Backpacks and Bra Straps (10 page)

Bucking Bronco
13

“I
can’t get this horse to go anywhere,” Ammon complained, kicking and swinging his legs wildly.

“Oh, I know what you mean. The one I had yesterday was impossible. I could hardly get him to cantaloupe.”

“Savannah, it’s cantering,” Ammon said.

“I know what it is, thanks. But I prefer to call it cantalouping.”

“Whatever,” he said, shaking his head, but I could tell he was amused nonetheless.

Yesterday had been a nightmare. I’d gotten a couple of good canters out of my puny horse until it refused to even walk fast. Mom and I were left behind as Ammon and Bree galloped along side by side, like warriors riding into battle. It was a beautiful, empowering sight. Our horses, on the other hand, must’ve looked like they were on a death march, dragging our really heavy coffins behind them.

Instead of persuading my horse to cooperate, my kicking and whooping transformed him into a bucking lunatic. Once he felt he’d been ridden enough, even the slightest nudge in his side would set him off. On one occasion, I was thrown right out of the saddle and onto his neck. At the end of the day, we’d sworn to send them straight to the glue factory. Now it was Ammon’s turn to try to ride a dud.

“Well, I don’t think I’m going to get this thing to go anywhere.” So far it had not moved an inch. It was seemingly cemented to the earth. “Here, Bree. Switch horses with me.”

Bree, our own private horse whisperer, promptly swung her leg over and jumped off her horse, saying, “Okay, fine. You obviously don’t know what you’re doing anyway. I’ll handle him.” She mounted Ammon’s uncooperative steed, and with nothing more than a gentle ‘C’mon boy. Let’s go’ and a confident kick, she was off like a shot, accelerating from park to fifth gear within seconds.

“What the hell? When I kicked, it wouldn’t budge an inch.” Ammon’s exasperation was obvious. “How on earth does she do that?” We were all similarly baffled as we stood watching from the small cloud of dust she and her steed had raised.

The shaman’s magic flower potion must’ve helped, because Bree had made it through the previous night uneventfully. Watching her galloping across the open plains of Kyrgyzstan now with a huge grin on her face was more confirmation that she was feeling much better. We could hear her hollering out in the distance, and could barely see her swinging an imaginary lasso above her head.

“Well, I didn’t really want to go riding again today, anyway,” Ammon decided quickly. “My arse is still killing me from yesterday.” His hard, boney butt and that rigid saddle did not combine comfortably.

Mom and I raced to catch up to our home-grown Canadian rocket, but she was unreachable. We could see her ahead, galloping back and forth, having what appeared to be the ride of her life. Riding here cost the equivalent of two dollars an hour, or seven dollars to take a horse out for an entire day. We could’ve paid a little more for a guide, but we much preferred to take the reins and enjoy unlimited freedom.

“Are you sure she’s okay?” I said, beginning to doubt it. “She’s going pretty fast.”

Mom waved my concern away. “Oh, sure she is. She’s having a blast up there.”

“I hope she remembers how to get back to the yurt,” I said.

“She’ll be fine as long as she can see the lake. There are only a few yurts up here. The worst that could happen is she’d have to walk around the whole lake to find us. We’re certainly not going to get lost,” she said, amused by my constant worrying.

When we finally found Bree, she sprang off her horse before coming to a complete stop and announced, “That bloody horse is insane!”

“It looked like you were having a riot,” Mom said.

“I was! Until I realized it’s a psycho horse,” she said, shaken, pointing at the seemingly calm creature. “I may be the one who can control horses the best, but he simply won’t stop. At least, he won’t while I’m sitting on him.” The stubborn horse’s nostrils flared at that, showing he had no desire to apologize. If he could speak, I was sure he’d deny the whole thing as she went on to explain their adventure.

