Adjusting My Strides

Tuesday, November 10, 2026

At 6:45 AM, it’s bitter cold. Sunny, my pony, leans over her stock tank, breaking an ice skin with her muzzle. She has just emerged from the run-in shed, her breath creates soft white clouds, her thick winter coat—now a dense velour—doesn’t notice the frost-dusting on her spine. She’s in excellent condition, after months hitched to the buggy, but now, with harder winter setting in, her carriage work must pause. The farrier has pulled her shoes, and we will find other ways to keep her fit through the coming months.

Some years back, I’d have hoisted a full water bucket in each hand without a second thought. This morning, I divide the load, using the lighter haul to keep my shoulders level and my footing firm on the now-harder ground. Under my chore jacket, I’m wearing a ten-pound weighted vest—part of a months-long routine to strengthen my osteopenic bones ahead of an upcoming medical infusion. I work deliberatly to self-adjust, to balance the vest’s weight and keep up with the stalls, watering, and feeding.

I’ll write more about bone-strengthening later, but right now I’ll spend less mental energy on what might lie downstream. It’s easy for the world’s alarming headlines to crowd my head, but out here between the barn and the pasture fencing, outside noises fall away. My immediate tasks require the simple disciplines of showing up, watching where I place my boots, adjusting the weights I must carry, and finishing my work in the morning light.

Today will be an outside working day. It’s my part-time shift in a retail store. I’ll stand behind its jewelry counter and sometimes lend a hand to the front-line register crew. With the holidays approaching, a customer rush already is building, and surprisingly, too, happening well before this Thanksgiving. People already are out seeking ornaments for their trees, their lapels, and their ears.

I like seeing Sunny’s nose buried in her feed trough before I must turn toward the house. The dogs are following me, but they’re behind a separating fence while tracking my steps, eager for their own breakfasts. My stride on the uphill climb feels reassuringly strong—a dividend after months of walking miles while carrying extra weight. I like seeing the early sunrise; it’s just catching the outspread branches of the junipers, its pale pink warming toward amber.

After my dogs, my caged birds, and Max the cat are fed, my “other life” begins, and I’ll head into town. I’m newly re-aware how changing seasons and older bodies demand constant recognition. But the necessary work doesn’t change. Our daily goals don’t either; they’re constant: to stay in the moment, read the weather, adjust our strides, and keep moving forward.

— Diana

Escape Artist & Fine Companion

Wednesday, October 21, 2026

For many months, I have been witnessing very early mornings like this. My dogs romp around in large public areas, playing vigorously with each other or with neighborhood dogs, while I log thousands of steps while carrying an eight-pound vest across my shoulders. The dogs are burning off energy, and I’m busy building bone density and staying strong.

The lighted vests that keep both dogs visible in the predawn dusk have been an absolute game-changer. My bigger dog, Chase, especially needed one—hes a born long-distance runner who can vanish into the dim morning light in seconds. He’s generally trustworthy and checks in regularly with little Mitzvah and me. But that vest’s vivid neon colors, tracing his paths across the grass and through the trees, give me more peace of mind

For readers who have followed Chase’s story since I brought him home as a tiny puppy: he is five years old now, and he has mellowed into a wonderful companion.

Back at the beginning, right after that tiny tired pup got a good night’s sleep, he turned into an epic handful. As he grew, this Rottweiler mix proved strong enough to scale or dig under virtually any barrier. Keeping him safely contained seemed impossible. Fortunately, kind neighbors often spotted him wandering around before he could get into traffic or harm himself and brought him home. Other times while I was away at work, Chase would break out, go on a grand perimeter tour, fortunately finding his way back home in time to meet me. I’d turn into my long driveway and see him bounding over to greet my car.

For a long time, my property has looked like a makeshift fortress. Along the entire fenceline, I have stacked lava rocks, flattened cardboard boxes, empty bottles, and heavy cans—using anything to deter him from easy digs. Much of that debris remains in place today, because he’ll still test an easy spot if temptation strikes.

