Spur Community

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Today was the day of the horse auction, and man, was I excited—but also nervous. I had already seen several of the catalogs and knew what breeds were going to be there, but I had no idea about the horses' personalities. What if I won a horse and it just wasn't a true match for our establishment? What if it didn't fit in with the others, or worse, what if I couldn't bring out its full potential? The "what ifs" swirled in my mind as I drove to the auction, a mix of excitement and trepidation growing with every mile.

I kept wondering how I would know if a horse was right for us just from a few moments in the auction ring. A horse's temperament is so crucial to our work, and while physical traits are easy to assess, the connection between a horse and its handler is something you can't always predict. Would I be able to see that spark, that potential, in such a short time? I couldn't shake the fear of making a mistake, of bringing home a horse that might not thrive here.

But then, as I arrived and the auctions began, that nervous energy turned into a sort of focused determination. I realized that part of the thrill is in the unknown—trusting my instincts, honed over years, to guide me to the right choices. I reminded myself that every horse has something to offer; it's just a matter of finding the right way to bring it out.

The horse auction grounds were a bustling hub of activity, with a mixture of excitement and anticipation hanging in the air. The facility itself was expansive, designed to handle the ebb and flow of buyers, sellers, and the horses that were the stars of the event.

At the center of the complex was the auction ring, a large, circular arena surrounded by tiered seating that allowed a clear view from every angle. The ring's surface was a soft mixture of dirt and sand, ensuring a safe footing for the horses as they were paraded in front of potential buyers. The seating was packed with spectators, their eyes fixed on the horses being presented. Above, a small, elevated platform housed the auctioneer, whose rapid-fire calls echoed through the space, driving the bidding higher and higher.

To one side of the auction ring lay the stables, a series of long, rectangular barns that housed the horses before they were brought into the ring. These stables were practical and well-maintained, with rows of spacious stalls, each labeled with the horse's name and lot number. The stalls were clean, with fresh bedding and ample water, providing a comfortable environment for the horses to rest. The barns themselves were constructed of sturdy wood, their high ceilings allowing for excellent ventilation.
Before the auction began, buyers wandered through the viewing areas, a series of open walkways that ran between the stables. Here, the horses were brought out of their stalls by handlers, allowing potential buyers to get a closer look. These areas were lively, filled with the sounds of horses' hooves, the murmur of conversations, and the occasional whinny. The horses were led in small paddocks just outside the barns, where they could be walked or trotted to showcase their movement and temperament.

Near the entrance to the grounds, there were a few smaller buildings that housed the auction offices. These were where buyers could register, pick up catalogues, and handle any paperwork. The buildings were simple but functional, with a steady stream of people moving in and out, finalizing their bids or making payments.

After registering and grabbing the catalogs, I headed straight for the pony stalls. I had a number of Quarter Ponies on my list and was hoping to bring at least two home. I didn't anticipate the sheer number of good-looking ponies, but I had to resist bidding on the ones that were outside of my criteria. Buckskins, Bay Duns, Tobianos—you name the colour/markings, and they were probably there.

Each pony was brought out for viewing, and I managed to see some of the ones from my list. They would be under the auction lights later on, so I had time to check out everything else. With those checked off, I headed toward the Thoroughbred rings, just in time to see the black beauties that were calling my name. I bid on five, but I was really interested in the young prospect filly.

On The Rox caught my eye immediately. Her sleek black coat gleamed under the auction house lights, but it was her eyes that drew me in—deep, intelligent, and curious. Even as a yearling, there was something about her posture that spoke of potential. I imagined what she might look like in a few years—strong and proud—and I knew I had to bring her home. She was from flat racing parents, so I knew she had the potential for a flat racing career if trained right.

After seeing On The Rox in the ring, I knew I had to make a bid. Her presence was undeniable, and as the auctioneer started the bidding, my heart began to race. It felt like the entire room was zeroing in on her, and I could sense that I wasn't the only one who recognized her potential. The bidding started low, but it quickly escalated, each new bid driving my determination higher.

As the numbers climbed, I felt a mix of excitement and tension. What if I pushed too far and regretted it later? But the more I watched her, the more convinced I became that she was worth it. With each nod to raise my bid, the stakes felt higher. The auctioneer's voice became a blur, the rapid-fire numbers barely registering as I kept my focus on On The Rox, standing so calmly in the ring, almost as if she knew she was meant to come home with me.

When the hammer finally fell, and the auctioneer called out my winning bid, I felt an incredible rush of relief and exhilaration. I had won. On The Rox was mine. There was a moment of disbelief, as if I couldn't quite believe that I'd actually secured her. But as the reality set in, a wave of satisfaction washed over me. I could already see her future here at the station, thriving under our care.

Winning the bid felt like the culmination of all the emotions I'd been wrestling with throughout the day—excitement, anxiety, determination. In the end, it was all worth it. I couldn't wait to get her home and start our journey together.

As the adrenaline from winning On The Rox began to wash away, I decided to grab a bite to eat from a nearby food stand. Bidding on horses is hungry work! With snacks in hand, I wandered around and happened to stumble across the Working Equitation ring. A few breeds caught my eye, and though I placed bids on some, I didn't win any of those. I hadn't grabbed the catalogs for the Working Equitation horses, so I wasn't expecting anything to really stand out—until the Quarter Ponies came into the ring.

I wasn't expecting to see a Grulla stallion, Velvet Shadow, and a Black mare, Wild Serendipity, both in the intermediate stage of competition. My WE horses at home are only level one, so it would be a new experience to work with ponies that already know what they're doing. Plus, I could always rely on my skilled trainers if needed. The bidding wars for these two got my adrenaline pumping again, but in the end, I won them both. Let's hope these two make great additions to the team.

As the day wore on, I decided to take the evening off. A good night's sleep would do me some good. Some of the Quarter Ponies I had viewed earlier weren't scheduled for the auction ring until the next day, so I had some time to myself.

