This year I’ve been writing here about nurturing my light in resistance to the darkness around and within me, slowing down, living lightly. In my last piece I mentioned exhaustion and the possibility of working less. Two jobs had begun to feel like too much. But how could I give up this secondary pursuit that I love, and my relationships with the people I serve there?

Then a couple weeks ago, one of my long standing clients suddenly left. That shattered my illusion that I was indispensable. In its place shone the understanding that I’m responsible to, not for, my clients. Suddenly the field of possibilities widened. For example, I had been planning to establish a solo enterprise, which seemed the best way to attain my goal of eventually switching careers. That would necessitate a pause in my practice, but now I saw that I could take an indefinite break. And I could use that time to explore how exactly I want to engage in that field.

Next month the training program comes to an end. Through it I’ve met a dozen bright and interesting people with whom I share a love of learning and a desire to develop particular skills. I’m the oldest member of that cohort, and was feeling jealous of the years and freedom the others had before them to develop— after all, by 25 I’d become a wife and mother and so the outlines of my life had been established early.

I reminded myself that I had planned my life this way for a reason. My parents had me and my sister in their twenties, and in their fifties they were free to enjoy the interests that called to them. This inspired me to become a young parent, yet here— with my daughter well established in her own career and my marriage to her father decades in the past— in my fifties I was overloaded with responsibility and working more than ever.

How had I ended up here? An image from a story I’d heard in a dharma talk came to mind: a captive tiger at a zoo who continued to pace back and forth in the confines of his cage even after the door had been lifted away. My ability to work hard and put in long hours had served me well. After reckless years in the wake of a devastating breakup, I’d needed the earnings and discipline of a second job to get myself back on solid ground. But the dust on that achievement was long settled.

Then while reading, I came upon a passage describing the analysis of a dream in which a woman returns to her seat on a train after something caught her interest and is thrown into panic to discover that her briefcase has been stolen. Her briefcase can be seen as emblematic of “the way she structures situations by creating external demands and obligations to which she devotes herself as a way of diverting attention from more authentic wishes and her terror of ending up alone” (P.L. Wachtel, 2008). Oof. That hit me right in the heart.

Writing, traveling to other countries and going on horseback adventures, being open to the possibility of new romance— these are scary forays into uncertainty requiring more than just an open, willing attitude. As Joseph Campbell noted, you can’t get to point B without leaving point A and venturing into the woods.

I took my first steps last week, informing my employer and clients at my second job that I’m wrapping my work up there mid-June. I’m feeling excited and sad and nervous by turn. And I’m proud of myself for setting off into the woods.

What old beliefs, attitudes, and habits are keeping you from the possibilities that call to you?

There were plenty of thrilling and touching moments in Milan and Cortina-- like speed skater Francesca Lollobrigida unexpectedly winning Italy’s first gold medal of the Games on her 35^th birthday, with her husband and young son looking on-- but for me, Alysa Liu’s singles free skate was the pinnacle of this year’s Olympics. Ms. Liu glided into the arena wearing a sassy ponytail, a twinkle in her eye, and an ever-present smile positively beaming with joy. Draped in gold proclaiming her value, she leapt, spun, and swirled across the ice to Donna Summer’s high-energy disco version of “MacArthur Park” with abandon, inviting us all into the moment and embodying her intention to have fun and to share her art. The score hardly mattered, and her medal victory was mere icing on a rained-upon cake. Ms. Liu had won it all before her routine even began.

Alysa Liu’s performance gave us all a masterclass in living. She had stepped away from skating when the sport’s pressure and demands leached its joy. Then rested, refreshed, and grounded, Ms. Liu had returned to skate on her own terms, in service of a higher purpose than winning awards.

How easy it is for me to lapse into grim effort, like one of those figure skaters visibly straining against gravity. After a recent bout of discouragement and exhaustion, this passage landed in front of me:

“It’s dark because you are trying too hard. Lightly child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly. Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them… I was so preposterously serious in those days… Lightly, lightly – it’s the best advice ever given me… So throw away your baggage and go forward. There are quicksands all about you, sucking at your feet, trying to suck you down into fear and self-pity and despair. That’s why you must walk so lightly. Lightly my darling…”

-Aldous Huxley, Island

Thank you for this reminder, Universe. Just two months into the year and I’ve already wandered off my aim of resisting overwork and tension. I’m a quick forgetter.

I have everything I need right now. I don’t have to figure out the rest of my life this year. In fact, as things stand now, I don’t have to figure out anything big this year. Why not drop that baggage and take this year to live lightly? I can spend a little less and work a little less. Clear some things off my schedule to make room for the magic that happens when I’m open and connected to the Life Force.

And how can I maintain this heading? My first mistake was to focus on avoiding something negative instead of steering towards something positive. I learned early in horseback riding to look where I wanted my horse to go rather than at the spot I wanted to avoid. Later I was taught to do this when driving a car because we unconsciously head right for whatever we’re staring at. My second mistake was not building in daily practices to remind me of my intentions. A plane that wanders mere degrees off course ends up in a vastly different place after several hours in the air.

So this year, I will embrace joy, curiosity, play, creativity, and kindness. These will be the values by which I set my compass in prayer each morning. I’ve made visual reminders, and these values will be the standard by which I assess my choices and to which I will hold myself accountable. And when I forget, the consequences will nudge me back on track. In the meantime, Great Spirit, help me to live like Alysa Liu skates. Lightly, my darling.

What supports do you put in place to help align your daily living with your values?

Hope is vital. We are not helpless, and we cannot afford to become numbed by disbelief or paralyzed by grief. Because Minneapolis is just one in a series of tests by this administration to see what they can get away with. These are tests of Americans’ will to fight for the values and freedoms we hold dear, including free and fair elections (you can read about the demands sent by the US Attorney General to Governor Tim Walz here: https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2026/jan/26/pam-bondi-minnesota-voter-rolls-ice-surge). So we’re going to need our strength, to stay engaged, to have each other’s backs. Let us take inspiration from the people of Minneapolis who are protesting peacefully, walking their endangered neighbors’ children to school, bringing meals to those sheltering in place.

Here’s how I’m nurturing my little light and trying to stay warm:

• Using 5calls.org to make my voice heard. This website (also an app) makes it super easy to call your legislators. Just type in your zip code and click on the issues important to you, and a bulleted list of important points appears. Below that will be a relevant state or US representative with their phone numbers. Just tap to call and put it on speaker, then return to the page and reference the suggested script. If you leave voicemail, be sure to provide both your name and address so it counts. I find this an empowering way to start or end my day.

• Watching, not staring at, the news. I limit myself to one deep dive per week and otherwise get the broad updates and move on to other things.

• Turning my phone into a tool for good by:

  • Amplifying important information on social media by reposting news and analysis from trusted sources like National Public Radio, The New York Times, and historian Heather Cox Richardson.

  • Reaching out to family and friends, just to let them know I’m thinking of them and to ask how they are.

• Dedicating time each day to relax and be present by silencing my phone and placing it out of sight while meditating, reading, journaling, watching TV, or snuggling with my dog.

• Meeting my body’s basic needs. This means getting 7 to 8 hours of sleep, drinking enough water, eating at least two healthy meals per day, and exercising three times per week.

People around the world have survived worse regimes. You are not alone.

And Spring is coming, my friends. Spring is coming.

What have you found helpful in navigating the fear and uncertainty of these times?

In 2025, change came barreling through my life like a tornado-- without warning, leaving me instantly yet unevenly transformed. There is a clear before and after that day the listing for a horseback trip to the Golden Eagle Festival in Mongolia’s western Kazakh region triggered a visceral, life-altering reaction in me. Standing there next to my vehicle at a town park I was instantly transformed, my heart afire for exotic adventure. Middle aged me, who enjoys the relative luxury and ease I’ve attained in my daily life, was suddenly plodding through airports like a bloated turtle, duffel on my back and backpack on my chest, on a smaller wilderness trip to British Columbia. Sore from long days in the saddle as I scrambled with my hands across a rocky mountainside, I felt exhausted and thrilled and as I drank in the view at 6000 feet. Awe bestowed profound peace and belonging.