Those early years brought plenty of worry, and enough that I featured Chase regularly on this blog. Surrendering him to a shelter was never a viable option, as an adopter might not have the patience or physical setup to manage an escape artist of his caliber. So, and often reluctantly, I stayed in the game.

Someone once told me a rule of thumb: that high-energy working breeds start to mature around four years old. That “four-year mark” became my mental beacon, a ray of hope. Sure enough, right around his fourth birthday, Chase began to settle. He didn’t become “entirely easy,” but was noticeably a little more manageable.

At five, he’s mostly a pure delight. Chase remains physically powerful, and also, deeply opinionated, but he respects the fence line while I’m away. It’s hard-won peace of mind that makes every ounce of effort over the last five years worthwhile.

Nowadays, while putting in early walking miles and focusing on my own physical fitness, I’m taking the dogs along. With little Mitzvah trotting right alongside Chase and me, we’ve settled into a great rhythm.

I used to worry that Chase’s sheer size, strength, and guarding instincts might make him reactive toward unfamiliar dogs, but he’s sailed through with flying colors. His absolute favorite thing in the world is simply running flat out. He loves a hard sprint but has no interest in fighting. He welcomes strangers we meet on the trail, happily pausing long enough to collect a quick pat on the head before taking off again.

To everyone who, along with me, has wondered about Chase over the years: he’s doing wonderfully. Chase is strong, affectionate, and thoroughly entertaining. Next year he turns six. Mitzvah is a couple of years his senior. Both are winners, and together, as thick as thieves.

— Diana

Rediscovering An Unconventional Classic

Wednesday, September 16, 2027

Several weeks ago, I remembered an older favorite book: Peter Høeg’s 1992 novel, Smilla’s Sense of Snow. It’s still widely regarded as an exceptional, genre-bending psychological thriller. The book centers on Smilla Jaspersen, a 37-year-old glaciologist living in Copenhagen. Smilla’s identity comes from two very different worlds, and each shapes her view, making her see her surroundings through a stark lens of light, shadow, and ice.

I read the book years ago, but its atmosphere and Smilla herself never quite left me. Thinking now about her and the plot made me want to rediscover the narrative pieces and understand how they fit together. So, I downloaded a copy and dove back in.

It’s ostensibly a crime novel, but unlike conventional mysteries, nothing in this one is simple. Høeg builds the setting through shades of behavior rather than clever dialogue.

The story opens at the funeral of Smilla’s neighbor—a neglected six-year-old Inuit boy who may have been her only real friend. Authorities have ruled his fatal fall from a snowy rooftop an accident, but Smilla senses that event differently. After the funeral, as she examines his footprints in the snow, her deep, specialized understanding of ice tells her he was running from someone. He was murdered.

Smilla, guided by her senses and logic, sets out to uncover the truth in a process that draws the reader into a web of cultural tension and corporate conspiracy. At the same time, we learn how strongly Smilla’s dual heritage shapes her perspective. Her late mother, an indigenous Greenlandic hunter, was almost primitive and very deeply attuned to the Arctic landscape. At the same time, her estranged father is a wealthy, straight-spined, clinical Danish physician who lives in Copenhagen.

Smilla embodies both sides of that cultural divide. She pairs her scientific rigor with an instinctual, almost sensory connection to the natural world. Her choice of Glaciology is more than a career—it’s a lens through which she deciphers human characteristics. In the story, she’s sometimes prickly and remote, but her sharp observations and quiet grief make her someone readers root for.

Even early in this renewed beginning, I’m finding Smilla’s Sense of Snow as immersive and sensory; it’s still a unique reading experience. I can feel the bite of the subzero air, “see” the subtle textures of sea ice, and gain insight into Denmark’s complex colonial history with Greenland.

Even decades after its debut, Høeg’s chilly, poetic masterpiece lingers with me long after its final page. And I’m diving back into that fascinating mystery.

Diana

A Neon Splash & A Helpful Village

Monday, September 14, 2027

That seemingly “bandaged object” in today’s header photo is actually the backside of my recently acquired e-trike.

