Even cowgirls get the black and blues

Patty here...

Call me crazy but Sunday morning I went horseback riding in the coastal hills of central California above Solvang in the Santa Ynez Valley. Those of you who saw the movie "Sideways," will recognize the territory.

My equestrian escapade would have been a no-brainer for Our Very Own Jacqueline Winspear who is an accomplished rider, but I haven’t been on a horse since dinosaurs roamed the earth. On the other hand, we writers spend hours in front of our computers writing about life. Sometimes we need to get out of the house and live a little and refill our well of experiences.

So, on Friday I left Los Angeles in my rearview mirror and headed North to rendezvous with a group of friends at The Alisal Guest Ranch. I stopped along the route for libations at Cold Springs Tavern, a quaint way-station built in the 1860s as a respite for stagecoach passengers traveling across the mountains.



Here I am in my custom cowboy hat—a packer with a Montana slope. Geehaw!



As I entered The Alisal Ranch driveway, I left the fast-paced L.A. life behind. Time seemed to pass through a parallel universe.



Over the weekend, I barbequed and square danced, picnicked and tasted wine at a working ranch and vineyard.

Then Saturday night before the ride, my friends began trotting out the “horse horror stories.” You know the kind I mean.

“My horse got spooked by a bee...I was in a body cast for six months.”

“My blisters got infected...I ended up in Intensive Care.”

Not what I wanted to hear, because I’m leaving this Wednesday for the Romantic Times Booklovers Convention in Pittsburgh with the Mystery Chix and Private Dix and I don’t want to fly Med-Evac. I ignored the "neigh" sayers, because life is not a dress rehearsal.

On Sunday at 0720 hours, I arrived at the barn...



...and picked up my horse, Red, age eighteen, almost old enough to drink. In fact, he looked like he could use a Bloody Mary to jump-start his day. At first, Red didn’t want to leave the corral. Trail boss Vickie told me to kick him, but I felt guilty doing that because…jeez, Red is OLD. I knew I should listen to Vickie. She's a real-deal authentic cowgirl. Should you doubt my words, she was riding a wild mustang she broke herself. And she was wearing spurs. (I can almost hear Jim Born’s heart beating faster). Still, I couldn’t bring myself to kick Red, so instead I used gentle nudges with the heels of my totally awesome cowboy boots. That technique was successful except for once. Note: a horse in the process of taking a dump will not move even with gentle kicks from the heels of your totally awesome cowboy boots.

Once Red understood my commands, he was a trouper. He and I walked and trotted through rivers and along narrow trails that snaked up and down green hills dotted with mustard plants and wildflowers.



Deer and cattle roamed the bucolic landscape in peaceful bliss. Only the clippity-clop of horse’s hooves broke the silence. I felt as if Mother Nature was rocking me in her cradle. Not only that, but my well of experiences felt full.



I just hope I can walk without a cane tomorrow.

My Hoss Red: the story of a horse and a girl who loved him..if only for a little while

Happy Monday!