No Moonlight, Only Madness

            August 5th had the potential of being a perfect birthday. Despite a hot, humid Ohio summer, the temperature was predicted to stay down in the 70s with only a slight possibility of rain in the afternoon. No thunderstorms were expected. It hadn’t rained lately so the Midwestern mud was at a minimum. Welcome news for the trail rider.

                   I hooked up the stock trailer to the truck, picked up my two friends, their horses, and a bunch of stuff for camping, and drove to a state park with nice trails and a pretty lake. A downpour began while driving down the highway, but the rain stopped by the time I backed the trailer into our campsite. A good sign, I thought. The only other campers in the huge horseman’s camp were two families with RVs and their gaited horses. Arriving mid-morning, we saddled up and left the camp, anxious to ride and planning to unpack the truck later.

            The date auspiciously coincided with a full moon and conveniently landed on a Saturday.  I was feeling my forty-plus years and wanted to stretch my wings a bit, so the idea of a moonlight ride sounded special. My first.

            The deluge hit about an hour later as we rode through the woods. By the time I got my slicker on, I was drenched and shivering violently. One friend was just as cold and wet as me, but friend number two possessed a good set of rain gear I had never fully appreciated before. Two of us hard-core, dedicated trail riders suggested we turn back, which brought a snort of derision from our well-slickered pal. The end result was that we carried on. The storm continued to hammer us. It was no longer a trail ride for me but an act of personal endurance.

            We encountered two miserable guys dragging their mountain bikes through the deep mud. Watching our warm and cozy buddy’s horse freak-out over the mountain bikes was entertaining but didn’t quite make up for the hypothermia that was setting in.

            When the trail had become a river and the horses were thoroughly disgruntled, I admitted defeat and headed for camp. The next couple of hours were the longest in my riding history. We were a dispirited group as we sloshed and mucked our way into the parking area. Pavement had never looked so wonderful.  Of course, no camp awaited us. It was all still neatly packed away in the truck. Three soaked people tried to be good sports as they cared for three pissed off horses, then worked on setting up the tent in the driving rain. Miss High and Dry initiated a debate about packing up and going home. I said it was my birthday and I didn’t want to go home early. Home would be phone calls, dirty dishes, and the responsibility of kids. Sitting bone cold in an almost deserted campground was preferable. I finally figured out she was afraid of camping, had never been without her husband, and thought there would be more families around. I didn’t want her to be scared, and I’m known to be sensibly neurotic about bad guys and evil and all that, but now that we were getting our camp set up, I was comfortable. She wanted to come along so she needed to give it a try.

            The stock trailer made a cozy place to set up our chairs and stove, so clothes were changed and dinner was cooked. Everyone relaxed and the birthday mood returned. We unpacked the bottle of red wine and, when it became clear no moonlight ride was possible, we got out the mugs. The novice camper wouldn’t drink. This wouldn’t bother me usually, but as we tipplers were getting sillier and sillier, the non-tippler was getting more and more serious about going home. She announced she would be making the decisions now because her brain wasn’t impaired by alcohol. Nice try, I said. She heard a bear and other animals. No bears possible here, I answer. We could be home in two hours, she’d say.  I don’t drink and drive, I’d say. I could try, she says. Absolutely not, I say. Offended, her hackles rise.  Shouldn’t pull a trailer for the first time during a bad storm, I say. We’re okay, I tell her. Relax.

            Around 11:00 I go to put the sleeping bags into the tent and find several inches of water inside. She says, NOW we are going home-we HAVE to! Drunk on wine and power, I laugh at her. With my besotted friend, I pour the water from the tent. We have two sheets of plastic that had been covering our gear in the back of the truck. I move the tent to higher ground and line the inside of the tent. Sleeping bags in, people in, sleep happens.

            I hear the friend who is not mad at me leave the tent around 3 a.m. The RV’s stallion is loose and visiting our campsite. She goes and wakes them up. Lots of noise and kicking as our two mares fend off advances. Romeo is returned to his campsite and we try to go back to sleep.

                The next day was not any better than the first. Rode a short trail in the mud, then packed up and went home. I dropped off Grumpy with her horse and gear then took my slightly hungover friend home. Finally I arrived home. Raining again, of course. I turned out my horse then spent the next hour cleaning and putting away the tent, sleeping bag, cooler, stove, food, cooking and serving stuff and on and on. The tent had to be dried, the trailer cleaned and parked, and the truck made ready for my husband to use the next day. It was a long time before my shower and dinner.

            It was a birthday that stands out with some clarity. Important. We had a great time sitting around the trailer that evening. Well, some of us did. I alienated a friend, or you could give her some of the credit and say she alienated herself. The riding sucked . The amount of work involved was exhausting. In conclusion, it beat sitting at home. And, almost twenty years later, I can remember it. That counts for something.