‘The thrumbing of my heart lands in synchrony with the rhythmic thud of her feet - which despite occasional faulter, remain surer than my spirit.’
Taken aback by how her intuition seems to override my apprehension, as her dainty yet steadfast step navigates the lithic projections that scatter our steep decline like shrapnel. The sounds of crickets begin to harmonize with her hoofbeats, and my mind wanders. Out in unrefined land, the inclinations of others can magnify. The doubts of naysayers, shoots of unsolicited concern can enkindle between minds like rays of the sun beneath a magnifying glass.
By Danni Pollock
Squeezed into the back of a 2004 Honda CRV, I stared out through a film of dust covering – passing ever-shrinking mountain villages segregated by clusters of increasingly imposing bluffs, a serene scene currently at odds for my attention with the early 2000’s eurodance blasting at full volume through the cars speakers. My fellow backseat sardines are Soph and Lorelle, a pair whose bond is one that you almost feel like you can reach out and touch – a platonic chemistry that adds a charge to the air surrounding them. How I came into the picture, is truthfully a blur.
After a meteoric flurry of conversations over Instagram, the pair had welcomed me with open arms, kit lists and a warmth that mirrored that of a sisters’. Sophie is clutching an off-white fedora-like cattleman, giddily and wide-eyed exclaims – “Oh Lorelle! I remembered yours!’. Reaching behind her, she pulls out an identical black version. The hats took her 4 days to make, each carrying a leather talisman created from her partner’s cows. There is intention, and an unpretentious desire to learn in everything Sophie does.
Lorelle is a calming presence, her mellow voice refracting Sophie’s excitement as she listens intently to what her friend relays. In the wake of a certain virus that found the world ground to a halt, they both reached a mutual disillusion for their fast-paced city lives. In what became a compound of liberation and, on Lorelle’s behalf, slight fear, Soph concocted the ultimate invigoration to welcome their 30 th years – a horseback trail across the Peruvian divide, yet with the safety net of a support vehicle. This trip saw Lorelle replace her fear with a deep empathy for the intelligence of these creatures and their servitude – and allowed the pair to set their sights on something more. To learn to travel by the means of a true nomad, by the pace of nature, and well, totally unassisted.
That night saw us camp beneath the clouds, narrowly avoiding a drenching while setting up our electrical fence. At first light, the rancher arrived to take young Terminator home, giving us in his place a huge yet delicate-faced lady, Felicity. Just before leaving he nonchalantly stated, “Her kicks have broken knees before, so just keep her away from everyone”. On that note, we set off once more.
The following days were surprisingly and pleasantly uneventful. Slowly traversing the undulating ridges and swampy valleys the hoofbeats of our companions against the rocks and sands became our metronome, with distant howls of wolves and resonant calls of Murrah Buffalo filling the air. Occasionally interrupted by the threatening echoes of encroaching electrical storms, the horses twitched at these moments, spoken in huffs and shifty snorts – often on unstable steep elevations in which a bolting mare would mean certain death.
It wasn’t until our final day that our fears came to fruition. Thunder clapped behind as the smell of petrichor became potent, a threat we’d possibly become immune to. As usual, I was a way behind, pack horse in tow, and camera tucked precariously into my waterproofs. Suddenly Lorelle, ways in front, stopped dead in her tracks seconds before a rip-roaring sound tore through the forest; our horses ears flattening against their heads, their muscles tensing as if turned to stone. Blissfully unaware of what she was experiencing, I threw my free arm around the neck of my horse, hearing Sophie uttering soft endearments to hers as the sound dissolved.
“That can’t have been more than 10ft away” I heard Lorelle exclaim, “I saw white, the hairs are still up on my arms”.
Dumbfounded by her narrow escape, but also the completely unexpected steadfastness of our horses, we knew we were now on borrowed time to return to the ranch. For a short while, we were able to gather our composure as we navigated the descent. That was until we reached a series of wooden planks that lay across a seemingly bottomless ravine. I felt Moonshine tense her belly as the horses exchanged sharp huffs, the atmosphere thick with apprehension. Despite our communal efforts to physically quell their anxieties, we were about to have a problem.
Lorelle coaxed Troya across the bridge in a mere two attempts. Next went Sophie and the regal Felicity, who after taking just a few steps fiercely shook her head and skipped backward. As Sophie sat breathing, calmly stroking Felicity’s neck and whispering in her ear, I began to feel the weight of the blackening cloud that had been chasing us since the thunderclap, the pines that surrounded us creaking as winds whipped up through the ravine. Sophie gently manoeuvred Felicity forwards, trying yet again to no avail. She hopped off, stroked Felicity’s face, and stood at the edge of the bridge.
