Could there be a way for our eyes to see things through the lens of an old film camera? The amber tint portraying everything in a soft, cozy light, the grain reminding you that you’re in the good old days? The crisp-clear brightness of reality isn’t something to be taken for granted, but the feel of early camera technology has connotations human eyes can’t recreate.
Chris, a photographer friend, is smart. He carries a compact, waterproof, impact-proof film camera in addition to his modern rig when he goes on trips. The importance of capturing human moments in that warm old-fashioned way is paramount to him. When we went on a fly fishing trip in Alaska last summer, he captured high-res photos with his professional-grade equipment. Each burst of images was followed by a single click of the film camera. What the film camera produced was unforgettably raw images of us. The look of them reminds me of photos from my childhood, which is wonderfully appropriate considering how much like a child I felt during that adventure.
To have a vintagey lens installed over my pupils last Tuesday would’ve been special. The timelessness of the warm wooden bar at the local Elks Lodge, dusty shoulder mounts of gargantuan bulls perpetually peering at the patrons, classic “Free Beer Tomorrow” sign, and my handshake with the brand inspector would’ve been preserved forever. Well, forever to me.
If only light waves pressed that handshake onto a sliver of film that day, I’d retain the physical image of me buying my first horse permanently.
Sure, it's somewhat selfish to wish I could gaze at that picture over and over again, the same way I’ve been swiping a several days back into my iPhotos to look at my first pictures of Jazzy over and over again. Truthfully, sometimes, when really cool shit happens, I intentionally don’t take a photo of it. It was too special, too personal, to photograph. Like the time a mewing elk calf walked up to me during a mule deer hunt, or when a broad-tailed hummingbird sipped from a trickle of water within arm’s reach. Those moments deserve to live exclusively in my mind, unable to be seen by anyone else. Anyone who wants to see those moments must go out and witness them firsthand.
But that handshake! I wanted to show my mom. She’s known me my entire life, which is as abundantly obvious as blue skies or wet water. But I say that to reiterate the intensity of how big a moment that handshake was for me.
My mom let me rewind Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron so many times I can’t believe our VCR didn’t light on fire. She bought me the movie soundtrack CD. Spirit stuff animals. Spirit play sets. American Girl horses because we were running out of Spirit merchandise to purchase. For the handful of years she could afford it, she bought me English riding lessons. When she couldn’t afford it anymore, she cut a deal where for three weeks, I’d muck stalls and help feed, and on the fourth week, I’d get an hour-long dressage lesson. Whether we lived in a townhouse or a Charlotte suburb or the heart of midwestern dairy country, she knew I loved horses. My mom facilitated my access to them the best she could. Most of all, she knew I’d inevitably have one of my own someday.
Jazzy isn’t a Kiger mustang like Spirit. She’s a quarter horse the color of aspen bark. Long, dusty gray eyelashes, a white blaze, and a pink nose adorn her cartoonishly cute face. Her lengthy, coal-colored mane and tail contrast vividly against her body, and in the right light, they have a tinge of red to them. Her coloring doesn’t make up for any lack of personality, either.
Jazzy and I went for our first ride on Mother’s Day. I always record rides either on OnX or my Garmin watch so I can see how far I went and exactly where we trod. That Sunday, we rode 4.5 miles with her owner to the crest of a sagebrush flat to see the enormous 39-acre uranium tailings storage area just down the road from the ranch. The site contains 1.14 million dry tons of sandy, radioactive tailings. When you turn on OnX’s top-down satellite view, it looks like an alien, pentagonal marvel.
“I don’t quite like that this is upwind and upstream from where I live, but there’s not much I can do about that,” the lifelong cowboy said.
We turned around. I broke off from the group, testing Jazzy on my own. Five miles later, she’d jumped ditches and sagebrush, nimbly stepped over fallen logs, watched coyotes and deer, loped on uneven ground, was hobbled and freed. I asked her to run towards home only to then ask her to stop, turn around, and sprint back up the hill in the opposite direction.
