Backpacks and Bra Straps by Savannah Grace Page B

looked a lot like last night. “I hope this is the only time I get sick on this trip.”
    “Me, too!” the rest of us said in complete unison.

Bucking Bronco
13
    “I can’t get this horse to go anywhere,” Ammon complained, kicking and swinging his legs wildly.
    “Oh, I know what you mean. The one I had yesterday was impossible. I could hardly get him to cantaloupe.”
    “Savannah, it’s cantering,” Ammon said.
    “I know what it is, thanks. But I prefer to call it cantalouping.”
    “Whatever,” he said, shaking his head, but I could tell he was amused nonetheless.
    Yesterday had been a nightmare. I’d gotten a couple of good canters out of my puny horse until it refused to even walk fast. Mom and I were left behind as Ammon and Bree galloped along side by side, like warriors riding into battle. It was a beautiful, empowering sight. Our horses, on the other hand, must’ve looked like they were on a death march, dragging our really heavy coffins behind them.
    Instead of persuading my horse to cooperate, my kicking and whooping transformed him into a bucking lunatic. Once he felt he’d been ridden enough, even the slightest nudge in his side would set him off. On one occasion, I was thrown right out of the saddle and onto his neck. At the end of the day, we’d sworn to send them straight to the glue factory. Now it was Ammon’s turn to try to ride a dud.
    “Well, I don’t think I’m going to get this thing to go anywhere.” So far it had not moved an inch. It was seemingly cemented to the earth. “Here, Bree. Switch horses with me.”
    Bree, our own private horse whisperer, promptly swung her leg over and jumped off her horse, saying, “Okay, fine. You obviously don’t know what you’re doing anyway. I’ll handle him.” She mounted Ammon’s uncooperative steed, and with nothing more than a gentle ‘C’mon boy. Let’s go’ and a confident kick, she was off like a shot, accelerating from park to fifth gear within seconds.
    “What the hell? When I kicked, it wouldn’t budge an inch.” Ammon’s exasperation was obvious. “How on earth does she do that?” We were all similarly baffled as we stood watching from the small cloud of dust she and her steed had raised.
    The shaman’s magic flower potion must’ve helped, because Bree had made it through the previous night uneventfully. Watching her galloping across the open plains of Kyrgyzstan now with a huge grin on her face was more confirmation that she was feeling much better. We could hear her hollering out in the distance, and could barely see her swinging an imaginary lasso above her head.
    “Well, I didn’t really want to go riding again today, anyway,” Ammon decided quickly. “My arse is still killing me from yesterday.” His hard, boney butt and that rigid saddle did not combine comfortably.
    Mom and I raced to catch up to our home-grown Canadian rocket, but she was unreachable. We could see her ahead, galloping back and forth, having what appeared to be the ride of her life. Riding here cost the equivalent of two dollars an hour, or seven dollars to take a horse out for an entire day. We could’ve paid a little more for a guide, but we much preferred to take the reins and enjoy unlimited freedom.
    “Are you sure she’s okay?” I said, beginning to doubt it. “She’s going pretty fast.”
    Mom waved my concern away. “Oh, sure she is. She’s having a blast up there.”
    “I hope she remembers how to get back to the yurt,” I said.
    “She’ll be fine as long as she can see the lake. There are only a few yurts up here. The worst that could happen is she’d have to walk around the whole lake to find us. We’re certainly not going to get lost,” she said, amused by my constant worrying.
    When we finally found Bree, she sprang off her horse before coming to a complete stop and announced, “That bloody horse is insane!”
    “It looked like you were having a riot,” Mom said.
    “I was! Until I realized it’s a psycho