Memoir Flashback: Horseback riding in Alaska

This is a chapter I'm removing from my memoir because it simply doesn't make sense with the story. But rather than letting it disappear forever, I’m sharing it with you today.

That’s me trying to be all Alaskan. This is on Liberty, a 2,000-pound Percheron.

Quick side note: Every newsletter on Memoir Junkie Wannabe Author that starts with “Memoir Flashback” is a short story from my life that I may or may not include in my memoir. (It dawned on me that you may not know that. 🧐 ) 

Writing a book means certain scenes and chapters won’t make the final version—it’s hard to do when you’ve worked and reworked them. It’s not just the time I invested in editing; these are events from my life that mean so much to me, so letting them go feels a bit painful. Memoirists, you know what I’m talking about.

However, it has to be done. These chapters, like this one in Alaska, won’t drive my story forward nor will they bring any value to the reader. 

But instead of throwing them away, I’ve decided to publish them on Substack, and future Memoir Flashbacks.

Why I went to Alaska

My memoir focuses on a time in my life (a decade ago) that felt impossible. I was depressed and lonely and scared to face the future.

The fantastic, 30-something-year-old Instagram version of myself was not happening. I was also dealing with the guilt I felt about my elderly parents working so hard but still having a tough time making ends meet, and avoiding a brother whose actions would land him inside a coffin or a prison cell.

I was newly divorced and figuring out my career and life, but trying to do it all alone. I stopped talking to many of my close friends because I was either ashamed or just tired of venting and feeling stuck. I never saw my parents and brother because they only added to the stress. 

To cope, I ran away, er, traveled, a lot. I even started an entire blog called Claire’s Holiday. But behind my breathtaking photos of mountains and cobblestone streets in foreign countries, I was miserable. 

At the time, however, my short trip to Alaska did made me just a tiny bit better. In reading it, I hope you do too.

---

Alaska: 2017

I lean in closer to examine the flashing dot on my phone’s Google Maps. I can still see myself driving along the map’s route, but I can no longer see the straight line—the road. It just disappeared and now, I look like a floating dot on the screen. It’s like I’m suspended in Google Maps purgatory.

I press the brakes and grip the steering wheel a bit tighter.

Where the hell am I? 

I recall the vague directions Ron, the horseback riding guide, gave to me on the phone: When you start feelin’ nervous and don’t see anything else around except for rocks, just keep going, you’re on the right path.

So I keep going.

The asphalt road has long disappeared, and my Subaru Outback rental is getting a workout, jumping and jerking with every jagged rock on the dirt road. I hope I don’t get a flat. I’ve never had to change a flat tire before. Just thinking about it makes my palms suddenly damp. I mumble a small prayer, please not today.

I’m swallowed up in the valley outside Kachemak Bay, surrounded by mostly dead trees in a landscape that looks like it desperately needs rain. I notice remnants of residents who once lived in the area—a few wooden fences and abandoned outhouses.

Twenty minutes later, I start to doubt Ron’s directions again.

Finally, I finally spot a wooden fence with a pair of massive black horses tied to them. I let out a sigh of relief.

I’ve never seen horses this big. They remind me of the Michelob carriage horses in the TV commercials I watched as a kid but without the furry legs. I practically leap out of the car to greet them.

That’s Ron!

I wave to Ron, who is the human version of both his horses. While driving after spending an afternoon at the Homer Spit area, I saw a huge handmade sign that said, “Ride giant horses. Two hours $99.” Being a sucker for horses, I snapped a photo of the sign and called.

Over the phone, I pictured Ron to be… thinner and younger. But I do a horrible job of matching voices with appearances. It happens all the time at work—I talk to colleagues on the phone and when we meet in person and they look nothing like I imagined. This is why blind dates are out of the question.

Ron has a commanding presence, a perfectly round stomach, wild gray hair, and a frizzy beard covering most of his face. Kind of like Santa’s rugged younger brother who lives in Alaska.

He sees me and grins.

“Ya made it! Give me ten more minutes and we should get going soon.”

He loops a leather strap from the saddle underneath the fat belly of Justice, the horse Ron is riding. She’s not as black as the other horse, Liberty, the one I am riding today. I watch Ron tug and pull the strap to make sure it doesn’t slide off.

He turns to me and tucks his hair behind one ear. He extends his hand, “I’m Ron, good to meet ya.”

His handshake is firm and his fingers rough, exactly as I’d pictured an Alaskan man’s hands to be like. He nods to the black horse.

“This here is Liberty, she’s my huntin’ horse. We go huntin’ for moose.” 

“Oh my, they are so amazing. I love them already. I know you said they were huge, but I was not expecting this.” I can’t stop grinning. I feel almost embarrassed at how giddy I am. For a brief moment, my troubles and stress seem to melt away. I forget about the work I have to do later when I return to my lodge.

Ron chuckles. “Nothin’ I haven’t heard before. Percherons are one of the largest.”

He nods his head in Liberty’s direction, saying, “Two thousand pounds, that one. When we’re done riding, you can feed them treats. I brought their favorite—Frosted Mini-Wheats.” 

I can feel it already, our shared love of sugary shredded fiber squares will instantly create a special bond. I walk closer to Liberty to study her. You’re a gorgeous midnight creature. She’s fuzzier than I thought and her fur looks almost Muppet-like. When I pet her belly, it feels rough. Her giant eyes, lined with lashes I am envious of, gaze down at me. I can tell she’s sizing me up. She seems to ask, “Who are you? Do you have treats for me?”

She’s gentle and the vibe between us is warm. I feel comfortable enough to rub her face, right above her nose. My hand looks so tiny.

