“Where are you, you ungrateful little asshole?!” Crouched behind the woodpile, I hear dad storm out of the house and slam the front door. Startled, I look up to see the splintered fingers of hemlocks surrounding me, wispy blue sky peeking through. I feel the course grain of dirt, twigs and needles on my hands …

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Trepidatious. I know that feeling when I have convinced myself that I need to ride. Wrapped up in red – red fuzzy pullover, red Guess sweatpants, red BMW hurtling me closer to the barn. 7,500 feet above sea level my choice awaits me – a 1,200-pound bay horse with his curious eye and soft, winter …

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