My friends and neighbors, Dale and Susie—both avid cyclists—convinced me that my pastel trike needed a vivid, eye-catching makeover. They are passionate advocates for road safety in all conditions, and they had a plan.

Dale, a retired helicopter mechanic, designed and now manufactures the HeliLadder, a specialized maintenance ladder for aircraft. When he inspected my new ride, he brought out a roll of heavy-duty, high-visibility reflective tape from his shop. He demonstrated how even a faint beam of light makes the color leap and glow, then offered to apply it to my trike’s frame and rear rack.

As an aside, Dale and Susie have long been champions of accessible outdoor adventures through their work with the AdvenChair—an all-terrain “hiking wheelchair” engineered with independent disc brakes and front suspension to keep riders safe and comfortable on rugged wilderness trails. Road safety and clever engineering run in their blood.

Taking their wisdom to heart, I’ve started suiting up in high-visibility neon gear whenever I head out. Now, dressed in bright layers atop a boldly taped trike, I am unmistakable to approaching traffic from either direction.

Here is the “before” look: me and the trike in Dale and Susie’s workshop, waiting for our splash of high-vis color.

At my age, an accidental spill on a traditional two-wheeler is simply not on the agenda. This sturdy three-wheeler completely eases that worry, and it is a delight to pedal. Most days I ride in low gear—or turn the motor off entirely—to give my legs a proper workout. But when a steep hill or a rough patch of gravel presents itself, having the battery and throttle ready at the flick of a switch is pure magic.

I also owe an enormous thank-you to another wonderful neighbor, John. When the trike first arrived, it was folded tight, bolted down, and wrapped in what felt like miles of heavy industrial packing material—a genuinely overwhelming puzzle to unbox alone. John stepped in and helped assemble the whole machine so I could get rolling.

It really does take a village, again, again, and yet again.

— Diana

A Modern Horatio Alger Story: HeliLadder

Tuesday, August 04, 2026

My neighbors and friends, Dale and Susie Neubauer, are often my inspiration. They operate a family business called HeliLadder, and over the years, our social chats have frequently turned to the rewards and challenges of growing a family business while continually expanding its product line.

I am naturally drawn to their story. I grew up in the years following World War II, when America felt a renewed sense of pride and optimism, casting off the shadows of the Great Depression and the war. An encouraging theme of my youth was the ideal of individualism—the pursuit of personal development, ambition, and self-reliance.

HeliLadder’s story echoes those classic ideals. In many ways, they reflect the classic Horatio Alger myth—the 19th-century author whose popular dime novels featured protagonists rising from poverty to success through hard work, determination, and integrity. Those stories helped shape a cornerstone of the American Dream, inspiring people to believe in their own potential.

I hadn’t thought about Horatio Alger in years, but observing HeliLadder brought that archetype back to mind. It’s one of the clearest real-world examples of that spirit I’ve been privileged to witness. The company began when Dale identified a specific problem, conceptualized a solution, and built a business model around it. Combining years of practical experience with self-confidence, he turned an idea into a tangible reality. HeliLadder’s success is the direct outcome of vision, craftsmanship, and steadfast family support.

For many years, Dale worked on aircraft maintenance. As a career helicopter repairman, he knew the physical demands and safety risks of the job firsthand—particularly the hazard of standing atop standard, wobbly A-frame ladders while leaning out to reach elevated rotors and components. His growing concern was not just his own balance, but the safety of the younger technicians he trained and supervised.

In 2010, Dale began tinkering in his garage to design a safer alternative. By 2011, he built his first prototype out of wood, featuring a cantilevered base engineered for stability. The design allowed technicians to stand securely and reach into the aircraft body without dangerous overextension. Dale brought these early wooden models to the airfield, testing them on the job and refining the concept based on real-world use.

To transition the product from wood to high-grade metal, Dale began collaborating with local fabrication experts. Financing these early trial-and-error efforts meant postponing his retirement and continuing his regular job while building the business on nights and weekends. Developing the ladder demanded immense grit, patience, and effort from both Dale and Susie.