“He ran up and down hills, jumped over anything that could be jumped, took sharp turns for no reason, and then chased wild horses. Like, there was this cliff coming up fast, and I swear, I was tugging his teeth out with the reins.” She demonstrated how hard she’d been pulling as she told her story, too shocked to be angry anymore. “But he just kept running straight toward it. It wasn’t until I bailed that he finally stopped. He didn’t trot or walk, he just stopped. Like a complete freak of nature. And then I was like, ‘Crap! Mom told me to make sure I kept an eye on the yurts,’ which had practically disappeared by that point, so I had to get back on him.” She then ended her story with a classic Bree-type understatement. “So yeah, it was a little bit crazy.”

We let the horse rest a bit before suggesting that if Bree followed us, her horse would walk along quietly with ours, but she absolutely refused to get back on. “No way, Mom. This horse wants to run its life dead.”

“Run its life dead?” I smiled.

“Yeah,” she said, her hand still tightly gripping the reins. “It’s freakin’ not right in the head. That’s all I know.” The horse appeared slightly sweaty, but it was otherwise calm and seemingly harmless to me. He batted long lashes over his big eyes and flirted innocently. She scowled at him, but he seemed to have no recollection of his insane behaviour; he simply stood as if listening attentively. My admiring look set Bree to complaining again. “He’s acting all innocent now, like nothing happened, but seriously, that horse tried to kill me!” I knew it must’ve been treacherous for her to react this way to one of her favourite animals. She was normally the toughest of us all, and I had never seen her so spooked.

When we were ready to go on, Mom tried to coax her one last time, saying, “Oh c’mon, I’m sure he’s fine now. Just ride with us. He’s acting perfectly normal now.”

Still glaring at him, Bree let out a frustrated growl. “No way. I am NOT getting back on this psychopath of a horse–
period
!” And with that, she headed back to the yurt, leading the horse on foot.

Not nearly ready to turn back yet, Mom and I continued uphill, surrounded by oceans of waving grass. The earth was smooth and completely devoid of gopher holes, rocks, protruding roots, or other debris. With no concerns about tripping or injury, it was pure bliss to be able to gallop so freely. For a while, we even got to canter side by side in the meadows and hills alongside free-roaming horses, imagining we were part of the wild herd. Upon reaching the top, we were rewarded with a magnificent view. This land that stretched farther than the eye could see was truly a horse’s paradise. Cows, donkeys, goats, and horses speckled the steppes below like sand flies, and a few yurts were nestled down where the grassy fields surrendered to the pebbly shoreline. Meandering streams flowing from the mountains nourished the fields and fed the lake, the water shimmering across the valley under the open sky. There wasn’t a single motor or machine to disturb this peaceful setting. The silence was broken only by the sounds we made: hooves brushing the short grass, occasional snorts, and the soft creaking of our leather saddles.

Terri would just love this. I really wish she were here now to share this amazing stuff.
Times like these were when I miss her the most.

Not long after we reached the summit, deep purple clouds began to loom on the horizon, and electricity started building up in the air. Sunbeams cast streaks of light through the impending darkness. A bellowing cow charged frantically over the hill in search of her bawling calf as we raced home with the wind of the oncoming storm nipping at our heels.

A fierce dog bolted out from behind a yurt, baring his teeth and barking at me as he seemingly wove between my horse’s legs. My horse responded well to one good, walloping kick, and we flew across the plains as I shrieked with delight. Luckily, he wasn’t nearly as ferocious as the Mongolian dogs we’d come in contact with, or I’d have been ripped off my horse and eaten alive. Escaping his territory with all limbs intact was absolutely exhilarating, though.

We sailed on into the pink and violet sunset, fleeing the menacing skies behind us. When we reached our refuge, we popped the horses’ heads into the short doorway of the yurt, where Bree was busy dramatically re-enacting her scary “psycho horse” experience to her audience of one.

“We’re back. Did you miss us?” I called out as I dismounted.

“Oh, no. Don’t you bring them in here,” she said, stopping in mid-sentence. Turning back to Ammon, she continued, “They still don’t really get that that idiot horse tried to bloody well kill me.”

Usually the rains were very sporadic and never lasted long, but this was obviously going to be a big storm. Our host mother was already busy rolling down our yurt’s side flaps, which were lifted every morning to allow air and light in. She then tied them down to prevent dirt and rain from entering, but I thought it was just as likely that she did it to keep the tent from flying away in the wind.