The next day, the auction grounds were a hive of activity, just like the day before. I arrived just before the Quarter Ponies bidding started, found a seat close to the ring, and waited with bated breath for things to begin. And boy, did things start happening. One by one, the ponies were brought out, and I began bidding. It was a bit challenging to keep up at times, but in the end, I came away with more ponies than I had anticipated—ten to be exact. Two of them were Small Pony Racers. I already have flat-racing Thoroughbreds, so why not start a little pony racing team? The others were a mix of Western ponies, adding some variety to the group.

The very last auction of the day was for the Quarter Horses. By that stage, I'd lost count of who I'd won and what breeds and disciplines were left, but I stayed for one last bid. I placed bids here and there on a select few, not realizing that I had bid on a hunter Quarter Horse. Looks like I'm going down the English route now, too. It's a good thing I have an old English saddle from my parents, and if that doesn't fit, there's always SaddleCraft in town to get one made.

I also bid on a Western pleasure Quarter Horse. I liked how the mare moved in the viewing ring the day before. I'm not usually one for bidding on Western Pleasure horses lately because of the movement in some of them, but this mare had a natural action that caught my eye. Her name is Machine Gunner. There wasn't much interest in her, so the auction was over pretty quickly. Their loss is my gain.

As I stepped into the office to make my payments, I reflected on the past two days. Overall, it was a huge success—I think I won 15 horses, a lot more than I had planned. But I'm very happy and excited to start working with each one and to bring out the potential that I know they have.

A quick call back to the station ensured everything was in order. I let them know what was happening and began organizing transportation for the lot. Space was already made available, so that wasn't an issue. Now, it's just a matter of getting them home and settled in.

Once the horses are home and settled into their paddocks, the real work will begin. Over the next few weeks, I'll be assessing each horse's strengths and temperament to develop personalized training plans. Velvet Shadow and Wild Serendipity will get right to work with the more advanced exercises, while On The Rox will be introduced to a structured routine that matches her potential as a future racer. The Small Pony Racers will start training on the track, and I'll have to brush up on my English riding skills for the hunter Quarter Horse. It's going to be a busy time at the station, but I'm excited to see how these new additions will grow and contribute to our team.

Winter had been long, cold, and, at times, downright miserable at Southern Lights Station. The staff had battled frosty mornings, endless rain, and the ever-present mud that seemed to stick to everything. The horses had grown thick coats, and the cattle huddled together for warmth, while the dogs spent more time curled up by the fire than chasing each other through the paddocks.

But today, there was a different feeling in the air. The calendar marked the last day of winter, and despite the lingering chill, there was a sense of anticipation, a quiet excitement that had been building for weeks. Everyone at the station was ready to say goodbye to the gloom of winter and welcome the warmth and renewal that spring would bring.

As the sun began to peek through the clouds, casting a soft, golden light over the station, Emma, the youngest rider, had an idea. "Why don't we have a little fun today?" she suggested, her eyes bright with mischief. "We've been slogging through winter for months—let's send it off with a bang."

The idea caught on quickly. Soon, the entire staff was involved in organizing an impromptu winter celebration—a way to shake off the last remnants of the winter blues and embrace the promise of spring. They decided on a friendly competition, something to get everyone moving and laughing again.

The horses, too, seemed to pick up on the change in mood. They were brought out of their stalls, saddled up, and led into the arena, where the riders had set up a series of fun, low-stakes challenges. There were relay races, obstacle courses, and even a bit of synchronized riding—nothing too serious, just enough to get everyone smiling and enjoying themselves again.

Old Ted, the station's sage, even dusted off his old roping skills for a quick demonstration, much to the delight of the younger riders. Rex and Sarah took part in a mock reining competition, showing off their skills while intentionally adding a few exaggerated moves to keep the mood light.

Laughter echoed across the paddocks as everyone participated, the horses seeming to enjoy the break from the usual routine just as much as the riders. The dogs chased after stray balls and sticks, barking joyfully as they joined in the festivities. Even the chickens got in on the action, pecking curiously at the obstacle course setup.

As the day went on, the sun climbed higher in the sky, and the chill in the air began to fade. The sense of camaraderie that had been buried under the winter blues began to re-emerge. By the time the sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange, everyone felt lighter, more energized. The gloom of winter was finally lifting.

That evening, the staff gathered around the fire pit, sharing stories and toasting to the end of winter. They talked about their hopes for the coming spring, the new foals and calves they'd soon welcome, and the warmer days they'd spend out on the trails. The mood was one of gratitude and relief—they had made it through another winter, and now, brighter days were just around the corner.

As the fire crackled and the stars began to appear in the clear night sky, there was a shared sense of accomplishment. Winter had tested them, but they had come through stronger, closer, and more ready than ever to embrace the new season.

And so, as the last embers of the fire began to fade, the riders and staff of Southern Lights Station looked forward to the first day of spring, ready to leave the winter blues behind and welcome the warmth and renewal that spring would bring.

Since acquiring a hunter Quarter Horse, my journey down the hunter route has begun. This is one of those times I really wish I had my parents around to ask questions—they had so much more knowledge about English riding and saddle fitting than I do.

I took the trek out to the old barn where all the tack was stored, rummaged around, and found the old English saddle. Dust had settled on the blanket covering it, but underneath, the saddle was in decent shape with a bit of wear and tear. It looked okay from a glance. But would fit - that was the question.

I brought it back to the main stables, placed it on the tack bay rack, and went to fetch New Jac City. He was a gorgeous black stallion—honest, quirky, but practical. Just the type of horse I like.

As I led New Jac City into the stable, his sleek black coat glistened in the soft morning light, a testament to his power and grace. I couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement—this stallion was going to be something special in the Show Hunter ring. But first, we needed a saddle that could accommodate not just him, but also the three of us who would be working, riding, and competing with him.

Placing my parents' old saddle on Jac's back, I immediately noticed the problem. It didn't sit quite right—it was too tight around his shoulders and perched uncomfortably high at the withers. My heart sank. The saddle had been a part of my family's history, but it was clear that it wasn't going to work for Jac, especially not with three different riders needing to use it.