Eventually, the industry took notice. Dale’s practical expertise and clear communication helped establish the product’s value, and sales began to grow. By 2018, Dale was able to fully retire from aircraft repair and focus entirely on HeliLadder. Susie was instrumental every step of the way, co-managing operations and logistics.

Shortly after I first met the Neubauers, they invited me to tour their initial rental facility. Even then, I was struck by the precision and build quality of the ladders. My untrained eye saw a beautifully balanced piece of industrial design that was purpose-built for safety and utility.

By 2025, HeliLadder had outgrown its original space. An opportunity arose to purchase a much larger, newly renovated industrial building—conveniently located directly across the street from their primary metal fabricator. I toured the facility with them when it was still just a vast, empty warehouse. Nothing about the open space fazed Dale; he strolled through with Susie and me, effortlessly pointing out where every assembly line, rack, and office would go.

I recently visited their completed facility, and the transformation is remarkable. The once-empty floor is now a fully functioning hub featuring administrative offices, dedicated assembly lines, inventory storage, and loading docks. The company has truly become a family legacy: their sons and niece now work in key roles within the business, allowing Dale to focus on sales and innovation. At the same time, Susie gradually steps back to enjoy her outside pursuits.

The Neubauers (Caleb, Ian, Susie, and Dale) taking a break.

I’m invited to join the scene.

In an era often dominated by rapid tech trends and social media noise, hands-on ingenuity can sometimes feel like a lost art. Seeing Dale’s practical vision come to life—backed by Susie and their family—is a refreshing reminder of what can be accomplished through persistence, skill, and clear purpose. HeliLadder is a classic, modern success story: identifying a real need, building a solution from the ground up, and seeing it through.

— Diana

Lessons In Musical Genius

Chinese classical pianist Yuja Wang (Photo by Amy T. Zielinski/Redferns via Getty Images)

Friday, July 17, 2026

An old and stubborn myth in the classical music world goes like this: “Men are better pianists because they have more physical strength and can draw more from the instrument.” That outdated sexist notion has made many brilliant female musicians roll their eyes.

A few days ago, I remembered the myth while watching the new movie Tuner. As its final credits rolled, I knew the film had brilliantly sidestepped tired clichés about gender and power—and its climax had magnificently revealed things much deeper about its characters.

Tuner is a fine film that, above all, meticulously prepares us for its ending. The story’s development and climax are designed to reveal the intricate anatomy of a genius, and they do so successfully.

From its very beginning, we learn about the male lead’s relationship with music. For him, it’s not only a learned skill—music is a fundamental part of his wiring. The script gradually establishes his genius. At first, it lets us witness his extreme sensitivity to sound from his earliest childhood, and soon we start recognizing his photographic memory for all musical elements.

And then there’s the film’s climax, when for the first time he plays the piano–doing so with immense and passionate force. His performance doesn’t feel like a cheap movie gimmick or an act asserting “male physical dominance.” Instead, it’s letting us understand that his playing is the earned, logical explosion of a lifetime of intense sensory experiences.

Tuner avoids falling into gender stereotypes by creating a stunning dynamic between the two leads. The thundering piece he performs has been composed by his love interest, a woman with a profound passion for her art. And their shared passion creates a beautiful, tense contrast:

She’s the intellect: The creator and architect, having the deep, complex genius required to compose the piece.
He’s the physical conduit: The one having the raw, hyper-sensitive, and physical tools to translate her creation into a thundering reality.

The film gets immense credit for not being a statement about “who’s better.” Instead, it’s an excellent synthesis of two distinct gifts—her intellectual creation, meeting his sensory and physical execution.

This movie made me think about what “true power” at the piano actually looks like. Any notion that brute force makes a piano sing better is a fundamental misunderstanding of the instrument. I’m someone who works out to increase my personal physical strength, and I don’t see playing the piano with power as a bench-press competition. Instead, I see it as a masterclass in physics.

