The horse was slender. Scrawny even.
A sandstone-colored coat of hair wrapped tightly around the equine’s ribs, causing me to nickname it Arizona.
Secretariat this was not. But I wasn’t in Kentucky either.
My encounter with Arizona took place down in Chile some years back. I was studying abroad there, and my cohort was on a horseback riding excursion.
I had saddled up a few times in my youth. But never for a whole day. So, I was already nervous before I was assigned the runt of the litter.
The journey began as expected. I spurred Arizona on, and the horse barely budged. The others in my cohort — high atop their stately steeds — laughed at our impunity as they rode ahead down the trail.
But all this movement seemed to inspire Arizona. Suddenly, we were speeding across dusty plains and up sand dunes. I could hear the wind rushing by my face as we galivanted along. Each stride sent me out of the saddle, the momentum threatening to launch me into orbit. I gripped onto the reins for dear life to keep that from happening.
As this all played out, I experienced a range of emotions. I felt exhilarated. I felt terrified. But most of all, I felt free.
As we wound our way through the Chilean countryside, across beaches and up abandoned railroad tracks, I started to dread the ride’s impending end. I wasn’t worried about dismounting from Arizona — I’d already done that when we’d stopped for lunch — but I was filled with dread about returning to the hustle and bustle of civilization.
I wanted to keep living my life wide open.
It’s been more than a decade now since that experience. And I haven’t gone horseback riding since then.
Even so, my life has been transformed. Ever since that day, I indeed have been chasing the wide open.
I cover lots of ground in my day-to-day. Whether I’m exercising, taking care of errands, or just relaxing, I tend not to confine myself.
For many, this might seem normal. But such a pattern goes against my raising.
I grew up in the Northeast, where a tradition of strength in numbers is notable. Space is famously at a premium in that part of America, and this feeds prominently into the regional culture.
While I grew up in a nice suburban home with a backyard, many of my friends lived in apartments. And my grandparents resided in a rowhouse so narrow that you could bounce a ball of each of the walls they shared with neighbors on a single throw.
Such arrangements were not unusual. In Boston, New York, and Philadelphia, many don’t commute downtown for work or entertainment. Instead, they live in close proximity to those options — trading space for prestige.
This pattern mirrors that of Europe. In London, Paris, and Rome, prominent residents have centrally located apartments, with the less affluent living further afield. And much like those cities across the pond, citizens of those Northeastern metro areas rely on city parks for their outdoor space.
Still, such a setup flies in the face of the broader American experience. Our nation was built upon principles of land ownership and mobility, and much of the country follows in that tradition.
Many Americans are used to seeing the nearest fence line at a distance. They’re accustomed to the sounds and smells of nature. They’re enamored with the feel of the open road.
Such sensations terrified me in my youth. In my experience, the vastness was a threat.
I imagined predators attacking me, with no one to come to my aid. I shivered at the thought of facing harsh weather conditions head-on. I developed a prolific fear of the dark.
By the time I saddled up for that horseback ride half a world away, I had moved beyond many of these concerns. I’d grown from a child to a self-assured adolescent. I’d left the cramped Northeast to attend college in Florida. And I’d gotten a better sense of the American way.
Still, I was in irons. I had little sense of where my future would take me.
It ended up taking me to Texas, a place that was seemingly the polar opposite of where I’d grown up.
Indeed, the Lone Star State was seemingly the epicenter of the wide open lifestyle. And I was ready to grab the reins, in pursuit of that same sensation I’d had down in Chile.
This pursuit has been uneven at best. But through all the ups and downs, one thing is certain. I love where I live.
To be clear, I have no ill will for my area of origin or the lifestyle that goes with it. I still have family and friends living in tight quarters there, and they get by just fine.
Still, such environs are not for me. I need space to operate.
By definition, an existential threat touches a central nerve. The nerve of survival.
And the recent pandemic certainly fit the bill.
There was, of course, the existential threat of illness and death. And there was the existential threat of economic strife as the world shut down.
But for me, there was another existential threat associated with all of this. The threat of confinement.
As the pandemic blossomed and the stay-at-home orders proliferated, I thought I was ready. Fear and uncertainty were in the air, and I wanted no part of the virus.
But I grew restless quickly.
The four walls of my home, nice as they were, couldn’t contain me. I knew I was meant to live wide open. And that was true now as much as ever.
So, I acted on my impulses. I opened my front door and went for a run or a long walk every day. That time outdoors provided me more than fresh air. It also gave me peace of mind.
Perhaps it’s no coincidence that I started thinking of that day back in Chile during these exercise sessions. I pictured the sunshine. I heard the rush of the wind. And I smelled the dust.
Most of all, I tried to get myself back to a place where my soul was carefree. I hoped that would be enough to get me through.
These days, I’m still trying to get back to that feeling. The pandemic’s grip has lightened. But the summer air is thick and my responsibilities are heavy. That wide-open feeling seems to dangle on the horizon, beyond my reach.
Perhaps one day, I’ll saddle up again. Or maybe I’ll find that nirvana in some other fashion.
But until then, I know what I’m chasing.
I’m on the trail of the great wide open. And I won’t rest until I find that feeling again.