As a writer, I've been gifted the privilege of sharing the lives of horse lovers, each story a window into the Western world. These tales have been more than words on a page; they've been a journey into lives lived through hoofbeats. But sometimes, the story isn’t just written by your pen—it’s lived in your bones. After a few kind requests, I offer you my own story.
Not many know I was born on a farm and ranch in the heart of Northeast Montana. Our home nestled along the Missouri River, a place called Prairie Elk Point—an ancient trade marker. The details of my first horse ride have faded with time but remain important to the person I have become. Before I could steady my feet, I learned to ride. That was our life— a cadence of daily work, from dawn to dusk. When my parents worked the cows, so did we. When they grinded in the fields, so did we. It wasn’t a burden, just life.
Some of my sweetest memories are of those times, like getting lost in the deep pastures,
trusting my horse to find the way home. Or those sun-soaked pauses in the tractor
cab, where the only escape from the heat was a leap into the cool water of the irrigation
ditch.
As the years passed, my parents knew it was time for me to graduate from riding behind them to taking the reins on a horse of my own. They gifted me freedom in the form of a grey mare named Dixie. Her coat was speckled with white patches, her mane a wild tuft of spiky grey that was perfect for gripping during bareback rides—a skill we had to master before saddles were an option. It’s the western way, to learn this way first. Like learning to drive a manual car, it’s a lesson that teaches you the heart of the thing.
Dixie wasn’t just a horse—she was my everything. She carried me, guided me, kept me safe. But she was also old—older than my young mind fully grasped. I soon learned that nudging her with my tiny legs wouldn’t send her into a gallop. She needed encouragement, gentle taps with a stick in place of heels that couldn’t yet reach her sides. It took time, patience, and strength to find the rhythm between us, but once I did, we became inseparable. Most days, I rode her bareback. Saddles seemed an afterthought when all I wanted was to feel her warmth beneath me as we wandered the yard, while she tried, in vain, to snack on my mother’s flowers. There was nothing that beat the smell of horse sweat.
My sister had a horse of her own—a pretty bay mare named Filler. Together, we set off on grand adventures, the two of us riding across the prairie to Grandma’s house down the road. Sometimes it was for candy, sometimes just to marvel at the baby chicks in the coop. It wasn’t far, a mile or two at most, but for us, it was a world of freedom, where the only rules were no riding through water and always stepping off the gravel path when a car approached.
Dixie, despite her age, was full of spirit. One year, a wild-eyed longhorn bull made its way into our herd, and she stood her ground. She let me climb into the truck before teaching him a lesson after a hard poke from his horn. Her swift kick landed squarely in his belly, and with a disgruntled groan, he slunk away. I was so proud of her then, my brave old mare. There’s a lot you can learn from a horse if you listen closely enough. From Dixie, it was grit.
Dixie had her quirks—she was an escape artist, forever untying herself and wandering
off to find molasses or fresh hay. She never roamed too far, and sometimes, much to
my mom’s dismay, she left a trail of destruction through the flower beds. Yet no matter
how many times she strayed, she always came back.
Even now, I can still feel the sway of her broad back beneath me, the laughter of my sister and me as we pretended to be weathered cowboys hobbling back to the house after a long ride.
Dixie and Filler eventually retired to pasture, where they lived out their days together, passing on in the same spring, side by side. It comforts me to know they stayed together until the very end.
There’s a freedom in owning a horse that I can’t quite explain. It’s the freedom to explore, to roam, to feel the earth beneath you in a way that connects you to something greater. I’m grateful for that gift, for Dixie, and for sharing it all with my first and forever best friend, my sister.
This story is posted as it appears in the Heart River Voice (September 2024 | Vol. 6, No. 9 | p. 18). To view this column online, please click here