Category: 2021

Good morning readers. I will be back on Monday morning. Plan an adventure this weekend.

Joy

A good writer should be able to write a wonderful story about the phone book, if needed. Lately, my life is a little less interesting than the antiquated phone book, while plenty of great stories from my past adventures swirl around in my head. As I am the master of this blog, I’ll to share two of them with you. I assure you, they’re both harrowing and nail biting tales. They both happened to me as a very young bride in 1977 during a time called the Cold War. Very angry and dark times between the USSR and the USA. VST was the husband to another and the father of year old twins. As he tugged bolts in the hot San Joaquin Valley sun, I moved to Moldavia, USSR, for six months to begin my own life as a new bride.

Having lived in a communist country in which government controls every aspect of life, I truly understand what FREEDOM means. The gravity of losing freedom doesn’t become real until you are on a sidewalk with a bayonet in your face because you attempted to jay-walk across an empty street. Empty because no one could own a car. Patrolled and enforced, because you better bein lock-step with everyone in the town. Or. Else.

The summer of 1977. At 21, I looked 15. Hopeful for the future, I had married in March and promptly found myself following my husband to work in the tomato fields of Moldavia for an American company, to remain un-named. This company, along with others, had an agricultural business arrangement with the Russian government. Please remember, this was during the Cold War, when we were all taught to believe that enterprise was not occurring between the two countries. Not exactly the case. because there we were in the middle of the USSR, working for a US company.

In the town of Tiraspol, I was the only American woman to have ever visited, let alone, lived there. My cut off jeans, too short to really cover anything, and bra-less tank tops were the talk of the town. My every move was documented. My every phone conversation taped. Every letter I sent or received was opened before I did, with some of the messages carefully removed by razor blade, if it didn’t meet Soviet standards. My clothing, sent to be laundered, was often stolen, until I decided it was better to wash everything by hand. I lived in a communist fish bowl. Just one little golden fish, swimming ’round and ’round that bowl, day after day, wondering what in the heck I’d signed up for.

Each day was a version of the one before. I was ill-equipped for this experience, not understanding the Moldavian language or the Cyrillic alphabet. Alone for 16 hours a day to figure things out, I made many assumptions, because, there was no one to explain this crazy land in which I found myself. While my new husband had been hired to do a real job at the farm, 45 minutes from town by taxi, I was just a bride. Brought along for amusement. Left in town, all day, every day, for the entire time we were there.

At 21, my options for interesting activities were slim. I could sit down and read a complete novel each day, cover to cover. Which, I often did. I could go to the daily market and buy ingredients for anything I felt like spending all day cooking on my single burner hot plate. I could walk about the town observing, while I was observed more. And I could sleep. Boy could I sleep. Some days, 12 of the 16 daylight hours were spent in dreamland, walking up and down the aisles of my American Safeway. I was starved for protein and calories, along with all the other issues I was dealing with.

After a very long summer of hell, we’d been allowed to leave Moldavia for a one week vacation in Europe. At the end of the week, we’d meet with co-workers in Vienna and drive back to Tiraspol, through a countryside that few Americans would ever see. I was looking forward to the trip, even though it would be with three men, two of which I really didn’t like very much, one of those being my new husband. The juice would be worth the squeeze, and I’d suffer through the manly company just to travel by ground and experience something few Americans ever would.

The morning we were to leave, the four of us met for breakfast in a little Viennese café. The vacation had been one to remember with trinkets and memories of Austria and Italy. By train, taxi, and foot, we had taken in the sights and sounds of Vienna and Venice, with lots of places in between. The four of us now sat quietly, awaiting word from our exalted boss, about the plans for the next part of the journey. I wasn’t really prepared for his proposal.

Arten Max was a short little man who made up for that with bravado and sexual prowess. At least he tried to make up for his deficits. The more he tried, the more disgusting he became. The troublesome part of my relationship with Arten was that he was my new husband’s boss, and therefore controlled every aspect of our lives. Being a brazen womanizer, he often went into great details about the Moldavian women he had conquered during his decade long tenure in the country. Arten disgusted me with his comments on my attire and the need to wear a short dress, stockings, and bra when visiting the far. There were not words low enough for this man, and he earned every badge I’ve given him.

A physical description of Arten, a major player in this story, would help. Arten was a tight little muscular package of sinew. Without a drop of fat on his lean little body, he stood at about 5’6″, therefore, making us eye level. His crystal blue eyes darted this way and that as he would work a room, making sure all eyes were on the American. He had a typical farmers tan, but often took off his shirt to make sure the upper body glowed bronze, as well. Blonde hair and chiseled features led the Russians to believe he was straight off the beaches of Malibu, but then, we all were.

Arten had one major physical flaw that he used to his own benefit. He had suffered a terrible injury when a piece of heavy equipment had fallen on his calf, while he lay under the said equipment beating it with a pipe wrench. After spending days within the horrors of a Soviet hospital, Arten could simply take no more. He walked out, in the midst of a life threatening infection. The resulting leg was no more than a skin covered bone between the ankle and knee. Rather a peg-legged pirate affair. Fitting. He used this for sympathy with his stable. All the girls made over this poor, poor American. They should have remembered that the Diamond Back Rattler comes from the states, as well.

It was under Arten’s demand that we had not registered our position in the country with the American Embassy. Whether or not the embassy knew of our location was not the true point. It was his ability to make us BELIEVE the embassy couldn’t and wouldn’t be able to help us if we needed help. We would simply remain invisible in their eyes. As the weeks rolled by, controlled by communism, I was also smothered by the manipulations of a crazy American that should have been keeping us safe, instead of carrying on affairs with most of the eligible women in the town. At any rate, the next three days would be no different. There would be no American Embassy to which we could escape, providing no umbrella of safety for this little chick-a-dee.

It seemed that during Arten’s miscalculations of travel, in my opinion planned quite to his specifications, there was only room for three men on the return car trip to Tiraspol. A rather large piece of a tractor engine would take up the fourth seat. As I was only along for the ride anyway, with no useful purpose, it would be my seat that would be sacrificed on the journey. I was given an instant choice to make, as time was wasting. In a foreign country, with doubts about every decision I’d made to get me this far, I was faced with a very hard decision. I was given three scenarios for my destiny and told to pick one.

1. I would travel back to California alone. There was no apartment waiting for me, the new bride. Everything we owned was in storage. So, I would be setting up a solitary existence for an unknown length of time.
2. I would travel as far as Virginia and stay with my new husband’s extended family. All strangers in a strange land, to me. I would wait there, alone, for an unknown length of time.
3. I could take an adventure on The Orient Express, next stop Tiraspol, Moldavia. Winding my way through three days of lush countryside, I’d travel in my very own sleeping car. Yes. Sleeping car. Just like Joni’s song, “With the clouds and the star’s to read, dreaming of the pleasure I’m going to have watching your hairline recede, my vain darling.” What an amazing stroke of luck!!!!

