I have only recently become the very lucky owner of one of those Australian oilskin coats. You know—like the one The Man from Snowy River wears that rainy day when his boss’s colt is delivered by train, and Jessica loses control of the unruly young horse as she’s leading him down the ramp, but The Man From Snowy River doesn’t know she’s a girl, seeing as how she's wearing that long black duster and hat, and he’s real surprised when he grabs the horse's lead rope to help, accidentally knocking her hat off so that her raven hair comes spilling out all over the place, and then their eyes meet?

Yeah.

The long, black oilskin coat had been hanging in my closet for weeks.

It had been way too warm to wear it, and I was beginning to think I’d never get to do anything with it but pull it out of the closet and look at it. Run my fingers over its smooth, oily fabric. Feel the weight of it in my hand. Try to figure out what all those snaps are for. I’d only wanted one since 1982, the year The Man from Snowy River made its debut. And then what I’d been waiting for for over twenty years happened.

We got one of those big, nice, juicy New Mexico rains that strolls and meanders through the mountains to the mesa and finally wanders down to my little ranch.

Caprichosa puckered up her lips in a sour grimace and squinted her eyes in disbelief as I asked her to jog down the trail straight into the silver curtain of rain. I pulled the brim of my black cowboy hat down just a little further with one gloved hand. Adjusted the collar of my coat.

The Woman From Snowy River.