My niece visited us last week and we entertained her by going places and doing things that we haven't done since moving here. With fond memories of horseback riding from childhood, I proposed a trail ride and all were in favor. I let my fingers do the trotting and found an outfit that painted a word picture that sounded enticing. Therein lies the first rub. The second, the one between my jeans and my skin, lingered longer.

My picture: A trail weaving its way through Mother Nature's lap; sylvan and serene. Just us on our trusty steeds, led by our faithful guide. Perhaps the trail would cross a shallow brook at some point before we climbed a hill to be overwelmed by the panoramic view of the west in all of its glory.

Reality: A non-scenic ride beside an 8 lane trail, better known by the D.O.T. as a multi-lane highway. And I learned that while my husband and niece had horses that could have been named "Creampuff" and "Marshmellow", mine was named "Rocket." You know how sometimes an enormous guy is nicknamed "Tiny?"  There was no irony in the naming of "Rocket." At one point when the guide said we should pick up speed, Rocket did just that and took the lead. I say "he" because I played no part in the decision - speed or direction. In the classic description of horsemanship, I was what is referred to as "holding on for dear life."

It's funny about lifes' lesssons; most of them could be avoided if you just knew ALL of the questions to ask or that you were told the truth, the whole truth and nothing but. 

And to make matters worse, I broke a nail!

Patricia

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