After The Rain...

 Life: it's surreal around here, maybe everywhere. After leaving the frozen North Tundra (or, a very cold Pennsylvania) and traveling for 28 hours on a bus, the first thing I did when I got to Florida--after hugging my little mother--was hop into the family car. As I opened the door, in the hollow where the door hinged, a teeny tiny bold-green tree frog had audaciously stowed away for the car ride. I think he may have been the unofficial welcoming committee. I let out a big laugh, gently grabbed him, and placed him on the leaf of a shrub. Then, when I got home, a chorus of bumble bees surrounded me in our driveway. There's a wild bee tree somewhere around here, I think-- or else there's something to the wive's tale of bees always recognizing a beekeeper (and I'd like to think there's a little bit of both at work here), but there's no lack of weird enchantment in these parts, lately.

The trick of living, by my compass, is to find this same sort of charm when it doesn't look too promising. After finding The Rainbow Connection in our initial foray at The Alabama Wagon Train Camp, where we frolicked in picture perfect conditions, things were about to change, in a big way.

While the sky glazed golden all day, it was a temporary hold to weather that threatened dangerous rain--tornadoes even. By good fate, the weather during the daylight hours stayed sweet but soon enough, the darkness brought with it a Dr. Jeckyl's laboratory of dramatic lightning, which inched closer and closer.

While my friend Kira and I had pitched the huge rambling tent she had brought, and there were tons of towels, my faith in getting a good night's rest flew with the high level winds that slowly heralded themselves with the coming of the lightning.  As the night wore on, and the Headmaster and scouts had finished convening about the next day's ride, we headed first to the tent, but I quickly suggested sleeping in Kira's car itself, as the sides of the tent made a big show of flapping around flamboyantly. What can I say? I'm a light sleeper and the swishing sounds (and feel) of nylon jigging in the wind was probably not going to lend itself to good dreaming.

The car was no better, but probably a happier option as the rain spit down--on and off--all night. We stuffed ourselves amongst pillows, packs, coolers, and cameras....

The next morning was a study in mud. The vast farmland that had hosted us turned cold with the storm, and even our wake-up call (4:30am!) and hitch-up was postponed due to the continuing rain, now confined to a slow downpour. I felt for the poor equines--those left out overnight in the weather--who were soaked and, like us, dealing with the nippy morning air.

A city girl's muddy shoes....

A rain jacket for a mule...

Kira was warrior woman, grabbing a thin plastic poncho, and hopping outside with no fuss, packing up that wayward tent that stood sentinel all night behind the car.  Finally, in the gray light of day, the extent of the weather showed itself: the dirt roads squished stickily under shoes, horses shook their soaked pelts, and soggy participants trudged about, figuring what needed to be done. The chuck wagon (yes, there was one!) hosted a long line of trench coated dogies wearing long black trenchcoats; hot coffee and hot chocolate was the drink of the day.

This blacksmith was doing brisk last minute work, shoeing horses:

While we pulled ourselves together, I managed to grab a camera and jaunted through the long labyrinth of trailers and horses and wagons and riders. I aimed to interview as many as I could, and was happy that folks still seemed to be in fine spirits. It's humbling to know that people closer to nature don't seem to sulk when it gets adverse. I wondered what a Manhattanite would do if rain soaked their good Armani or Calvin Klein made suits. And why weren't $300 dollar shoes waterproof, anyway?

Those little questions were put aside as I immersed myself into the morning setup, listening to the metallic sound of hitches, the brash laugh of the old-timers as the regaled in another fine and friendly outing, the sound of horses and mules, and of little cow-pokes running around. My interviews consisted in talking with folks who had been to  YEARS of these wagon trains--after all, this particular train had happened for THIRTY-ONE years.

I think the wizened ones regarded me as much of a strange bird as I thought of them, but there was still a respect between us:

Mr. Hollis is in the lead wagon. His molly mules are 13 and 14 years old.....

From some of the older participants....

 

To some of the youngest!

We found out we would be riding in the Wagon of the lovely Mr. Jim and his good-natured wife. He had been parked directly next to us the day before, his mules patiently waiting out the rain overnight. They were a golden colored pair, a molly mule named Kate and a john mule named Hank. And yes, I DID know that information, but I had to be gently told that it made no sense to try to help Mr. Jim harness up the equines; mules were creatures of strict habit, and even something as simple as being handled in such an intimate manner by someone totally unfamiliar to them would send them in a sulk. Mules: they were particular that way.

Mr. Jim harnessing Hank....

Full harness, hames, headstall...

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of us was Mr. Mike, harnessing his two horses

Finally, slowly but surely, muleteers and horseman squared away their steeds to wagons, and riders got together their mounts. It turned out to be about 34 wagons and 60 riders--a great turnout, indeed! There was a palpable excitement in the air as each participant lined themselves up to this special caravan...smiles were cracked, jokes were made, a sense of happy urgency ruled the day....
 

Finally, as Mr. Hollis rounded out the front, his red flag a proud bulls-eye marker for the train, and the other rounded formation, I hopped on board with Kira, Mr Jim, and and his wife. A joyous hullabaloo raged in my heart. Despite the wet and cold, my soul was aflame with a happy glow....