My sister and I were sent away every summer to a two week Girl Scout camp in northern Michigan. We weren’t Girl Scouts; we didn’t know the salute, the pledge, or the words to “Make New Friends”. We did know we had an obligation to fulfill every summer whether we liked it or not. My brother was sent away once for the whole summer to one of those survival camps. He left a healthy twelve year old in Husky Levi’s and returned a pine tree eating, mosquito ravaged carcass in Slims. My mother didn’t know it was a “live and let die” camp until we picked him up in late August and he was twenty-five pounds lighter, five shades darker and an attitude bigger than Mr. T himself.

So when my daughters announced they wanted to go to horse camp this summer, it was with mixed feelings I said yes. Turns out it was not a sleepover type, but rather a five day fun filled educational/janitorial jaunt at a ranch here in town. They loved it. Parents were invited to attend the presentations on the last day. I was looking forward to being a proud member of the audience and watching the entertainment from the safety of the picnic table.

As things were wrapping up, the grownups were encouraged to partake in the “Parent Ride”. Parent ride? This was a surprise. The term sounded like when the head lifeguard would announce “Parent Swim” at the country club and all us kids had to empty the pool to let the adults enjoy a 15 minute kid-free leisurely dip by themselves. Somehow parent ride did not have the same relaxing connotation. Never one to pass up an opportunity to ride an animal, I am reminded of the time I rode a baby elephant at a petting zoo in Virginia with my one year old on my lap. I insisted I was doing it for her, but surprisingly no one bought it.

Although I used to do some riding in my youth, I hadn’t been on a horse until last March when our family enjoyed a weekend getaway to the Hyatt Regency Tamaya Resort & Spa in Bernalillo. Our daughters thought it would be fun if we all went on a trail ride together, but that is a whole other story in itself.

Knowing I wanted a Western saddle for the mere fact that I would have that knob to hold on to, I am handed a helmet and taken to my horse. Mind you my horse expertise consists of baby talking, head hugging and carrot feeding, but I kept telling myself I had to do this for my kids. They told me I would be riding Stormy. The name didn’t scare me. No, I was fine up until they announced we would all be riding bare back. Bare back! No knob on this ride, sister.

We courageous and devoted parents queued up for our turns at the mounting block. The mother right in front of me, bless her heart, fell to the ground while trying to get ON her horse. This left me with the sick feeling of what to expect when my klutzy turn came around.

Once up on Stormy, my daughters spot me as we walk “on the rail” around the arena. It was a challenge to keep myself balanced with nothing to hold on to but a scraggily blowing mane. We are commanded to “reverse our horses” and in unison do an about-face and proceed in the opposite direction. I love the pageantry. It was as close to being in a circus as this rider was ever going to get. Then the Camp Mistress announced to all of us dutiful parents “Ladies and Gentlemen, trot your horses”. Trot? Bareback? Not on your life and especially not without a sports bra, thank you. I didn’t trot, but I did keep my dignity. Summer camp; you gotta love it.