That’s because true power comes from core strength, leverage, and weight transfer—using gravity and the natural weight of the arms instead of tensed muscles. Thinking this brought to mind one of my favorite artists, the classical pianist Yuja Wang. Wang is a real-world refutation of the “common power myth”—and is a living antidote to stereotypes of the physically dominant male pianist.

Wang is a global classical phenomenon—a superb artist who completely dispels any notion of the “less powerful female pianist.” She’s physically fit, incredibly bold, and completely commanding on stage, performing with her entire being. She’s unafraid of tackling the most punishingly difficult, heavy, and physically demanding concertos in the classical canon. And she executes them with absolute, explosive authority.

Wang magnificently claims her space in a classical music industry historically dominated by conservative, often rigid expectations. She modernizes classical performances by performing flawlessly while dressed in striking, attention-grabbing attire and high heels. She refuses to diminish her femininity and is taken seriously as a powerhouse. Wang proves that physical power at the piano isn’t about size; it’s about technique, athletic efficiency, and fearless artistry.

Identifying great art is easy—whether on a cinema screen or a concert stage—especially the kind that moves beyond tired stereotypes in reaching toward its peak. Tuner does this successfully by treating its characters as individuals with distinct minds and unique sensory worlds, and not as stand-ins for outdated gender roles. Real-world artists like Yuja Wang show that the true power of the piano doesn’t belong to any one gender—it belongs to anyone with the dedication, technique, and soul to unlock it.

It’s easy to experience Wang’s magic and physical mastery in action. There are many YouTube videos of her performing complex pieces, each showing the petite performer using her entire body to command immense, thunderous power from a grand piano.

For those reasons and more, I recommend Tuner. This great movie is backed by skilled direction and fine acting. Its brilliant script has excellent foreshadowing. Its story deeply focuses on great loves—for sounds, for music, and for relationships. And its passionate, deeply human characters cope with real-life foibles.

— Diana

A Perfect Pony

Thursday, July 09, 2026

This summer tossed me into a kind of vulnerability that may accompany awkward attempts to revive old passions. My current passions are carriage driving, particularly driving my (now) middle-aged pony, Sunny.

A couple of months ago, Sunny and I had to say a final goodbye to Rosie, her older sister and long-time companion. Now, Sunny, the lone horse in my barn, needs a job. A horse mustn’t be left just standing around.

That seemed easy enough for Sunny. She’s a trained driving horse who used to have that job, and I loved driving her. Somehow, I got busy with other pursuits back around the start of the COVID-19 pandemic, and gradually stopped driving. Now, years later, our circumstances have changed, and I hope we can start teaming up with our cart again.

First, I made sure that Sunny was physically up to the very physical task of driving. A capable equine veterinarian assessed Sunny and gave her a thumbs-up for performance capability and soundness. I began lunging Sunny daily, trotting her in 20-foot circles that turned excess weight (hers, not mine!) into muscle.

Simultaneously and surprisingly, I found myself weighed down by unanticipated clouds of self-doubt and insecurity. They began hanging heavily over my head. For example, I often found myself staring at Sunny’s harness gear and trying desperately to remember all the pieces and how exactly they used to fit together. My driving training, which occurred years ago, now seemed out of reach.

I tried to re-learn by watching YouTube videos. They didn’t help much. I found myself fearing that crucial parts of the harness might be missing. Equally sad, I couldn’t recall exactly how to secure certain harness pieces to the carriage.

I’ll confess that, behind this, were also worries about no longer being young. I found myself coping with frightening thoughts: Is failing to recall once-familiar details signaling old-age memory loss? Or might I safely consider it as “normal forgetting?” Those mental blocks felt as heavy as the iron carriage itself.

Then came another reality, of safely hitching a pony and carriage together. The equine must stand perfectly still while its person hitches the cart. I was out of practice and now without a helper to hold Sunny. She would once dependably stand perfectly, flawlessly still. But now, many years later, I’d have to trust Sunny’s memory.

Thoughts of hitching her for the first time in years, and completely by myself, were daunting and suggested potential danger. Unfortunately, nobody else in my area drives horses and could help me.

