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Still, my brown skin got even browner, and that summer I got the first and only sunburn of my life, on my nose. I kept my shirt on, though, and joked that I’d worked on my tan all winter when the other women commented on how much they’d love to be my color. It was something like Odysseus’ men coming across the sirens. They must have thought us a mirage, as our crew of women scrambled to put their shirts back on. Once, as we were working, a group of oil workers drove by us. We mostly labored through the days without seeing another soul, and at night we’d drive back to our motel in Wamsutter, browner and sun-drunk. They worked in shorts and took their shirts off, pacing the prairie in their bras. There were four of us, and the other women used the time surveying the sagebrush steppe to also work on their tans. She could recognize a piece of worked rock from 10 feet away.
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She was tough, no-nonsense, and she taught me how to drive on a gravel road and how to spot an arrowhead in the ground. We were an all-woman crew, and my boss was what I imagined a horse girl grows up to be.
I also found a lot of trash: bottles, shell casings, cans and once, inexplicably, a porcelain doll’s ear. Over that summer, I found tipi rings, beads, bits of pottery and arrowheads. We would go to an area and walk a grid - mapping, recording and flagging any cultural objects we found. I WORKED ON an archaeology crew in the Red Desert when I was in my early 20s, doing surface surveys on sites slated for energy development. I take the dishtowel she’s made to be a saddle and go back to drying dishes. She shows me how she canters, how she gallops.
She rides it every day, now feeding it apples, brushing its yarn hair with my hairbrush, and showing me her trick riding - which consists of her standing on its saddle, rocking fiercely. She’s put a blanket over the back of the couch and straddles it, riding her “horse.” For her third birthday, my parents bought her a rocking horse that takes up half our living room. She neighs when I ask her if she wants milk. My daughter Juniper is decidedly a horse girl. Poor Steamboat performed in Wild West shows and rodeos, making the crowds roar. As a colt, he had a broken nose, so he whistled when he bucked, hence the name. Legend has it that Steamboat, a domesticated steed, would stand on his front legs and kick his back legs wildly into the air.
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The symbol of Wyoming, the ubiquitous bucking Steamboat, is on every license plate and souvenir. Both competed in the fair and rodeo.Įven though I grew up in Wyoming - where everywhere you go, there is a horse - I did not go through this phase. In my 4-H club, both ranch girls and city girls rode and kept horses. In the West, riding is not just for the rich. When they will ask for riding lessons and want to wear tall boots. When they will watch movies and shows about horses. There is a moment when their rooms will be plastered with pictures of horses. One of my friends insists that every girl has a horse phase. Horse girls ride fast across the prairie with the wind in their hair.
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