I never had a horse of my own growing up, but they have always been around me. My small home town had plenty of fields and pastures full of horses, and my Aunts and Uncles had farms out in the country where I would feed and ride horses in my youth.

Their is a special kinship between horse and rider, an unspoken bond of mutual respect that forms as you sit in your saddle and guide your horse along the trail.
In the darkness of a December morning I get partnered with Smokey as we get ready to ride up the Lajitas mountains to catch the sunrise. As we make our way up the wash we hear stories of how people are still finding fossils from millions of years ago in the sandy desert washes out here.
Our guide is the epitome of West Texas, an older Mexican cowboy with a knowing smile and a broken English accent, he does things according to his own set of rules with little regard to local laws or government restrictions.

Out here he is the law. He gets a fire going for us, then pops open the champagne and cooks breakfast as we all watch the sunrise peak over the mountains in silence.
I find the little moments such as this to be my favorite moments in life. Sitting next to a crackling fire as Smokey whinnies next to me, my Mexican cowboy gathering brush to keep us warm as I devour my breakfast and wash it down with a chilled mimosa, and it’s not even 8 a.m.

Wench, bring my ale, what say you?

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