"Need some help?" Lena's voice broke into my thoughts. She approached with her usual confident stride, her sharp eye already taking in the saddle's fit. Lena had a natural talent for spotting issues with tack, and her years of experience in Show Hunter made her input invaluable.

"I was really hoping this old saddle would do the trick," I admitted, stroking Jac's neck as he shifted under the unfamiliar weight. "But it's not just about me—this saddle needs to work for all of us, and I'm not sure it can."

Lena nodded, her brow furrowing slightly as she examined the saddle. "You're right, Jewel. For a horse like Jac, especially in Show Hunter, comfort and fit are everything. And with all three of us riding him, we need something that's versatile enough to suit our different styles and body types, without compromising his movement."

Just then, Emma joined us, her curiosity piqued by our conversation. "What's going on?" she asked, glancing at the saddle with a thoughtful expression.

"This old saddle doesn't seem to fit Jac well," I explained. "And since all three of us will be riding and competing with him, we need to find something new that works for everyone."

Emma nodded in understanding. "Yeah, we'll need something that's comfortable for Jac but also allows each of us to ride our best. I'm excited to get him into the Show Hunter ring, but not with a saddle that's going to hold him back."

Lena sighed, sharing the sentiment. "Looks like we're heading to SaddleCraft," she suggested with a small smile. "We'll take our time and find something that fits Jac perfectly and works for all of us. A saddle is a big investment, but it's worth it to make sure he's comfortable and that we're all able to ride effectively."

A short drive later, we arrived at SaddleCraft, the go-to place for all our equestrian needs. The shop was packed with beautifully crafted saddles, each one promising a different experience in the saddle. The scent of new leather filled the air, and we were immediately drawn into the process of finding the perfect fit.

"We need something with a wider tree for Jac's shoulders," Lena said, examining one of the saddles. "But it also needs to have an adjustable or semi-deep seat, something that can accommodate different leg lengths and riding positions."

Emma was already running her hands over a nearby saddle, her eyes wide with interest. "This one looks like it has a more neutral seat—do you think that could work for all of us?"

"Let's get a few different options," I suggested, pulling down another saddle that caught my eye. "We'll take them back to the station and give them a test run. It's the only way to be sure."

We selected a few saddles and headed back to Southern Lights, eager to see how they would work with Jac. Each saddle was carefully fitted to Jac's back, and then each of us took a turn riding him, paying close attention to how it felt.

The first saddle had a nice wide tree, but the seat was too deep for Lena's style, making her feel boxed in. The second saddle fit Jac well and worked for Emma, but I felt like it threw off my balance, especially during transitions.

Finally, we tried the last saddle—a beautifully made piece that struck a balance between support and flexibility. The tree was wide enough for Jac's shoulders, and the seat was neutral enough to accommodate our different leg lengths and riding styles. I mounted up first, feeling an immediate difference in how Jac moved beneath me. He was smooth and relaxed, with no signs of discomfort.

"This feels good," I said, guiding Jac through a series of transitions and a few hunter-style jumps. "It's secure but doesn't restrict my movement."

Lena was next, taking Jac through a series of patterns. "It's definitely versatile," she agreed. "I can see this working for all three of us, without compromising our different riding styles."

Emma was last, her excitement barely contained as she mounted up. After a few minutes, she was beaming. "This is perfect! I feel totally in sync with him. It's like the saddle just disappears beneath me."

We all agreed that this was the one. The saddle offered the perfect balance, allowing each of us to ride comfortably and effectively while ensuring Jac's comfort. As we walked back to the tack area with Jac in tow, a sense of relief washed over me—finding the right saddle had been a team effort, and now we were ready to start training in earnest.

With the new saddle safely stored in the tack room, we looked forward to the journey ahead. The three of us, along with New Jac City, were ready to take on the Show Hunter world, confident that we had the right tools—and the right team—to succeed.

Part 1: The Morning at Southern Lights Station

The day started early at Southern Lights Station, with the kind of buzz that only comes before a big event like race day. The crisp morning air was filled with the sounds of clattering hooves, excited chatter, and the rustling of tack being loaded into the truck.

Sophie and Melissa were practically bouncing around the yard, their energy contagious as they got their ponies ready. Midnight Whispers, Sophie's smoky black Quarter Pony stallion, stood patiently at 11.3 hands, flicking his ears at the commotion. Beside him, Shez Slick, Melissa's sleek black Quarter Pony mare, looked just as ready, standing at 12.3 hands.

Maggie and Sarah, our racing experts, were calmly overseeing everything, offering instructions between sips of coffee. Their years of experience brought a sense of steady control to the morning.

"Do you have everything, girls? Helmets? Boots? Numbers?" Maggie asked, her sharp eyes scanning the gear being loaded.

"Yep!" Sophie chirped, her face flushed with excitement. "I've double-checked everything!"

"Same here," Melissa added, though her voice was quieter. She was always the more focused of the two, taking her time to make sure her saddle and bridle were placed just right.

Jewel, who had been busy helping organize the tack and loading up the truck, smiled as she watched the scene unfold. "You two ready for the big day?" she asked, leaning against the trailer as the girls walked their ponies over.

Sophie grinned, her hand resting on Midnight Whispers' sleek neck. "More than ready! We've been practicing for weeks!"

"Don't forget to breathe out there," Sarah added with a wink. "It's all about keeping calm and trusting your ponies."

After what felt like hours of organizing tack, brushing the ponies one last time, and double-checking the gear, the trailer was finally loaded. The excitement bubbled in the girls as they clambered into the truck, ready to make their way to the pony races.


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Part 2: Race Day Begins

Arriving at the racegrounds was like stepping into a whole new world. The energy was palpable as ponies of all colors and sizes milled about, their young riders buzzing with excitement and nerves.

"Right, let's get the ponies unloaded and settled," Maggie said, taking charge. The girls jumped into action, working quickly but carefully under the watchful eyes of Sarah and Jewel.