Well, for a 21 year old girl, fresh out of college with her BA along with her MRS. degree, the choice was instant. Adventure #3. What an easy call. I would meet up with the men in three days. Three Glorious Days to find answers to questions that were burning holes in my brain. 72 hours to examine decisions that got me to the crossroads in which I found myself. My wild side spoke up and it was decided. The train left at 10 AM. It was 9:30 AM and the station wasn’t far. I needed to pack up, buy my ticket, and move out. I could hear that whistle blowing and almost feel the clickity clack under my feet.

With a flurry of activity, we arrived at the train station with 15 minutes to spare. I’d take my luggage with me, as there was no room in the car. With dollars in my pocket, I’d have enough money for daily meals. I had something to read and plenty to observe. I was ready to roll. Until a very important fact came into play.

While purchasing the ticket, we were informed that THIS version of the Orient Express had no dining car. No mahogany smoking cars with nefarious occupants sheltering devious eyes. No mysterious women with eyelids that shrouded intentions for evil. No men in tilted fedora’s, smoking expensive cigars while tapping their shiny wing-tips. No fine crystal holding finer liquors while being fingered by the finest of thieves. Save all that for a bed-time story.

The real passengers loaded the train. Plenty of zoot-suited men, out-date-ed with nothing but time to do very bad things. Fat women with heavy baskets of sustenance to maintain their womanly curvature. Fat women always cover their dietary needs. They knew already that no food of any kind could be purchased once aboard. Obviously, the most important fact was that this trip would be 72 very hungry hours unless I hustled up something quick.

The small, adorable kiosk, providing food for travelers, sat to one side in the station. Quick as a cricket, I was in front of empty bins. Yes, there had been sandwiches, bags of chips, fruit, and bread. There always was before the departure of the Orient Express. This, the three day trip, was one in which the vendor always sold out. With seven minutes to departure, there was no time to come up with Plan B. Arten hung back, snickering under his pompous mustache. He had been well aware of the train amenities and this wasn’t lost on me, as daggers flew out of my eyes, aimed right at his smug face. I purchased the remaining food from the vendor. Two bruised apples and two dried out rolls. A feast for three days.

With that, I kissed the only person I knew in Vienna “GoodBye”, boarding the Express Train to the hell that would consume me. eroding any confidence I had for the next three days. An American woman should never travel alone on the Orient Express. An American woman should glue her passport to one breast, and an alarm clock to the opposing butt cheek. Doing neither, a ding-dong American girl was about to have the ride of her life. All aboard!!!!

To be continued.

Kissing everyone I knew Good Bye from the threshold of the train was a bit eerie. Of course, I had no way of knowing what adventure and darkness would unfold as I started on my way. I had a ticket in my hand and hope in my heart. With a few steep stairs, I was aboard The Orient Express to begin a three day Odyssey.

With a very narrow and steep entrance, negotiating both a large Samsonite suitcase and a heavy back back was difficult. A conductor with his spiffy uniform, straight out of an Agatha Christie novel, helped me to my sleeping car after looking at my ticket. To the right and six doors down, I’d be shut away from the riffraff, alone to watch the countryside go by. In the worst case scenario, I would simply sleep the trip away. I was good at sleeping through difficult situations and this might become one.

Ushered into Sleeping Car 24, I examined every aspect of my tiny little home away from home. To the right, there were two bunks, one atop the other. Both had a nice view out the window which only opened about 2″, from the top down. There were ancient curtains, attached at the top and bottom, which when slid closed, would provide total darkness. To the left, there was a small water closet with a toilet/shower combo inside. Next to that, a sink and utility shelf. Completing the room, in the corner, sat a very comfortable but small leather recliner, also looking out the window. The entire compartment was maybe six feet square, plenty big for one. But there would be one little situation that arose before the train ever left the station.

Unexpectedly, there was a knock on the door. Thinking the conductor may have forgotten something, I cautiously opened it, as someone forcefully pushed towards me, shoving me back, almost to the window. In the doorway, a very tall, dark, hairy man stood, a gleam in his eye and smile on his lips.

“‘Eh-Lo”, he sneered in a very deep voice, as his eye gaze traveled slowly from the top of my pretty little head to the tips of my dainty little toes. Giving me the once over, his smirk intensified.

“Hello?” replying timidly, I realized I had no weapon or way to protect myself.

Without any introductions, he simply lifted his large leather suitcase up onto the top bunk and moved in.

“What are you doing? This is MY sleeping compartment!” came out of my mouth, sharp and decisive. He must remove himself now. The queen of this cabana had spoken. THIS was NOT acceptable. What could this mean? How could this be? This was MY sleeping compartment, paid for by an American Company for ME. Not to be shared with some unknown leering and jeering man of dubious means. Not such a large man that the two of us would have no personal space. Certainly not for three days. No. No. No. Wrong. This was not happening.

“NO. THIS is MINE, too.” With that declaration, a guttural and primal laugh emerged from his porcine lips.

With the moves of a ninja, I was out the door to retrieve that little conductor. This terrifying cabin poacher would be history. My receipt for a single room included No roommate or free-loader. This would be fixed in a flash. Now. As the conductor followed me back to the cabin, I’m quite sure I saw him roll his eyes. But, this communal situation wouldn’t be tolerated. Period.

Opening the door, cigar smoke billowed out of the cabin. Damn. A smoker, too. The worst. The conductor was at a loss as to why the two of us were sold the same cabin, but, it was decided the poacher would move to another. Disgruntled, he removed himself with one last horrible glance my way. I was left to deal with the second hand smoke and lingering body odor he left behind. Locking the door with three latches and my suitcase in front, it took a little while for my pulse to return to a normal rate.

With our cabin debacle taking more time than expected, we left the station 20 minutes later than scheduled. It would be three days until I arrived in Bucharest, Romania. Until then, I’d make the most of my time. I would only nibble on the bread or apples when I got very, very hungry. Until then, I would amuse myself however I could.

I decided to walk the length of the train, after we’d been traveling for about an hour. It would be refreshing to stand on the landings between the cars and smell the fresh country air as we rolled along. Perhaps someone would notice my gaunt cheeks and offer some nourishment from their fat baskets of yumminess. Alas, no one was passing out goodies, and soon, Day 1 was coming to an end. Returning to the safety of my sleeping compartment and climbing aboard the top bunk, (which was always going to be mine), I settled into the night rhythm of the train. Checking and rechecking the locks, I finally made sure one last time that I was secure and floated off to sleep.

Until.

I don’t like watches. If it’s dark, I’m probably thinking about sleeping. If it is getting light, it’s probably time to start waking up. Although I did carry a watch, it wasn’t on my wrist when I suddenly awoke. It WAS certainly very, very dark outside. The movement of the train had stopped, but noisy activity continued outside the train.

Looking through the window, I hardly believed my eyes. A crane had train-sized jaws around the sleeping car that had been attached to the same train while following along on this entire trip. It was lifting the car filled with sleeping people off of the original set of wheels and onto a set new wheels on tracks of a different width, running right along side the ones on which I had previous been traveling. We were entering the Hungarian Soviet Republic. The Hungarians obviously didn’t want to be invaded by rail. The European train wheels wouldn’t work on the Hungarian track. Plain and simple.

