When I remember this day a few years from now, I hope that I remember the mountain meadows, wildflowers, fast running streams, and geese on the wing - but not the flys. So I'll just say that there are a lot of them and then drop the subject. July here is like springtime in the Rockies with green hillsides all around and it is wonderful. We are on the trail from 9 until 4, with about an hour for lunch, tea, and a siesta. For most of the day, we see no one. This day I feel good about the ride and am more comfortable in the saddle, which is a Russian cavalry style model, with wood boards, nuts and bolts, and a blue cushion tied on. At one point I get a thumbs up from Oteu, our lead wrangler as I canter up to where he is waiting. I tell myself this is high praise and I am proud.
For the last hour before reaching our campsite, we watch rain and lightning over the next ridge. Reaching the site and meeting our support van, there is just enough time to set up tents before the storm hits with wind, thunder, and pelting rain. Dinner is a comical affair with the cook huddled under a poncho strung from the van roof, everyone eating under the van lift gate, Timor pouring vodka to share from his hip flask, but excellent spaghetti with pan fried fish follows.
No comments:
Post a Comment