A Story About Horses and More

Saddle up, readers. It’s story time. 

On a Friday evening earlier this month, my 13-year-old daughter, Taylor, and I embarked on a horse drive in California’s High Sierra. 

We booked the five-day adventure back in January, when my husband and I were plotting horse-loving Taylor’s summer plans.

As someone who frequently rode horses as a girl, I was looking forward to some quality mom-daughter and horse-nature time.

Our horse drive began at the end. All 25 of us guests parked at a campground that would be the final stop of the drive, loaded our bags into a horse trailer, and jumped into vans to head to the starting line.

During the van ride, Taylor and I met fellow guest Dale and learned this would be his 8th horse drive. He didn’t finish the 2023 horse drive because he got kicked by a mule and broke his leg. 

“Umm, what?” I said to Dale. “That’s a thing?!”

“Oh, yes,” replied Dale. “When they give us the orientation speech tonight with all the dos and don’ts, listen up.”

About 90 minutes later, we reached Independence, population 669. Our van pulled into the horses’ winter range. Taylor and I jumped out, found our bags, and then walked gingerly around horse and mule manure till we found an empty tent. We set up our sleeping bags and pillows and made our way over to a large circle of chairs for dinner.

Over dinner, we spoke with more guests. There were 21 women and four men. Taylor was the only kid on the drive. Most riders hailed from California, but there was one woman from Switzerland. And EVERYONE was an experienced equestrian – most riders owned their own horses.

After dinner, it was orientation time. If I could sum up orientation in three words, it would be: You will die. Instructions included how not to fall off a horse, how not to break your head open, how not to let your horse buck you or roll on the ground with you, how not to get caught in a stampede. And more. I’ll spare you the imagery. Suffice to say, approximately five hours into the horse drive, Taylor and I were terrified. 

We went to sleep amid the manure, horse neighs, and mule brays and hoped for the best.

Fast forward to 5am Saturday. We woke up not well-rested, but pleased that no mule had stepped on our tent during the previous night. Taylor and I pulled on our long-sleeved shirts, jeans, boots, and buff face masks. We slathered sunscreen on our faces and packed up our bags and tent.

A couple breakfast burritos later, and we were ready to ride. Well, kind of ready. Not really ready. We were still terrified. We had learned at breakfast that the horses hadn’t been ridden since September 2023; they’d been left to graze in their winter range for 10 months – and they would be VERY excited to move on this horse drive. 

I sipped my cowboy coffee and thought back to the many emails I sent this company in January. Questions covered: “Can a 13-year-old do the drive?” “I used to ride as a girl, but don’t now. Will I be ok to ride?” I was assured that Taylor and I would have a great experience. It would be an adventure! People say this is the best trip of their lives. Many return year after year! And. So. I signed the waivers and clicked submit payment.

About 7am, the wranglers started getting us on our horses. I was placed on Rio. Rio was…spirited. Taylor was put on Dewey. Dewey was…calm. 

The gate opened at 7:30am and we were off. Initially, all was peaceful. We moved as a herd, walking and trotting down the dirt road. All of us guests used the time to get to know our horses and wipe dust from our faces.

But suddenly, the vibe shifted. The line of riders that was holding back the herd broke, and chaos ensued. Riderless horses and mules came up to the front and sprinted down the road. Rio took off after a mare, Trixie, and I lost all control. We galloped up the dirt road, me holding on for dear life, far ahead of the herd. When Trixie stopped, Rio stopped. Then Trixie turned and galloped back to the herd. Rio followed, me once again holding on for dear life. I couldn’t even look for Taylor; it was all I could do not to fall off my horse. Back with the herd, I gasped to a wrangler, “I can’t control Rio! He just wants to follow Trixie.”

A little while later, we stopped for a bathroom break. I slid off Rio and hobbled to the port-a-potty. When I got back to the herd, I said to a wrangler, “I’d like to change horses.” Except I couldn’t; there wasn’t an extra horse for me to ride. So the wranglers roped Trixie and kept her in the back of the herd. That worked for 15 minutes, until Trixie wriggled free. 