Terror struck me as I watched the crane hoist this huge rail car high into the night sky and carry it inches before setting it down again. Luckily, I’d been asleep when mine was moved. A few minutes after I’d opened my eyes to the dark unknown of night activities, there was a seriously determined knock on my door. Unwanted and untimely.

I’d prepared for a trip alone, and packed a matronly nightgown. I wasn’t going to get caught in a frilly negligee if something went amiss. So, in my long sleeved, full flannel nightgown with buttons at the neck and wrists (for added security), I shyly asked who was at my door.

“Who is it?”

“Po-Lee-Cee-ah. Open. Now.”

Blood running cold, I froze. Police? At my door? For being a witch to the guy that tried to steal my room? For walking up and down the train? Why? Why me?????? Why Now?????

“Po-Lee-Cee-ah! Open Door Now, or we will open it for you…..”

With that, I knew I must comply. In the little comfort that my flannel shroud provided, I slowly reached for the first lock, and prayed that this was all some very terrible misunderstanding…….

To Be Continued……

In the very narrow hallway, where two could barely pass without turning shoulders a bit, there stood a no-nonsense policeman. He had a sidearm, along with a look that told me this was no joke. Hungarians didn’t mess around.

“Pass-a-Port-ah, Pleeeezzzze.”

Hmm. A new dilemma. Traveling 101. Your passport is your only lifeline to America. Lose it, you are in very deep trouble. Thanks to Arten, the American Embassy had not idea where this little cupcake was traveling, making this rule all the more essential and valuable. I had the passport inside the sleeve of my nightgown for safe keeping, right above the two security buttons at my wrist. This National ID would not leave my side without a real fight.

I looked blankly into his eyes.

“I don’t understand.”

Agitation flooded this man’s face. He was not the warm and fuzzy kind of guy to be schmoozed by a maiden’s tear falling from the bluest of eyes.

In a louder voice, he boomed, “PASS-A-PORT-AH, PLLLLEEEEEEEZZZZZZEEEEEE.”

This wasn’t going well. I slowly unbuttoned the sleeve, revealing my ever-so-clever hiding spot, and produced the passport. Clenching the back half in a vice-grip, I showed him the page with my information. This clearly irritated him more.

“Give.”

“No.”

“GIVE NOW. OR ELSE.”

I’m not sure what overtook the thinking part of my brain, but the passport was magically sucked back into my sleeve. It was not leaving my possession. Period. Not for this crazy cop, or anyone else.

Traveling 101.

#1. Keep passport secure at all cost and at all times.

Done and done. My tear filled eyes would not leak, and I gave him a long steely glare-stare, crossing my arms to punctuate my answer. No.

Mr. Military type must have had a very long night, because he left. Just like that. I quickly locked the three locks and placed my suitcase in front of the door. I had just gotten back on the top bunk when the knocking began again, causing me to unlock my fortress a second time.

There were now TWO very large military types, one holding a bayonet-ed AK-47. Now THERE is a scary gun. Even scarier when pointed at your heart by a military soldier of a communist country. His eyes were void of anything except his focus, which was on making me comply.

“‘Eh-LO. You WILL give the pass-a-port-ah right now.”

Again, I produced the passport, holding it in a way they could see all necessary information, while gripping the back in a death hold.

It mattered not. Because, when two military types want to disarm you, disarm you they will. In a flash my passport was ripped away, and instantaneously my vocal chords were activated. Sounds I never knew I could produce came out of my mouth, as I started screaming, shrill and ear piercing. Frozen at my front door, each cabin swung open, and the occupants all leaned out at once to see the action, reminding me of a bad Lucille Ball movie. It mattered not, as I continued screaming while watching the two armed, regulatory thieves leave the train with my passport. My only documented connection to the USA was now off the train and gone into the night. I continued to scream at the top of my lungs, my vision flooded by tears, and a pounding heart choking my throat. The nightmare continued.

After what seemed like the eternal trip through hell, the two finally came back. By this time, they found me spent and demoralized while hiccupping and hoarse.

“American? American Woman? Why you travel alone?”

Oh, hell, who knows? Spy? Drug dealer? Art heist? Were these guys for real?

“I’m traveling to see my husband in Tiraspol, Moldavia.”

With limited English, these men hardly understood. Mr. Bayonet kept staring, and the talker just looked carefully into my eyes, looking for stray secrets hidden there.

“Madam, the next time officer tells you to give up passport, do so. Immediately.”

Thrusting the precious blue and gold booklet back at my chest, the two made sharp, communist, click-heeled stage lefts, and marched right off the train into the night.

Clutching my passport, yet again, I wished I was enjoying the freedoms of my country. Before living under communist rule, I had no real appreciation for the precious freedoms Americans enjoy every day. Something as simple as having a conversation at a border without fearing the shiny-sharp tip of a bayonet inches from insertion. Do you shoot and stab or stab and shoot? Both actions together? Horribly barbaric and frightening. Definitely not American.

That night held no more sleep for me. With three emotional upsets in under 24 hours, and no food, my stomach was experiencing a combination of hunger pains, dehydration, and adrenaline overload. I still had a full day to travel before I would change trains in Bucharest, Romania. Romania must be better, because Hungary had set the bar pretty low.

One roll and 1/2 an apple helped with the excess stomach acid and soon, I felt a little better. Under a morning sky, we rolled through beautiful fields and quaint little houses plucked right off the pages of history books. There were houses that had rope-and-bucket-ed water wells inside their weathered little picket fences. Ragged horses pulled wooden wagons full of green grass, cut and ready to store for the brutal winter, just around the corner. Everyone walked, because, no one had cars. Nowhere to go if you had one. Hungarian visions I would not soon forget. Straight out of a World War II picture book, frozen in time.

Mile by mile, the scenery had changed by mid afternoon. Rustic farms were being replaced by a more dense city-scape. Finally, we were pulling into the Bucharest train station, and civilization. From a first look, this could be even better than Vienna. My spirits soared. I had a plan.

Needing to lay over until midnight in Bucharest, I’d simply store my suitcase, exchange my $100 of US dollars into Rumanian money, and hit the town. I’d eat first, and then shop. By the time midnight rolled around, I’d be ready for the last leg of my trip. Easy peazy.

Leaving the security of my little room, I again checked my passport safe its secret location. Leave it at that. I had it secured. Struggling to get off the train, the other travelers evaporated and I stood alone in the station. Just my suitcase, backpack, and me. Except for one lone pervert lurking in the dark bowels of the shadowy station.

I didn’t notice him at first as I lugged my suitcase and backpack toward the ticket cage. But within moments, I heard someone following me while whispering in a hissing voice. I was being tailed.

“Hey. Baby.”

No. No. No. This couldn’t be happening. Early afternoon was not a time to deal with a pervert. Where were the communist cops when you needed them the most??? Like when an assault could occur? On a PERVERT? By a very tired American woman?????

Looking over my shoulder, I gave him the look I’d wanted to give the two morons at the Hungarian border. Only more stern.

“Hey. Baby. Whatcha doing?”