Once Midnight Whispers and Shez Slick were unloaded, they stood calmly as Sophie and Melissa tacked them up, their nervous energy showing through in the way they fiddled with the straps and double-checked the girths.

"You girls are going to do great," Jewel reassured them as they headed toward the starting area. "You've trained for this—just focus on your ponies, and the rest will come naturally."

With everything in place, it was time for the first event: The Trot Race. This was all about control—encouraging the riders to manage their ponies' gaits, keeping them in a trot without breaking into a canter.


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The Trot Race

The starting signal rang out, and the ponies began trotting forward, their small hooves kicking up dust as they moved smoothly along the track. Sophie and Melissa held steady, their hands light on the reins as they focused on keeping Midnight Whispers and Shez Slick in rhythm.

At one point, Midnight Whispers started to quicken his pace, eager to break into a canter, but Sophie, with gentle hands and a soft voice, reined him back in. "Easy, boy," she whispered, her focus unwavering.

Meanwhile, Melissa's face was set in concentration as Shez Slick maintained a perfect trot, her movements steady and controlled. It was clear she and the mare were in sync, gliding across the track with precision.

Both girls finished without breaking their ponies' stride, earning applause from the spectators and praise from Maggie and Sarah.


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The Flat Race

Next up was the Flat Race, a test of speed and stamina. The ponies lined up at the starting line, and the air buzzed with anticipation.

"This one's about speed, girls," Maggie reminded them as they took their places. "Let the ponies go, but remember to stay light in the saddle and balanced."

The signal went off, and with a surge of excitement, the ponies bolted from the starting line. Midnight Whispers shot forward, his smoky black coat gleaming as Sophie urged him on, her small frame hunkered low over his neck.

Not far behind, Shez Slick powered forward with surprising speed for her size. Melissa, usually the quiet one, wore a look of fierce determination as she leaned into the race, guiding Shez Slick with confidence.

The two ponies flew down the track, the finish line approaching fast. Midnight Whispers edged ahead, but Shez Slick wasn't far behind, her black coat a blur of motion.

When they crossed the finish line, it was by a nose—Midnight Whispers barely taking the lead. Both Sophie and Melissa were breathless but grinning, their eyes wide with exhilaration as they congratulated each other.


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The Steeplechase

The final event was the most thrilling of all—the Steeplechase. This race required the ponies to leap over fences while maintaining a safe, controlled pace. It was the ultimate test of agility, trust, and bravery.

Sophie and Melissa took their positions, nerves and excitement written all over their faces.

"Remember your training," Sarah reminded them. "Take the fences at a safe speed, and don't push the ponies too hard. It's all about balance and timing."

The race began, and the ponies approached the first fence. Midnight Whispers took the jump gracefully, clearing it with room to spare. Sophie's heart leapt with him, but she stayed focused, keeping her hands steady and her eyes forward.

Shez Slick was equally impressive, jumping smoothly under Melissa's careful guidance. They approached each fence with precision, Melissa's confidence growing with each successful leap.

As they neared the final stretch, the crowd's cheers grew louder. The girls and their ponies gave it their all, clearing the last fence with grace and speed.

Both ponies crossed the finish line with cheers from the crowd and pats from their proud riders. It didn't matter who won—the excitement of the day, the bond between pony and rider, and the sheer joy of competing were the true rewards.


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After the Races

As the day wound down and the ponies were loaded back into the trailer, Sophie and Melissa couldn't stop chattering about the day's events. They'd done it—their first official pony races, with Maggie and Sarah's expert guidance, and they were already thinking about the next one.

Back at the station, after a long day of excitement and accomplishment, Jewel reflected on the success of the day. It was more than just about winning races; it was about the pride in seeing two young riders grow, learn, and thrive alongside their ponies.

And as the sun set on Southern Lights Station, the feeling of accomplishment lingered in the air, ready to fuel tomorrow's dreams.

It's the end of another Market Day, and here I am, lying in bed, reflecting on everything that happened. I woke up early, as usual. Emma, Melissa, Sophie, and I had packed the truck last night, making sure we had everything ready for our stall. Packing always feels like a game of Tetris, but with more manure and less fun. Still, by dawn, we were on the road.

The girls were buzzing with excitement, talking about all the things they'd buy with their pocket money. Melissa had her eye on some handmade jewelry, and Sophie was already dreaming of bakery treats. I enjoyed their chatter, but I couldn't shake this feeling about the weather. The sky looked grey, and the wind had started to pick up on the drive—just enough to make me uneasy. I hope this wind doesn't cause any trouble, I thought. Famous last words, right?

When we arrived, the market was already busy. Vendors were setting up, birds were singing, and the whole place had its usual lively energy. The girls helped unload the truck, eager to set up the fresh vegetables, eggs, and our infamous manure. You'd think we were selling gold with how people flock to our manure—maybe I should start calling it "black gold." Not long after we finished, the girls were off, ready to explore. How could I say no to their excitement?

Business was steady in the morning. Customers came by, chatting about their gardens and stocking up on our manure. Jack, from the neighboring farm, had his own compost, and as always, we exchanged some friendly banter about whose was better. He suggested a little competition—who could sell the most by noon. Of course, I couldn't resist. I swear, if we were selling air, Jack would still find a way to make it a contest.

But the wind wasn't letting up. I could feel it tugging at the tent more and more, and every so often, I had to re-tie the ropes just to be sure. Something was coming, I could feel it. Is this wind going to get worse? I thought to myself.

Sure enough, it did. Just as the girls returned, bags in hand and pockets emptied, the wind really kicked up. What started as a few gusts turned into a full-on windstorm. Vendors were scrambling to hold down their stalls, and right across from us, a fruit and veggie stall got the worst of it. One corner of their tent flew loose, sending crates of apples rolling across the ground like marbles.

It was chaos for a minute, with everyone rushing to help. I could feel the wind trying to lift everything away. I thought about tying myself to the tent, just in case we all got swept up like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. Thankfully, we managed to get the tent secured before it completely collapsed, but by then, my nerves were shot.

