Somewhere in the middle. Of this journey. Of the season. Of the route I’m riding around the West. Of dry hills and sagebrush and rocky trails. Of this endless sky above me. Of this big, wide, wild world I find myself in the middle of.

Over 60 days, and no, I’m not rocking it. How can I, when everyday is different, and the only constant is riding into the unknown? The only thing I get practiced at is the balance of humility and resilience. Lots of practice.

Open up and let the wild horses of your heart roam free.

It’s summer. I’m in Oregon. This is not the Oregon of tourist coastlines and tall trees. There are no trees, and the only water we find out there is the random stock pond going rank as even the cattle’s days are numbered out here. It’s hot. Too hot to think. 96 degrees in the shade provided by another random stranger with one helluva huge heart. I’m grateful for this oasis of shade in this high, harsh open land that for days didn’t allow me and my horses more shelter than the gift of a ragged juniper or an old dilapidated barn that lost its roof fifteen years ago or so. Or a modern day circle of wagons that allowed me and my horses a sense of safekeeping for just a little while.

It is a harsh land. Stark and open with endless views and ceaseless winds that take me back to somewhere so far away in someone else’s land where we do not belong. Only this is here and now, my country, my people, and that is what I set out to find. To fall in love with my country again. I am.

This week found me questioning my choices, and scared of the choices I have made. Some times.

Other times and always it allows me more opportunities to open and see and feel, to experience, to be. There is beauty. Stark and simple and you don’t see it driving by on cruise control. Slow down. Slow travel. Smell the new growth on the sage brush as it rubs against your well worn boots, take in the green of salt grass, the fine pale dust kicked up by the horses hooves, morning shadows on barren hills, sunsets that illuminate a passing evening storm. Take it all in like the vast night sky when the only thing moving are shooting stars. Allow it all in like fine dust in your wrinkling skin and let it open your wild soul.

This week while Bob brought Canela safely home, Crow and I continued with Bayjura, who I swear grew up and is good to go as our place has quickened and we’re able to cover more miles.

Into the desert we went with her surprises of lush and Plush, mosquitos driving the horses mad and full lakes where last year there were mud holes, what seems like endless miles of sky and sage and thirst and an unbroken horizon of what feels like forever, scary, big and wide, wild and old, so old, she humbles me.

This is the West. The wild West. The true grit, real deal, lonesome lonely West of stories, maybe dreams come true but more likely stripped away. The desert. The plains. The head of the sleeping giant curled up to sleep in the stirring sands of the Great Basin.

She could embrace me, hold me, show me the way. Trust me, she told me, and I tried, as at night I stared up and out into the silence of her vast heart with quiet lonely tears and tried to hear her refrain.

I asked her to speak to me. Maybe I asked for too much. Just enough, she told me. Just enough, she showed me.

A rocky crag. A random puddle. A pocket of some green salt grass. Maybe even that modern day circle of wagons thing that called me from afar, and welcomed me and Crow and our big boned Bayjura with more warmth and generosity than in my despair I had dreamed i could find out here. Good stuff and good food and great people. This kindness and hosting and openness and friendship continues to be the greatest lesson and gift on this journey. This is what I came here to find. A faith in humanity. It is not restored. It has been created where once it never was.

Feels like the desert chewed me up and spit me out. Now I’m deciding if I can go back in, or get a lift around. The desert is no place for us to be for a few weeks out there in the endless harshness and heat, without shelter or shade, fresh water or adequate feed, and not even a tree to rest below. The wise ones tell me out here this time of year is no place to be for long (and were prepared to find me and drag me out if need be). It will get you, they tell me. It could kill you, they say. Maybe they are trying to scare me, to keep the old lady and her four-legged partners safe and out of these hills. But I feel I’d be a fool not to heed their advice. So today I’m sitting here with Bob (who has had enough of worring about me) and we’re planning a new route around.

In a way, I feel I failed, but hurting my horses or having their well being compromised would be a worse failure for me to face. One I’m not willing to do. My horses are my priority, not the guiding light of my blazing ego. Their welfare comes first. My plans and routes can change. So I’m changing again.

I’ll let you know where that brings me next. Somewhere out there. With new challenged, adventures and views. And new ways to open me up, allowing that wild heart to fly free.