麻豆传媒AV

The drive to the unloading site, from Wendell's yard, took about 20 minutes to half an hour. It took less than that for Ken to fall off his horse, but I could be wrong. It may have taken a little bit longer.

By the end of the trip, Ken would figure out how to mount Pepper appropriately. I would watch intently and observe each time that process would unfold in front of me. I was interested in the way a horse moved. From memory, I'm assuming the first fall happened as follows. In the end, Ken would be on the ground and there would be a large dent in my father's truck.

The dent was from an unmanageable horse that moved with great weight - after being bullied by my father - into the truck. I would learn my Dad felt aggression was the best way to manage a horse. To me, it was always like David fighting Goliath, except my Dad would use the horse's own reins to whip him instead of a sling and a rock, and those reins are important when mounting a horse. You have to hold them while you put one foot into a stirrup. The problem is that, when you are trying to use a rein to pull your way up, and while trying to manage this beast, the rein will pull the horse in a continuous circle towards you, as you try to mount.

I had this issue with my horse, but Ken's horse Pepper was worse. When Ken first attempted to mount Pepper, he was bumped off the back of the horse and onto the ground. I heard the thud and I swear to God I felt it. That's how infra-sound works, like a train passing by heavy on the tracks. You feel it in your bones more than you hear it. Maybe I have a wild imagination, but I imagine I felt and heard that big man fall.

I thought the ride would be over before it began, but these Saskatchewan cowboys are tough as rusty nails in old grey corral boards roughened by rain and winds.

Once we were all mounted, we made our way towards the lake. It was about a three- to four-hour ride. We made our way down a road and into the bush.

I remember how much water there was from the previous week of hard rain. We spent a lot of our first moments sauntering on our horses through water that had completely devoured the road. To the sides the water was deep and in some spots it was so thick it ran enough for me to hear. It sounded like a river the way it flowed.

In spots where the rocks dipped, and the land was layered, there formed tiny waterfalls that I should have taken pictures of, but instead they're burned into my memory. They were elegant and smooth. Satiny. Rolls of a shoulder over the rock or piece of dirt. If life were more like the way that water flowed, I suppose we could call it comfortable, or meaningful. Maybe just organic.

There was a bit of truth in that water, something I couldn't put my finger on. It was peaceful out here. God was out here and I liked it. I could hear the sound of spattering water as hooves splashed in a crescendo rhythm. God was in the music and the music was nature. I'm glad I never said any of this out loud. The City Slicker and his city thoughts.

Entering into the deeper bush and now surrounded by tall green trees on either side of the trail, we soon came upon a fork in the road. In that fork there was a sign. It was a trail sign. To the right was a large shack, more or less a small cabin. It was a break cabin with an outhouse beside it. I was told we were on the Trans-Canada snowmobile trail and the sign was for navigation in the cold.

That break cabin had a small wood stove in it so you didn't freeze to death. I'm glad I was there in the summer. I'm not a big fan of the cold or the threat of hypothermia. I'd hate to have to crawl inside my horse for warmth.

To me, being a city slicker, there was nothing grander than the idea of an animal used for transportation. I sat on the borderline between the ordinary and a surreal appreciation; the majestic idea of controlling a 1,000 pound horse, instead of an automobile, pushed me into the realm of incredible disbelief. There was something empowering about being in control of an animal, an animal that I'm sure could crush my skull with a well-placed kick or a stomp.

That's probably the attitude that caused Ken to rib me when I was pumped with adrenaline after galloping.

Ken said something along the line of, "Was that exciting for you?" He had noticed how I was acting.

"Yeah," I replied with a big shit-eating grin on my face. "Isn't it for you? I get an adrenaline rush."

Ken looked at me with a face that said, nope that's old news kid. My assumption was correct. "Nope. Not really."

I guess you know you're getting older when the old guys start to assure you you are no longer exciting. I wanted to run that horse all day, but I was a bit fearful. Not of the horse, more of my father getting that look on his face that he gets and laying into me like he lays into those beasts when they misbehave.

If I didn't care about taking a little flack, I would have ran that horse more than once. Maybe someday, when I have more confidence, I'll spend more time galloping. On the other hand, maybe it was keeping it cool that kept me on my horse that whole trip and out of trouble, unlike the majority. It's a fine line between safety and adventure. They call it taking educated risks.

When we rode into camp it was late afternoon. The horse flies were dense and the field opened up in a pasture of lush green. As the horses slowly whipped their tails back and forth, chuffing and snorting while they shook their heads and manes at the flies, I took in the scene.

On our right were the remains of a historic homestead, its log frame dilapidated and undone by generations gone by. The skeletal remains of that old log home were indicative of a one-room cabin built long ago and now only full of historic ghosts.

Past the house was a lake and beyond that lake, I was told, was the boundary line of the Prince Albert National Park. We immediately took off our saddles, looped our reins down into our hands and led our animals to the water to drink -- eight horses in all, five for riding and three pack horses. After they drank, we set up camp and cooked our supper. It would be an early rise the next morning.

The older men set the horses out to graze in the large open green field. To keep them from wandering off, many of them were cuffed on their front feet with hobbles. They would congeal in a group, unable to stray from the rest.