Frank and I are home from our very big adventure. The hours of riding are still echoing beneath my skin, running through me as I drift off to sleep, singing through my fingers as I snatch at words to bring a sort of shape to what we have seen and where we have been.
Perhaps, the facts. We, the horse and I, drove north, left the white sand and aquamarine waters of the east coast and climbed over the tiers, on through the dry midlands, turned left until we reached Devonport, then south along the west coast, until eight hours after we’d driven out the front gate, I unloaded Frank at Elsewhere Creek, 12km on from Arthur River. We would camp here and ride down the coast to Sandy Cape and camp two nights down there, explore a little further south and then return. The whole ride was 80ish kilometres, three days in the saddle. Frank, unconcerned after a long float trip, looked around, sniffed the salt in the air, took in the sight of new horses and turned to me as if to say, this was indeed a very great adventure1.
While the bbq smoked and the sun set, we swam in the golden sea. That night the weather threatened. I didn’t sleep but I lay curled in my sleeping bag while the stars blazed and the wind thumped. The world was wild with wonder. Specifically I wondered about my horse (who has never been on a beach, who is shy of ridden horses, who can spook faster than your eye can blink) and how he would handle the first day of our three day ride? And how would I handle him?
In the first crease of light I gulped a cup of coffee and saddled my very tall horse. When I got on all the nerves disappeared. He walked out, his stride long and fluid, his brown ears pricked. Down the coast, through the little shack community of Temma and then along bush tracks to the wild expanse of ocean and beyond, sandhills piling back on themselves. To the west the rollers pounded from across the stretch of the world. The beach was shrouded with cloud and the horses walked through deep sand. When I got stiff I slid out of the saddle and walked beside him until I was hot and then got on again and felt the huge strength of him.
The support crew loaded with gear passed us on the beach going fast, not stopping on the deep sand. They crossed the Pedder River in a gasp inducing splash. We followed them to set up camp, the horses making easy work of the river crossing. We took off their saddles, led them to the river and muzzle deep in tea stained water, they drank and rolled in the sand. Tents, a fire, horses fed, not hobbled like in the old days, but contained in quickly put up electric tape yards. We ate curry with home killed lamb and stood around the blazing flames until the night was so wild that shelter was the only option. The horses, in thick tea tree, turned their tails to the wind and rain and we crawled into bed.
I’m giving you just the raw outline to this monolith of an experience. I write a text message to a friend who asks me what it was like: I am still just thinking and thinking. To be in the saddle for 8 hours. To feel this affinity with a horse. To get off and walk beside him. To get back on and accept his vastly superior strength. It has blown my tiny mind. Part of me is on fire for what this could mean for the novel, part of me is afraid I’ll never capture its essence.
Out of many moments there is one that stands clear. On the last day, after riding for hours we were close to where we had left the floats. Frank and I cantered up the beach, he sat light in the bridle but powerful. Ahead of us his mates plunged. I felt his blood rise, I’m not saying this as a metaphor, I actually felt his skin plump under my hand as his coat opened and his veins took the oxygen to the edges of him. The energy, even after a 30kms, was pure power. He took one huge stride and instead of trying to hold him, I just leant forward and placed my hands on either side of his neck, I breathed out and he did too.
We walked off the beach on a loose rein. When I slid from his back, loosened the girth, there was not even a dark mark of sweat under his saddle.
In truth, I don’t yet know what I’ve learned from this ride. I’ve felt as one with an animal who speaks another sort of language. I’ve moved through the world differently. I’ve ridden, my hips taking on the shape of his stride, and when I’ve grown stiff I’ve slipped from his back and walked, the rein loose over my arm, still connected. I hug it all to me and just before sleep what I feel is the elastic stride of my horse, taking me into the world.
mm
Random things I have consumed
I finished The Hearts of Horses and loved it. I’ve also listened to Mrs Narwhal’s Diary, which is free on audible at the moment. If you need a book to get through some serious weeding, a long road trip, or deep clean of the kitchen, this will be the one you want. Don’t be coming for the literary chops, just for the homespun wisdoms. Also, watch this beautiful film. C shells (via India Knight) And a most delightful hour of conversation, Louis Theroux and Adam Buxton, making women of a certain age, laugh a lot and feel a little bit wistful. Finally, Jenny Odell thinking serious thoughts about rocks (this is for a small portion of you), and for more of you Leslie Jamison writing about antique medical slides in The Yale Review and Margaret Simons in the Saturday Paper thinking things about liminal spaces (this for you gardeners). I’m over my (self imposed) word limit. Must stop.
Have a happy easter sitters.
x
The invitation came from one of the Friday crew I ride with. It was her birthday present from an old friend who has ridden this coastline first moving cattle and later for pleasure. He’d take her and friends down the west coast to Sandy Cape. Yes! I said when she asked if Frank and I would like to come, YES. There were seven horses and riders and two support vehicles (who had a pretty big adventure of there own driving the beach) to carry gear (think tents, electric fence yards, horse and human food etc).
oh Maggie, i have no words but many, many feelings, all from reading your words, I can't imagine how it must be for you who had the experience
I love this Maggie. Thank you. I'm standing on the cusp of giving up riding, giving up horses, and this speaks to something deep within me. Are you sure you want to forgo this feeling, it says. Are you really sure?