Between the ages of 5 and 7, I never hiked without a length of rope. I clipped it to my belt. When I finally found my horse, my wild horse of the Sierra Nevada’s, I would use the rope to make a bridle and guide him home. Always be ready to meet your dream.
The night before every hike, I worked on a strategy. Maybe something from the car could make a saddle, otherwise I’d just go bareback. My horse and I would probably take the road beside the freeway, and if my horse was scared, I’d whisper sweet nothings in his ear, something to do with speed and love.
I hoped my dad would drive alongside, because we’d need the headlights, it would be dark. And my dad was pretty encouraging anyway; by now he was in the habit of clipping his Swiss Army Knife to my belt, a handy tool in case I had to cut the rope to fit. Wish the big wishes, he told me, but have a plan.
My plan never stretched to feeding and accommodations, because I think you'll agree I had something a little more important to consider: My horse's name. And after much thought, I had one, a name so beautiful, I couldn’t believe I was the first person to ever put these two words together: King Emerald.
When I read about Zenyatta, I’m maybe five or seven. Even sports writers who are not given to hyperbole (an exclusive club and I can only think of one), dissolve into similes and metaphors, and whisper sweet nothings, something to do with speed and love. She’s a mare who dances on her toes to the starting gate, relaxes down the backstretch, and pours it on for the finish. She may be the best horse who ever raced.
(I have a new small piece on Patch. I hope you’ll visit, not because of the piece itself, but to see a beautiful 3 year old cat who lives at the Humane Society and needs a home. Maybe your home is full already, but you might meet someone, this week or next, who has a dream that includes this cat. It’s good to be prepared; you never know who you’ll run into.)
PS -- This is not my photo, but I couldn't find an attribution.
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