When we got back to our own stall, a few bags of manure had spilled across the ground. The girls jumped right in to help clean up, laughing the whole time. "Famous manure indeed," I joked, watching as the wind tried to scatter it across the entire market. Even Jack came over, grinning as we scrambled to scoop the compost back into the bags. "Looks like Mother Nature's giving me a fighting chance," he said, and honestly, I had to agree.

Despite the wind, we kept things going, and by noon, the tally was in—Emma and I had just barely beaten Jack in our little competition. The girls were thrilled, and I couldn't help but smile. It might've been a bit chaotic, but we'd still had a good time. A small victory after a hectic morning.

As the wind finally started to calm down, I took a walk around the market while Emma held down the fort. It felt good to stretch my legs after all that tension. I picked up a few treats for the dogs and horses back at the station. Joey will probably insist on getting his share too, hopping around the garden like he's one of the dogs.

Then I stumbled across a photography stall. The photos on display were stunning, especially the ones of horses. The photographer really had a gift for capturing their spirit. We got to talking, and before I knew it, I'd arranged for a session at the station with all the staff, horses, and dogs. And, if they're feeling cooperative, maybe Joey, Wombat, and Snowy will make an appearance. I can already picture it—Joey stealing the spotlight, Wombat pretending not to care, and Snowy dive-bombing the photographer from the railings. If we end up with any usable photos, it'll be a miracle.

When I got back to the stall, Sophie and Melissa were finishing up, handing out the last bags of manure. Despite the earlier chaos, they were still full of energy, chatting away with the customers and drawing people in with their stories. I couldn't help but feel proud of how well they handled the day.

As we packed up the truck to head home, the wind had finally died down. It was almost peaceful—not like the usual chaos at the station with Joey hopping through the garden, Snowy squawking his opinions from the railings, and Wombat quietly judging everything from a distance. Just the wind today, and frankly, that was trouble enough.

The girls were tired but still chatting non-stop on the drive home about their pony races and market adventures. I couldn't help but smile, feeling proud of them—and of how we managed to handle the day, wind and all.

Now that I'm home and reflecting on it, I feel a sense of accomplishment. We sold our manure, shared some laughs, and came home with a few new stories. It was a market day full of surprises, but in the end, a good one. I'm already looking forward to the next one—though I'll definitely be keeping an eye on the weather next time.

I remember it like it was yesterday, even though I was only six years old at the time. Mum and I were out on one of our regular horse rides, checking the fences and making sure the cattle were grazing where they should be. That summer had been a harsh one—the heat relentless and the water at an all-time low. We hadn't seen rain in weeks, and the paddocks were dry and cracked underfoot. The creek beds, usually flowing with life, were dried up and barren.

We rode down to one of those creek beds that day, just to check on the far end of the property. It was quiet, almost eerily so. I remember the sun beating down, making the landscape shimmer like a mirage. As we rode through the brittle grass, something caught Mum's eye—a movement down by the dried creek.

At first, I thought it was just a kangaroo, or maybe a stray cow, but as we got closer, I saw it. A tiny foal, barely able to stand, its legs trembling under the weight of its own body. It was unlike any horse I had seen at the station—wild and scruffy, with a tangled mane and a coat that was caked with dust and dirt. It was a Brumby foal, no doubt, but what struck me most was that it was all alone.

Mum dismounted first, her expression shifting from curiosity to concern as we approached. I followed her lead, sliding down from my horse's back and tiptoeing closer to the foal. It looked so weak, its big brown eyes staring at us, wide with fear and confusion.

"Where's its mother?" I asked in a small voice, glancing around. There were no signs of another horse nearby, no movement in the trees. It was just us and the helpless foal, stranded in the middle of nowhere.

Mum knelt beside the little Brumby, her hand gently brushing its dusty coat. "She's not here," she said softly, her voice tinged with sadness. "It's been left behind."

I didn't fully understand what that meant at the time, but the weight of those words hung in the air. Mum explained that sometimes, in harsh conditions like the drought we were in, wild horses would abandon their weakest foals, unable to care for them when resources were scarce. My heart broke for the little thing. It was alone, and without help, it wouldn't survive.

"What do we do, Mum?" I remember asking, my young mind racing with worry.

Mum stood up, looking at the foal for a long moment before she made a decision. "We're taking it home," she said firmly, and that was that.

We didn't have a halter with us, so Mum fashioned a makeshift lead from some rope she had in her saddlebag. The foal was hesitant at first, but eventually, it followed us, stumbling after Mum and our horses as we made our way back to Southern Lights Station.

When we got home, the whole staff sprang into action. I remember watching as they set up a stall for the foal, bringing buckets of water and hay, though it was clear the little Brumby needed more than that. It was dehydrated and weak, and we weren't sure if it would make it through the night. Mum called the vet, who came out later that day to check on the foal. He told us what we already knew—it would need round-the-clock care.

For the next few weeks, that foal became the center of our lives. I named him Dusty, because of the way his coat looked when we found him, though over time, his true coloring began to show—a beautiful, deep chestnut with a wild mane that never quite tamed itself. We bottle-fed him, cared for him, and watched as he slowly grew stronger. Every morning, I'd run out to the stables to see him, my heart leaping with joy every time he stood a little taller or took a few more confident steps.

Dusty grew into a strong, independent horse, though the wildness in his eyes never quite left. He was a Brumby through and through, even though he had become part of our family at Southern Lights. And though he wasn't a working horse, he and I shared a special bond. He trusted me in a way he didn't trust anyone else.

I remember one particular day when I was around 10, Mum and I were out in the paddocks with Dusty. He had grown into such a strong, handsome horse by then, but his wild spirit still shone through. Mum was nearby, keeping an eye on us, but I knew she was letting me have my moment. Without a saddle or bridle, just a simple rope looped around his neck, I climbed onto Dusty's back. He stood still as I settled onto him, and with a gentle nudge, he began to move.

