So summer rolled in. School got out and my teacher and I hit the road. We had big plans: to add seven more states to her list of places she'd seen, to see some old friends, meet some new ones, and lay eyes on my gorgeous 17-month old nephew for the first time since he was a newborn. Ambitious, yes, but we had the I-Pod.We left Chicago in the early afternoon (no, that was not the plan) on the fourth of July and headed south with an atlas and a playlist. Indiana and Kentucky flew by beneath cheerful patter, comfortable silence, cultural and aesthetic commentary, and good tunes. We hit the mountains in Tennessee as the sun was going down. A long dark stretch of the Senator Al Gore Memorial Highway got a little tense, courtesy of the low fuel light. We stopped just outside Knoxville, where Tory helped us find something that will soon become part of the album art for Wild Ride (Sarah B & The Gist's last studio album, in case you just got here).

A few days later, we headed up to Virginia Beach, a first for both of us. We camped at a great state park on the bay, where it proceeded to rain like a sumbitch. We bought 99-cent springy rings at the gift shop and stayed soaked till we realized it was only raining under the trees at our campsite. The next day it was Tory's turn; she wore herself out chasing sticks into the water and trying to avoid the sand crabs (ok, she's a bit of a wuss).

The next morning we were off again, across the Chesapeake Bridge/Tunnel, which is a cool ride if you've never done it. And we headed up to Maryland where my gorgeous nephew (did I mention he's smart?) was waiting.

It's not that unusual for me to see something on a road trip that prompts a rant. This one, though, struck me silent. All I could manage was to request that we stop for a photo.

If you do not find this photo either appalling or funny in a South Park kinda way,

click here

So I have to admit this was still in my head, and caused me some trepidation the next day as we headed off to Assateague Island. For those of you who were not obsessed with horses as pre-teen girls (perhaps you were never even a pre-teen girl), Assateague and Chicoteague Islands, off the Maryland shore, were both populated by wild ponies when the Europeans arrived to stake their claim to this continent. Chincoteague has since become an amusement park, but Assateague was designated a preserve, and although there's camping and beach, there are also still wild ponies.

I can't answer some questions like how did the ponies get on the island, and there must be fresh water on the island somewhere, right? Honestly, I was prepared to be disgusted. To see that wild didn't mean wild anymore, that the whole thing was like some big cheesy petting zoo profiting only the (presumably) old white guys pocketing the proceeds of the state of Maryland.

On the way, my sister told me they'd had to evacuate the beach the week before because the ponies stampeded, and I was encouraged. My bubble was prepared to burst, though, when I saw a guy letting his little girl pet a pony on the side of the road as we drove in. I thought, if they're wild, he's a fool. If they're not, well, it breaks my heart.

We went to the beach where our beach-neighbors, who belonged to a Golden Retriever, lent Tory a ball that floats. She was in seventh heaven till she encountered her first wave, which dunked her completely. She played on valiantly, however. As we were leaving, my teacher said "but we really haven't seen any horses. I wanna see some horses."

I remember thinking to myself that it seemed better that they wanted nothing to do with us. This turns out to be about my limited imagination of "better".

It was a bully move if I ever saw one. I was thrilled.

 

And so, my friends, despite our peace tokens, despite global warming and the pipelines and our invasion of the middle east, the ponies on Assateague Island are still indeed, wild. Wiser than they should have had to be, perhaps, but still at it.

Stay the course.

Peace,