Returning to normal life afterwards was not easy. I was restless and questioning the life I had built. What else needed to change? If I was an adventurer now, what did this mean for my choice of occupation? What about vocation? I became anxious and tense, trying to figure it all out.

I’d also started writing about the experience and for six months I posted a piece here weekly. That schedule was great for keeping me creatively and spiritually engaged and for mitigating perfectionism. It was not so good for other areas of my life.

My holiday break gave me a chance to rest, to reflect. To make the long journey from my head to my heart, which knows that sometimes the most impactful changes are the small, quiet ones we commit to making again and again. If last year was revolutionary, this year I’m embracing resistance.

Resistance, strong and steady. For example, I am resisting the notion that military morning routines are necessary for a productive day. I am no longer jarring myself awake in the mornings by forcing myself out of bed and flipping on overhead lights, triggering a cascade of hurried movements which convey me through the day and back to bed after nightfall. Instead I’ve been beginning each day by gentle lamplight, taking the time to journal, meditate, and pray before my feet even touch the floor. Proving to my nervous system that I don’t have to scurry like a hamster on a wheel through every waking moment of the day. It’s glorious!

I’m also resisting “all or nothing” thinking. For me, it’s hard to dabble in things I love. This year, I’m taking the coldest months off from riding. And I’m reducing the frequency of my Wild Ride posts to monthly (on the first Sunday), although I may publish more frequently following my trip to Mongolia at the end of the summer.

I still have questions. About my professional future, about the “best” (truest to the values of my spirit) way to live this life. I’m resisting my tendency to approach these questions with pressure and tension. Because maybe in the end, the details don’t matter. Maybe willingness to live sanely in the questions is the answer.

What are you embracing this year?

This holiday season I am coming home. Home to presence with my cherished ones, home to my heart.

Thank you to everyone who took the time to read what I’ve shared here at Wild Ride this year. I really appreciate the time and interest you’ve taken in my work.

For the next couple weeks I’m stepping away from work where I can, and from social media. New posts will appear starting January 11th.

May you and your loved ones be safe, happy, and healthy. May you navigate the holidays with peace and ease.

Cue the sound of tires screeching. Because that’s when I knew this self-critical voice was verging into the extreme. Reading writers like Maggie Nelson, Suleika Jaouad, and Nadia Bolz-Weber lately has been inspiring and instructive, but judging my work by comparing it to theirs is ridiculous. As my mentor pointed out this week, I am not a professional writer.

For me, writing is a spiritual endeavor. I pray for guidance and inspiration to write what someone needs to see, try to let myself be an instrument for Love, and then release my work into the world. Sometimes my ego wants to take it back. That’s when I need to remember that I’m not only writing for the thrill and pleasure of creativity but also to express through my personal experiences more universal truths of our existence as humans living our finite lives.

The story about Angela was not “wasted” in a piece where the writing was not my best. She came up in my writing when her story came to mind. I asked for Love’s guidance, and I choose to trust it despite my questions and doubts. Faith is verb.

Nothing is wasted, ever. Not if I am curious and mining for meaning.

My personality’s discomfort around self-disclosure, concern about how my writing (and I) will be perceived, ambition to be a good writer and desire to be recognized as one are all real and present every time I sit down to write. I am not alone. Suleika Jaouad recently said that everything she writes has to begin as a handwritten journal entry because she struggles to be truthful when she sits at her laptop, facing a blinking cursor on a blank page.

I am trying to process ideas and feelings, desires and dreams, disappointments and victories, all the lessons. It’s messy, and I’m flawed. And yet I’m still here, proving that the work doesn’t have to be perfect to be valuable, that our stories matter. That you are not alone and your story matters.

What gets in the way of your honest expression and vulnerability?

It’s true that at times, the experience has felt like being struck by a thunderbolt-- bursting into tears upon seeing the listing for the Golden Eagle Festival ride in Mongolia, the sudden arrival of this idea to ride the continents. But in the larger context of the past three years, it’s been more like waiting a VERY LONG TIME for water to boil.

I reminded my friend of all the discussions we’d had about seeking clarity around goals, the podcast episodes and books on the topic we’d traded. One such book was maddeningly titled “Choose.” Aware of the multitude of fascinating and thrilling possibilities for a single central goal to serve as a guiding light for the second half of my life, how could I possibly choose when saying Yes to one meant saying No to all the others?

I longed to be chosen by a goal, to be called to action.

It had happened to me once before, the year after I turned forty and was diagnosed with (and successfully cured of) cancer. I was seized by the sudden desire to make a documentary about immigration in my state after hearing the wildly different approaches adopted by local cities: New Haven declared itself a sanctuary city, while Danbury had their police officers deputized as agents of ICE. Over the next few years, I studied documentary filmmaking in my spare time, sold a few belongings to buy equipment. Although I’d had some experience with video production a dozen years prior, technology had advanced and I needed to learn how to use a new digital video camera and editing software. Then I interviewed attorneys, politicians, a priest, the editor of a newspaper.

The first person I interviewed was Angela Rossi Zurowski Andersen, a young woman who headed a non-profit agency that services immigrants and refugees. Angela was not only incredibly smart, but she was also kind and generous with her time. I was surprised when I reached back out to her several months after her interview and she didn’t return my calls. When I swallowed my discomfort and called the main number to gently inquire about connecting with her, I was put on hold and then a somber voice hesitantly informed me that Angela was in the hospital, ill with a terminal cancer. I was shocked.

A couple of years later, after the doc was shown at the New Haven Documentary Film Festival, a woman and a younger man came up to me with tears in their eyes. Angela’s mother and husband. They were very grateful to have Angela-- in full vitality, with all her compassion and passion for service-- captured on video. We hugged. We wept.

As I walked out of the theater into the daylight I wondered, what if that’s what this whole endeavor was about? What if the Great Mystery, in its infinite love and mercy, had instilled in me the drive to spend thousands of dollars and hundreds of hours making this documentary just for it to be seen by this audience on this very day? My body tingled and I was filled with a deep, glowing peace. Whatever the reason for my undertaking and whether you believe there is any reason for it at all, I felt blessed to have been the instrument for this gift to Angela’s loved ones. I was also glad to have introduced Angela to a large group of people who might otherwise have never known that her bright spirit had existed among us. And who knows what her presence on screen might have inspired in someone else?

Experiences of a deep and sustained inspiration look different for different people. In the community chat on Patreon of an inspiring writer and speaker I follow, a 50-year-old firefighter recently described his calling to earn a PhD in psychology, which he described as a glow in his heart. Other people stumble upon their calling after being nudged in a direction by someone or forced by events or circumstance. Still others seem to be possessed with clarity early on and simply can’t or won’t entertain other options. They speak of having no choice.

I have no instructions to offer anyone seeking a clear central goal. I can only share with you my own process and journey. Maybe these assignments have been delivered to my consciousness in dramatic fashion because that’s what is required to capture my attention and focus my energies. They have only arrived in the context of repeated prayers that I might be fashioned into a vessel for Love and the daily choice to spend a little time in receptive silence, listening and looking for inspiration.

Is there a clear purpose or central goal in your life?Have you felt a calling and how did you come to recognize it?

At first I had trouble getting Sport to leg yield through a line of cones at the trot. I worked at it through the summer, struggling to coax Sport to maintain forward speed while moving from to one side to the other in front of each cone in the line as I sat facing straight ahead. Eventually Rich had us set that exercise aside. When we picked the exercise back up over the winter, I was delighted to find we breezed through it at the trot. I’d gotten stronger and gained coordination, improving my communication with Sport. By summer we were navigating through the cones at the canter.