Walking faster, the ticket counter seemed further and further away. I couldn’t run, as this was way before the days of rolling suitcases. My 40 pound Samsonite needed carrying, leaving me slightly tilted to one side and a bit out of breath. Along with a 10 pound back pack, I couldn’t make a run for it. Walking fast, he walked faster. I could begin to smell the stench of urine and body odor that was his and his alone. I wondered if he could smell the human fear coming from me.

Finally reaching the ticket agent, I saw him slink behind a kiosk, his ragged and holey shoes giving away his position.

Relieved that the ticket agent spoke English, I proceeded with my request.

“Hi, I need to purchase a ticket from Bucharest to Tiraspol, Moldavia. Can you help me?”

“No.”

What? Could this situation get any worse? A one word answer????? No?????

“You must travel to the main office in the center of Bucharest by taxi. There you can buy an International ticket. We only sell National tickets here.”

This was not in the plans. The Main Office???? In Bucharest???? By Taxi???? Where everyone spoke Russian???? With a stalker on my heels????? How could this be?

“I would advise that you have the correct Romanian change. They do not deal in foreign currency at the Main Office. Thank you. I am closing now.”

With that, the window to an English speaking person closed in my face. Immediately, the stalker reappeared with some added vulgarities thrown in now. His intensions were very clear, as he spoke loudly, coming my way.

Across the way, I saw lockers in which I would stow my suitcase. There was a small bank in which to change my American Dollars into Romanian leu. In 1977, the exchange rate was $1 = 8109 Romanian Leu. Just like that, my dollars, invaluable for bribes, were changed to worthless Leu. Unknowingly, I’d exchanged immense bargaining power for scraps of worthless paper. I was “Jack and the Magic Beans” in girl form.

With over 8,000 Leu in my pocket, while keeping the stalker a few steps behind, I excited the train station and came into the light of early afternoon. Bucharest was beautiful and exciting. Right in front of my face, there was a taxi pick-up with a waiting taxi. Two men were in the taxi. The driver and one in the back seat. The front seat was waiting for me and I hoped in. The driver spoke limited English.

“Main Train Office, please?”

“Train? Train Here. You at Train.”

It would be a very long afternoon.

“No. Big. Main Train Office. Not Here.”

“Ahhhhhhh. Da!!! Da!! Poydem!!” In other words, “Let’s Go”.

Immediately, I realized the error of my ways as Mr. Back-Seat’s arm came over my right shoulder. The man in the back was a groper. As the driver turned around, chatting with Mr. BS, I was in terror. The car was moving at a high rate of speed while the driver’s eyes were on MY chest. Talking loudly and laughing, arms were flying everywhere. Horns were blasting as we careened down narrow streets.

As I struggled to keep wandering hands away from my breast area, I also had to brace for impact as the driver was totally insane. Swerving in and out of traffic, oncoming or otherwise, the chaos of the moment was overwhelming. Round-abouts and red lights meant nothing as we sped through a maze. With near misses of bicyclists and pedestrians, my shrieks and screams were real, as the two men laughed in uproarious fashion. It was another day on the job for them. My hell continued.

Finally, arriving at the Main Train Station in Bucharest, I was spent and angry. I paid the driver and quickly excited the car as the two laughed themselves to tears. Alone on an unknown street in the middle of a foreign town, I made my way into the office building and took my place at the end of in a very long line. I’d made it this far. I’d complete this mission and live to tell the tale. Mid-afternoon was upon us as I crept closer to the front of the line. Finally, at 1:59 PM, it was my turn. Imagine my good fortune. My turn!!! All good, until every single ticket counter slammed shut at exactly 2:00 PM.

To be continued……..

The Main Train Office in Bucharest was a visual delight. Assuming it was build after the war, the architecture and adornments were dazzling. Not a strip mall affair. This building was grand. As I waiting in a velvet-roped que, voices seemed to float to the cavernous ceilings. This was a grand place in which to do business. Each Window in the Main Office of the Bucharest Train Station was protected by an ornate, bronze window gate. The associates stood and worked behind them, although the entire area in which they worked was visible through vertical bars spaced between the gates. These were popular in very old bank buildings in the US. All of this protection seemed overkill for ticketing agents. A huge impression was made when ten of these windows closed at once, each with a metallic clink, manually, perfectly in-sync, and final. Especially when you are the next person in line.

Watching intently, I first thought it was closing time. But, at each window, a second person had appeared. The first associate was picking up every item at their window. Pencils, pens, stapler, staple remover, ink blot stamps, ink, ticket books, and anything else that was set out to be used. When they had collected their belongings, the second shift stepped forward and put out the same exact items. Never had I seen such an insane shift change. It was done in Soviet style. Everyone in lock-step with the next.

Finally, exactly together, all ten widows flew back open and I went to Window #13, although there were in fact, only 10 windows. In a broken regime, many times there are no answers.

Luckily, my ticket agent did speak a little English and knew, very well, Moldavia and the town of Tiraspol. I would arrive at 11:00 AM the following day. Again, the train would carry no food or drink. It would leave at Midnight, so, arrive at the station 15 minutes before departure. I would not be able to board before that time.

As she was telling me this, my mind went back to the dark recesses of the real station, deserted, except for one very determined stalker, waiting for my return. My stomach growled, bringing me back to the present. Paying my Leu, I still had plenty for a wonderful lunch at a little café next to the train station. I was going to start the meal with chocolate ice cream and go backwards from there. 5,500 leu in my pocket would insure that I’d eat like a queen. I knew the ticket would be expensive, and there HAD been the crazy taxi ride, but, I’d never spent 2500 of anything so quickly in my life.

With ticket in hand, I went outside to find the taxi que. But wait. More great news. There was NO taxi que. No sign of taxis. This quiet street was not anywhere downtown. There was no bustle or hustle. No bus lines. Nothing. Just a quiet empty street. I. Was. Lost.

It was then I started crying. Not a little cry. Not a loud cry. A desperate cry from a broken woman who bit off more than she could chew. Lost in a country in which she didn’t speak the language. Lost in a relationship that really wasn’t right or true. Dumped in a strange land by two men that should have been a little more interested in her wellbeing and safety. There, by the side of that street, exhausted and broken, I crumpled to the ground and wept. For how long, I really couldn’t tell you.

After a time, with tears not subsiding, a car rounded the corner. A large black car. Shiny. Long. Impressive. A Mercedes emblem proudly adorned the hood. Tinted windows hid the occupants. The only visible person was a driver in a tuxedo staring straight ahead. It was then the back door opened.

Out stepped a gentleman of means. That was obvious. From where he came, I know not.

“It seems you have troubles, my dear. Can I be of help?” Perfectly accented English peeked by total attention. Handsome and fit, his 6′ frame was perfectly proportioned. He stood as a man of wealth and status, would. Proudly.

I must have looked like a mere child sitting on the street crying.

