I had an open field, distant peaks, blue sky, and a herd of about 50 horses, thunder through the sezbrush and wildflower, blowing rocks from under their shoes. I earned a rebellion in one hand and used loose loops to throw my mare, honey, so that it could be carried forward. She came out as if she was angry, then suddenly stopped and grabbed a mouthful grass. I swooped her around and she “Yihv!” On the other side of the flock, my best sail, Victoria, flying on my paint horses, axle, and smiling from ear to ear.

We had just started a three-day, 80-meal horse drive IdahoA trip Vik and I booked impulsely a year and a half ago. Well, earlier, both of us were second -class friends, who kept the invisible reins on a balanced broom between two lawn chairs.

Shortly before she was 10, we started riding real horses and spent summer in Pennsylvania’s 15 -acre field in Pennsylvania, to wake up to feed a dozen horses at 6 am. This was bliss. So when Vik, who did business of our original New York’s house for Los Angeles more than a decade ago, he suggested that we reunite for the last horse-girl holiday, I said, “Let’s go.”

Horse girls have different tastes. Some shows, some barrel races, some have never riding a horse, but the Marguerite loves Henry’s works. When we were children, Vick and I just wanted to choose horses and pretend that no one else for us, do not get crude under our nails, and go fast and jump high. Not much has changed, except that both of us now live in places that are free from untouchability for horses.

We booked family -owned journey Silver spur range In Dubois, where trout -filled creeks have nurtured Willow’s trees that mourn every year in a long time. Visitors can also look for deer, mule deer and badges; There are hard coeots to spot. If you are really lucky, you will see a cougar. Cattle, by law, has the right to the way. LT and Lana Tomlinson established the farm on a piece of Lana’s grandfather’s land 30 years ago. Cowboy in this area did not understand what the couple was making; He suspected that anyone would pay to taste the rugged way of his life.

But Tomalinson’s vision resonates with guests, who come to ride the family owned and ride in a medley of public property. The shows are LT and Lana’s sons, Dax Tomalinson and his wife, Kylie, who leads the drive with a rented guide such as Vyoming-Janme Statis Curtis, named the name of Statason. Grandfather -a rotating cast of grandfather and family friends cook, service and strike camps.

The herd is the drive part of the range tourism, part hands-on horse training. This works in this way: vacationers mounted experienced horses and then driven dozens of uncontrolled steads in the area, weaving through trees on steep forest paths, weaving through trees, to teach the flock more definitely. Some of these novice animals then live with the farm; They are sold to others. For riders, the horse requires the ability to control, and the stamina is also important: the horses will take you where you need to live without a break, if you let them go. You will regret that if you do not have muscles to bear speed and fate, to bear the thighs for fun.

Our first day was of six hours, in-law orientation to achieve 13 of us-all women, all strange and stunning were used for strict and strictly strict and strict horses and comfortably in our rupee. It was also a filter that was aimed at weeding anyone, which would not be able to handle hours in a sharp trot. (There was a man among us, a unmatched trail-riding electrician from Suskechewan.)

To begin with, Curtis loaded our deals in a trailer with another farm hand, body May, who is the cousin of Dax, in a trailer. The group then separated to find the horses of the flock. I climbed into a neighbor’s truck named Randy Grover. As his weather-beating hands cut the steering wheel, Grover told us about stories about his tractors, named Susie Magu and Betsi; A mousse who used to kill a neighbor on his porch; And about local learning, wearing a drunken clothes about a man who went to hunting on a field bison farm. (Later, May told us that Grover had some reputation to spin the suspected yarn.)

We spent the next three days working hard, making the pack a lot of space to give a lot of space on the head of the pack, so he did not kick and crushed our kneecaps. We camped in a strong tent, bathed in the creek, and trapped the Cracky outhouse in the rain. At night, horses brushed against our tent because they were grazing. It was not thicker at all, but it was not even glamorous. As Curtis said, “We want you safe, but not high maintenance.”

During the day, we will stop on the water hole, tie our mounts with trees, and will have lunch on the bridge-porke sandwich and Lifer Tafi drawn from our saddle. Soon, the all-black border of Curtis emerges from trees to beg for a ragomfin, sandwich scrap of a dog, a dog, a dog. During a break, Curtis closed her horse and killed a rattlesnake with her whip stroke. He grabbed the body with a smile, dared to squeeze us.

On our last day, I was in front of Vik and some other women, when the footpath crossed an unexpected service road. We unknowingly fell down the road, as a giddy girl gang yipping we got horses faster, rapid, fast, on our small wild flock. We were so distracted by our happiness that we pushed beyond the point of view of the horses’ pack, which we were about to lead – the entire point of the journey. However, this untouched spirit was also a matter of journey. We can be caught swinging over the clam of hooves to turn back to us. We stopped and rotated our stairs from all around, just a few breathless, horse riding girls, lost moment -but free.

A version of this story first appeared in the July 2025 issue. Travel + holiday Under the title “A horse girl grows up.”