Ron pats Liberty on the neck and says, “Okay Miss Claire, she’s ready for you. Just put your foot in the stirrup and get on up there.”

No step stool? From my view, the stirrup looks impossibly high. I raise my left foot nearly to the height of my chest. I grip the handle of the saddle firmly with both hands and I hoist myself up. Climbing on top of Liberty is like reaching a small summit and the ground feels so far away. It reminded me of riding ponies as a kid at L.A.’s Griffith Park. As soon as I was buckled into the saddle, I stared at the ground, feeling delighted to be so high up.

Ron says, “Hey, you look good on her! I can get lots of photos of you two. There’s a spot about a half hour in, with incredible views of the valley. You can post it on your Instagram.” 

“That’d be great, thanks. But I don’t need a million pics. I’m here for the adventure, Ron, not to show it off on my Insta,” I say with a smile. “I bet Liberty could have her own Instagram.” 

He laughs, “That’s actually not a bad idea.”

We start the ride and I’m at home in the saddle, feeling the rhythm of Liberty’s slow, steady movements. Her presence is calming, even though she bulldozes small trees and large bushes in her path. At times, I lift both my legs to the front of the saddle because I’m afraid I’ll get my jeans caught in the sharp branches of the bushes.

The air is freezing and I hear small droplets plop onto the coat Ron let me wear. He said it was to keep me warm and provide protection in case it rains. I hope it doesn’t suddenly downpour.

The neatly paved trail I imagined for this two-hour riding adventure doesn’t exist. We go wherever we want. This is Alaska! 

I snapped this post-ride. Ron removed their saddles and they looked so in their element, eating grass and just being horses.

I’m on a real Alaskan horse, not a trail horse. Until today, my history of horseback riding was limited to guided trails, at places with names like Hollywood Ranch or Sunset Trails. I frequented many of these stables on the weekends in high school. I used my allowance money to spend a few hours with a beat-up and dusty trail horse.

Liberty reminds me of Duke, a black trail horse I rode a few times. Duke also had a mane and a tail that nearly reached the ground, but Liberty is the Arnold Schwarzenegger version of Duke with cartoon-like muscles that bulge from her legs and shoulders.

Duke was from one of those open-to-the-public-stables, which always felt kind of sad to me. I felt bad for the horses because they looked so dirty and unkempt, swatting flies away with their tails while they waited for some stranger to hop on their backs.

Trail horses hate their jobs and don’t seem to care about what the rider wants them to do. Duke and his other trail horse buddies were more concerned about stopping to eat the leaves on the path. They didn’t seem to notice your commands with the reigns or that you wanted them to keep going so you didn’t fall behind the rest of the group.

If I were a trail horse, I’d hate it too—some jerk-off with a helmet suddenly wants me to do what she says? Even though I was guilty of being one of those jerks, the weekend excursions to the horse stables in high school helped me to ride more confidently.

Unlike Duke, Liberty fulfills my every request to go right, left, or even gallop. She doesn’t care that Ron is 50 feet in front or behind. She roams freely and goes where I ask her to. I don’t have to pull or tug firmly at the reigns like I did with Duke. Just a gentle left or right and Liberty understands. She gets me.

When we reach a clearing, Ron breaks the silence. “As you can see, the valley’s been burnt to a crisp. Big fire a few years back, damn near took the whole town.” 

I nod, noticing the blackened trees that litter the thirsty landscape. Broken trees are reduced to crispy stumps. 

He points to the valley, “See that house with the dark roof next to the clump of trees? That’s my house and my apple orchard. I got about ten of ‘em.” 

I learn Ron is quite the entrepreneur. In addition to guiding horseback rides, he sells apples and tomatoes at the weekend farmer’s market in town. 

Wishing I could bite into one of Ron’s juicy apples right now, I ask, “So, what brought you to Alaska? Or are you from here?”

“I was born and raised in Washington state. Moved to Alaska in the nineties, mostly because I wanted to live the way I want, without Uncle Sam’s greedy hands in my pockets. I’ve always been kind of an outsider so I figured maybe I’d give Alaska a try. I bought land and built my own house.”

As if he’s memorized this speech, he continues, “I don’t need a mortgage. I don’t pay property taxes. I live on my own terms. Tell me what other part of the country lets you live like that.” 

In a way, I relate to Ron. I want to live on my own terms too. Maybe not in Alaska, but I want freedom, to be untethered from soul-crushing days in a stuffy office. In a way, this trip to Alaska is helping me see I need more of this, even though I have to jump on my laptop when I return to the lodge. Bah.

“But what about feeling lonely? Alaska’s so far from… civilization.” 

The way Ron reacts with laughter makes me feel foolish. “Isolation is relative, Claire. I hear about city folks being lonely all the time, livin’ in a big city, but not having one friend to hang out with. I never feel lonely because I’m so involved in the community. I teach kids at the local community center, I do the farmer’s market every weekend, and I see my close friends all the time.”

I wish I was one of his close friends. I can’t help but think about the emptiness I often feel, now divorced and alone—despite living in a city jam-packed with people. 

I nod, “You definitely have a point. I mean, I could see my friends more often but I guess I choose not to because I always feel so busy. They’re busy. We’re all busy.”

I love this photo because it shows how enormous Liberty is!

I wonder what I’d do if I had Ron’s kind of freedom, set against the wild Alaskan backdrop. Could I get used to living in a place where moose sightings are normal and the summer sun goes down at 11 p.m.? Would I become pals with Ron and maybe even tag along with him on a hunting excursion?

Would I be happy? 

Even though I can picture it, none of it feels real. Knowing me, I’d probably get bored. I always do.

More stories…