BY ANNE SHERWOOD
The hay nets were empty by Twin Falls. I was less than two hours into my 16-hour journey from Bellevue, Idaho, to San Juan Capistrano, California, with two horses – a mare and a gelding. Fortunately, I had two bales of timothy in the back of the pickup. I’m not a professional hauler, but an adult amateur rider who enjoys the equitation. This was my first long-range journey. I’ve hauled horses to clinics and lessons and the vet for checkups, but I had never hauled two horses 1,000 miles by myself.
One horse was mine. The other was not, but I was responsible for both of them, and this made me nervous. Fortunately, the weather was mild, but the day was long, and they would be standing for 10 hours in the trailer. Every time I hit a bump in the road, I yelled “Sorry ponies!” as if they could hear me.
I stopped for gas (something I had to do often) in Twin Falls, refilled the hay nets, and offered them water after finding a spigot at the back of the building. The phrase “You can lead a horse to water…” popped into my head. Turns out there’s a lot of truth behind that saying. The mare dunked her nose, but didn’t drink. The gelding just sniffed it. “Onwards!” I said to them as we continued our odyssey.
When you live in the middle of the country, everyone seems to have a truck and trailer, so there isn’t much demand for professional haulers. When I lived in California, I barely thought about how the horses got to the show. The distances weren’t long, and the horses never had to overnight on the way.
Now that I live in Montana, it’s a big factor in the decision to show. But more than that, it’s almost impossible to be a thriving horseperson without access to your own truck and trailer. My daughter is doing 4H now, and we have to haul her horse to every clinic, lesson, and camp. To make matters more challenging, most of the trailers in Montana are slant loads preferred by quarter horse owners. Warmbloods often do not fit well in slant loads, so I needed a straight load. I had been borrowing a box trailer from the barn where we board, until finally, this spring, I found a used Logan warmblood straight-load trailer in Montana and bought it.
As I hurtled down US-93, the two-lane road through Idaho to Nevada, I was grateful the trailer was only three years old, and my truck had new tires. I went hours on lonely stretches without cell service, and it occurred to me that it might take days for someone to find me out here if something went wrong.
Luckily, I was never bored. My Montana neighbor had told me about an addictive podcast as I pulled out of the driveway, and it kept me company for the entire drive to Vegas. I had done my research and knew where I needed to stop, rest, and fill up. With the price of gas soaring these days, I found myself cursing the auto industry for not making more fuel-efficient vehicles. Why are we still getting the same MPG my parents got in the 1970s? My truck is a hybrid, but that only helps in the city. When I was shimmying down the highway at 70mph, 12mpg was my average, the same my dad used to get when we hauled boats with our Plymouth station wagon 40 years ago!
By the time the sun was setting with pink streaks across the sky, the windshield was thick with bug juice, so I pulled into the only gas station in 100 miles and scrubbed it clean. When I hit the road again, the sky had turned to ink, so I put on my new prescription glasses and opened the Red Bull my son had given me for the drive.
This was the hardest stretch of highway. Deer lurked in the shadows around every turn, and a light rain fell, making the road slick. I was tired. Impatient drivers, annoyed that I was going the speed limit, flew past me, blinding me with spray. When I finally merged onto I-15, I had never been so happy to see the bright lights of the big city. The Vegas strip was like a beacon on the hill, and I shouted to the horses – “We’re going to Vegas, Baby!”
It was after 10 pm when I pulled up to the unmarked chain link gate of the Las Vegas Horse Ranch. The horses were so happy to be out of the metal box that they both rolled as soon as I put them in their paddocks. I climbed into the truck bed and threw down a bale. I loaded the paddocks with big piles of hay, two water buckets each, and gave them lots of pats. It was dry and windy, but the temperature was perfect. Then I parked the trailer out of the way, unhitched, and drove to a nearby hotel. I barely remember my head hitting the pillow.
The next day was easy in comparison. Five hours in the daylight on interstates. Oddly, I found driving in LA traffic to be easier than the desolate two-lanes. People seemed to respect that I had a horse trailer and gave me space.. As I unloaded the horses at the show, a groom I knew from my days riding at Far West Farms called my name, “Annie! What are you doing here on a Monday?” he asked. I told him I hauled two horses from Idaho. Suddenly, several other grooms showed up and unloaded the tack trunks from my trailer. I was so thankful I wanted to cry. The camaraderie of the California show scene is one of the things I miss most in Montana.
After I showed, my family flew out, and we drove home together with the trailer full of furniture, not horses. Someone else was bringing the horses home after another week of showing. We took three days to get back, and never once did I need to refill the hay nets.
Anne Sherwood is a freelance photojournalist based in Bozeman, Montana. She rides in the amateur equitation and feels lucky that she can combine her love for horses with her passion for photography and writing.