Sport could be stubborn and mischievous, often sluggish at the trot and a runaway train at the canter. He had a keen feel for any lapse in a rider’s concentration or effort, which taught me to work constantly at maintaining the ABCs: awareness, balance, and connection. And to never forget that my mount has a mind of his own. I was grateful that eventually Rich had me drop the reins over jumps and hold my arms extended out to the sides. This exercise taught me to keep my own balance and to avoid leaning on the horse’s neck when I hinged forward at my hips in jumping position, so that on the day Sport decided to slam on the brakes in front of a jump I didn’t go sailing over his head.

Under Rich’s coaching, Sport had taken me from rusty former rider to as skilled as I’d ever been. I was ready for new challenges. MJ, a classically pretty (and fiery) young chestnut mare with a blaze and four white socks, became my new lesson horse.

Sport was then leased for a season by a girl who decorated the front of his stall and groomed him to a new level of handsome. He looked happy, and this made my heart swell. I’d still give Sport a treat when I saw him in the barn. Occasionally I’d meet him at the paddock’s edge with a sweet, juicy apple in my palm.

A couple weeks ago Rich told me that Sport had passed. One morning after his grain, Rich had let him out into the paddock with his buddies. Sport turned to look back at Rich, shuddered, and collapsed. Just like that, Sport was gone. It was as quick and merciful a death as one could hope for.

The day I heard, I entered Sport’s empty stall. I stood there for a few minutes remembering his scent, the contours of his body, the way he nickered softly and sniffed my pockets after each ride, anticipating a treat. Then I spoke aloud the words I’d said to him after every lesson: “Thanks for the ride, Sport. I hope you had fun.”

Who have been your key teachers?

So it was with equal measures of hope and anxiety that I awaited the results of an airfare search by a trip planner at 10x Travel, a resource for travel using credit card points and airline miles. My friend Elana had turned me onto them, and I’d worked my way through their free online course and frequently listened to their podcast, “The Takeoff.” Although I’d executed simple bookings like my flights for the Whistler trip on American Airlines using their AAdvantage miles, for this trip which could be made just as easily whether one flew east or west, I decided to let a professional sift through the myriad of airline transfer partners and award flight options for me and employed the 10x award booking service.

The initial options that Morgan, my award booker, found for flights to Asia were decent. As expected, the available award seats were in economy. Plain old basic economy, not premium economy. There was one possibility for flying business class, which on these international routes, especially on Middle Eastern or Asian airlines, is way better than our domestic first class. But it would cost me more than half my points, and the taxes and fees were twice as high as the cash price of a one-way ticket in economy. No thanks. Besides, since I’ll be hyped up on adrenalin on the way to Mongolia and probably quite tired and sore on the way back, if I could only afford to fly in a premium class one way I’d save it for the trip home.

The email response from Morgan later that afternoon began: “I think I found even better.” There were direct flights to and from Hong Kong (which is 4.5 hours and a couple hundred dollars away from Ulaanbaatar, the Mongolian capitol) on Cathay Pacific with seats available in business class. I could get these and still have points to spare, and the fees were less than $200. Amazing! This was so much better than I’d expected.

I immediately began navigating the hurdles between me and those seats. Thankfully, Morgan had sent me all the details and helpful instructions. The theme from Mission Impossible played in my head as I raced to secure the tickets before someone else snatched them up. First, I set up an account at Cathay Pacific. Then I verified that the fares were still available. Next, I had to transfer the necessary number of points from American Express to the airline. I’d never done this before, but to my delight the transaction was simple and easy using the Amex app on my phone. How long would it take to go through? The airline transfer partner cheat sheet on the 10x website said this transfer was typically instant. Sure enough, by the time I’d clicked on the fare, entered my personal information, and chose my seats, the points were waiting for me at checkout. I did it!

I’d booked premium seats to Asia and couldn’t wait to see what they looked like. According to the internet, on this flight the seats along the side of the plane (where I chose to sit) are single, lie-flat seats in cubicles angled toward the windows. Each has a monitor, storage space, and a side table. Incredible, and just what I’d wanted.

My approach to planning this trip has been, “Take a step forward, then wait and see.” I’ve been asking the Universe to throw up huge roadblocks if I’m not meant to go, and to make it easy and affordable if I am. This feels like a green light.

How do you approach daunting ventures?

The three of us cantered our Quarter Horses up the grassy hill, away from the starting line. I rode past the first two jumps, gathering confidence. My trainer Rich on his chestnut mare Skipper and Melissa on her pretty buckskin Jolene were both riding Western and unlikely to take many jumps. Rich lead and I hung in the rear, getting a feel for my horse’s mental and physical state.

Freckles, an aging but lively red roan gelding, was headstrong and this was my first time on him in a couple years. I hoped the strength and skill I’d gained as a rider would help make this an easier ride than my usual horse, MJ. My ring fingers tapped the reins rhythmically, right-left, right-left, jiggling the bit in my horse’s mouth to establish contact and to help soften his mouth and jaw so he’d be more receptive to my signals.

We were approaching the next obstacle, a low stack of logs. So far Freckles was responsive and the ride felt good, so I steered to the jump and we sailed over. Whoo! I was beaming. It felt liberating, this cantering and jumping outside the structure of a lesson in a fenced ring-- like we were skipping school and running wild.

It was a beautiful, blue skied late autumn day in New York’s Hudson Valley and I was both excited and nervous to be riding my first hunter pace, a casual competition across open land. On a hunter pace, teams of two or three ride on a long, marked course at various paces through fields and woods. The route features obstacles like jumps and water hazards that riders can opt to go over or around. It’s relaxed and meant to resemble the experience of a foxhunt without the hounds. It takes a couple hours to complete, and the team that comes closest to a set time wins. In previous years either the timing hadn’t worked out, or our barn’s roster had been full, and the closest I’d gotten to a hunter pace was the photo of helmeted riders on horseback coursing across a field on my vision board. Now my chance was finally here!

Rich slowed his horse to a trot as the path narrowed and curved along the trees at the field’s edge, but Freckles did not want to slow down. We passed Melissa on Jolene and then Freckles reluctantly settled into a trot behind Skipper. Rich picked up a canter again as the path widened and straightened out. Freckles and I soared over another jump and after we landed, I could feel him growing more powerful and gathering speed. Uh oh. I’d been looking forward to riding Freckles because his love for jumping makes for a joyful ride. Now I remembered that jumping also fires him up, and once Freckles gathers steam he can be hard to control.

We were gaining on Rich and Skipper. Determined not to get carried past them, I sat back and seesawed the reins, nearly standing in my stirrups. It’s hard to describe the intense full-body effort required to slow a hard-charging horse-- think vertical one-arm rows while straddling a fast-moving animal with his own ideas. The path began to narrow as it lead into the woods. Rich began to trot Skipper, and Freckles and I fell in line behind them.

Now I was breathing hard and the tendon on the outside of my left leg was screaming. I sat bumping against the saddle so I could turn my toes outward and back, down and up, relieving some of the pressure. Freckles was feeling his oats, tossing his head and taking advantage of my distraction by straying into the branches of trees just off the path. This ride was getting tough. I told Rich I needed to slow down and let him know I was struggling. “Freckles can be difficult,” Rich acknowledged. “Take your time and let me know what you need.”

As we emerged from the forest into an open field, Rich brought us to a halt. The route was here was U-shaped, with a pair of log jumps in succession visible on the second leg. He told us, “I’m gonna take those jumps, but feel free to ride around them.” We nodded and trotted off behind him, with Melissa bringing up the rear.

I calmed Freckles as we neared the turn, softly telling him “Ho.” Then we kicked into a canter behind Rich and Skipper, sweeping through the curve and heading for the jumps. They went up and over. Then we flew over the first obstacle and then I sat back and pumped the reins, keeping him under control. Stride, stride, stride, UP! As Freckles launched, my left lower leg seized up and my foot curled inwards. I tried to rotate my sole away from the horse to distribute the weight evenly across the ball of my foot in the stirrup iron, but my ankle was frozen in place. On landing, the outside of my left foot took the brunt of the impact and pain shot through my ankle. It wasn’t a serious injury, but my ankle felt unstable and its capacity for bearing weight was compromised.

