Mike and I went horseback riding on one of those nose-to-tail group trail rides that departed from near the “Grand Canyon of Yellowstone” the next day.
Just the smell of horse lifted my spirits as we moved along in a group. I enjoyed the vistas of late summer meadow, the clinking of the bridles and clack of shod hooves on stones. We spotted osprey nesting near the precipitous canyon, the dinosaur-like skeleton of a bison, and alarming slash marks made by a grizzly.
I enjoyed the tail switching and ear swiveling as I coaxed a little interaction out of the gelding I’ve been assigned, while Mike looked ridiculously tall on a bald-faced old campaigner named Bert.
The main wrangler, a Native American guessing by his high cheekbones, tan skin and waist length, glossy black hair worn loose under a cowboy hat, rode his paint gelding backwards to talk to us on the trail.
He told us that he’d raced horses when younger and had been to a Mongolia to race the Mongols in a crazy 100-mile overland ho…
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