There is something to be said of the wagon train. Far past that crazy hill, we finally leveled out, and actually made the last leg of that train, turning onto an actual street. Behind us, we had spent several hours in both sun, shade and cold. We had slept little, and my mucky shoes had left my feet cold and sopping...and yet, I was transfixed by the never-ending world of trees, the amazing snaking line of diligent horses and mules, and the people guiding them in our solemn, determined caravan. It was easy, in that place, to imagine how hard it was for so many phantom forefathers to traverse anyplace with horses and mules, when it was necessary and dangerous to...and now here we all were, for a small space and time, doing something similar--though our alibis were different...
It pained me too--that knowledge in the back of my mind, that this would be the last year that this train would carry on a three score tradition. Even amidst the joking, the good-natured-laid-back feel of all those participating, there was that strange little knot of angst: how many of these old fashioned treasures and good kinsmanship is being lost in the name of progress, competition, arrogance, or money?
There were old fellas there who knew each other, folks that brought family...even a tiny baby, 7 months old. All were treated with great respect and friendship. Fellow traveler, friend, and film maker Kira and I talked to people I would NEVER have imagined I'd be speaking with, or who would care to speak with me. All offered their ideas, advice, and even invited us to other wagon trains in nearby states. People came from everywhere to this Alabama happening: beyond the locals, they had come from Illinois, Tennessee, Florida, and even Minnesota. Perhaps the most compelling reminder of how woven into the fabric of this whole thing was a young fellow--I can't recall his name now--but he was a seventeen year old youngster, and he had come every year from the time he was six months old! As was fitting, he was one of the scouts, that band of merry men who rode alongside the train, and helped us all, should any problems arise.
Once we got onto the street, the scouts DID help stop traffic, at least those cars who did not completely stop at the road's shoulder, their occupants flashing cameras. All along the trail, people gathered, stopped, cheered, took pictures. We felt like royalty, but it didn't stop any of us from waving a friendly hello, and our spectators waving back. If only this sort of thing was on par with a celebrity event, then horses and horsemen wouldn't be scarcer all the while...
We finally left the Taledega Forest...a bit chilled, but with a warm spirit. We eventually rolled into the next rain soaked camp site, but by thenI had decided that two days of cold and lack of sleep would leave me in the precarious position of being sick and grumpy...and besides, Kira had other plans for me.
The train scattered joyfully along into the field in a grand display of horsemanship--our big group seemed to explode onto the grassy knoll:
Our view...coming into the field...
Percherons in one of the wagons behind us...
Riders resting their horses....
Scouts and riders arrive in the field...
Friendship....
I had a new and profound respect for these people, the ones who choose to create a life around equines....and a better confidence in myself in doing something quite like it. I was sad to see us go, and grateful for the experience. The last, final goodbye was sent out on a HILARIOUS note, on the bus ride back to the original campsite to get our cars...the humor of the folks jam-packed into school buses was punctuated by a few young upstarts who started flirting with us madly, even though Kira and I said we were "taken" women! And of course, every time someone asked "are we there yet?" the standard answer was "four more miles"--a trademarked joke of the wagon train, the answer to all of those questions about how long it would take to get there. One of these days I'll get there too, four more miles at a time...
Where are the horsemen, cowboys and cowgirls anymore? Where are the teamsters? Is it crazy for "cityfolk" like myself to lament this, a long howling goodbye to these sort of venues? I have glimpsed the most gorgeous rolling landscapes, learned the integrity of equines, understood friendship better, and have done it with my wonderful fellow vagabond friend as well. I will never forget you, Alabama Wagoners....I now consider myself the Wagon-hearted-sort!
I suppose I could have died a happy woman right then and there...but we were off to another adventure at breakneck speed...and that would eventually lead to THIS piece of heaven....
That, my friends, is a tale told on Friday!
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