Beautiful Dreamer

Frankly, I never knew I loved the smell of horse manure in the morning. With apologies to fans of “Apocalypse Now,” let me explain. The 1979 Vietnam War film’s most famous line, “I love the smell of napalm in the morning,” was delivered by Robert Duvall’s character aptly named Lt. Col. Kilgore. He described how the lingering odor of napalm – a jellied fuel that could be ignited as a deadly weapon – reminded him, of all things, victory. Turns out, an air strike by his unit destroyed a Vietcong-controlled coastal village using the horrific firebomb. Chilling stuff indeed.

Ironically, and unlike Kilgore’s fog of war, a steaming pile of horse shit will forever make me think of a personal victory of sorts: my recent attempt to overcome a longtime fear of horseback riding.

First off, manure smell isn’t as offensive as you may think. Surprisingly, it has a mild, earthy scent, not unlike hay or grass. I suspect my newfound affinity for parfum de pony poop may have something to do with the continuing shit-show our nation has become.

Am I getting accustomed to the geo-political chaos? Have I lost my will to fight, ready to obey in advance? Or is it simply me waving the white flag of apathy six months into this desecration of democracy?

That’s a hard no to all of it.

As ee cummings wrote in his 1931 poem “i sing of Olaf” about a conscientious objector during World War I: “There is some shit I will not eat.” A pacifist, Olaf repeats this line as he’s being tortured by the U.S. Army. He later dies in prison.

With that, Rebecca and I figured maybe it was time to get away and take a break from the crazy to improve our well-being. Couldn’t hurt. Might help.

We packed up the RV – fondly known as “The Beast” – and drove “Up North” for a few days to Michigan’s northeastern lower peninsula for some R&R. Not to mention, it was our 21^st anniversary of deciding to give this partnership thing a go and the opportunity to flourish. It certainly has, and then some.

We have chosen each other above all others. Sticking together in good times and bad. Still working on this thing called love and trying not to get on each other’s last nerves. Particularly while confined in a 24-foot tin can on wheels.

Instead of a traditional campground, we used our Harvest Hosts membership. The gist: Self-contained RVers are invited to visit and stay overnight for free at wineries, farms, breweries and distilleries, museums and even golf courses. To show your gratitude, you make a donation or buy something they produce.

There are more than 9,600 Harvest Host locations throughout North America now. For $79 a year, you can’t beat it. We’ve used the program once before, in 2021, when we stayed at Blendon Pines Alpaca Ranch in Hudsonville, Michigan.

Here’s a link to my blog post from that adventure: https://heartmattersblog.com/boondocking/

One thing about Harvest Hosts is that there are usually no modern conveniences available, such as electrical or water hookups. You’re on your own. You might be able to turn on a generator, if you’ve got one. This is called “boondocking.”

We hit the road on a Thursday morning and drove to Barton City, about 180 miles northeast of our home. Where’s that, you ask? To find out, do what most Michiganders do: Use your right hand to represent the state’s shape, and find the center of your index finger. That’s Barton City.

First stop: Hammer & Nail Restaurant in Barton City

Of course, you can’t begin any true adventure without stopping for lunch. Other than grandma’s house, the only place to dine in Barton City is the Hammer & Nail Restaurant near Jewell Lake. Owner Marcy Hammer, who’s from downstate, welcomed us and told the story of opening her dream restaurant in her hometown.

After her mother passed, something inside her changed, Marcy said, and she felt compelled to return “home.” Along with running the restaurant six days a week, she works a full-time job downstate and has a family.

This place is small but mighty. Delicious food, great service and reasonable prices. We both ordered a “smashburger” with the best sweet potato fries we’ve ever had. Even the restroom stood out with its “Mindset is everything” shark-fish sign that spoke to my soul as we embarked on this journey to conquer fear.

Second stop: K’Lorne Acres in Barton City

Which brings us to our first night’s stay: K’Lorne Acres in Barton City. A nonprofit horse rescue sanctuary, this place has a simple mission: “Kindly caring for horses while helping along the way.”

Owner Kelly Webb Sweet and her husband, John Sweet, run the place, which has at least two dozen grateful horses on any given day ranging in age from 4 months to 28 years old.

