It happened in the blink of an eye, immediately after i complained on my instagram about having no place to do horse-y things …I found a place.
I came across a non profit horse revival organisation that helps horses in need. And its in town. Crazy — cause i’ve been looking for places like that since before i even stepped foot in Laramie. I went to a few and never heard anything back when i attempted to reach out after our original meetings. But this one i found out about yesterday morning, sent in my form a little after lunch and had set up a casual meeting at 5.30pm that afternoon.
I left work early, i figured it was owed to me as i arrived earlier than expected in the morning. Jack picked me up from work and we went home, i threw on whatever farm gear i had handy and left, lickity split.
The sun down is always beautiful on that edge of town and everything was beautiful hues of pink and soft purple. The mountains in the distance were already cuddled up to bed.
The people i met were lovely, wonderful and happy people. Folks that you like the moment you meet them. For me thats saying a lot. They treat horses with respect and don’t act like they’re some fluffy teddy bear to show around like a fairy on a string. This non profit is working its bones and doing whatever they can to help what ever horse they can. And i am honoured to be able to become even a little part of it.
This afternoon i’ll be going back to get my hands dirty and trying to get into a swing. I’m a little nervous as i always am when it comes to new things, but im so excited too. I hope i can remember what i’ve learnt over the years, by law im not really a “horse person” like the others around here or anywhere. I didn’t grow up living in it. I grew up chasing it, but this is a great start in a good place. I’ll update you when i can about how it goes.
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It was a cold morning as I remember it. The snow outside had settled but the wind was a brutal son of a bitch, carrying ice and desert snow along the highway in heavy waves. Wrecks began to build along Interstate-80 between Cheyenne and Laramie as they so often do when the weather has gone all to hell. Happy Jack Road was a winding column of black ice, with no one upon it as happy as the road itself. Thanksgiving passed with the regular hitches and full bellies. The Cornish hens tasted phenomenal and I’ve never had a bad thing to say about garlic butter biscuits. The Sunday before returning to work was a sad day as it so often is. No more late sleeping, back to the bump and grind to someone else’s lousy rhythm in an office high in the sky. That’s the day I’m telling you about.
When I pulled myself outta bed I stretched lazily, trying to unbuckle the sodding nerve trapped somewhere in my neck between my shoulder and my metal ear. I didn’t prosper in my attempt, the infernal thing is plaguing me still. Jack had started the coffee pot as soon as he roused and the smell, though I don’t drink the stuff, was welcoming. He usually always gets up before me. I’m lazy as a retired bloodhound truth be known and weekends are for sleeping. We sat for a while in front of the tv while I tried to catch up on my knitting projects and Jack nursed his Arbuckle’s. It was probably King of the Hill we were watching or some form of Disney Imagineering documentary. Regular old pair of boots we are, and antisocial.
The night before we’d discussed trying to grab breakfast at the Chuckwagon, a local mom and pop place on the outskirts of town with peculiar working hours, to which we struggle to abide. Several times we’ve endeavored to go for lunch or dinner only to find it closed before seeing hide or hair of 2pm in the afternoon. However, it being the Lord’s Day to laugh, it was open around 7am ready for the church rush. Thus we ventured into the snow and got the car out of the garage, hungry as London paupers.
It’s a great place for a writer camp with a cup of coffee, if they drink it, or an unsweet ice tea in my case; to write the next bestseller about some fella with a hitch in his step and an ugly wife that feeds the cows in her birthday suit during the dead of winter. The place has character and a cozy little ambience about it. I wish it was open more often and that I had the freedom to go and write at a favorite table as a first name basis regular, however, unless I become a full time paid writer within the next few months I don’t see it happening. Never say never and never say die… unless you put it in a poem.
I ordered the cowhand classic breakfast with scrambled eggs, a griddle loved pancake and seasoned hash browns with a tall iced tea full of ice. Now the bacon was almost a little too sweet for me personally but it’s tough to compare to the Jalapeno bacon I cook at home. The eggs and the pancake were nevertheless on point. We sat at our table talking about buffalo Bill and what errands we needed to run that day – I probably mentioned Calamity Jane too as I’m apt to do. We got excited about our upcoming travels and a potential get away to Deadwood in the spring. About us were good o’l boys reminiscing about girls they loved and hardworking sons moving into the family business, they hovered over their coffee mugs like gummy vultures trying to chew a tough steak. I half expected Craig Johnson to walk on in and sit by the window. He didn’t.
A few authors say that if you wait for conditions to be prime before you write, you’ll never say a word. I guess I’m the lonesome exception. I truly struggle to write at home unless I am alone. I can write for 8 hours a day at work and feel accomplished and know I’ve done well. Whereas if I stay home, not only do I have distractions and things I feel must get done, but it’s harder to get into the mindset. At work I write to drown out the everyday office scenario but I need to buck up. I have to set aside a little time each week to force myself to also write at home whether I’m with Jack or not. After all that’ll be where I write my other novels if ever one sells. Having said that, as long as something is written I shan’t complain.
I hope December finds you well my friends.
Your keeper, Bella.
As i said before, i’ve always wanted to photograph the american wild horses whether it was in Nevada or Wyoming, wherever.
I never thought in a million years i would live either place. I feel pretty lucky and i feel incredibly far away from home at the same time. For thats a very rare feeling, usually I don’t think much about how far from Denmark or England I am, but this time I really knocked distance out of the park.
This weekend we took a drive around to see if we could catch some glimpses of wild horses near us here in Laramie, and there are quite a few. I’ve been looking for them since we got here and finally I’ve started being able to piece some kind of pattern together. If i felt like getting my ass shot and risk trespassing i would’ve gotten a lot closer to them than i did. But this is only the beginning of another old dream i thought would never happen and yet here we are. You and me — on my little blog.
Ironic really, i’m the type of person who doesn’t believe dreams come true but a lot, if not most, of mine have so far. When hell comes knocking for me, he’s got some real shit in store of me. I can count on it, but for now i’ll enjoy the fruits of my labor of this dreaming business. It feels like after all these years of moving, travelling, homesickness and struggle are starting to pay off. And it’s lovely to see Jack back in his natural habitat. The Plains.
Now that my full time job is starting tomorrow i’m pretty excited about looking into purchasing a new lens for wildlife photography because theres critters everywhere around here. Everywhere. And it also means i can finally start putting some money away to go to the school of horseshoeing in 2020. Lots of things are coming together.. I just have to get the first day over with which for me is the biggest hurdle because its scary and uncomfortable and daunting. Is it the weekend yet?
On this trip alone we came across prairie dogs, bald eagles, red hawks, resting pronghorns and three or four different herds of horses on the hillside a little too far away. Whereas in New Hampshire I felt lucky if I saw a plastic bag fluttering around in the wind like a ballerina — but not really because pollution sucks balls. New Hampshire was beautiful, but this is another world.
This is where we belong right now. On the plains with this beauty. Dappled in utter perfection somewhere on Sheep Mountain.
One day, on these lonesome prairies so high in the sky, i’d like have a homestead with my own herd of wild mustangs that just drift over hundreds of acres. And have a couple of retired draft horses too … because damn i love draft horses.
Thanks for reading. I hope for us all that the weekend comes quicker than a woman during foreplay, unless she’s got a headache — in which case. Good luck friend, I do not envy you.
♡ Get my god damn drivers license.