Nonetheless, yesterday morning, I awoke early, feeling resolute. In the first place, Sunny needs a job, and in the second, I had to make us a driving team again. I clenched my jaw en route to the barn, uncovered the cart, positioned it, attached its shafts, and rechecked all of Sunny’s harnessing.

Standing there, but still insecure, I frankly froze. I understood that I’d reached my limit. Hitching now absolutely required a second pair of hands. The folks I thought to call for, hopefully right now and on-the-spot assistance, were my neighbors, Frank and Annette. I reached out, and thankfully, Annette answered the call.

She came right over, an absolute trooper—and unhesitatingly stepped into an unfamiliar world. Together, we tackled harnessing Sunny, positioning her correctly at the cart, and then managing the heavy lifting. We got the horse, harness, and cart all situated. (BTW, Sunny didn’t move a muscle through all this.)

Once the pony and cart were hitched up, we faced The True Test: Would Sunny remember her training?

Upon being asked to walk, Sunny pulled the cart perfectly, first around the barn and then toward the dry lot. Once there, my worries melted. Sunny more than “just remembered.” She was a perfect pony, took turns around the area, did figure eights, and transitioned smoothly from walks into trots. As if no time at all had passed.

Here’s one of Annette’s quick captures.

All this brought me closer to two major truths:

Sunny is a gem.
Community is everything.

Many kudos to wonderful Annette. For standing at Sunny’s head and helping to manage the heavy cart. That initial hitching job felt too big for me to tackle alone. My lesson, again, was to recognize that sometimes overcoming fears takes more than sheer determination—like asking a kind neighbor to help lift the weight.

Sweet Sunny and I will yet again become a smooth driving team. Stay tuned for our adventures!

— Diana

Finding My Stride

Saturday, June 27, 2026

I am learning—and in real time—about the profound difference between “doing exercises” and “moving with purpose.”

I’ve tended to be a cerebral type—happiest sitting with a book, dreaming of someday writing one. But as I age, things are changing rapidly. Much of what I experience today surprises me. Like, if anyone had told me earlier in life that I would someday be averaging something like 18,000 steps a day, I’d have laughed. Yet over the past several weeks, to my great shock, I have been stepping up to that entirely new rhythm—on my few acres and beyond.

Essentially, it’s about discovering a fitness routine that actually works for me. This one wasn’t designed by a gym trainer, but instead, by entirely different forces. It’s driven by a deep affection for animals, a strong sense of duty, and a love of the great outdoors.

This odd journey started with my longtime wish to correct some habitual “slumping” while standing and walking. Traditional methods led me to a competent personal trainer who guided me through structured, scientifically sound exercises. I struggled to keep up, but frankly, staring at a wall and doing isolated repetitions felt like a hollow routine. It offered no motivation.

This summer finally arrived, and I began taking my dogs on outings at a nearby BLM. In this same beautiful weather, I also started working with my horse, Sunny, to recondition her for pulling a carriage. Quite by accident, the BLM trails and my own barn area have become daily highlights in my fitness evolution.

In the cool, early mornings, the dogs and I head out to a nearby Bureau of Land Management trail. Initially, we only walked half of the trail’s entire to-and-from distance, with my eyes glued to the dirt to dodge rocky protrusions. As my confidence grew, we started completing the trail’s full three-mile round trip. I was proud of us, and before long, I wished to push myself a bit further by adding a pair of lightweight hiking poles to our outings. Those poles caused an immediate shift.

Without the poles, walking had seemed too passive for my upper body—not offering enough to correct my old slumping habit. But adding poles changed the physics of my stride and gave me new hope. I could physically feel the planting of a pole and the pushing off. Those pulled my shoulder blades back, naturally opening my chest. The physical feedback encouraged me to work harder, with more hope of eventually standing taller without constantly having to force myself to “straighten up.” Those poles also give me the balance and confidence to work on lengthening my stride. Maybe they’re also helping to realign my spine.

