Pemberton, Eh?

I spent a clear blue-skyed Sunday morning on horseback with a mumbling Canadian named Bob.

Bus 99 to Pemberton was a beautifully scenic journey, marred only by the filth coating the large glass windows. Mountains towered above me, still bearing scattered spots of snow towards the peaks. Rivers in deep ravines hurried past, not impeded by the smattering of boulders large and small. No more than three men rode on the mid-morning bus with me simultaneously for the half-hour duration; all of us were silently lost within our own minds.

I disembarked the bus alongside the railroad tracks, and had the faintest feeling that I had stepped back in time to an Old West cowtown. With a blue sign reading "Trail Rides" as my guide, I turned off Frontier Street at the edge of town. Not seeing the large log cabin as promised, I approached the nearest two men, who were loading supplies into the back of a pickup.

As I stated my inquiry one of the men turned around, causing me to do a doubletake. He was average-looking man in his mid-40's, and my mind raced from thought to thought trying to place him. He certainly was not from home or school, nor could I link him to Camp Cleanevent. "You work at the Sliding Center, right?" he asked, also puzzling over seeing me out of context. That was it! He works for Kelly doing mechanized snow removal and is often in the large shared portion of our office trailer. How strange it feels to have been here long enough to randomly bump into people that I know outside of the capacity in which I know them!

Following the direction of his finger, I continued down the road until it abruptly terminated at the log home. A tall cowboy named Bob came and greeted me warmly, speaking his Canadian mumble just as he had on the phone, eh? As we headed inside the garage / tack room / craftsman area, three friendly black Border Collies with sleek gleaming coats scrambled out to welcome me. In a flash I signed a liability waiver, strapped on a helmet, and mounted a Quarter Horse named Honey.

Honey's stride was much shorter than that of the lead horse Pacha, but I didn't mind the smooth trot she employed to keep up the pace. We ambled through the village, observing the townspeople out for a Sunday stroll with their dogs and/or kids. Before heading into the shaded woods we even climbed over a snowbank in someone's backyard and passed Kelly in his truck.

From my unique vantage point I could see the tracks of moose, deer, and some sort small wild cat weaving to and fro beside the riverbank, as well as staggering mountains that failed to shield the brilliant late-morning sun. We plunged belly-deep into the brook and crossed up behind a Swiss cow and cheese farm. It was here that we cantered down the snowy lane with sun at our backs.

Words don't do horseback riding justice. There's something intangible and indescribable about the bond between horse and rider. It's quite humbling to trust another living being so deeply, especially considering the superiority complex we arrogant humans have. This ride was a refreshing reminder that magic lives beyond the Olympics, and that I will find it wherever I seek it.