We’d all dropped to a trot and Rich proposed another canter. “Actually, we just walk for a bit?” I asked. “I jammed my ankle coming off that last jump.” I hated to slow the group down, but I needed a break. Both he and Melissa assured me they didn’t mind. Rich asked if I was okay and I filled him in. He told me we’d proceed at my pace, and I was immediately able to relax a bit. Melissa had been tracking our ride on her watch and took this opportunity to check our progress. We were only 30 minutes into a two-hour ride, and I was already exhausted. Great Spirit, please give me the strength to get through this.

By the time we reached the mandatory rest stop at the halfway mark, I was miserable and exasperated. My seat felt insecure and I’d fallen into near-constant battle with Freckles over his speed. Now Rich suggested I try giving Freckles his head more. “That can be scary, because he will go faster, but it will allow you to save your energy and you’ll be less aggravated with each other if you’re not fighting every step of the way.” I knew he was right.

It worked. I stopped micromanaging Freckles and our conflict subsided. I began to trust that he wasn’t going to bolt away, dumping me on the ground in the process. He began to trust that I’d only pull back on the reins if and for as long as necessary. Feeling more relaxed, Freckles became willing to take the lead. We cantered hard up the hills, and he was content to walk and trot at a reasonable pace in between, giving my leg a rest.

There were even moments when I could look around and enjoy the surroundings. Although most of the trees were bare, a few were still dressed in gowns of gold or red. We rode across the rolling countryside under the bright blue sky, kissed by sunshine and caressed by gentle breezes carrying the dried earthy scent of Fall.

After loading the horses into the trailer, Rich, Melissa, and I climbed back into the truck, groaning with age and aches. I doubted I’d ever go on a hunter pace again. But by the time we arrived back at the barn, I was already looking forward to another one next year.

When I told my friend Kelsey this story, she laughed. “Oh, you had Type 2 fun.”

“What’s that?”

She explained that when it comes to adventure, there are three types of fun. Type 1 is fun while you’re doing it and fun in retrospect, Type 2 doesn’t feel fun while you’re doing it, but afterwards you think, “That was fun!” Type 3 isn’t fun while you’re doing it and isn’t fun in retrospect, but you’d do the activity again. Type 3 fun often makes for a good story.

The concept helped put things in perspective. This hunter pace wasn’t some personal failure because it felt like a slog and I couldn’t wait for it to end. It was Type 2 fun. I’d gotten to spend a gorgeous afternoon riding horses with friends in open country. This ride had also given me practice advocating for my needs even when it affected the group. Plus, I’d doubted I had the stamina to ride a hunter pace on a challenging horse, but I’d done it and my arthritic thumbs felt and worked just fine. That’s a lot of wins for a ride that I’d struggled to get through.

What activities provide you with Type 2 fun?

Shit. I’d been waiting months for this announcement, and it was finally here. But I had to hit the road, and I’d be unable to read it for another three and a half hours. That would be torture!

I sat down. With literally a couple minutes to spare, how could I not read it?

There was more to the email than I’d expected. Instead of the usual sole option for dates in September, there were now three choices. Next year there will also be an August festival departure, plus a trip in July billed as an “eagle experience.” Wide-eyed with excitement, I read on. The July eagle experience was suggested as an alternative for people who didn’t want to camp in the snow (how had I missed that detail?) or who preferred to avoid two days of standing around at a festival with no seating or concessions and witnessing the grislier traditional games like “goat carcass tug of war.” Yikes! I would have to think about this.

After my workday was over, I sat down with my laptop and a cup of tea. I looked back through the festival ride photos and saw that several featured snow. My stomach tightened. Funny how our minds can conveniently block out information we wish wasn’t true. While I prefer excessive cold to excessive heat, the Reynaud’s Syndrome which affects circulation in my fingers and toes can be dangerous in severe cold. So, I researched the weather in the Kazakh region of Mongolia in late August and early September and learned temps that time of year can run from a low of 30 at night to 70 during the day. I shrugged. This sounds like New England in October and isn’t too far off from the temperature range I’d experienced in the mountains of British Columbia.

Next, I read some reviews of the Golden Eagle Festival, and not just those on the Globetrotting website. The tour company has a Facebook group, where people freely offer honest opinions on any aspect of their experience. Nobody complained about the lack of amenities at the festival, which was described in terms like “amazing” and “life changing.” One person responded to concerns about animal killing by clarifying that the eagle competition entails the raptors racing from a mountain perch to their trainers in the valley below, rather than hunting for prey.

Okay, cool. I still wanted to go on the festival ride. And I’d opt for the August trip, when the weather would likely be milder. But what about the airfare? The website clearly stated the dates were not final, as the trip included a domestic flight from Ulaanbaatar in eastern Mongolia to a remote region near the western border, where Russia, China, and Kazakhstan meet. That domestic schedule would not be finalized until early next year, which meant all hope of booking flights using travel points (and certainly my fantasy of traveling in comfort with a lie-flat seat) was gone. Would I be willing to endure cramped 16-hour flights in economy? Could I even afford the airfare?

I scrolled down to the booking section for the Golden Eagle Festival ride in August and stared at the blue “Book” button. A voice in my mind urged, “F*ck it, we’ll figure it out.” Luckily, I’d learned that unlike “First Things First” and “Progress Not Perfection”, “Figure It Out” is not a slogan.

I needed to connect to a higher wisdom, so I sat back and closed my eyes, placed my hand on my chest. I inhaled deeply from my diaphragm, followed by a sharp second inhale and a full, slow exhale through my mouth. I repeated this twice, calming my body and mind. Great Mystery, is this trip for me now? If it is, please make it feasible. Suddenly a memory popped into my head.

On my first trip to Maine with my dog Nashville a few years ago, we’d hiked a trail which took us through a forest of towering pines and out to a wide, craggy shore. There we walked the length of pebbly beach to a mound of boulders, which we clambered across until nearing a chasm. I stood catching my breath, gazing at it with hands on hips. Looking down to the left towards the water and up to the right at the woods, there was no visible way across. Hmm. According to the map on my phone, this was the trail, but I knew our location on the map could be off by a few feet. Maybe the trail was just inside the woods, and we’d missed a turn earlier?

Nashville and I walked back to the spot where we’d entered the beach. Nope, no missed path there. We headed back to the boulders, sticking close to the edge of the woods in case the trail turned off into the woods. But the woods were roped off, and a thick border of poison ivy was visible between the sand and the trees.

We made our way back over the boulders, and again I stopped when the chasm came into view. I asked the Universe to please show us how to navigate this obstacle. I carefully made my way to the edge and peered down. The gap was too deep to climb down and too wide to jump across. Just then Nashville began slowly climbing towards the woods on our right, pulling me gently in that direction. I let him. At the top, there was no rope barrier and a short, U-shaped trail veered briefly into the woods, bridging this side of the chasm with the other. I felt myself beaming with light. Grinning, I said aloud, Thank you. The path around that obstacle had only been visible when I was willing to continue moving forward through uncertainty and became open to a solution that wasn’t self-generated.

In my living room, I opened my eyes and looked at the computer screen, hand still resting on my chest. I inhaled, letting the breath flow easily in and out, like the gentle waves on that beach in Maine. My jaw and shoulders were relaxed and the space between my breastbone and belly button tingled. The moment I’d been waiting for was finally here. It felt right. There would be challenges, for sure. But I wouldn't have to navigate them on my own.

I opened my eyes and clicked on the blue button.

How do you decide whether to move forward when the way to navigate an obstacle to something your spirit desires is uncertain?