The morning hikes are only part of the equation. Most afternoons, I’m out by the barn, lunging Sunny—asking her to trot steadily in circles for forty minutes. That’s not passive exercise; we’re a dynamic physical partnership. Managing twenty feet of lunging line requires a firm grip and forearm strength, and staying centered as Sunny circles me demands a stable, rotating core.

My horse doesn’t give a hoot about performance standards—she reads my body language perfectly. My “standing tall” in the center of our ring is a constant act of communication. If my attention wavers, Sunny senses it immediately, breaks her stride, and drops into a walk, forcing me to resume active participation.

Between those morning hikes with the dogs and the focused afternoon workouts with my horse, my daily step counts have skyrocketed. By the time the sun sets, my phone typically clocks me at 16,000 to 18,000 steps.

This is an incredible evolution. It’s teaching that my mind and body work best when they’re engaged together. Not long ago, the gym-style exercise routine felt like a chore, but now, there are early-morning hikes and focused afternoons with my animals that feel like life. These high-count steps will help me maintain health, manage weight, and focus on better posture. All these are vital gains—and best of all—achieved entirely on my own terms.

Instead of struggling to keep up with a rigid, repetitive exercise routine, it makes sense to consider trading the gym for what you really love. Step outside, find your purpose, and let the natural environment do the heavy lifting.

— Diana

This High Desert Summer

Wednesday, June 17, 2026

Finally, June has settled in. The mornings are warmer, crisper, and very clear. The daylight skies greet early risers with nearly impossibly beautiful shades of blue. And the neighborhood’s wildlife is suddenly making more demands for attention. Most recently, in the early mornings, my coffee is frequently interrupted by new, highly vocal bird sounds.

Lately, those sounds have drawn me outside. I look up high and far around to locate their source, finally focusing on the tallest surrounding juniper tops and the open sky. I quickly started taking a camera on my early trips outside, to listen and look—for glimpses and images of our newest local resident: a magnificent Red-tailed Hawk.

For days, that striking raptor has been perched atop several of my tallest trees. It stays in place while highly visible for long periods. That bird usually isn’t quiet, and so, it’s likely a juvenile. This is the season when young hawks fledge. Their relentless, raspy screams insist on (something like): “Mom! Dad! I’m hungry, and I’m here, waiting!” Young hawks testing their boundaries are still entirely dependent on the parents. This particular local noisy youngster vividly demonstrates a fledgling’s sheer patience—sitting, staring intently at the ground, crying for attention…and waiting.

To me, seeing this is like witnessing a masterclass that highlights the focused, solitary, and fierce nature of raptor life.

Of course, curiosity led me to research, where I learned that, like most other raptors, Red-tailed Hawks are monomorphic —meaning that males and females share the exact same plumage, coloring, and patterns; no distinct feather-color markings set them apart.

My local resident’s gender will always be a beautiful high-desert mystery!

In one of my more interesting photos, a (protesting?) California Jay (formerly known as a “Scrub Jay”) appears positioned uncomfortably near the Red-Tailed. What a contrast, for if this jay happens to be worried about its own nearby nest, that focused hawk couldn’t care less.

These days, in another big part of my birding routine, I’ll lift my sights higher, trying to sense way beyond the juniper tops, the mountain air currents. Sometimes, luckily, I’ll find myself witnessing completely different bird behaviors—and actually another form of masterclass—this time, seeing an adult-juvenile summer school in session.

Featuring others of our local residents, the ravens, way up there. Teaching their fledglings!

The young hawk I am enjoying represents a more solitary, focused species. In contrast, the active raven family represents pure, cooperative joy. There’s little as beautiful as the ravens—riding, gliding on thermal drafts—flying and playing. Parents guiding their young through wind’s invisible circles—practicing floating effortlessly, making sudden stalls, and sudden acrobatic tumbles—vividly acted against the big blue. Those birds’ sheer intelligence radiates as the fledglings mimic the adults—learning the physics of the sky. It’s a program of sheer curiosity and aerial dancing.