Through my tears, I told him my story. He listened intently and asked if I would like a ride. He was going right near the station and would be happy to be of help. After assessing his custom made suit made from the richest cloth, the leather wingtips shining without a speck of dust, and his manicured hand reaching out to me, I made a decision that could have been lethal. Somehow, this angel man had been sent to save my sorry self. I took his hand and he helped me into his car.

Just like that, an suit-n-tie angel drove me back to safety. No groping. No unwanted attention. Just a safe ride back to the station during which he wished me well. On the drive back to the station, he offered me a drink of ice water with lemon from a crystal decanter along side two tumblers resting upon a sterling tray. Offering me his handkerchief to dry my eyes and knowing how scared I was, he remained gentlemanly the entire way to the train station. On the return trip, I realized how long and hard I fought off Mr. BackSeater. I shuddered and hoped we really WERE going back to the train station. Then, just like that, the car stopped at the entrance. With the sincerest of Thank-You’s, he opened the door and I was free. I forgot to even ask his name.

As the black chariot rode off, I found the bistro I’d passed earlier. There it was, with a faded photo of a bowl of chocolate ice cream right in the window. Serving lunch, I planned to be there for awhile, finally getting to enjoy a meal that I so desperately needed. Looking like the little cafes I had enjoyed in Venice, I settled into a chair and looked at the menu right in front of me.

The waitress appeared and plucked the menu from my hands.

“No. Closed.”

Was she kidding? Closed? At 3 PM? When I was starving????? Closed??????

I then looked at the door. Indeed. Closed at 3PM. Not open until tomorrow. With that, the waterworks opened up again. Just sitting a little longer, I put my head on the table and cried. It was then I heard them and looked up.

A group of very large, athletic, and handsome men were standing near the train station. Speaking in Russian, they were pointing at me while giving me looks I would have rather not received. Laughter would erupt periodically from their little gang of five. Four of them were behaving as young men often do. One whistled. One made a whooping call. When I turned the other way, they all laughed. All except one.

Being raised in on a family farm in the middle of no where in a family of five daughters, my knowledge of men was limited. I wasn’t a city girl, street wise and able to tell trouble from boyish silliness. With the added stress of the my ongoing troubles, being the center of attention wasn’t something I wanted. I was definitely the center of the approaching stranger’s attention.

“Hello? It seems you are distressed. May I be of help? I am known as John Lewis.” Although he had a buttery smooth accent, his English was perfect. His kind eyes calmed my fears just a little. Eyes are the windows to the soul, my grandmother always reminded me.

Being mindful of the others as they jeered him on to victory of what ever sort their were planning, I turned to him.

“I’m terrified. I’m hungry. I’m angry. I’m lost. I don’t speak Russian. Can you help with any of that? If so, have a seat. I also have a black belt in karate and will drop any of your friends that continue bothering me. Got it?” His smile was warm and he singled the others to leave. They waved like gentle school boys as they walked away.

John Lewis was perhaps one of the nicest men I will ever meet in my life. From Liberia, and in a foreign exchange program, he spoke perfect English. As I explained everything that had happened up to this point, his kind eyes spoke volumes. He assured me that chocolate ice cream waited right around the corner, along with a healthy meal for a weary traveler. Concerned about the stalker, he assured me that he would not leave until I was safely on the train. And with that, he became yet another guardian angel.

Suffering from extreme racism in Romania, he talked about his group of friends. He was eager to finish his education and move back to Liberia, becoming more able to help his countrymen. We talked and ate and talked and listened until the daylight turned to darkness and it was 11:30 PM. My luggage was waiting, safely in the locker. I had my ticket to Tiraspol, as well as Romanian money in my pocket.

Saying GoodBye to John Lewis was heartfelt. Here in a city that was confusing and complex was one of the nicest men I had ever met in my life. Waiting, while protecting me until I was on the train, I was safe with a gentle bodyguard that spoke fluent Romania and English.

With one swift sentence, the stalker, who had been waiting behind the kyosk, went running into the night, never to be seen again. A full meal, including ice cream filled my stomach and I was ready to enjoy a nice night’s sleep in my sleeping car.

Dreams came and went. In the morning, while crossing Romania and heading for Moldavia, I realized it was time to go mingle with the locals. I was sure there was a good story to be told just outside my cabin door.

To Be Continued……

Traveling through communist countryside by train isn’t a trip one should try alone. Actually, traveling anywhere alone can be compromising to one’s health. Two together can tackle most problems, but alone, you are out there in survival mode. This is how I found the situation I was in as I entered the third day aboard the Train to Hell.

Having gotten over the Joni Mitchell romanticism of the sleeping car, I needed a different view. Carefully, I made it towards gen-pop (general population) in coach. The fat ladies were mowing through their baskets of goodies. Yum. 6″ long, dried fish were held like popsicles as they were consumed, HEAD FIRST. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Others were gnawing on stale rolls like the ones I had bought before leaving. Body odor was overwhelming. Large ladies protruded from their aisle seats like rising loaves of bread. Kids laughed. Elders slept.

With only one available seat open near three seedy looking men in zoot-suits, I claimed it. Their eyes all turned to me, as I joined them.

“Eh-Lo, Miss-ee!” said Mr. Brave One. When they smiled, it was obvious. Three Russians. Their dental work gave it away, with gold grills, all three. Between the body odor and smell of alcohol and cigarettes, I wished there had been a seat anywhere else.

“Where you going to?” inquired Mr. B.O.

“Tiraspol, Moldavia.”

Confusing looks shot back at me from the trio.

“Where you from?”

“America.”

A raucous conversation followed, intensified as one produced a hidden flask of hooch, quickly passed from mouth to mouth. Shoving the booze my way, I declined. I understood nothing, except that these guys presented a clear and present danger with which I wanted nothing to do. I kept scanning the train for an open seat, but there were none.

Their interest in me quieted down as they became more drunk and bored. Soon, quietly talking between themselves, I relaxed a little, becoming fixated on the countryside. We were traveling through a barren landscape, browned by the shortening days of late October, and the night time temperatures well below freezing. The stark, empty visuals were interrupted only by a parallel train track 300 yards away.

In the distance, a chilling sight was coming into view. Something devastatingly large and black. I couldn’t quite identify it, until I could. On the other track lay train cars derailed, twisted, and burned almost beyond recognition. Obviously a passenger train, because each car had characteristic large-gauge chains and padlocks on the outer doors, locking the passengers in and intruders out. The train I was riding in had the same, eliminating the ability to walk between cars. I flashed back to my own sleeping car, with a window that opened only two inches. Claustrophia made my skin crawl. The wreckage held people once upon a time. Fat women with their baskets and men in their worn out zoot suits. Elders. Children. Russians. Multiple cars, maybe upwards of 10 lay in a maze of charred metal and broken glass. It had been one hell of a fire.

Wide-eyed, I gasped.

“What? Something wrong with you?” Mr. B.O. asked with a smirk.

I pointed to the train. Multiple cars were still visible, with no life anywhere to be seen. Not a current disaster, it appeared the accident had cooled from the terrific fire that must have ensued after the crash.

“People dead?” quietly, I asked.

“People? Dead???? No. No. Cattle cars,” laughing, he spoke quickly to the others and they all laughed loudly.