Riding him bareback like that, I could feel every muscle as he moved beneath me. It was a slow walk at first, but soon he picked up the pace, his ears flicking back as if listening for my next cue. We didn't need much more than that rope—he trusted me, and I trusted him. It felt like the ultimate connection, that silent communication between us, and I could feel Mum's proud gaze on me the entire time.

As Dusty and I made our way across the paddock, the sun setting behind us, Mum finally spoke. "You've come a long way together, you two," she said softly, smiling at us both. "Not every Brumby finds a person they trust like that."

Looking back now, I think that moment was when I truly understood the bond we had built over the years. Dusty never lost his wildness, but with me, he found a sense of trust that was unshakable. He let me ride him with nothing but a rope and a quiet word, and that was more than I ever could've asked for.

Dusty stayed with us for years. He was never a working horse, but he became a part of our family, and his wild spirit was a constant reminder of the resilience it takes to survive in this world. I'll never forget that day by the creek bed, when we found him standing there all alone, or the countless moments of trust and connection that followed.

I'd mentioned before that I met a photographer at the market and arranged for her to come out for a session. Well, today was that day, and here's how it all unfolded.

The day started bright and early. After a quick shower and breakfast for myself and my three loyal cattle dogs—Jazzy, Ringo, and Boomer—I headed down to the stables where the rest of the team was already gathering. I had let everyone know about the photoshoot a few days ago, giving them the option to participate or not. To my surprise, they all agreed—even Old Ted and Rex, two of the least camera-friendly people I know, decided to get involved.

Everyone was gathered around the table in the tack room, talking excitedly. The air buzzed with a mixture of anticipation and curiosity. My dogs, ever loyal, sat by my feet as I addressed the room.

"Good morning, all. As you know, the photographer will be here today to capture some real moments at SLS. But this won't be a typical 'dress-up-and-pose' kind of shoot. She wants to see the station in action—to capture what really makes this place what it is. We're going to show her what a true working ranch looks like."

"Oh, so that's why you asked us to hold off on our usual routine this morning?" Alice asked with a knowing smile.

"Exactly. If anyone would like a more formal session later on, I can arrange that with her. But for today, we'll be sticking to our normal work, just as we would on any other day. And don't worry, group photos will be at the end of the day."

"I think this is her now, driving down the driveway," Emma chimed in, glancing out the window.

I nodded and took a deep breath as the sound of gravel crunching under tires echoed outside. The photographer, Chloe, had arrived right on schedule. I could see her SUV making its way down the long driveway, kicking up a small trail of dust in its wake.

"Well, let's give her a proper welcome," I said with a grin, stepping outside with the others following behind.

Chloe was a bit younger than I expected, maybe mid-twenties, with wild curly hair and a camera slung around her neck like it was an extension of her. She hopped out of the SUV, a wide smile spreading across her face.

"G'day! I hope I'm not too early," she said, her eyes scanning the station as if she were already composing shots in her head.

"Right on time, Chloe," I said, extending a hand. "Welcome to Southern Lights Station. This is the crew, and they're as ready as ever for you to capture them in their natural habitat."

The dogs, Jazzy, Ringo, and Boomer, were already circling her, tails wagging as they sniffed curiously at her gear. Chloe laughed, kneeling to give each of them a quick pat.

"They're adorable! I think they'll be perfect for some candid shots," she said, straightening up and casting her gaze over the paddocks, the barn, and the surrounding hills.

We started the day with Chloe following Alice and Emma as they went about their chores—mucking stalls, brushing down the horses, and preparing for the day's ride. The horses seemed curious about the new visitor too, ears pricking forward as Chloe moved around them, her camera clicking at regular intervals.

Old Ted and Rex were next. I wasn't sure how they'd handle being in front of the camera, but as it turned out, the two old-timers seemed to relax once Chloe blended into the background. She was good at making herself unobtrusive, letting the work take center stage. Ted was fixing a fence post while Rex saddled up one of the geldings, neither of them paying much attention to the camera as they worked in the bright morning sun.

As the day went on, Chloe captured everything—the dust kicked up by hooves as the horses were ridden in the arena, the cows being moved from one paddock to the next, and even the quiet moments when we all took a break by the water tank, sharing stories and cold drinks.

As the afternoon wore on, Chloe shifted her attention to the animals who weren't human. The dogs had been bouncing around all day, joining in wherever the action was. Jazzy, Ringo, and Boomer each had their moment in the spotlight. Chloe crouched low to capture them mid-leap, chasing after sticks or watching over the horses with unwavering loyalty. Ringo, ever the charmer, managed to sneak a lick on Chloe's lens, leaving a trail of drool behind. She just laughed and wiped it clean.

Not to be outdone, Joey the young kangaroo made an appearance, hopping lazily around the yard. Chloe's eyes lit up as she snapped away, catching Joey mid-hop with a backdrop of rolling hills. He paused near the fence for a moment, curiously watching the horses in the distance, and Chloe caught the moment of tranquility.

Wombat the wombat was next. He was a regular visitor at the station, and true to form, he ambled into the yard without a care in the world, making a beeline for his favorite shady spot. Chloe lay flat on her stomach to get the perfect angle as Wombat burrowed into the dirt, his stout little frame kicking up a cloud of dust.

And of course, Snowy the cockatoo wasn't going to be left out of the fun. He fluttered onto a nearby fencepost, his bright white feathers catching the afternoon sun as he let out a sharp whistle. Chloe managed to catch him with his crest flared, wings slightly spread—a perfect moment of avian attitude.

It wasn't until late afternoon that she asked for the group shot. By then, the sun was casting long shadows across the property, bathing Southern Lights Station in a golden glow. We gathered by the stables, the dogs sitting at our feet, the horses grazing in the background. Chloe positioned us just right, taking a few shots before asking us to relax and act like ourselves. Snowy perched on Old Ted's shoulder, much to his dismay, and Joey hopped over to sit between Jake and Emma. Chloe positioned herself carefully, taking a few test shots before calling out, "Alright, on three! One, two... three!"

