I can compare only to that of the ocean around the Virgin Islands, but the clarity of the Lake’s waters is one that has no rival in any body of water I’ve seen before. As we drove on we passed segment after segment of this massive body with each view as astonishing as the one before. Lauren eventually stopped at the head of a trail down to the beaches. I wiped the drool from my stunned face, manually closed my dropped jaw, and followed Lauren down to the cove, stopping to take a “me in front of” photo above the nude beach (solely to capture the clarity of the water, not the nudity of the sunbathers mind you). Lauren and I set out our towels on the rocky beach and began an afternoon of alternating between wading ankle deep into the frigid waters and playing with any one of the score of dogs that were also enjoying the beach that day. I eventually got the great idea that we should jump in the Lake. The combination of the amazing weather, the gorgeous surroundings and the freshwater of the mountain lake made for a temptation far too great to refuse. So we found a rock off which to hurl ourselves into the 50-degree water. After devising a careful escape route, I jumped. Describing it as a “shock to the senses” would be putting it lightly I think. But man, what an awakening! Afterward I stood motionless and just felt and listened to the quiet of my surroundings, the still thin air allowing the sun to just lift the moisture off of me. It was the most alive I’ve felt in a long time. The rest of my time in Reno was a good time well spent – meeting Lauren’s friends, going hiking, taking a driving tour of the city, taking a driving tour of the rich people houses and being lucky enough to hot tub in one of them, having a near-death-by-tubing down the Truckee River, and eating a score of delectable cuisine at several fine establishments. After four full days with Lauren, we made the trek to my real destination on Sunday morning.