She did everything I asked of her with little hesitation, despite this being her first ride after a year-long maternity leave. That, and she covered 9.5 miles in just three hours, something that takes our oldest horse an entire day to do. What stood out to me the most, however, is her behavior after I released her into a corral.
The rancher asked me to put Jazzy back with her herdmates, Jessie and Champ, in a shared space with a handful of yearling cattle. Her owner had mentioned that she bites cows, especially if she thinks they’re in the way or going too slow. I did as he asked, then hung around the gate to observe her behavior in the corral.
First, she rolled. Then, she drank. Thirst quenched, she turned an eye to the pile of hay Champ and Jessie were noshing on, but then she looked back at me. I was petting the yearlings, who are used to getting treats and attention. Jazzy walked over to the closest slobbery yearling and bit it in the ass, hard. The little squad of cows booked it out of there, and Jazzy took their place. She lowered her head and I scratched behind her ears, and I swear to god she closed her eyes and smiled.
I’d never been with a horse that, post-ride, still wanted to hang out with its rider more than munch mouthfuls of hay.
The evening after I test rode Jazzy, I sent my mom a selfie of us, texting, “I want to buy this horse.” Do it, she replied, with at least five exclamation points following her words. With my mother’s approval, I permitted myself to consider the possibility of buying a horse for a few days. The logic of it made sense because our oldest working horse needs to retire. Dan and I had talked about replacing the aging gelding for two years, but failed to take any action on it.
Until now. When the perfect horse for you falls into your lap, how can you say no?
I couldn’t. But Dan, my boyfriend who owns the property this horse would live on, could. To my advantage, Dan was in Maryland. Over the phone, I explained to him at length why adding Jazzy to our herd was a good idea. For the most part, he was on board. I took this as a soft yes; after all, he’d purchased vehicles, rifles, scopes, suppressors, and even a Great Pyrenees without consulting me first. Not that I’m counting, but it was my turn to surprise him. (Okay, maybe I am counting.)
Admittedly, my desire to surprise him was rooted in fear. I intentionally avoided including him in my decision making. I didn’t want to hear “no” regarding what I believed was the second-best decision of my life, and I didn’t want to not have answers to his many questions. To build my own confidence and security in my decision, I confirmed that her seller would accept a payment plan and talked to Dan’s boss about storing her with the rest of our herd at his ranch during the winter.
We were a go. So, over burgers, I broke the news to Dan. “We shook on it,” I said sheepishly.
“You shook on it already? Without talking to me?!”
“Well… yeah.”
Beaming, he shook his head. The frustration with me for failing to make this a team decision was there, but he agreed with every point I made about this investment being a good idea, and he understood that he’d done this very thing to me several times already. Ultimately, he was proud of me for finagling the deal and finding solutions to our problems on my own.
I texted my mom back. “I bought Jazzy.”
Seconds later, she responded, saying that she was in tears. Then she joked she was going to quit her job and move to Colorado to help take care of her grandhorse.
You know when, in Ratatouille, Remy eats cheese, strawberries, then both simultaneously? The background fades to black, and two single instruments transmute into a French band? Waves of yellow and blue and red blend to make purple, pink, orange bursts? Tasting fireworks? I feel like that.
Swirling around in the soft, golden light of undeserving joy ever since, brain interpreting optic nerve signals like film camera imprints on a spit of plastic’s chemical emulsion. No clear words or thoughts incoming; only images. Only colors. Colors and lines and a nervous, increased heart rate.
The little girl in me is so happy.
A photo would help me cling to my girlhood even after I jolt awake, back to work and life and regularity. A film photograph would capture not just the moment, but my emotions, too; the utter disbelief on a 90s kid’s gritty little face with her first horse. I’ll settle for the mental image, though. When I wake up, however, I’m going to buy an adventure-proof film camera. While I may not have a photo of the handshake, soon, I’ll have hundreds of a sepia-toned Jazzy, many of which I’ll send to my mom.
Disclaimer: I don’t condone purchasing animals, especially large animals, on a whim. Year-round access to land, feed, water, and shelter is required, and understanding that this is a serious financial undertaking is a must. I knew I could provide all of these things and more for Jazzy, which made the turnaround time on my decision rather quick.