It was now much darker with the side walls rolled down and the door closed, so we lit candles on the table, which created a cozy, collaborative mood. Seconds later, the wind began to roar and the sky opened up. Rain drowned the steppes, pouring off the mountains into the lake, and thunder cracked unceasingly. Our yurt sat above the tree line on one of the only high points in the valley, and I feared that we and our vulnerable tent might be struck into oblivion.

“Well, these yurts look very similar to gers, but you can definitely tell they’re not as durable. These aren’t meant for year-round use,” Mom stated, eyeing the raindrops that began to dribble faster and pool near our backpacks.

“No, they aren’t. Mongolian gers are used by nomads who live in them year-round. These yurts are only used in the grasslands during the summer,” Ammon said, shuffling the cards. “They are partially nomadic here, but as you can see from the host family’s shacks, they live more of a permanent lifestyle.”

Like a lot of kids, I’d often fantasized about running away, but I’d wanted to make a home in a hollowed-out tree trunk deep in the Canadian wilderness. I’d imagined living in an improvised fort made with my own primitive tools and of hunting my own food and then cooking it over an open fire. Being stuck in a yurt with the whole sky pouring wildly down on us sparked that dream again. We were down to the basics, and I enjoyed the feeling of seeking sanctuary within our dimly lit shelter as we held out against nature’s attack. It felt like a real game of survival that suddenly made me feel very small and insignificant in comparison to the natural fury that was breaking all around us.

As the World Turns
14

T
he sun sank on the horizon as the earth slowly drank the last bit of colour from the sky.

“Wow, this sunset is just amazing.” I was stretched out on the grass beside the yurt, writing in my journal. “It makes me really want to write something. I feel so inspired.”

“That’s good to hear. We should all exercise our creative muscles a bit, maybe with some poetry,” Ammon said.

“Aaww, c’mon,” Bree whined, “Really?” This was not the kind of exercising Bree liked.

“Yes, a little creative writing would do us all good, but especially you,” he said, frowning at her.

“So, how should we start?” I asked, finding scrap paper for each of us.

“I still don’t get it,” Bree complained. “None of us actually writes any poetry in real life, so why should we do it here? That’s even worse than in school.” But she was definitely outnumbered. The rest of us discussed our home-grown exercise in creative writing excitedly and eventually agreed that our poems should start with “Slowly,” and end with “As the world turns… slowly,” that any topic could be covered, and that we weren’t allowed to seek help or compare notes in the process. We’d long since moved back into our yurt where we each randomly read someone else’s poem by candlelight. Bree’s was the first. Though she was the funky and energetic one, she had a lot of trust issues, and holding a grudge came all too easily to her. I was proud of how deeply she’d revealed her feelings in her poem, especially when she’d initially been so reluctant to do this with us. She really gave it her all. Clearly, the ambiance here was proving to be inspirational.

Mom’s was optimistic, of course, and the one that depicted the whole world falling apart was mine. Surprisingly, the one that just floored us all was Ammon’s, because of the pain and honesty he’d managed to convey.

“This is freakin’ unbelievable, Ammon,” I said. “Did you seriously just write this?”

“Oh my gosh. That was a Jesus poem,” Bree said.

“Jesus poem? What does that even mean, Bree?” Ammon asked.

“It’s so good. That’s what it means. Wow! I just have to read that one again.”

“Oh, c’mon, really?” he said. “Whatever.” But Bree, never one to listen to anyone, sat up in the bed and began reading aloud.

**“Slowly

Slowly, an error begins

That darkens your skies.

The smallest temptations

Are cracks between lives.

The slightest indulgence

makes them grow wide.

Little things start adding,

Then exponentially multiply.

’Til one day, eyes finally open

And you realize

A lifetime of building

Can’t bridge the divide.

Regrets and self-loathing

Bring tears to your eyes,

And in your frustration,

You wish you could die.

Alone in a new world,

Make the most of your side.

Beware the temptations

In case you decide

To relive all the horrors

’n repeat all the lies.

Don’t let yourself become

What you once despised.

I know you have fears,

But there’s no need to hide,

For life is a circle.

