One of the greatest delights of our lives is to ride the mountains in autumn.  Every year I’m scared we won’t get up there.  But every year, we manage to sneak away (if you can call it sneaking when you’re driving an elephant of a car, hauling a trailer that could carry an entire MWC football team – standing room only).

We picked our day and Rachel came with us, bringing her beautiful colt, Finale, bred by our horse maven and dear friend, Geneva.  The day unfolded in loveliness, clear and crisp.  But things changed, as they are so likely to do in September, and by early afternoon there were serious clouds over the mountains.  We went anyway—they didn’t look like thunder clouds.  Mostly.

So here is the story of our ride: beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, and only a little thunder.

Understand, please, that everything you see here was shot in storm light – strangely lit gray.  So lots of these images suffer from low-light blur. You can’t use a flash on a mountain.  Here, we’re driving up through the side canyon and I’m shooting out the window, and – yep- even more blur.  But isn’t it great?  The trees, the hills – oh, mama – it’s heaven.

Our matchbox car – complete with tow package.

Rachel, doing the crane dance.  We always do this before we ride.  It’s lucky.

G, ready to mount.

Hear the creaking?  Hint: it ain’t the leather you’re a hearin’ –

Dustin, moving out.

“Now, look you,” she says.  “None of your shenanigans!”  That is not a whip, and she isn’t whapping him with it.  It’s a training stick that extends your arm so that when you’re having a serious discussion with your horse, you’re not close enough for him to  make a point with his horse shoes.  Finale goes barefoot, as do our horses, but they can still make a strong argument.

I have to give the camera credit – it kept warning me that there wasn’t enough light.  But riding is all about motion, and so is blur. There is something elegant about a man’s hand on the reins. Dashing.

And this man is mine.

At the very beginning of the ride.  We are all happy at this point.  And not at all chilled.  And dry.

There are several vast fields of grass up here, valleys you would not know existed if you weren’t creeping off into the wild country on little cat feet.  Notice the superb manners of our mounts – don’t tell Geneva they were shopping on the hoof up here.  How does the earth fold like this—back on itself like a mighty stone blanket, casually dropped on a bed of earth.

Pioneers looked for passes, places where the curves of marshaled mountains line up fortunately, and we can find our human way through the great geological maze.

When we lived in New York, our yard looked like this.  But we are in the west now, where valleys cater to rivers and grass and sand.  Maples love mountains, and so do oaks.  Our valley turns yellow in October with aspen and birch and box elder.  The real color is here in the back country, where the air sees winter first and leaves show their real nature in September.

I’m sorry that this shot didn’t work.  It’s such an astonishing thing, to ride this ridge around the shoulder of a hill, and come out above yet another grass valley, such a sweep of grass, running before the storm wind in a sea swell of movement.  Here, my angle allowed me to capture some of the color, but little of the striking size and drop.

Here, with a slightly higher angle, the camera reads the cloudy bright sky, and the valley seems plunged in shadow.  Ridge upon ridge of knife sharp mountains must be hiding more such mysteries.  And the clouds above, as massive and arcane in their own unsubstantial way, deliver their first rumble of thunder.

“Will you get yourself right in that saddle?  You can’t ride the whole way backward, you dufus!”

At the bottom of the descending trail, almost down to the grass, maples and oak crowd the lane, vivid with the color of their coming sleep.

A slightly different exposure.  The truth of the light lies between these two images.  The wind is pulling down the clouds, as you can see – misting the top ridges of the mountains.  I am the only one smart enough in this bunch to have worn long sleeves.

Picture, if you will, yourself in a cart or carriage, being driven down this lane behind a pair of horses.  This could almost be Wales.

This is the canter trail.  My Zion has carried me faster along this narrow track than you can believe.  Oh, you can go more quickly in your car, yeah – but you’re not sitting right on top of your engines.  A horse is a fine brawny thing, and when he goes – reaching out to grab the earth with his feet, throwing it back behind him with all the power of life and time – and the wind in your face – oh, then you feel the speed and the dance and the hellbent hurtling we all do, will we—nill we, through our lives.  It makes your blood race, and you find yourself shouting words you don’t even understand.