I rode for the next few hours with a spiked heart rate, constantly keeping an eye on Trixie’s whereabouts, gripping my reins, and praying that the wranglers were watching Taylor. 

Soon, we found ourselves in a meadow. I told myself to take in the scenery and breathe. And then, a woman just a few horses ahead of me screamed bloody murder. It took me a beat to figure out why: she had been kicked by a mule. Blood was running down the leg of her jeans.

Our herd came to a standstill. Some of the riderless horses and mules had galloped ahead, so one wrangler went after them while the other wranglers attended to the injured woman. But then, the riderless horses and mules came galloping back to us, and those of us on mounts prepped for a kind of stampede. People and animals were on edge. One woman fell off her excited horse.

Once it was time for us to start the horse drive again, everyone did their best to avoid the mules. I was thrilled to see our lunch station past the meadow, not because it was 100 degrees and my mouth was full of dust, but because I desperately wanted off Rio. Despite having a calm horse, Taylor, too, was thrilled to get off.

Guests had the option of riding for another five hours after lunch. Taylor and I declined, as did 19 other guests. The super sturdy continued on.

That evening, the injured woman returned to camp in a knee brace and on crutches. We learned that she broke her patella, had bone bits floating around her knee, required stitches for the massive laceration, and may need surgery.

And that’s when Taylor and I sat down and talked about the trip so far. 

“How are you liking it?” I asked Taylor.

“To be honest,” she said, “I’m not really having fun.”

Me neither, girl, me neither. 

We made the joint decision to leave the horse drive early. We would camp that night, get a ride back to our car on Sunday, and head home.

After alerting the wranglers that we were bowing out, part of me felt ashamed; I was quitting. The other part of me felt immense relief. What did I need to prove? Nothing.

The fact of the matter is, Taylor and I should never have started on the horse drive. We were outmatched from the get-go. Even the wranglers allowed that the drive was not marketed appropriately.

But we did start on the horse drive. In about two days, we collected stories and experiences that we’ll talk about for the rest of our lives. Thankfully, we emerged unscathed.

I’m so glad we stopped, let go, gave up. Sometimes you have to, if a situation doesn’t feel right and your gut is yelling at you to bail.

Quitting doesn’t necessarily mean failure. Quitting can mean taking care of yourself instead. Quitting can be brave.

***

On Sunday, driving south on 395, we put the horse drive behind us, literally. Taylor turned up our Taylor Swift playlist and we giggled at funny road signs. I felt good and strong, and I sure hope my daughter did, too.

With love and a newfound appreciation for mules,

Sarah

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🎤SNOOP DOGG AT THE OLYMPICS

If you watched the U.S. Olympic Track and Field Trials earlier this week, you may have seen Snoop Dogg at Hayward Field.

The legendary rapper learned how to pole vault, ran 200 meters in 34.44 seconds, offered hilarious commentary on the men’s 3,000 meter steeplechase final (watch and laugh here), and did a stadium walk-in with top American sprinter Noah Lyles.

Snoop will be part of NBC’s coverage for the 2024 Paris Olympics and I seriously cannot wait.

💘NONPROFIT LOVE

In 2000, researcher and educator Jessamyn Waldman Rodriguez applied for a job at Women’s World Banking. A friend misheard it as “Women’s World Baking,” and Jessamyn’s entrepreneurial vision was born. She soon earned her Master Baker Certificate from The New School and then apprenticed in the bread kitchen of Daniel, the restaurant owned and operated by French culinary icon Daniel Boulud. She was the restaurant’s first female bread baker.

In 2008, spurred by her experiences in public policy and baking, Jessamyn founded Hot Bread Kitchen (HBK), a nonprofit social enterprise teaching immigrant and low-income women the necessary skills to bake and succeed in the culinary and hospitality industries.

Today, HBK’s community of Breadwinners is 1,500+ strong. The organization has supported 450 food entrepreneurs. Their work has driven $100M in regional economic impact. And HBK has established itself as a powerful and influential voice demanding greater equity and opportunity in NYC’s culinary sector.

Check out this very cool nonprofit here. Want to shop with HBK’s small business community? Visit this page and let your mouth water.