Tuesday would be another marathon workday and although I got seven hours of sleep Monday night, the next morning I was not feeling energized or refreshed.

I thought, Maybe I should try something different. So I reached into the bag of slogans borrowed from the perennial wisdom of 12 step recovery programs. You’ve probably heard them before-- phrases like “One Day at a Time” and “Easy Does It.” When I am feeling stressed or lost, I grab hold of a slogan and repeat it like a mantra throughout the day. Slogans are a simple and effective way of shifting my focus, and therefore my experience.

The slogan I adopted for Tuesday was First Things First. Ever glance at the clock and realize it’s 3pm and you haven’t eaten anything all day since that banana on your drive to the office? That’s me as I near a deadline. Not this time, I vowed. This time I would take the time for important things, like feeding myself.

First things first. So on Tuesday, instead of jumping into my work right away I made a cup of coffee and a bowl of oatmeal with nuts and fresh apple. I read something that inspired me while I ate. Next I meditated for ten minutes. Then I sat down to work.

It was a productive day. I fought the urge to keep going as dinner time neared. Instead, I closed my laptop and went on a walk with my dog. I was so proud of myself.

I woke up the next morning with apparent amnesia. I got to the office and started working right away. An hour later I made a cup of coffee. The rest of the day was a blur. So was the next day. And I worked right up to the last minute, but I met the deadline.

I succeeded, but I’d failed. So much for First Things First. Luckily, another slogan was there to console me: Progress Not Perfection. I could forgive myself for not being as strong or as smart as I wanted to be. And while I fell short in many ways, I also did better than I might have. A few months ago, I spent the week leading up to a deadline working right up to and even past my bedtime. This time, I did not give into that temptation. And sticking to my sleep schedule kept my mood up and was probably the reason I chose not to beat myself up too much, just a little.

Progress, not perfection.

What imperfection can you forgive yourself for today?

My shoulders slumped. Using travel points to book flights is key to making my goal of riding into the Golden Eagle Festival affordable. I jotted down notes while Sophie described route options and provided resources for researching fares, then thanked her for her time.

I started my washing machine and paused it after adding detergent pods to throw in a load of clothes. Then the tea kettle started screaming and I spun away without starting the laundry. Worry scrambled around my mind like a squirrel around a tree trunk. I needed to sit still. My body sank onto the couch, heavy with discouragement.

I was really hoping to go to Mongolia next year. And I’ve been writing publicly about my quest to ride into the Golden Eagle Festival. What happens to this project if I can’t go?

Good question.

There was a chorus in my head. When I considered the possibility of not going to Mongolia next year, a distraught voice cried, “That would be awful!” Calm and curious, another voice challenged, “Would it?”

This duet reminded me of the story about the Chinese farmer. When his only plow horse ran away, the neighbors lamented, “What terrible news!” The farmer shrugged and said, “Maybe, maybe not.” When the horse returned to the farmer accompanied by two additional horses, the neighbors exclaimed, “What wonderful news!” The farmer shrugged and said, “Maybe, maybe not.” While riding one of the new horses, the farmer’s son got bucked off and broke his leg, causing him to become bedridden and rendering him unable to help his father run the farm. You can imagine what the neighbors said. And then soldiers came through the village, conscripting all able-bodied young men into the army to fight in a bloody war.

So, I can’t know that missing out on this trip in 2026 would be a bad thing.

Of course, I may end up going to Mongolia next year after all. But if I don’t, what then? I could go on a different adventure which might be just as thrilling and try for Mongolia the following year. And if I do ride in Mongolia next year, what then? Goal achieved… blog completed?

No. Life (hopefully) goes on. My wild rides could, too.

I open my laptop and revisit the Globetrotting website. My trip to British Columbia had awakened a thirst for challenging experiences in beautiful natural settings that a single trip to Mongolia would not likely slake. Now I saw so many riding adventures that I’d want to go on: safari in Africa, trekking through Patagonia, exploring Iceland. How could I choose and prioritize trips over the next several years? I needed a larger vision.

So I close my eyes. Inhale slowly, exhale even slower. Then I gaze out the window at the red and gold leaves framing a patch of bright blue sky and ask myself, “If I dare to dream big, what do I really want?” I look back at the list of equestrian adventures around the world. Then it hits me.

To ride the continents.

Oh, hello. Where have you been for the past thirty-five years? You crazy dreamer, you strange, imaginative, rebellious child. Somewhere along the way I became convinced that you were nothing but trouble. That your needling demands for more, bigger, untamed, authentic living were incompatible with success. With belonging. So I called you fire and covered you over with a wet woolen blanket.

But here you are. Inextinguishable flame, encouraging me to speak what’s in my heart out loud and into the world. And so, I do. I proclaim to the Universe, I want to ride the continents and to write about it. Magic: desire becomes intention. The air shimmers and shivers run up my arms. My heart thumps, my eyes fill. Energy flows.

Then I tell my friends, and the intention grows stronger. I tell my family, it gathers mass. And now I’m telling you.

To ride the continents. It’s not a someday dream of a life I’ll live at some imagined point in the future, after I’ve followed the rules and worked hard enough or long enough, after the taskmaster in my head that is the internalized expectations of my toiling Catholic ancestors framed by the demands of our capitalist society decides I’ve earned it. It’s a dream I’ve claimed for the present. An intention I embody for a life I am already living.

There are adventures on horseback to be had on each of the six rideable continents. This year I rode in the mountains of British Columbia. North America, check.

One down, five to go.

Is there a “bigger vision” for your life which could or does serve as a framework for your goals and dreams?

What I will say is that at first, I was both fascinated and uncomfortable with Marc’s compulsive openness. By nature, I’m a private person. But what I’ve learned is that writing and talking things out enables me to gain perspective about the things going on in my head and in my life. Have you ever heard yourself talking to a trusted friend or a therapist about some issue and suddenly gained clarity? And the value of discussing one’s challenges in front of an audience is that people who are navigating similar struggles no longer feel uniquely afflicted. We create a sense of community. Our shared humanity provides context for personal experiences, and this helps us all make meaning. No suffering is pointless if it benefits others.

Marc Maron’s work on WTF is inspiring my work here on Wild Ride in other ways, too. Because I have learned from Marc (and others) that there is something unique about expression through the human voice which helps foster connection, I bought a microphone. Over the next few weeks, I’ll start recording myself reading my posts, and these audio versions will eventually be available on Spotify as a podcast. Just so you know, it feels crazy to say that. I have no ambitions for a podcast. Like many people, I don’t like how my recorded voice sounds and think no one else will, either.

What do I know? Often when I’m close to finishing a piece, an idea will suddenly appear and I get goosebumps-- That’s what this post is about! I’ll type a flurry of lines, read it over, hit “Send”, and then panicky regret sets in: Why did I publish that? Did I expose too much of myself? Nobody wants to read that! But I am committed to nurturing this spark of creativity that I believe is part of the transcendent Mystery, and I have devoted my work to inspiring others. This means I must be willing to make mistakes, to risk looking silly, to fail and to try again. And then when I hear from folks who relate to or feel touched by what I’ve written, it’s usually about those very elements that wracked me with doubt.

If you told me even a year ago that I would be doing any of this-- planning a trip to Mongolia, writing about it publicly, creating a podcast-- I would not have believed you. The work continues to surprise me. I’m curious to learn what this expression of creativity wants to be, to see how it evolves. I don’t know where this endeavor is taking me, but I am strapped in for the ride and feeling both nervous and excited.

What do you feel wants expression? How can you give it space to develop?

A dusting of melancholy had settled over me as I drove down the Sea to Sky Highway from Whistler to Vancouver. As the plane lifted away from the ground, I felt my body straining against a gravity of the soul, an aching desire to remain. I’ve only visited the Pacific Northwest a couple times in the past few years but each time the leaving hurts.

