Woody and Maggie
“I grew up a-dreamin’
of bein’ a cowboy,
Lovin’ the cowboy ways…” Billy’s voice rasped softly above his guitar, out across the desert scrub.
“Pursuin’ the life of my high-ridin’ heroes,
I burned up my childhood days…”
Billy had finally found me.
This was a welcome change. For once it wasn’t me looking for the way.
People often ask me in an assertive tone “How’re you finding your way across America?”. They assume a great amount of planning… Continue reading
In… Continue reading
Tonight I’m concerned for Woody. He’s touchy along his withers and he didn’t finish his feed. When I peeled off the vintage McClellan saddle and ran my hand down his back, he pinned his ears and gave me that “Pal, don’t” in the way that sparse words convey danger.
Earlier, when I pitched camp along the South bank of the Neuse, Tom and his daughter Rachel rode to visit and when they departed Woody churned back and forth on his… Continue reading