Slowly, as if in slow motion Felicity began to rear, her muscles rippling as she leaped over the length of the planks, Sophie following against her will and narrowly missing Felicity’s colossal hoofs and they smacked down on the soil over the other side, the expression she wore a mix between sheer horror and elation.
The rest of our journey back was rain-soaked. Between getting cut off route by local farmers temporary fencing, and having to outrun livestock guardian hounds, we eventually made it back before the thunder caught up with us once more. Having never taken an expedition with just fellow women, I couldn’t help but reflect on how these moments of tension and threat never felt problematic – a testament to the grounded fearlessness yet unpretentiousness of these women.
The two are lodestars of strength in softness, and time with them on this trail turned a page on my perspective of what it means to be a woman in the outdoors. Whether it be the forced consideration of the faithful animals carrying us, or the nature of an entirely feminine team, I felt an undercelebrated form of fervour; a reverence for each other over the end goal that sees patience and compassion override ego.
As the ground began to level we turned a gradual corner in which the path, lined with layers of looming green pines framing the striking sight of distant snowcapped peaks. Making our way down through the pines, we reach a river crossing. While stopping briefly to secure my cameras, I hear an almighty thud.
My horse shakes beneath me as I turn to see the matriarch of the group, currently carrying Lorelle, send her rear hoofs flying straight at another’s head. I felt a hot electricity soar across my skin, whipping my head around to see gear litter the ground. Sophie hushed and spoke to Michel, the now damaged ego of the group in gentle, dulcet tones. “You little bastard” she breathed, “Lorelle are you okay? I think Michel bit Moonshine on the arse and she retaliated”. Lorelle’s fevered expression began to soften as she finally started to giggle, and immediately the tension dissipated. “At least I now know just hold on tight and you’ll be alright!” she said, the corners of her mouth starting to crease.
Scooping up the lost gear, we continued.
We trundled across the mountain roads, our destination a ranch in the valley of the Rila Mountains, Bulgaria; a National Park home to little else but dense pine forest, geothermal plumes and electrical storms. Our journey starts here, a 150km loop, traversing valleys between the ridgelines with nothing but what we can fit on our gracious steads. After a day of bonding with our horses kindly loaned by the local ranch, our packing Tetris started at 6 am.
Our travelling herd included 4 white mares (including mother and daughter Troya and Fanta) and the ironically sweet-natured gelding Terminator; whom after fruitless attempts to persuade the ranch owner to sit him out of this mission (there were clear signs of a sore developing beneath the white hairs on his back), would be joining us nonetheless. The horses stood with the patience of monks as we tugged, pushed, and relentlessly rearranged the packs and saddles. This was a game of pure experimentation. For Soph and Lorelle, they’d never contended with the tactics needed to condense such a huge amount of previsions, including 5 days; worth of grain between the horses; backs. I on the other hand was learning the logistics of my camera gear, how to ensure the right stuff was accessible at the right time – but equally secure in the event of bolting, or a surprise buckeroo.
3 hours later, we set off. The route the pair had planned would take us through the lower valleys, before gradually ascending into the maze of Palearctic forests.
The Balkans have seemingly clung to now all-too-rare mysticism, with a family of natural forces that forge an almost unclassifiable identity, including brazen dry heat with piercing wet winds, electrical storms, and seismic action. We set off in piercing heat, the wide brims of our hats offering welcomed shelter. Across grasslands we march, in the cradle of mountain ridges that frame the horizon. Weaving between pasturelands we pass herculean bulls who snort at our presence, and reciprocate the salutes of curious farmers; ‘Хей,каубойки!’ (Khei,kauboyki!), one sings as he speeds through the field in his 90’s Peugeot.
The blanket of pine is a welcomed sight, bringing a wash of cool air and sheltered clearings to allow well-earned grazing time. Upon detacking our Terminator, Lorelle’s hand flies to her mouth. “Look” she solemnly states, eyes fixed on Sophie’s. “He’s got a sore already”. A feeling many are all too familiar with washed over us as the words of the rancher rang in our minds, words moot in the exasperation.
After carefully packing his wound, we reallocated his load across our backs and made the phone call – the rancher would collect him that evening. Storm clouds threatened our dry gear, so we saddled up and moved on. After hours of passing endless pines, the sky darkened as we veered left onto a jagged trail and began our first climb. Paranoid at the prospect of their exhaustion, we intermittently hiked alongside our companions. It quickly became apparent we were all carrying a sentimental weight equal to, if not heavier than that strapped to our backs.
