There is an
unofficial condition coined “orthorexia” in which a person
is excessively preoccupied with eating healthy food. I’m
pretty sure my three amigas and I did not suffer from that on
our recent horseback adventure.
First stop when
they arrived in Denver before heading to the wild blue yonder:
Trader Joe’s. Four chattering women throwing food into one
basket got the attention of at least one shopper.
ladies going to a party?” he asked.
riding for three days,” I said as we tossed everything from
nuts and cheese to bottled water and wine into our cart.
you’re going to have fun,” he smiled.
We sure did.
After loading horses, saddles, hay and suitcases into the
trailer, we made our way to Fort Robinson State Park in
western Nebraska — 22,000 acres of old west history and the
same horse stalls used by the calvary in the late 1800’s.
What made this
trip work — besides that fact that we wanted to spend more
time in the saddle than we did in the kitchen — were our
similar food preferences. Breakfast was coffee with — take
your pick — spinach-scrambled eggs and toast or blueberries,
yogurt and granola. Lunch was ready-to-make salad mix and
homemade cabbage rolls and our first night dinner was a simply
delicious potpourri of cheeses, crackers, raw vegetables and
hummus dips. Bottled water for the trail and wine for our
evening talks on the prairie and we were happy cowgirls.
of this trip (or at least I thought so) was a 21-mile drive
(14 of them on a desolate dirt road) from our cabin to a tiny
frontier town called the High Plains Homestead and its
adjoining restaurant called the “Cookshack.” I had called
a few days earlier to make a reservation for dinner.
have the menu for Tuesday planned yet,” a woman’s voice
told me. “But just a minute,” she paused. “He (I later
found out “he” was her husband, the chef) said he can make
Hillbilly Philly steak sandwiches.”
Philly steak sandwiches, I repeated. That would be just fine.
And they were, complete with our choice of beans, coleslaw,
three-bean, or cucumber salads. And since we were the last
customers of the night, the four of us split the last piece of
homemade coconut cream pie while an old picture of Clint
Eastwood’s High Plains Drifter squinted at us from the
A few days
later, we ended our journey at my daughter and son-in-law’s
ranch with a home-grown steak dinner followed by one or two
cautious sips of homemade moonshine in Tom’s man-cave aka
“the bunkhouse.” And that’s all I’m going to say about
We won’t soon
forget our days of horseback riding through grassy meadows to
the top of pine-covered ridges. Our shared meals and long
rides nourished each of us in special ways. Thanks for the
memory, dear cowgirls.