“Horses saved me,” Kelly said. “Now I save them.”

She didn’t elaborate, but we knew she meant it from a place deep in her heart.

K’Lorne – as in “K” for Kelly and “Lorne” for her father, Lorne Delburt Brian Webb (just call him Brian), who initially owned 20 acres of property used as a hunting camp until he bought 20 more and turned it into a horse farm.

Now in his 80s, the Ford Motor Co. retiree loves to talk about the land and how horses provide equine therapy for troubled teens dealing with a range of mental health issues, including anxiety, depression, PTSD and addiction. 

“Working here gives them a purpose,” Brian said of the teens, adding that horse therapy promotes physical and emotional well-being for these kids.

And, perhaps, a couple of women of a certain age looking for the same.

At K’Lorne, youngsters are taught how to handle grooming, feeding, leading and riding horses in a nonjudgmental environment while learning about themselves, and their emotions and behaviors. Mental health research has shown horse therapy to be quite effective.

There were 29 horses in the barn the day we visited. Gabriel, about age 28, is the oldest, along with Forest, an even older soul who won’t reveal his age but likes to walk around at night and doesn’t eat hay. His senior palate prefers a nice soft mash, thanks. The youngest is Sassafras, known as “Sassy,” who was born in March.

We learned quite a few horse facts, including:

• Their average life span is about 25 to 30 years.
• Their teeth never stop growing, and they must see an equine dentist annually for a process called “floating” to file down sharp enamel points on molars.
• Their quality of health care – medical, dental and farrier (for healthy hooves and shoeing) – can make all the difference in a horse’s life.
• Their lips grip treats like fingers, so you must keep your palm flat to avoid them grabbing a finger.
• They nap while standing up, but deep sleep occurs when lying down.

Full moon: Let’s ride!

By chance, on the day we were there, a full moon guided trail ride was planned. Around 8 p.m., the excited riders – all women – hand-fed the horses treats and decorated them with water-based neon paint, while others created colorful bracelets and necklaces from plastic glow sticks.

There were nine of us, some from nearby cottages and others from outlying areas, including Mount Pleasant and Tecumseh. Two teen workers saddled up all of the horses and paired us up according to our size and skill level.

I was XL pony and zero skills, respectively.

My horse was “Dreamer,” a muscular brown male with a silky mane and a wide swath of white from forehead to muzzle. He looked handsome wearing his black and blue saddle blanket. I fed him a few treats hoping he’d like me and not toss me off his back like a flea.

“You’re beautiful, Dreamer,” I said, looking into his soulful eyes.

After speaking to the Mount Pleasant woman, a professional who treated patients with closed-head injuries, I grabbed a riding helmet from the barn. Couldn’t hurt. Might help.

It was time for me to mount Dreamer. (Words I never thought I’d type.)

Luckily, they had a metal platform to help you get on the horses. A kind woman named Annalisa stuck by me like Velcro and said to step in the stirrup with my right foot and lift my left leg up and over Dreamer’s rump.

Stupidly, I asked whether I could go over the front, as in across his mane.

“You think you can hoist your leg over that horn?” Annalisa asked, pointing to a 3-inch high solid hunk of leather that apparently serves as an anchor and allows riders to dally a rope around it when catching livestock.

I prayed that wasn’t on this evening’s program.

Shaking my helmeted head, I stepped into the stirrup with my right foot. By the grace of God, a partial right knee replacement and countless physical therapy visits, I hoisted my left leg up and over Dreamer’s rump like Simone Biles.

Take that. I was back in the saddle again.

My heart raced, my palms were sweaty, and my Apple Watch seemed to sense impending danger because I swear its fall detector flashed a message asking if I had fallen or was just scared shitless. Not yet, and yes.

Another young teen walked us over to an empty holding area. I have no idea why she did this. Her advice: Be calm, project strength, and don’t pull back the reins too tight, or the horse will think you want him to walk backward.

For what seemed like an eternity – 15 minutes, tops – it was just me and Dreamer in the holding area as Rebecca and the other riders saddled up.

At that moment, Dreamer started to get antsy. I gently pulled the reins feeling calm and projecting strength. He began walking backward.