Now back home, I felt disoriented. While I was happy to be reunited with my dog, I wasn’t eager to start the rituals of getting my belongings clean and put away in my cozy little home. Getting into my comfy bed, I practiced my nightly gratitude ritual and gave thanks for our safe return home. The words came more from my mouth than my heart.

In the following days the very nice, perfectly good life I had created for myself felt familiar yet strange. Like I’d been inhabiting a role on stage for years, and returning from the time away-- just being myself, somewhere quite different-- had sharpened my awareness of the show’s artifice. Did I even want to act in this play anymore? I felt slightly out of sync and reluctant to fall back in line. I had journeyed outside my comfort zone in nature’s majestic beauty, and the experience was invigorating and inspiring. Something in me had shifted as a result, and my desire to protect that from obliteration by the daily grind was fierce.

I know that the finitude of time remaining ahead of me has something to do with this. How do I want to live in the time I have left? Marching mindlessly through my days to the inevitable end is not a tolerable option, so I need to consider this. Mountains by the sea call to me. But what does that mean, really? Because my life is here. My job, my family, my friends. And we do have mountains in the Northeast, too.

See what happens when I free the imaginative, questioning, rebellious nature of my spirit? Safety and security scurry away like chipmunks when I remember that I have choices, when I remember that I have dreams and desires for my life beyond the standard issue model. Many of us willingly sacrifice our most vital years to furthering someone else’s aims (usually feeding our capitalist economy and supporting the current power structures) so that in return we’ll be comfortable in our old age. This is at best a shaky promise and definitely not a guarantee. And is that even the central goal for my life? To be comfortable in old age, if illness or injury doesn’t kill me before I enjoy a few healthy years in retirement?

Love, please grant me the strength to tolerate the fear and confusion these questions bring. Help me to stay with the uncertainty, and my true desires, and not flee in panic to the refuges of denial, distraction, or narcosis.

It was almost dinnertime, and I was getting hungry. After a quick reorg of my belongings and a shower, I sat on the patio at a Spanish restaurant and enjoyed a delicious meal of fresh salmon with a chilled glass of smooth, rich chardonnay. I was feeling restless so although I was craving something sweet, I left without ordering dessert and walked the cobblestone streets through the village.

There was a serpentine line outside the ice cream parlor, but I wasn’t in a rush. Taking in the surroundings, on the hulking mountain framed by the side street I noticed a tiny flame, a campfire, burning close to the summit. I imagined the view from up there on this clear night, a canopy of teeming stars and this little village glowing below.

At the counter I asked for a giant waffle cone dipped in chocolate with rainbow sprinkles and had it loaded with peanut butter and chocolate, my favorite flavor combo. It was too much ice cream, but that was okay. Vacation, right?

I strolled towards Olympic Park, which was pumping with 80’s dance music. It was filled with people all of ages, many wearing neon green glow in the dark necklaces. I bopped in place on the plaza above, my tongue racing against melt in long sweeps around my ice cream. Joy!

The next morning I stopped at the front desk. I was hoping to leave my car in the garage while I visited the Squamish Lil’wat Cultural Centre after checking out, and part of me was braced for battle. I was ready to argue that I’d paid for “one day” of parking, which logically meant 24 hours, and if I had to vacate the garage at check out that was only 20 hours, blah blah blah. But the warmly professional woman at the front desk informed me I was welcome to leave my car in the garage until 3, when new guests would begin arriving.

Walking away, I had to laugh at myself. I’d worked up a low simmer of anticipatory indignation for absolutely no reason. How about next time I spare myself some negative energy by waiting to see what actually unfolds? Besides, if I did have to take my car out of the garage at check out, it wouldn’t have caused me any real trouble-- the Cultural Centre offers free parking. Four days on a mountain immersed in the wonder of nature and I still wanted to get my way, how and when I wanted it. Still human!

The Whistler wilderness trip for the dates I chose was advertised by the travel agency as a N’Quatqua First Nations cultural experience. The instant I met our tall, blonde, fair-skinned wranglers my hopes for that experience evaporated. When I asked our host Don about the N’quatqua experience, he sighed and shook his head. There’d been some miscommunication with the travel agency. By that point, though, the trip was already so amazing and fun that I didn’t feel deprived at all. Later I would email the travel company, and they would respond satisfactorily, but for now I could take in the First Nations experience available to me in Whistler.

The Squamish Lil’wat Cultural Centre is housed in a striking building with soaring ceilings shored by cedar beams and walls of glass so that the exhibits are integrated with nature like the First Nations are connected with the land. The Centre is staffed by members of the coastal Squamish Nation and the inland Lil’wat Nation. Luckily, I arrived just as a guided tour was beginning.

The tour experience at the SLCC was multimodal. First, one young male staffer welcomed us with traditional drumming and song. Then we were shown a documentary about the Squamish and Lil’wat communities. After that, we were led by a flamboyant (read: community theater!) middle-aged male staffer through the exhibits. With humor and dramatic flair, he deftly wove historical facts and lived cultural experience into a walking lecture which held our attention and gifted us with knowledge about totem poles and handcrafted canoes of various designs, traditional attire and cooking utensils, and local dialects of the St’at’imcets language.

Walking back to my car with a bagful of items from the gift shop, it struck me that if I’d been given the N’Quatqua cultural experience during the wilderness ride, I probably wouldn’t have visited the Cultural Centre and may not have learned as much. A friend once told me that when she asks the Universe for something and the answer seems to be “No”, that “No” means one of two things: either Not yet or There’s something better planned for you. Let me try to remember that.

Vacations, by definition, end. And so a wistful layer hung in the mist that last morning at camp. Our host Don served the prettiest, yummiest breakfast yet: thick slabs of French toast with fruit, whipped cream, and bacon. The air was chilly, and some of us lingered around the fire before resigning ourselves to getting dressed and packing up.

After lugging our bags to the trailer and bidding silent farewells to our tents and the circle of chairs around the stone fire pit where we had bonded, we mounted up and began our final ride. I found myself clutching the sights, smells, and sounds tightly, shoving them into my pockets for later. I was grasping the moment and trying to drag it forward through time with me. This was not how I wanted to spend these last hours riding a cayuse in the backcountry of British Columbia.

With tenderness, I put my hand on my chest and filled my lungs with clean alpine air. Then I exhaled slowly through my lips. The stark beauty of rugged peaks, the verdant scent of pines, the rhythmic clap of hoofbeats, it was all so invigorating! Of course I didn’t want this trip to end. I asked the Great Mystery, Fundamental Source of All, to help me stop clinging to this experience as though it were a large rock in the river of impermanence and to help me surrender to the current of life. Inhale, exhale. Beneath my hand, a wave of appreciation swelled in my heart and when it subsided, so had the resistance.

I was surprised to find us ascending for a while in the morning, on trails we hadn’t yet seen. Jayden was leading the way on Mellow, the big bay who’d bucked his rider off the day before. Mellow was a little nervous in his new position at the front and Jayden managed him with patience and encouragement. Eventually we arrived at a dead end and each tied our horse to the nearest tree.

Carrying our brown bagged lunches, we clambered up a series of boulders after the wranglers until we found ourselves standing atop a giant pedestal, gaping at a stunning panorama of summits. As we sat and ate, I felt comfort in the presence of those massive, austere peaks. They reminded me that humans are but tiny, soft, short-lived creatures. And the magnificent mountains persist, unfazed by our worries and folly.

“How did anyone even find this spot?” someone asked.

“See that logging road down there?” Jess was pointing down and across a valley to a narrow rust-colored ribbon. “Dudley was driving there when he saw this place. He figured the views would be amazing.” He was right. “Then he used this app called Gaia,” she continued, showing us a topographical map up on her phone screen, “to figure out how to get up here.” So much thought and work went into making this experience possible for us, from finding and refining routes and clearing and maintaining trails to negotiating access to areas prohibited to the general public! I felt lucky to be a beneficiary of all the expertise and labor behind Copper Cayuse Outfitters.