Liar.

First, cattle production isn’t a major industry in Russia. No production feedlots full of fat and sassy steers. No steaks. No long meat counters at the grocery store. Not much excess meat of any kind. When old cows die, they are cut up and sold for dinner. The sad truth of my summer experiences in Tiraspol.

I’m a farm girl. The bone marrow tells the tale of bovine health. Healthy cows gave milk. Sick or dead ones provided meat. Period. People stood for hours to buy maggot laden, unrefrigerated beef hanging off rusted meat hooks when such a luxury becomes available. I’ve stood in those lines to buy just such a product, sometimes hours. Protein deprivation and starvation make people do desperate things.

Sickened, a seat opened up far away from this triangle of disgusting men. I moved.

Just like the poppy fields in the Wizard of Oz, I was suddenly overcome by the need to sleep. “Sleep, my pretty. Sleep.” Sleep I did. For how long? I know not. With no one to wake me, I slumbered deeply until the train came to a stop.

Opening my eyes, the nightmare continued, now born from stupidity mine, and mine alone.

Looking around, no passengers remained on the train. Everyone had left. The basket ladies. The three disgusting men. Kids. Elders. Everyone was gone. Vanished. Quickly, I raced to my sleeping compartment and retrieved my belongings. I was the very last person to exit the train as it stood, wheels still steaming from the very long trip.

“KIEV, UKRAINE” the Station Sign read.

No.

No.

No.

I’d arrived in another country. The wrong country. A country kilometers away from any form of safety and comfort I had traveled three days to find. I stood at this station knowing I had done a very, very dangerous and stupid thing. I’d slept through the stop in Tiraspol, Moldavia. I was now totally screwed.

To be continued……………..

491.9 Kilometers of dreams took me straight into the worst nightmare yet. I’d slept 6 extra hours in an upright position. Perhaps I’d been awake here or there, but never when the train stopped in Tiraspol. For that little snippet of time, I was out like a light. No one knew where I was going or whether or not I had documents to go there. All very important information in a communist country.

Russian law in 1977 required that in order to leave a certain area, you must have the proper documentation and travel visa. Written permission to leave a home town’s border was required. Without a blessing from those in charge, you were breaking very serious laws, as I was now.

I had no permission to be in Kiev, arriving by train or any other method. I had no contacts in Kiev. The only word I knew was “TractoroExport”. This agency of the Russian government was our only contact. It was this word that I kept repeating over and over as a small viewing audience grew. It was obvious that this very distressed and young woman needed some immediate help.

On long taxi trips to the farm on which we worked, we would often get stuck on dirt roads behind prison trucks. The trucks themselves were modified box trucks with no side windows. The back door had a window with steel bars and no glass. To each side of the door, there were square steel platforms with railing. Each one of them held an armed guard and a huge Alsatian, bigger than ANY German Shepherds bred in the states. These dogs were magnificent with amber colored eyes that didn’t miss a move. Pair them with two Russian guards with AK-47’s that would stab and shoot you simultaneously, while laughing. Ice water veins, they looked straight past us into nothing.

As I struggled from the back seat to see prisoners inside, they jockied for position to look through the bars back at the taxi behind them. Crowded, the men, with their blank stares and shaved heads looked like prisoners of war. I can only guess what crimes they had committed. Jaywalking outside of a crosswalk? Not handing over a passport when it was demanded? Now, with no paperwork to be in Kiev, I could join them on their box-truck journey. Because, I had broken some big, big laws with my untimely slumber.

Led to a waiting car by a uniformed officer, the crowd parted and I felt very small and extremely important, all at once. Seriously in deep water, I got in the back with no more tears to cry. Not even a hiccup. Petrified and living my worst nightmare. It wasn’t a regular patrol car, but not a black Mercedes either. Somewhere in between.

“I take you. TractorExport. Now.”

I didn’t quite know what my fate would be. I hoped they would find some kindness in their hearts to send me back to Tiraspol or out of this communist hell hole to await my fate in Vienna. Pulling up to the TractoroExport building, I felt comfort that I could read the word, but also terror at what was to come.

Inside a plain but clean office, four very Russian men, all in black suits, white shirts, and grey ties, stood on one side of a desk glaring at me. I sat on the opposite side. In my experience, all government buildings and offices look exactly the same. There are multiple pictures of Lenin everywhere, sometimes even in life size. Pictures of Leonid Brezhnev, the Acting General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist party, were smaller in size, but also hung around the building. The furniture was all the same cheaply varnished, reddish wood. Every bookcase, desk, chair, or stapler was exactly the same in any office I had visited. Communist produced and government issued.

The four TractoroExport associates were not sympathetic to a lost American. The were judgmental and harsh. Peering into my eyes, they shared their disbelief that I’d been so stupid. I agreed with them on that count.

“And you did not get off at your stop, Why? Do you realize you are in very deep trouble? What REAL business do you, an AMERICAN woman, have in our city, KIEV? Does KIEV sound like TIRASPOL? “

The questions went on and on, and soon, I was again weeping. In quiet irritation they discussed the options for my return. Delivered to where, I knew not. They held my passport, my train tickets, and what little Romania Leu I had left.

“You will need to pay for ticket back to Tiraspol.”

This was great! I had the Leu. I handed it all to them. Just take it. Blankly they stared back.

“This is worth nothing. We need $100 American dollars for the six hour taxi ride back to Tiraspol. You will pay now.”

I had turned ALL my available dollars into Leu in Bucharest. It was then I found out the truth. Leu was not worth the paper it was printed on. I had zero money. I had broken serious laws. And now, it was up to these men to decided my fate.

An hour later, after many more questions and accusations, the four men escorted me to a waiting taxi driver. Just one. I was relieved. It was a little before noon, and they gave me a sandwich and soda to take on the trip. Each one shook my hand and dropped the angry Russian attitude just long enough for a Goodbye. The driver was given proper documents to carry his precious cargo to Tiraspol and return to Kiev immediately. With that, we were on our way.

For the first few hours, the driver would occasionally glance at his rear view mirror and me. Self conscious in the beginning, I finally ignored him and took in the countryside. I’d used the restroom before leaving, so, I was in no distress. But, at one point, he pulled over the car on an isolated stretch of road.

I really didn’t want to look outside, in fear of what I might see. It didn’t seem odd when he went to the trunk, opened it, and spent extra time in the back. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but as long as it didn’t involve me, I was okay with that. I was looking forward to seeing the translators and my husband, in that order. I’d have some choice words for Arten. On several occasions, he had almost cost me my life and liberty by suggesting this trip. He would hear about it, along with his superiors. I was ready for what I would need to hear about my ill-timed slumber.

After a good 20 minutes had passed, the driver closed the trunk and returned to the car. We were off. Just before sunset, a very tired girl was delivered back to a run down and ratty hotel, The Druz-bah. Two very excited interpreters came running out to the taxi. They held money for the driver and helped retrieve my belongings from the trunk. With heartfelt and sincere Goodbye’s, he was off in a cloud of dust and I was left in the arms of two true friends that had been worried sick ever since the men returned without me.