“OK, Dreamer. Good boy. Stay,” I begged this 1,000-pound anxious beast in a manner reminiscent of how I had pleaded with our beloved 10-pound Havanese to go potty when she wouldn’t.

“OK, I’ve got this. Face your fears, be strong. Mindset is everything,” I said to myself, thinking of that ridiculous fish-shark on the bathroom wall at that stupid Hammer & Nail Restaurant. What the heck was I thinking?

Then, as if on cue, I started to slide off the saddle when Dreamer shifted his body into reverse. It was a long way down. If I fall off this horse, I’ll need more than a second partial knee replacement.

Still alone, I tried to get Rebecca’s attention, but she was yucking it up with her newfound peeps leaning in her saddle like Beth Dutton on “Yellowstone.”

She finally caught my eye as I mouthed, “Get me a human. Now.”

Yet another young teen named Molly hurried over.

“You all good, ma’am?” she asked.

“Not exactly,” I said. “First of all, please don’t call me ma’am. And I’m not so sure this horse thing was a good idea. I probably could use some riding lessons, you know? I’m not really comfortable being way up here, and I’m … I WANT TO GET DOWN. NOW. Please.”

My helmet was sliding off, as was my ass. I felt like a complete idiot. Molly walked me back to the platform to get down. I wanted to kiss the ground.

By this time, it was after 9 p.m., and the brave ones were set to begin their full moon ride. They disappeared into the woods. Eight women guided by two teen-agers. Minus me and Dreamer. I gave it my best, never made it out of the corral, and I was OK with that.

Until I realized that Rebecca had the keys to the RV, and we’d locked it because we’re paranoid city girls. Dammit, dammit, dammit. It was so dark.

Meantime, I wandered back over to the blazing campfire where Brian, Kelly’s husband, John, and his brother and girlfriend were sitting. Finally, around 10:30 p.m., we heard laughter coming from the barn.

They were back – after riding on a narrow trail for nearly two hours under a moonless sky. I grabbed our lantern walked down the hill to meet Rebecca.

Me: “How was it?”

Her: “Great.”

Me: “Good. You had the freakin’ keys.”

Except I didn’t say freakin’.

There is some poetic justice to this story, despite me making the best decision of my entire life not to ride.

Rebecca’s horse was named “Zen.” (Of course, it was.) What she didn’t know was that this mild-mannered male liked to eat – early and often. He took every opportunity on that trail to nosh anything green in nature’s drive-thru.

And then, much to the chagrin of the downwind riders, Zen got gassy.

OMG. He farted the whole way! Poor, Rebecca.

Third stop: AJ’s Berry Farm in Lachine

On Friday morning, we packed up the RV and headed out to our next destination: the family-owned AJ’s Berry Farm about 45 minutes north in Lachine, Michigan. But first, we stopped to eat breakfast at – you guessed it! – the Hammer & Nail Restaurant. Best blueberry pancakes we ever had.

We were the only guests staying at the berry farm, and we had the open fields to ourselves. Just us and mesh-covered berries protected from hungry birds.

Sadly, the berry farm was winding down its season, and it was too hot to do U-Pick. So, we bought out their store, filling up the RV with red and black raspberries, along with saskatoons (they look like blueberries but taste like almonds), maple syrup and honey. And some homemade raspberry scones.

Final stop: Hubbard Lake in Spruce

Our final destination on this wellness getaway was to visit old friends at their Hubbard Lake cottage in Spruce, Michigan. With four walls and a roof over our heads, we relished having indoor plumbing and a real shower. We also enjoyed a home-cooked meal, coffee and fresh scones, and a Sunday boat ride. Not to mention getting our dog fix with their sweet fur babies.

Driving home, Rebecca and I talked about how lucky we are that we can do this kind of stuff – and how blessed that we’re still doing it together.

Heading southbound on M-65, I smelled something mild and earthy. It was our hiking boots we had packed in the trunk. They reeked of horse manure.

We had a good laugh and chalked it up to the sweet smell of success.

(YouTube audio only: Here’s another lower-case creative genius, kd lang, singing “Pullin’ Back the Reins,” from her 1989 album “Absolute Torch and Twang.”)