But if you are wise,

You’ll find all your answers,

And then you’ll know why.

You have a new beginning.

You have a new try.

Although you have lost us,

Someday you may fly

And reach your potential.

So come now, arise.

Quick, get yourself started

And waste no more time.

Pick up the pieces

Of your shattered pride.

The end hasn’t come yet.

The pain will subside.

For hope lasts as long

As there’s day and there’s night

And the world turns……slowly.”**

Nothing needed to be said. It was enough. We all knew who it was meant for. This beautiful poem was the only reference Ammon had ever made to how he felt about our parents’ separation. His lack of emotion on the matter almost had me fooled into believing he wasn’t affected, but being the firstborn, he and Dad had naturally shared a special bond.

It hurt Sky as well, but seeing his family sad was more than he could bear. He constantly worried about everyone else and wanted to give us strength and be our shoulder to lean on. His absence when everything had imploded was difficult.

Dad had always been Bree’s hero, and she had taken the biggest fall when he walked out. I think she’d felt the most deceived of all of us. She’d cried her heart out until sadness turned to rage. The hurt he’d caused by leaving was far from settled, and her poem expressed those feelings eloquently. But I could’ve read Ammon’s poem endlessly and gained something new each time, which made it even more profound. Feeling moved in the silence that enveloped us following his heartfelt poetic declaration, we sat back and listened to the rustling wind outside.

“Wow, isn’t it weird that we all pretty much wrote about the same thing?” Mom said. I watched her getting a bit emotional, feeling that she was somehow responsible, but we knew she’d done all she could. She had been strong for us through all the pain she was dealing with privately.

“Well, you guys know I’m really sorry you had to go through that. I know it’s been hard. But I would marry your father again in a heartbeat. It was all worth it because I got four amazing kids out of it. I would never take that back. I have you. And Ammon, you hide your emotions, but you’ve been really strong through all of this. I feel so very lucky. I couldn’t have asked for a better family.”

We didn’t like to get too sappy, but her sincerity was nice to hear. It felt great that enough time had passed that we could reflect on what had happened and get some insight into each other’s truest feelings. Clearly, we had all been hurt by his desertion, but we’d pretty much avoided talking about it till it came through so strongly in our impromptu writing exercise.

It was remarkable to reflect on the way our dad’s leaving had led us here. Writing poetry in the mountains of Kyrgyzstan wasn’t a scenario I could even have imagined a year ago. The contrast between my former, relatively carefree life and this unique, adventure-filled experience highlighted the amazing opportunity I’d been given under such ironic circumstances, and it literally boggled my mind.

To ease the awkwardness of the ‘I’m too exposed’ feeling, I interrupted our heart-to-heart with a forceful, “Well done, folks! I think this calls for a potty break. Who’s with me?”

“You’re such a wimp. You just can’t go anywhere by yourself, can you?” Bree said.

“Nope,” I agreed happily, taking her by the arm.

It was crispy cold as we made our way outside for the last pee of the day. We could hear horses nearby, munching away on the short grass and whooshing their tails. Looking up at the moonless sky, I was dizzied by the gazillion stars above. The absence of any light pollution allowed them to shine from across the universe in all their glory, and we felt the magnitude of the night sky like never before. Our usual crowded city life causes us to forget how full and magnificent it really is.

“You guys have got to come outside and look at this,” I said, bending down into the yurt.

Ducking out the wooden doorway, Mom said, “Wow. Mars is huge. Unbelievable.” Mars was a blooming red rose within the shimmering blackness. Its reflection on the lake was so still it glowed like a hot ember. It seemed that you could just reach out and touch the big dipper. The immense sparkling stars created a Milky Way haze, touching the vast reaches of our galaxy.

“Did you know it takes years for the light of even the closest stars to reach us? Some of them are already burnt out. The stars that made some of the light we’re seeing are not even there anymore,” Ammon informed us. “How funky is that?”

“Yup. Pretty funky, for sure,” I agreed. “But in a way, what you’re saying is that, we’re still kind of living in the past…”

**Go to Page 335 for additional poems**