A few minutes later, there was my new-ish husband. Things really hadn’t been good for us that very long summer. It was just nice to see another familiar face. The four of us retreated to our hotel room with my suitcase and back pack. Shopping on our vacation had been fun, and I brought special souvenirs for the interpreters.

Opening my bags, the obvious was staring me in the face. One last slap from the worst three days I could’ve ever experienced. I. Had. Been. Robbed.

Thinking back to the taxi ride, I flashed again to the stop on the road. The extended play time in the trunk. The quiet demeanor of the thief. He had been thorough. Cameos from Italy–gone. Amber jewelry –gone. Gold cross and chain –gone. The list was as long as it could have been for two newlyweds on an impromptu honeymoon. Sentimental gifts and trinkets that together didn’t amount to very much to anyone except us.

Immediately, the interpreters were asking if we wanted the driver arrested. Needing only to have said the word, our belongings would have been returned. The driver would find his place in the box truck with the others.

“No. I think he needs those things more than we did. I’m safe. Can we leave it at that?”

So ends the tale of my fateful train trip. So many times through the years I have given thanks that it unfolded the way it did with angels at every turn to help me through. Politics and Covid have changed travel and customs forever. The names of the towns I rolled through are all changed, as well. The Orient Express is no longer the name of a portion of a train excursion. Like so many things in life, the best things held dear are the memories of a different time, place, and a very young American woman, living adventure one day at a time.

What a week it’s been here in the high desert of Northwestern Nevada. Waking up to the sound of rain refreshes my spirit. There are not that many rain filled spring days, so this week, I have enjoyed every single one. This morning, the wireless rain gauge reports we have had over an inch of rain in a week. There has been homemade vegetable soup simmering, Christmas projects at the kitchen table, and old movies on tv. A nice way to enjoy retirement, which I love more and more each day.

On Tuesday, I found the need to get out of the house. Everyone needs to see another human once in awhile, and Tuesday was my day. Receiving an email from a local political group, it seemed an interesting speaker would be visiting my little town to tell his story. I looked him up, online, and watched two of his speeches. I would be there to hear him in person.

Leaving a little early, I’d take $5 and try my luck with the one armed bandit at the casino where the meeting would be held. Well, I might as well have ripped the $5 in two, because my luck remains the same. A gambler I’m not. VST and I would each try our luck before enjoying burgers at a local casino close to Virginia City. Sometimes he’d win enough to pay for our meal, but more often, we’d just spend a few mindless moments feeding the machines before dinner. Luckily, gambling never had a hold on either one of us. You can hope in one hand and …. well …. you know the saying.

Covid-19 left our casinos dark, eerie, and empty places. Shiny machines twinkle in the dim light. Perky music plays loudly. The Bars sit empty. Employees, scrubbed and starched, smile amongst themselves, as no one enters. Since the relaxation of mask requirements, things are starting to return to normal. Thank goodness.

After my little gambling loss, I headed for the meeting room at the back of the “Big Bears in the Forest” Restaurant. Familiar faces entered the room, and soon, I was with friends. Not close friends, but people that I’ve met over my first year. No longer the new girl in town, I felt at ease and settled into my own little space.

Watching the crowd trickle in, I realized the group had dwindled in number, as I assume many political groups have. It mattered not to me. I was on a mission to listen to one man who had a message I was certain was meant for me.

Invited to a table of five, I declined. Although appreciative, protection of personal space is something that is automatic now. Finding a table near the window, I settled in. Sitting alone, I wished I had someone to talk to, and then, in she bounced. Bubbly and beautiful Ninja Neighbor! When you’ve lived somewhere long enough to run into a neighbor, you’re no longer new. She came to join me, immediately finding things to chat about. She’s such a blessing to me. Our of the corner of my eye, I kept watching for Captain Sam Brown.

The retired officer would be obvious. A very tall and lean war veteran, his entrance would surely command attention. County and State leaders filed through the door as I waited, until he appeared. In jeans and a pale blue shirt, he radiated kindness and self-confidence. Joined by his wife, the two made a stunning couple. Making their way around the room for introductions, it was obvious they had the makings of a power couple. No one could look away.

Sam had chosen his topic well. Suffering. It’s here I need to mention that Sam had been through more than a little hell in his life. As a WestPoint graduate and Captain in the United States Army, he had chosen infantry as his career focus. One day in the desert, his group was the unlucky one to hit an IED (roadside bomb), leaving him covered with burning diesel fuel and terribly injured. Yes. The suffering had left this handsome man with a different kind of face than you or I.

Sam talked about suffering in life. As he shared, many thoughts raced through my mind. Physical suffering. Mental suffering. Spiritual suffering. Loss of youth. Loss of career. Loss of a spouse. Loss of dreams. The list was endless. Through life we all live endure suffering, but how do we choose to deal with it?

Sam had no choice at that moment. Luckily, his fellow soldiers were there to get him to safety, to face a coma, unimaginable pain, and years of reconstructive surgery. Sam talked about embracing the suffering through his faith and courage. Internalizing his message, I could relate. So much of the last two years of my life took courage I didn’t know I had. Smoldering, it would flame to action when I needed it the most. Courage was always there, at my core, just like Sam and the rest of us.

Through the suffering and courage, bloomed character and optimism. Sam had to learn to do the simplest things all over again, while facing surgery after surgery. Through it all, there appeared, by his side, a sweet soldier that helped him through. Falling in love, they walked through his healing together and eventually married.

The one thing Sam never lost was hope for a bright future. It was there on his darkest days when thoughts of his tomorrows were unclear. When feeling all was lost, he kept looking for things that weren’t. He changed his course while walking past the things taken away, towards new opportunities that bloomed as he healed. He had to learn to smile again. And he did.

Looking around the room as he spoke, it was obvious. The collective suffering in the room was overwhelming, and yet, so was the character and sense of hope. You could feel it in the air and through quiet tears that fell as we listened to this brave hero’s story. Faith and hope are sometimes the only tools we have to get through when all seems lost.

Through the suffering and hope, as Sam told the story, character built the foundation for success. Each new sufferable obstacle was met as an opportunity for growth as he has continued to power through life, marriage, and fatherhood of three young kids. A few flames were not going to extinguish Sam’s life story. Faith and hope are carrying him through. Reflecting on Sam’s outlook on life helped me to reflect on my own. An evening well spent.

Inspirational? A resounding yes. Sam’s story is told in several videos on YouTube. Just search Captain Sam Brown. You won’t be disappointed. We should all watch for great things from this lovely couple in the future.

The day is here when my happy involves living life while appreciating each moment.

The time is now when new adventures are not wrapped in fear.

The day is here when going on an outing can be spontaneous and organic.

The time is now that the devastation of cancer no longer dictates my weeping.

The day is here when something silly can make me belly laugh, loudly.

The time is now to realize the winter of intense grief has passed.

A peace is growing in the space between who we were then, and who I’m becoming right now.

Creativity blooms again, fresh and new, after the firestorm of a cancerous death.

Within Winterpast’s safe comfort, my life shines in technicolor.