The camera clicked, capturing the spirit of Southern Lights Station in one perfect moment—a place where work and life, humans and animals, all came together to create something special.

"Perfect," she said after a few final clicks. "That's the one. You're going to love how these turn out."

As she packed up her gear, I couldn't help but feel a sense of pride swelling in my chest. Southern Lights Station, my family's legacy, had always felt like home, but seeing it through Chloe's lens made me realize just how beautiful and unique this place truly was.

"Well, that's a wrap for today," Chloe said with a grin. "I'll send the proofs over soon. Thanks again for letting me capture the essence of this place. It's truly something special."

As Chloe drove away, I lingered a moment longer, watching the sun dip below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the land. Southern Lights Station had its challenges, sure, but it was moments like today that reminded me why I loved it here. It wasn't just the horses, the work, or even the breathtaking scenery—it was the people and the animals, the stories we were all living and creating together. This place wasn't just home; it was a legacy. And through Chloe's lens, I could see just how special it truly was.

You know what I love about the end of the day? It's those quiet moments, moments when time seems to just stop. I'm sitting on my mother's old rocking chair with a notebook and pen on the verandah, watching and listening as the world around me continues on. There's a gentle breeze rustling through the gum trees, the distant call of a cockatoo, and the soft sounds of the horses shifting in their paddocks.

Taking it all in, I can't help but reflect on the day. Nothing out of the ordinary—thank goodness. The usual routine: feeding the horses, checking the cattle, and making sure everything on the station is as it should be. But it's these moments of calm I love the most. It's as if the whole station, with all its hustle and hard work, takes a breath with me. Everything fades away for just a little while.

The sun is sinking lower now, casting a soft golden light over the land, making the paddocks glow. Jazzy, Ringo, and Boomer are lying at my feet, their tails occasionally thumping as they dream. Joey, the young kangaroo, hops lazily along the fence line, probably heading back to his favorite spot for the night. The horses, their silhouettes standing still against the fading light, seem just as content as I am.

Time feels different in these moments—slower, more deliberate. It's like the world knows that after a long day, we all need a pause. The chores will start again tomorrow, the cattle will need moving, and there's always a fence to mend or a horse to work with. But right now, in this moment, none of that matters.

I love this part of the day. When it's just me, the station, and the sounds of nature settling in for the night. It's a reminder that no matter how hard the day has been, there's always a moment at the end where time stands still, and everything feels right again.

This morning—and the entire day, really—was a strange one in terms of weather. Spring has its moments of oddness, just like any other season. You can never be sure what the day will bring until you're in it. We don't always trust the weather forecast on the news; it's often slightly off.

It started with a drizzle and a thick fog settling in. I was out feeding the horses and checking on the cattle with Tom and Alice when we heard a loud crack. We all turned to each other—definitely a tree coming down somewhere. The animals around us didn't seem spooked, so it must've been in the distance.

The dogs and Joey, our semi-tame kangaroo, had been joyfully playing around when they suddenly stopped and perked up. Without warning, they took off in the direction of the noise, disappearing into the fog before we could call them back.

Tom and Alice exchanged glances—curious and concerned. We decided to follow the dogs, hoping they hadn't gotten themselves into trouble. The fog made it difficult to see more than a few meters ahead, and the drizzle had turned the ground slick underfoot, but we pushed on, guided by the occasional bark or the soft thud of Joey's bounding.

As we walked, the eerie stillness of the morning hung in the air, broken only by the distant sound of raindrops pattering against the leaves. It was one of those moments where the station felt both familiar and mysterious, as if it held secrets just out of reach.

I quickly called back to the main stables to let them know what was happening and that we might be delayed. As we headed further into the wilderness, the drizzle lightened and the fog began to lift, revealing patches of the landscape. That's when we saw the tree—an old gum, split right down the middle—blocking a narrow path. The dogs and Joey were already there, barking and circling a spot just beyond the fallen branches. As we approached, I saw why.

Just beyond the tree was one of our cows, a familiar face from the herd, looking distressed as she called out toward a motionless form on the other side of the tree—a newborn calf, barely a few hours old. The tree had separated them, with the mother on one side and the calf stranded on the other.

Alice knelt beside the calf, checking it over. "Poor thing must've been born right before the tree came down," she murmured. "It's cold, but it's alive."

"We need to get them back to the herd," Tom said, already assessing the situation. "But first, we'll need to clear this tree."

With the fog lifting and the drizzle reduced to a faint mist, we set to work. Tom fetched the chainsaw we kept in the ute for such emergencies, and with some effort, we began cutting away the smaller branches and clearing a path. The dogs stayed close, their usual playful energy replaced by a serious focus, as if they knew how important this task was. Joey watched curiously but kept a safe distance.

Once we had a clear path, Alice gently lifted the calf and carried it over to its mother. The cow, relieved to be reunited with her baby, nuzzled the calf, urging it to stand. After a few wobbly attempts, the calf managed to find its footing—a good sign that it would be all right.

With the tree cleared and the calf safely reunited with its mother, we led them both back through the path toward the rest of the herd. By the time we reached the main paddock, the sun was breaking through the clouds, casting a warm, golden light over the fields. The heat was starting to set in.

I couldn't help but smile as I watched the mother and calf rejoin the herd, the newborn now walking steadily beside her. It was one of those moments that reminded me why I love this life, despite its challenges. Nature may be unpredictable, but with a little patience and determination, there's always a way through.

As we headed back to the main stables, I took a moment to appreciate the calm after the storm, the station's landscape once again bathed in sunlight, as if the strange morning had been nothing more than a fleeting dream. What started as foggy weather ended in a beautiful day—one of those unpredictable spring days that keeps us on our toes.

It turned out to be great weather to work the horses in. Although the ground was still a bit wet from the earlier drizzle, we managed to get in some good training sessions. The horses seemed to sense the shift in the weather too—they were eager, energetic, and responsive. We kept to the sand arena and some of the drier trails, making sure not to push them too hard on the softer ground.

