He’s nothing fancy.  Not so fast. Not so big. Might not seem so impressive. In fact, some even said he didn’t have it in him. Even I wondered at times. They said he was too small, too old, too, well, nothing special and not enough. Some may say the same about me.

But here he is. My little horse, Flying Crow. Over eighty days of riding into the unknown, eight hundred miles and three sets of shoes away from home. Innumerable pats and waves and photos out of car windows, encounters and stories and patches of grass, tangled ropes, dusty roads and speeding trucks and trees he has been tied to.

Here he is. In Mackay, having had the weekend off.  Getting extra rest and added calories.  And this morning, after a new pair of shoes, he’ll be heading out again. And I’ll keep on keeping on together with my team, finding the way, with green grass and fresh water, good people and beautiful views seen from between his ears.

Courage measured in time and miles.

The proud mother that I am, I am proud of him, my little Crow. The little horse that could. He is doing what no other horse I know has done. And he is doing it,sweetly, humbly, courageously and beautifully.

If I am tired, I can only imagine how tired he is. If I am longing to be home, comfortable, where I belong, to be able to let loose and let down my guard in a place I know and I can call mine, I know he feels the same. Yet most every morning he stands and wairs for his saddle, and the direction to go onward, always onward.

I’ll brag big time on him more, and Bayjura as well, and even Canela for all she did, when this journey is done. Something I can’t let myself consider quite yet. For now, I need to get them through, safe and sound, well fed and cared well for. One day at a time, one mile at a time, one more set of shoes at a time.