Going Home

It was a warm spring day in June of 1977 when I hurried out of bed and into my riding clothes. My dad had asked me to go with him down to our ranch to pick up the horses and bring them back to the farm. The horses spent the winters on the pastures at our ranch in southern North Dakota. There was plenty of grassland, water and shelter for the long cold winter, as well as a slightly milder climate, due to the nearness of Lake Sacagawea. I was thirteen at the time and as excited as a girl could be that I was allowed to go with my dad on this particular trip. You see, I had four brothers who always went with dad. They helped on the farm driving tractor, hauling hay, picking rock and fixing equipment. They almost never needed a scrawny little girl to help them, even though I was more than willing. But this day, dad had asked me specifically and had left the boys behind. I was walking on air.
We drove twenty miles south past dozens of small farms with fields of grain and clover waving lazily in the breeze, to reach the old ranch house and barns. The aging and broken down homestead was beautiful to me. The house had not been lived in for probably fifty years and had the look of a ghost town about it. Sagging roof, graying wood, overgrown trees, and broken down fence all spoke of a late owner who had no use for them anymore. Our family had taken on the farm and ranch as renters. The old ranch was part of the property, but the residence was on the main farm where all the wheat fields were. The ranch was mostly pasture land by the lake which was not fit for farming, but good for grazing cattle and horses. Sometimes we would have to round up all the cattle and bring them to market and sometimes we would cut some of the land for hay. The land had a natural spring with pure, cold water that ran by the ranch house all year. I could imagine that I was a pioneer, living on that ranch, making a living in that rough, inhospitable country where the wind blows incessantly and the cold lasts for six months out of the year.
At eight O'clock in the morning we pulled up to the gate of the pasture where the horses were kept. We caught the horses and began the loading process when dad turned to me and asked if I wouldn't like to ride one of the horses back to the farm. “Yes!” I said, without hesitation. It had been my secret hope all along. I was ready. Then, as the weight of what I was about to do settled on me, I asked my dad if he thought I could do it alright. He calmly answered, “Sure you can. Just follow that road north until you come to where you start to recognize the farms, then you'll know where to go.” It sounded easy, but I began to doubt myself. Dad, who must have seen my trepidation, reassured me again and lifted me on to the back of the gelding Quarter horse named Cobra. As he lifted me up, I also felt a lift in my confidence and I waved a cheerful goodbye and began the long trek homeward.
I knew that I must not tire my horse by running, because we had long miles to go in the hot sun. We walked along at a comfortable pace, taking in the scenery. The dust from the truck faded into the horizon as I squinted to catch the last glimpse of dad going home. Mile after lonely mile receded under Cobra's hooves while I anxiously scanned the landscape trying to recognize a familiar barn or house. Hours went by, and still there was nothing familiar to me. I began to worry. I also began to feel extremely alone. When I got off the horse to lead him for a while because I was tired of being in the saddle, I found that there was a lump in my throat. But dad's parting words to me kept going through my mind. “Sure you can. Just follow that road north until you come to where you start to recognize the farms, then you'll know where to go.” I said them out loud, to reassure myself. I said them to Cobra. I said them to the sky.
Then at last, something familiar! A house. Yes, I had been there before. I knew where I was. Oh, the joy! I am not lost! I was still hours from home, but it didn't matter. I knew where I was. The rest of the trail seemed to fly by and I arrived home, safe and sore.
Never have I forgotten that feeling of utter loneliness, nor the joy of recognition, nor those words of reassurance. Those words and feelings are ever-present with me because I am still on the road, trying to get home.