In this wonderful time of year, Central Oregon offers front-row seats to these and other fascinating bird worlds. Here, beside my home, on a high treetop perches a young predator—a perfect combo of intensity and impatience—working to find its footing. And higher above, in the wide open air, brilliant and socially complex corvids are mastering the winds.

Yes, in summer, all that’s local becomes very much alive. There are squawks and screams drawing attention to glorious raptors. And there’s sky-watching that brings sheer joy in seeing other fabulously intelligent birds working their magic.

Yep, summer’s here, finally.

— Diana

A Team Of Two

Friday, June 12, 2026

A month has passed since my mare, Rosie, died.

Rosie was Sunny’s big sister. They shared the same parents and also enjoyed a long partnership with me. Rosie was the boss mare, the decision-maker, the horse who always seemed to know where we were going and, quite clearly, had opinions about what we were doing. Sunny was content to follow Rosie’s lead. For years, that arrangement worked well for all of us.

Then suddenly, it didn’t.

After Rosie was gone, I found myself facing a practical question about horses as herd animals. Should I find another equine companion for Sunny? At my advanced age, is it sensible to take on another animal? Or, better yet, could I find ways to keep Sunny active, engaged, and interested in life as a solitary horse?

I chose the latter, at least for now.

Sunny is twenty-two years old. She is healthy and appears sound. She and I have established a routine. Each day, I lunge her at a trot, changing directions every ten minutes, for a total of about forty minutes. Afterwards, she receives her reward: time on grass or other small freedoms that she clearly enjoys. I’ve also been riding her, though only at a walk. Because I’m focused on maintaining my own balance, she carries me patiently and without complaint.

I’ve hoped we could start driving again. But Sunny hasn’t pulled a carriage in about four years. Before considering a return to driving, I asked my veterinarian to evaluate her. He watched her trot on a lead line and then observed her on the lunge. He also knew Sunny from years ago, which added value to his assessment. His conclusion was encouraging. He found her doing well and started her on Adequan, a medication intended to support joint health.

Something unexpected has happened during this month of working closely together.

Sunny is paying more attention to me.

Perhaps that’s because Rosie is no longer here to command her attention. For years, Sunny’s world revolved around the older mare. Now, she looks to me more often. She seems more responsive, more connected, and more interested in what we’re doing together.

Our next step will be returning to driving.

Before that can happen, Sunny will be shod. Then we’ll begin slowly in the dry lot. Fortunately, my lot is large enough that we can make repeated circuits amounting to several miles if we wish. There, we can regain our confidence without worrying about traffic or other distractions.

And confidence is something we both need.

The truth is that Sunny may remember driving better than I do. I’m finding that I remember the broad outlines, but some of the details have become hazy. Harnessing. Hitching. The order of straps and buckles. Those little habits once seemed automatic after years of repetition. Time has a way of quietly letting such things slip away.

The dry lot will allow me to relearn my side of the partnership while Sunny relearns hers.

Eventually, if all goes well, we’ll venture through some of my neighbor’s property and out onto the neighborhood roads. We’ll drive a familiar three-mile loop that we traveled many times in years past. It’s a relatively quiet route, though today’s drivers don’t always expect to encounter a horse and carriage on the road. We’ll proceed thoughtfully, and fortunately, we needn’t be in a rush.

Over the last month, I’ve come to realize that these efforts are about more than exercise. Certainly, driving will strengthen Sunny’s muscles. It will strengthen mine as well. Yet something deeper is taking place.

Over the past year, my donkey’s adoption by a neighbor and Rosie’s death have emptied spaces in my little herd, leaving Sunny alone. Horses are herd animals. The obvious solution was to fill that empty space immediately with another equine—or perhaps some other animal that could serve as a companion.

Instead, Sunny and I are discovering what life looks like as a team of two.

At twenty-two, Sunny doesn’t need a demanding career. Neither do I. What we both need is purpose, routine, and the satisfaction that comes from doing things together.

So we’re beginning again, one careful step at a time. What’s most reassuring is knowing that neither of us is starting from scratch. From somewhere beneath the years, Sunny remembers her job. And with a little practice, I’ll remember mine better, too.

–– Diana