Tired, sore, and feeling a little blue, the group made a quiet descent to the trailhead. There our vehicles sat waiting to transport us back to gas stations and grocery stores, to traffic and headlines and politics. I thanked Lonesome for carrying me through this adventure. I scratched his thick, muscular neck and told him I hoped we’d meet again. Then I walked Lonesome to the trailer and handed his lead rope to Brian, the trainer. I thanked Brian, too. Under his care and guidance, these wild mustangs developed into trustworthy mounts for hundreds of people like me, letting us experience the land of their birthright in a unique way. Brian smiled and gave a nod, and I wondered if he could see a transformation in us after four days in the backcountry. I wondered if the transformation I felt was visible, in a lingering aura of awe at nature’s majesty and in the steadiness of a woman who’s learned she is capable of far more than she had imagined.

Never have I ever thought I would quote a character played by Tom Cruise. But that evening, while eagerly awaiting dinner after our long and thrilling ride up to the mines and back, our wrangler Jess asked me what I’d like to do the next day. Still a little flush with adrenaline, I flashed a grin and replied: "I feel the need, the need for speed." I'd experienced extreme terrain at high altitude and now I wanted a flat out, wind in my face gallop.

Nothing in riding is less clear than the gallop, at least for casual riders. The progression in skill from riding at the walk and trot to the canter is a significant milestone when you’re learning the sport. Anyone who observes a student at the barn cantering for the first time can’t help but congratulate the beaming rider. The transition from trot to canter is evident in the obvious difference between the two-beat trot, where the horse’s front and rear legs on opposite sides hit the ground in unison, and the rollicking motion of the three-beat canter. As the horse extends its stride and increases speed, its feet strike the ground individually. This shift from canter to gallop is more subtle.

Around the campfire that night, our other wrangler Jayden told the story of leading a group of experienced riders on an outing while mounted on the ranch’s smallest horse. The women requested a gallop. Not just a fast canter, they clarified, a full gallop. After assessing their abilities on the trail for a while, Jayden felt okay with fulfilling their request. She described a moment when she felt her little horse stretch and flatten out as they flew. That was the gallop. My insides lit up, and I found myself nodding and letting out a “Yeah!”

Anxious excitement filled the air as we talked about going faster. For those of us who primarily ride in arenas and in more populated parks, opportunities to gallop out in the open are rare. Louise noted the freaky feeling of riding fast with such long reins, which provided no feeling of contact with the horse’s mouth. Contact with the horse’s mouth was a crucial component of communication with the horse in English, the way we typically rode. In contrast, as Louise noted, riding fast on a loose Western rein “is like driving without brakes!” Jayden assured us we could shorten the reins a bit when we pick up the speed and our horses would slow or stop if we pulled back on them.

In the morning, we saddled up and headed towards Birkenhead Lake. Jayden led the way this time, and I rode behind her. My seat bones were tender, but I now knew that would wear off after ten to fifteen minutes. We rode through the eerie wasteland where a controlled burn had been executed and then we crossed a wide logging road. Jayden stopped at a branch in the trail, an out-and-back that Jess had discovered. “We’ll follow it to the end and then canter back out in reverse order,” Jayden announced. She instructed us to only go so fast as felt comfortable, and if anything happened or for any reason a rider felt unsafe, we should yell “STOP!” We gave her thumbs up and after a bit of trotting, we began to canter. Then suddenly we heard a chorus of “STOP!” Jayden’s boyfriend Daniel had been bucked off his big gelding, the inaccurately-named Mellow, without any serious injury.

After lunch by the turquoise lake in front of Mt. Birkenhead, we continued up the trail, getting a few more canters in. The trail was like a rollercoaster, filled with dips into ditches where streams flowed, and took us past a birch tree that bore the marks of a climbing bear’s claws to a small suspension bridge. We crossed the narrow metal bridge on foot and filled our water bottles from the clear river below.

Then we lined up for the ride back to camp. Jess and Louise’s daughter were ahead of me on Billy and Cliff, known as two of the fastest horses on the ranch. Louise was right behind me on Angus. “Ready, Lonesome?” Like revving an engine, I keyed my horse up a little by giving his sides small squeezes with my legs while holding back with the reins. Lonesome began to prance, ears pointing forward and body tensed. Ready.

Jess addressed the group. “We’ll have to slow down at ditches so the horses can trot down and up. When we near a ditch I’ll raise my hand like this (as though she were about to be sworn into office) and yell “TROT!” and I want everyone down the line to do the same.” She gave us one last look over her should as her horse began to dance, adding, “You might want to hold your free hand up in front of your face because branches will be hitting you in the face.” Check.

Then Jess and Billy took off like a speedboat, pulling us in their wake. We cantered fast as the trail twisted and narrowed. I held my right forearm across my nose, grateful for the helmet taking the brunt of the branches. Jess yelled, “TROT!” and we all slowed for a ditch. “Everybody good?”

“Good!” I shouted. I grinned and turned to Louise. “This is fun, huh?”

She nodded tensely and suddenly we were off again. The trail widened and we picked up speed. Lonesome stretched his neck forward and lengthened his stride. Galloping!

“TROT!” Jess called out.

“TROT!” I repeated, raising my right hand up next to my head. “You OK?” I asked Louise.

Her blue eyes were huge with fright. “This is crazy! I feel like he’s going to run away with me.”

I felt bad that she wasn’t enjoying this thrill. “Well, like Jayden said, you could always shorten your reins and slow down. But honestly, we’re riding single file on a trail, so where would Angus go? Plus, these horses are all really bonded, and no one wants to leave the herd. You’re not going anywhere.”

We set off in a cloud of dirt and thundering hooves. The trail straightened out and widened some. “C’mon!” I urged Lonesome, nudging him to even greater speed with my heels until we reached at a flat-out gallop and I had to steer him alongside Cliff’s hindquarters to avoid collision.

When Jess yelled “TROT!” we all slowed for a set of ditches, but the horses were so amped that instead of trotting through them, they jumped across! Lonesome and I were both loving this.

We came to a stop and waited for the rest of the group to catch up. I turned around and saw Louise’s face relaxed and beaming with delight. This filled my heart with relief and joy. I told her it looked like she was having a good time. Louise shrugged, grinning. “I just decided to go with it.” Riding up a mountain to 6000 feet and getting to gallop were both unforgettable thrills on our adventure. But this, my friends, was the best moment.

Rain began to drizzle from the grey sky, so we all donned the long sand-colored raincoats lashed to our saddles. The air was cooler at altitude, and I was grateful for the additional layer. The drab, oversized coats camouflaged our group against the craggy terrain below the summit. Gazing up, I wondered if I could hike to the top but guessed the way up there would be longer and more difficult than appeared to my inexperienced eye. Not to mention getting back down.

“We’re going to head to the mines now, “ Jayden announced. “You're all welcome to come along or to stay and rest as you wish.” I patted the pocket containing my headlamp and joined the flock of flapping beige coats behind the wranglers. We stopped at a loose pile of hard, pale green foot-long cylinders. Jess picked one up and we passed it around. It was surprisingly heavy, and its ends were white. “That’s quartz,” she explained. “These are core samples. Although the mines were abandoned in the 1950’s, a group came up here twenty years ago to take samples. Prospectors get excited when they see white quartz, because gold often accompanies it. No luck here, though.”

Getting to the mines wasn't easy. There was no clear path, and the incline we had to traverse was steep. The terrain was studded with stones ranging in size from softball to soccer ball, many of them loose. “If you’re going to fall, try to fall into the hillside,” Jayden advised. Heard. It was hard to find firm footing, and I frequently used my hands either for balance or to keep the long raincoat from getting under my boots. I began to breathe heavily in the thin air and wondered if I should have stayed back with the horses. Then looking ahead, I saw Laura, a grandmother, nimbly picking her way across the treacherous ground. I can do this, too. I scrambled up a patch of boulders to a mound in front of an opening into the mountainside. Sweet relief swept over me. I’d made it!

