I tighten the girth of my old Steuben saddle. My eight-year-old son’s quarter horse mare Piñon casts a white-rimmed eye back in my direction, her good manners rooting all four of her hooves to the ground. I put my left foot into the stirrup, hop on my right (a couple of times because she is so darned tall), and swing up into the saddle while the mare stands still, blowing through her quivering nostrils. Catch a glimpse of horse and rider in the Sundowner’s dressing room window, trying to reconcile that strong, capable-looking woman in black breeches and boots, with me.

We head down the drive. Piñon swings into a trot as the other four members of the herd who’ve been left behind show out in a big way on their side of the pasture fence, bucking, snorting, romping, whinnying, following us as far as they can go. And then we are on our own.

Piñon gathers me up with her into an easy canter. We whirl and eddy around the pines, her hooves chewing up the dirt of the old railroad road, as we gain momentum, springing into a hand gallop. I feel myself perched on top of the mare’s long spine, then sitting deep in the saddle. I wonder what miracle keeps me with her—my legs long, heels back, balls of my feet light in the stirrups. She is running full out now for the sheer joy of it.

We are standing still. And we fly.