I was a teenager then. A neighbor’s neglected horse had become my responsibility and I was thankful for that. He was my walking mate and a companion. After school, I’d walk across the massive field between the house I lived in and his gated enclosure. The lead rope was always nearby. Clipping it to his weathered halter, I led him from his prison deep into the woods.
After what seemed a great distance, we’d reach the river’s edge. The Santiam River was shallow in that spot. Its water rushed over smooth rocks as nature continued to paint its perfect picture. It was a place most people would never see, especially city dwellers. The water was clear. It would join the Willamette River just a few miles downstream, sacrificing itself to a more polluted body as it emptied in.
The horse’s owner never named him but I called him Buck.
There, by the river, a canopy of old growth trees created the feeling of safety for me and Buck. I didn’t know his life story, what he’d suffered in his past or how humans had let him down. I only knew that a small amount of sadness left him each time we journeyed to our special spot. He and I were kindred. Things hadn’t been easy for me, either.
With each passing step, the fields gave way to a forest of old growth trees. Pines and firs were large there. Bigleaf maples and red alders added color and texture. Ferns and shrubs common in Oregon spread in every direction. Mosses blanketed the ground showing off their vibrant green, red and rusty brown colors. Grass grew plentiful.
Notebook in hand, I found my spot not far from the water’s edge. I thought I must be the only person to ever frequent that spot. Buck was behaved and walked around untethered, never straying far from me. I’d scatter a bit of alfalfa hay on the dry ground, having stuffed it in a grocery bag I carried with me. He’d chew on some, raise his head and look at me with those expectant eyes. He knew that at some point, I would give him the apple I’d saved from my lunch earlier that day.
Thoughts of my parents warning me not to wander too far into the woods by myself would swirl around in my mind as I sat there, pondering my life.
The REAL dangers had nothing to do with being supervised down by the river with Buck.
Even at that age, I knew what irony was. I always felt safest in that magical place.
The sounds of rushing water and birds chirping filled the space around my ears as words spilled from my pen, eventually forming the rhythmic poetry. I wrote diary entries too. They provided a therapeutic outlet for a mind which was developing in an unhealthy environment.
Born into a high-demand religion with glaring hypocrisy where unsafe men held positions of authority, I needed those moments of serenity. Just me and Buck. Him enjoying a bit of freedom and positive attention, and me laying the foundation for what would later be labeled as extreme introversion.
Our time by the river always went by too fast. I had to get Buck home while it was still light outside. I didn’t dare stay longer than my parents permitted. Closing my notebook and storing my pen, I stood up. Buck turned his attention to me as I reached down in my shoulder bag and pulled out a shiny apple. He politely waited for the invitation to take his treat from my hand.
“You’re a good boy, Buck,” I said as I brushed my hand over his red mane. I reconnected his lead and we began our journey back toward reality.
Copyright 2025, Jana Brock. All rights reserved.
I enjoy the way you elaborate things; it’s obvious and concise.
Thank you so much. Have a great day!