God watches over me as I garden quietly and smile.

Dreams bloom as sweetly as fragile peonies, scenting the high desert breezes of spring with their delicate fragrance.

Happiness lives in my soul, where despair and loneliness have no lodging.

Adventure, travel, happiness, and love are mine to enjoy, chosen with sound judgement and care.

Struggles will undoubtedly come again and I’ll be ready.

For this moment, I dance under the bluest skies while rejoicing with the flowers.

Joy Hurt 5/24/2021

Pictures of injured or starving mustangs are disturbing. Every year, many articles talk about the struggle of the mustangs to survive on the outskirts of densely populated areas without obvious food sources during a drought. Living amidst the horses, I often wonder if these are stock photos are used to raise sympathy dollars. The mustangs I share the desert with are fat and sassy most days. The determination and will of a 1500 pound horse is awe inspiring, especially when they are invading a neighborhood at night breaking sprinkler pipes for a drink or ravaging a front yard for a tasty treat.

Not to say they don’t have their share of hardships. It’s true. The most obvious cause of death that I’ve observed is road related. Horses and cars are a terrible combination. It’s usually fatal for all involved and it happens more than you would think. Mustangs are always on the move, along with people. Picture postcard still, somedays they seem not to move at all. But then, I’ll be lucky enough to see them galloping through long empty stretches of BLM (the real one – Bureau of Land Management) acres. Picturesque and fitting, because that land that belongs to all of us as Americans. Public use lands.

Horses are hardy and resilient animals. When the foals are born, they must be ready to travel miles with the herd by the end of their first day of life. When newborn, their little tail are puffs of fluff. Little pointed hooves travel over hot sands and jagged rocks. They huddle close with the herd on cold desert nights. They wade through winter snows, growing up fast . In a very short time, the fluff is replaced by a real tail and their muscles grow strong. There is nothing delicate about a mustang foal. Even less delicate is the rage you can incite from the herd if you try to mess with one. And yet, idiot tourists do.

I’ve seen only a few terribly injured horses since I’ve lived in Nevada. Of course, the stallions are often covered with hairless hoof prints, testimony to territorial fights. They bite and kick each other with ferocity. On hind legs they strike with their front while teeth protrude and their loud screams complete the picture. This can happen anywhere, at any time. In the streets of Virginia City while on my deck, I was witness to one such argument. Violent, it came out of nowhere and made me respect these horses from a distance. The front and rear end, and, the teeth!

Bachelor herds form and roam together. In Virginia City, it was obvious these young stallions were either too young or old to have their own harem. Being horses, and liking company, at times they would hang out together. It was in these groups, often grazing below my suspended deck, on which I would see hunks of hanging flesh, slowly healing from the last major fight. Never anything more than superficial wounds, they looked gruesome, but didn’t prevent the stallions from walking miles while dreaming of their own harems one day. Seemingly docile and domestic, introduce a mare in heat, and the entire situation would change in an instant. The most fit, dominant, and rugged male always got the girl, or two or three of them.

Mustangs eat anything. They eat every waking moment as they plod along searching for food. Standing at the corner of Rabbit Brush Lane and Highway 85 when I run to the store, they’re docile and still. Twenty minutes later, upon my return, they’ve vanished into thin air. The topography allows us to see for miles, but, they disappear without a trace. They have no predators in the desert. Their only adversary is man. As more people escape city entrapment to move to the beauty of the high desert, habitats and the fragile desert landscape suffer. Some would insist the mustangs are an intruder, not truly native. but introduced to the desert way of life hundreds of years ago. There is truth to that, but, they find themselves in a wild state now. They’re as American as you or I, still enjoying their absolute freedom.

Last week, driving along Rabbit Brush Lane, a drama was unfolding. Vehicles lined the side of the road, all with similar markings on the doors reading “Large Animal Rescue Team”. Off to the south side, dwarfed by the tall sage brush and tumbleweeds, a group of eight people formed a human corral. Wearing yellow and orange reflective vests, holding orange boards, while being spaced at least six feet apart, they stood without speaking. I know this, because I stopped to watch, not sure what was happening.

They didn’t move. They didn’t speak. They stood with their 2′ x 3′ boards, horizontally, in front of their bodies. This made them appear larger than they were, still and quiet. Inside the very large human corral they formed was a lone mustang stallion. Chestnut in color, it also stood quietly. Make no mistake, it had every single person identified and under its radar. It chewed nervously while watching with intensely intelligent eyes. It’s all about the eyes with mustangs.

This stationary stand-off went on for minutes until the mustang decided to move away from these folks, just a little. Then, it was obvious. This guy was horrible injured. Not obvious if the injury was to hip or leg, the horse was in grave distress. As he hobbled along, the group took small steps forward, still not talking or making any quick movements.

Determined, the group moved towards a temporary and creative. The goal was to get the mustang into the old, beat up horse trailer, waiting with an open gate. When handling mustangs, the older and more beat up the trailer the better, because, it will surely be that way after transporting 1500 pounds of anger. Metal horse panels came out like a V from back of the trailer, tightly secured and creating a funneled entrance. More metal horse panels formed a small pen with the gates gaping, wide open. There was one way in, and no way out for this guy.

As the group waited, the stallion watched and chewed. Slowly, all of them moved towards the corral and trailer. As this was happening, no ropes were thrown. No taunting or yelling occurred. Only the wind disturbed the silence of the desert as eight men and women physically asked this injured mustang to head toward the trailer and medical help. He seemed to understand the situation. His body language seemed to say, “I really need some help guys, just give me a minute here.”

This was one lucky mustang. Suffering a severe injury, as his obviously was, the result would have been death by dehydration and starvation, as he was in no shape to follow his herd to greener pastures. With endless patience, time went by as the group approached the corral. With one futile escape attempt, he entered the corral, the gates shut, and the wild horse stood calmly, awaiting the next request from the group.

The gang of eight didn’t approach the corral, or even acknowledge that he was trapped. They simply talked quietly a little ways from the corral. They let him settle and think about the situation at bit. He needed a rest, and so did they. Job well done on all parts.

In observing these expert horse men and women, I was impressed by their knowledge, patience, and persistence with this stallion. There will would be done, but on his time. They showed respect and in return, he responded to their wishes. Simple. This procedure couldn’t be hurried along, or carried out in a disrespectful manner. That would have simply resulted in more injury for the stallion and possible the rescue workers.

The outcome for this stallion is unknown. Injuries involving hips and legs are extremely serious in horses. The High Desert Large Animal Rescue Team did just as they have been trained. The stallion has the best chance of recovery with them. That’s what they do best. But even with the best of care, leg and hip injuries are most serious in horses. This team will provide care with the least amount of suffering.

It seems our world could learn a lot from these amazing men and women. So many misunderstanding arise from forced will upon others. A lack of time to calm and think often creates disastrous outcomes in a world moving at warp speed. Sometimes, just standing still, while doing or saying nothing allows everyone time to think and make sensible decisions on their own. Yet another lesson to be learned here in the high desert of Northwestern Nevada.