The first mine was cramped and short. Plucky Elizabeth was determined to enter despite her fear of enclosed spaces, and we all cheered her on. The group filed into the tunnel and immediately had to maneuver around an old mine cart on rusted tracks. It was dark inside, and the surfaces were damp. Our headlamps illuminated embryonic stalactites on the ceiling. Elizabeth ventured into the tunnel until satisfied that she had met her personal challenge, and was soon awash in congratulations: “Way to go!” “Good for you!” “You did great!” The rest of us shuffled, hunched over, to the end, where it opened into a space large enough for a couple people to occupy at a time.

The next mine was more spacious. It was wild to see the marks left by handheld tools on the walls. I imagined a man standing in this very spot, maybe a hundred years ago, chipping away at the rock to create this tunnel. My maternal grandfather was a coal miner, and this was the first time I’d had the barest inkling of what it might have been like to spend long days toiling in the inhospitible darkness. Stepping over puddles and rubble, we pressed on as the tunnel looped around and back out to the mountainside. There we spent some time admiring the fuchsia wildflowers and photographing each other against the grand, swooping landscape.

I felt more confident navigating the treacherous ground back to the horses, in part because I knew how far we had to travel. Like how when you drive a distance to someplace new, the ride home always goes quicker. We initially took a high route too and reached an impasse of sheer rock. The younger among us managed to jump to passable ground. Looking down, I could see a wide strip of dirt winding around shrubs and leading to a patch of small boulders, after which the going would be easier as we neared the horses. “I see a path,” I shouted. “Just scoot down to it on your butt!” Someone called out, asking if I was sure it was safe. I sat and started inching downward over rock with my palms down behind me, half sliding and half scuttling like a crab. “Only one way to find out!”

The clouds had dissipated some, revealing patches of vibrant blue sky. Untying our horses, we took last admiring looks around, savoring the view from this astounding height. Then we mounted up, formed a line, and began our descent. Those of you who do mountain sports know the way down is always harder. The rest of you, trust me.

I followed Jess’s lead and resisted the urge to steer, leaving the reins loose and letting Lonesome find his balance and pick his route down the steep serpentine path unless he started to stray entirely off course. We were descending through pine forest when I heard someone behind me gasp, “Oh my God!” Jess whipped her head around to check on her charges. Then she pointed her arm forward and in her English accent cheerily encouraged us to “keep your eyes on the trees in the distance, Ladies!”

Of course, I had to look down. Immediately to our right, there was no trail. Just air. The ground fell sharply away for as far as I could see. My gaze was abruptly broken by the lurch of Lonesome’s hips as he eased us down a drop, carefully lifting and moving each leg, straining against gravity. I relaxed my hips into the sway and leaned back a little, bracing my weight in the stirrups. What we were doing was incredible! A huge grin spread across my face and I could feel myself beaming with delight. It was official: Adventure riding? I’m all in.

Don and Brian were waiting for us at the trailers. Although I thought the most-asked question about the ride might be Can we do that again?, Don told us it was Do we go down the same way we came up? Mildly disappointing, but I get it.

Elizabeth and I piled into the back seat of Don’s truck with his black and white dog Johnny. Johnny lay stretched out between us on the bench with his head on my thigh all the way back to camp. I stroked his sleek fur, and he sighed. Contentment.

That evening there was laughter around the campfire as we relived the ride, quilting together our snippets of experience into a shared memory. Don and the wranglers recounted wild stories of mishaps and antics on the ranch and mountain trails, tales that would not have been shared with us guests before we’d conquered the day’s challenge. They told us we should be proud of ourselves.

We were.

Jess jumped out of the truck bed to open a gate. We soon reached a clearing and the trucks came to a stop. Everyone milled around, adjusting tack and mounting up. Astride Lonesome, I relaxed the muscles in my feet and ankles. I filled my lungs with the crisp air and exhaled slowly, keeping my spine erect but letting my shoulders settle. Just like when I’m meditating, I thought. I handed over my impulse to strive to a benign and loving Great Spirit, and asked for help in doing only what was necessary today. Brian, the lanky, white-haired horse trainer who’d driven the other truck, brought me back into the world. “Everything good?”

I gave a nod and a smile. “All set.”

He motioned me over to the valley side of the dirt lot. I gave Lonesome a squeeze with my legs, and we followed. Brian pointed out a couple rivulets of white below the summit of a nearby peak. “Waterfalls,” he said.

“Oh, wow!” I blurted like a little kid. I pictured how enormous they must be up close, imagined their deafening roar.

Then Jess called out for everyone to line up behind her. Lonesome had been a bit cranky towards a younger horse behind him yesterday, so today the wranglers moved us up one spot, ahead of Elizabeth on the placid bay Captain. This placed us directly behind Jess and her dark horse Billy. Don issued our final instruction: Return with the most-asked question about today’s ride. And with that, we set off on an adventure that would take us up to an elevation of 6000 feet.

For a long while we traveled a winding, hilly path with the mountain extending upwards on our left, eating huckleberries (which are sweet when ripened to look like large black blueberries) as we grabbed them off bushes along the way. Bright streaks of red alpine paintbrushes and purple Alaskan fire lined the path and an occasional jewel-hued dragonfly buzzed over my head. At times the trail narrowed so that thin branches of young pines and cottonwoods slapped our helmets and brushed our knees. We crossed creeks and cantered in spots where the trail was less rocky, then made our way past Bacardi Lake, which had earned its name as the spot where Dudley, Don’s business partner, would celebrate the end of the workday with his brother back in their logging days.

Eventually Jess brought Billy to a halt and turned him across the path so that he faced the mountainside. She announced that we were about to begin our ascent and should speak up now if we needed our stirrup length adjusted, or our horse’s cinch tightened. Unless she told us to stop, Jess instructed, we were to encourage our horses to keep moving as they climbed. This would ensure that no horse became stuck on ground too close to vertical. I was a bit puzzled by all this, because the path ahead didn’t look any different than the one we’d been on. Jess reminded us to lean forward a bit while ascending and assured us it’s fine to grab a hunk of mane to hold onto, because this won’t hurt the horse. My insides tightened. What kind of ride was this? “And try not to look down!” was her final advice.

Then with a cluck of her tongue and a flap of her boots, Jess sent Billy climbing DIRECTLY up the side of the mountain. It took a second to comprehend what I was seeing. It looked impossible. Insane.

Suddenly I remembered my job was to follow Jess, and laughed to myself. “I guess we’re doing this, Lonesome.” My body was humming with more excitement than apprehension as I turned my horse onto the mountainside. I urged him up with my seat and kicked my heels. “Let’s go!”

For forty-five minutes our horses picked their way up a slender, bouldery trail full of switchbacks. When we paused to let our mounts catch their breath someone called out, “Do we go down the same way we came up?”

Jess grinned. “Yes, we do.”

After scaling one more daunting series of hairpin turns up a near-vertical stretch, we arrived at a clearing more stone than soil and dismounted. After securing Lonesome to a narrow pine near his buddies, I looked up. There was the summit, just above us.

Jayden, the other wrangler, told us to pick our spots and enjoy our lunches. Louise and her daughter perched atop a huge striated grey and tan rock overlooking the valley. I found a wide ledge on its left side and sat with my back resting against the boulder and my legs outstretched. Fragments of gleaming white quartz lay scattered around me. I was ravenous and devoured the turkey sandwich in silence, staring at the breathtaking vista of a vast, pine-filled valley and its surrounding peaks.

This experience was so different from my daily life, it barely seemed real. I did it!, I thought. I had listened to my heart’s desire, and when it whispered, Adventure! I’d answered, Yes. I booked the trip, got on the plane, and now here I was on a mountaintop in British Columbia. Few people have seen this magnificent spot on Earth from this vantage point. My heart swelled in gratitude.