It was too dark to catch these rivers of gold in all their amazing glory.  Rachel thought they looked like bright yellow ski runs, but I thought they looked like molten golden lava pouring down from the peak.  In actuality, I figure these are lanes left by avalanche, old hoary pines ripped up and tossed down the side of the mountain, leaving the way clear for the lighter, quicker aspens to spring up like weeds in their wake.  I wonder, if we rode through those trees and made our way to where the gold peters out, would we find piles of rotting giants?

Don’t show Geneva this one, either, please.

Here is where it became interesting.  We were coming down from Big Springs, taking the short way because of thunder and the increasingly cold air.  Then we had a mishap between horses that resulted in rain.  No, in the rain, the mishap happened, and we had a wounded leg.  So we decided not to put unnecessary weight on that leg and walked the rest of the way.  So here we are, walking down the back of a mountain in the rain, in the company of horses.  Does this sound unfortunate?  It wasn’t.  It was delightful.  What you cannot see in this picture are the tiny streams of water tumbling headlong down beside the trail, and the faces of two small children, also on foot, way back there behind Rachel – a family coming up the trail from below, also in the rain.

The children took one look at the horses and ran back down the other way, calling to their mother that there were HORSES coming.  We got to meet them, and let them pat the horses, and I told them all about Morgan horses and how wonderful they are and recommended Justin Morgan Had a Horse which was pretty much the perfect book for their age and wide eyes.

Really, could there be a more romantic way to spend a waning afternoon than this?  It was BEE-UTIFUL.  And I wasn’t freezing – did I mention my long sleeves?  Which I was wearing and nobody else was?

I’m not sure what gave rise to this particular look.  Maybe because it was the eighth time I’d yelled, “Hey. Wait!  Let me take your picture again!”

See, my little landlubbers?  Do you believe this color?  I wouldn’t even know how to mix this color.  And if you painted with it, people would wrinkle up their faces and mutter, “Gaudy.”  See the rain on the leaves?  My shirt was almost this color.   I could have taken dozens of these pictures, but nobody wanted to stop and wait for me to do it.  Notice the fortunate angle I get here?  Couldn’t have gotten it from horseback, and would have ended up blurred.  Walking has its advantages.  But even Zion was miffed at me for stopping to shoot this.

Rain on the lens.

And doesn’t this look like thunder, though?

Finished at last.  Down the last great sweep of hill – all soaked and chilled and refreshed.  Dustin, who is also a Morgan, knows there are treats in there somewhere.

Zion is content just to stand.  I suppose he would recommend that we do some conditioning before we take on a little junket like this, but then again, on second thought, he wouldn’t recommend that at all.  He prefers home, hay and soft footing.

Morgans, as a breed, are intelligent, curious and independent.  This little horse is so important to me.  How odd to have a beast friend.  Or maybe not odd at all.  Maybe more beasts in our lives would keep us from our present tendency to self centered, entitled perspectives.  Maybe we would remember that there are things you can’t talk your way around – that you either do what you must, or the world can suffer.

He’s saying to you, “She just keeps saying it louder and louder, like I’m suddenly going to understand what she’s talking about.  And her accent is TERRIBLE.”

The crazy thing is it was only about five thirty.  There should have been plenty of light.  But this blur is to my advantage – only fifty percent as wrinkly.  I clash with my horse though, darn it.

Say, “Cheese!!!”

I know you’re tired of horse pictures, but I just can’t get enough.  He has the greatest eyes.

And nuzzles.  Don’t show Geneva this one, either.

Now, besides the delightful subject matter, you must notice the light behind horse and his girl.  We have just come down off the mountain.  Just untacked with chilled fingers.

And NOW the sun comes out.