today that I knew well. Kris was a client of mine and a friend; she'd boarded my horse, Gunner, the first year I owned him, and she and I had lunch together on the rare occasions when I had some free time.
She was also one of the primary contenders in this race; she and her ten-year-old gelding, Rebel Cause, had won the legendary Tevis Cup two years ago and were, from the scraps of talk I'd been overhearing this morning, a good bet to win today.
Kris handed me her card, and I began the process of checking Rebby over. A dark brown gelding, 15.3 hands and a registered Quarter Horse, Rebby was bigger and heavier than most of the other horses, who were predominantly Arabs. In actual fact, Rebby was more of a Thoroughbred than a Quarter Horse; he'd been bred for the track, and his Thoroughbred ancestry made his excellence as an endurance horse a good deal more understandable.
He stood quietly while I felt his legs, checked his gums, and listened to his heart and gut sounds, but danced and cavorted playfully next to Kris while she jogged him out for soundness. Like most of the horses, he was "up"; the early hour, the other horses, the cold wind, and general pre-race excitement made a thrilling blend.
Handing Kris her scorecard with all As marked on it, I said, between chattering teeth, "He looks good. Will you win?"
She shrugged. "Maybe. I've got a chance. That's my main competition." She pointed at a man leading a gray Arab in our direction. "Jared Neal and Jazz. They've beaten us a couple of times in the past."
"Well, good luck," I told her.
"Thanks." She turned and led Rebby away; I was struck, as I often was, by the intensity of her composure. She seemed calm and poised, yet with an inner fierceness just beneath the surface, a glow that illuminated her pale, plain face.
Joanna had had that quality when I'd known her in college, I thought; it was what had drawn me to her initially. In both women a formidable combination of will and intelligence was masked by a quiet facade. I had no time to speculate on what aspect of my character attracted me to such people, or why two equally strong women had allowed themselves to be undermined by men-in Joanna's case, her ill-advised love affair, in Kris's, an overly dominant husband-as the man pointed out to me as Jared Neal was handing me his card.
Kris's main competition had shoulder-length brown hair in a ponytail, wore black Lycra tights and tennis shoes, and looked as if he could run fifty miles as easily as his horse. The gray Arab packed a lightweight neoprene saddle and a nylon bridle, and both horse and man were hard-muscled and wound tight. Jazz, too, received all As, and Jared Neal led him prancing away.
Two hours later, a cold dawn light suffused the sky, and thanks to me and a fellow vet, Craig Collins, all sixty-odd competitors had been checked in.
I listened to the race organizer-a woman in her sixties who had won every big endurance event there was at one time or another-give the competitors instructions and rules, then grabbed a brief cup of coffee and climbed into my truck to hustle off to the first checkpoint.
Fifteen bumpy minutes later, with the sun coming up over the southeast ridge behind me, I pulled into a level picnic area on the top of Gray Whale Hill. Getting out of my truck, I stood facing the wind, looking down wide, grassy slopes interspersed with brushy areas to the Hollister Ranch headquarters. Jack's family home, just outside the park boundary, was completely visible from my vantage point on the hill. Cupped in a hollow beneath me like a toy farm in a giant's palm, a low, V-shaped adobe house, two smaller houses covered with weathered wooden shingles, three large barns, a shop, a pump house, several sheds and many stout-looking wooden corrals formed a grouping that was deeply reminiscent of an earlier time. A time before tract houses, I thought bleakly.
The ranch and its hollow sat at the end of a gully that emptied from the hills to the sea, the
She was also one of the primary contenders in this race; she and her ten-year-old gelding, Rebel Cause, had won the legendary Tevis Cup two years ago and were, from the scraps of talk I'd been overhearing this morning, a good bet to win today.
Kris handed me her card, and I began the process of checking Rebby over. A dark brown gelding, 15.3 hands and a registered Quarter Horse, Rebby was bigger and heavier than most of the other horses, who were predominantly Arabs. In actual fact, Rebby was more of a Thoroughbred than a Quarter Horse; he'd been bred for the track, and his Thoroughbred ancestry made his excellence as an endurance horse a good deal more understandable.
He stood quietly while I felt his legs, checked his gums, and listened to his heart and gut sounds, but danced and cavorted playfully next to Kris while she jogged him out for soundness. Like most of the horses, he was "up"; the early hour, the other horses, the cold wind, and general pre-race excitement made a thrilling blend.
Handing Kris her scorecard with all As marked on it, I said, between chattering teeth, "He looks good. Will you win?"
She shrugged. "Maybe. I've got a chance. That's my main competition." She pointed at a man leading a gray Arab in our direction. "Jared Neal and Jazz. They've beaten us a couple of times in the past."
"Well, good luck," I told her.
"Thanks." She turned and led Rebby away; I was struck, as I often was, by the intensity of her composure. She seemed calm and poised, yet with an inner fierceness just beneath the surface, a glow that illuminated her pale, plain face.
Joanna had had that quality when I'd known her in college, I thought; it was what had drawn me to her initially. In both women a formidable combination of will and intelligence was masked by a quiet facade. I had no time to speculate on what aspect of my character attracted me to such people, or why two equally strong women had allowed themselves to be undermined by men-in Joanna's case, her ill-advised love affair, in Kris's, an overly dominant husband-as the man pointed out to me as Jared Neal was handing me his card.
Kris's main competition had shoulder-length brown hair in a ponytail, wore black Lycra tights and tennis shoes, and looked as if he could run fifty miles as easily as his horse. The gray Arab packed a lightweight neoprene saddle and a nylon bridle, and both horse and man were hard-muscled and wound tight. Jazz, too, received all As, and Jared Neal led him prancing away.
Two hours later, a cold dawn light suffused the sky, and thanks to me and a fellow vet, Craig Collins, all sixty-odd competitors had been checked in.
I listened to the race organizer-a woman in her sixties who had won every big endurance event there was at one time or another-give the competitors instructions and rules, then grabbed a brief cup of coffee and climbed into my truck to hustle off to the first checkpoint.
Fifteen bumpy minutes later, with the sun coming up over the southeast ridge behind me, I pulled into a level picnic area on the top of Gray Whale Hill. Getting out of my truck, I stood facing the wind, looking down wide, grassy slopes interspersed with brushy areas to the Hollister Ranch headquarters. Jack's family home, just outside the park boundary, was completely visible from my vantage point on the hill. Cupped in a hollow beneath me like a toy farm in a giant's palm, a low, V-shaped adobe house, two smaller houses covered with weathered wooden shingles, three large barns, a shop, a pump house, several sheds and many stout-looking wooden corrals formed a grouping that was deeply reminiscent of an earlier time. A time before tract houses, I thought bleakly.
The ranch and its hollow sat at the end of a gully that emptied from the hills to the sea, the
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