Tom and Alice joined me, each of us taking turns working the younger horses, getting them back into the routine after the morning's disruption. The dogs, of course, were never far behind, darting in and out of the paddocks, still full of energy from their earlier adventure.

By the end of the day, the sun was beginning to dip low in the sky, casting long shadows across the station. The horses were cooled down and settled in their stalls, content after a good day's work. As I closed the stable doors, I couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction. What started as a strange, foggy morning had turned into a productive and beautiful day. And, as always, it was a reminder that life on the station is full of surprises, but we're more than equipped to handle whatever comes our way.

It started with a simple favor— David over at Green Hollow asked if I could spare a few nails. We'd been needing to catch up anyway, so I saddled up Adelina and made my way over. Green Hollow's just a short ride from Southern Lights, but it always feels like a world away. Their land is greener somehow, tucked closer to the creek, and it carries a different kind of stillness.

I found David by the back fence, fiddling with an old gate. After a bit of small talk and the usual exchange of pleasantries, I handed him the mails and figured I'd be on my way. But before I could leave, something made me linger. It had been so long since we'd really talked, not just about cattle or fences, but about anything real. So I stayed, leaning against the fence, and David did the same, and before I knew it, we were reminiscing about old times.

We talked about the years gone by, the challenges both our farms had faced, and the people who'd come and gone in this little corner of the valley. There was an ease to it, the kind of conversation that only happens when you've shared the same soil for generations. The sun was beginning to set by the time I realized just how much I'd missed having a real conversation like this. It's so easy to get caught up in the work, in the grind of the day-to-day, that you forget how much you need these connections, how much the people around you can ground you in ways the land can't.

I rode back home feeling lighter somehow. Funny how a simple favor can turn into something so much more. Maybe it's time I made an effort to keep those fences, both literal and figurative, a little more intact.

Today was one of those days that remind me why I love this life. We had a big cattle drive planned—moving the herd to the north pastures where the grass is thick after the last rains. I saddled up Diego, one of our finest Criollo horses, who has always been my go-to for these kinds of jobs. His surefootedness and endurance make him perfect for the long rides, and I knew today would test both of us.

The dogs—Jazzy, Ringo, and Boomer—were already bouncing with excitement, eager to get started. They know the drill as well as any of us. They were darting back and forth, already rounding up the stray cattle that had wandered too far from the herd.

We set out just as the sun was rising, a soft orange glow spreading across the horizon. Ted and Rex rode alongside me, while Emma and Jake brought up the rear with the younger Criollo horses. The air was cool, with a slight breeze blowing through the gum trees. It was one of those perfect mornings where everything feels right.

The cattle were in good shape, moving steadily as we guided them along the path. I gave Diego a gentle nudge, and he responded immediately, moving with a smooth, confident gait. We rode in a line, each of us keeping a watchful eye on the herd. Every now and then, one of the dogs would sprint ahead to cut off a cow that was getting too close to the edge of the pack.

"Good girl, Jazzy!" I called out, watching as she expertly circled back, keeping the stragglers in line. These dogs were born for this kind of work—instinctive, smart, and quick on their feet.

As we moved farther from the station, the land opened up before us—wide, rolling hills dotted with scrub and patches of tall grass. The herd stretched out in front of us, their shapes blending into the golden landscape. There's something almost meditative about the rhythm of a cattle drive—the steady clop of hooves, the low bellow of the cattle, and the occasional bark from the dogs as they kept everything in check.

At one point, Diego and I broke off from the group to round up a few cattle that had wandered too close to the treeline. He moved with ease, his muscles rippling beneath me as we weaved through the brush. I've always appreciated the Criollo breed for their agility, especially in situations like this. Diego knows how to read the cattle as well as I do. He doesn't need much direction, just a shift in my weight or a gentle tug on the reins, and he knows exactly where to go.

The sun was higher in the sky by the time we reached the north pastures. The dogs had done a fantastic job, and the cattle were all accounted for as we funneled them through the gates. There's a satisfaction in watching them settle into the fresh grass, knowing they'll be well-fed for the next few weeks.

"Another drive done," Ted muttered with a nod of approval, tipping his hat to block out the now glaring sun. "Not bad for a morning's work."

I smiled, patting Diego's neck. He had worked hard, and I could feel his muscles relax as we slowed to a walk. "Good boy," I murmured, feeling a deep sense of appreciation for this horse that had carried me so effortlessly through the day.

We spent the rest of the afternoon checking the fences and making sure the water troughs were full. The dogs stayed close, though their earlier excitement had faded into a more relaxed pace now that the hardest part of the day was done.

As we rode back to the station, the sun was beginning to dip low, casting a warm glow over the land. I glanced over at the rest of the team—tired but content. There's something special about days like today. Cattle drives remind me that we're all part of something bigger here at Southern Lights Station. The horses, the dogs, the land—they're all connected, and we're just lucky enough to be part of it.

Tonight, the dogs will rest by the fire, and the horses will be grazing in the paddock, but tomorrow, it all starts again. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

The gossip in town has always run faster than a Quarter Horse, and today I found myself caught in the middle of it. I was at Wattleford picking up some supplies when I overheard the latest talk, and this time it was about Southern Lights and Alex.

It wasn't hard to catch bits of conversation as I browsed through the hardware section—his name was popping up more often than I'd like. "Did you hear about that new kid at Southern Lights? They say he's trouble," someone whispered, though I tried not to pay attention. Another voice chimed in, "Apparently, he's got a past. Something happened back in Kalbarri, and now he's here. Jewel's brave, taking him on like that."

Kalbarri, Western Australia. That's where Alex came from. I didn't know much about him when he first arrived, just that he had a somewhat shady past and needed a place to stay. A fellow neighbor had reached out to me a while back, mentioning they knew of a teenager who was looking for work. "He's good with horses, but he needs a fresh start," was all they said.

I'll admit, I was hesitant at first. I could practically hear my grandparents' voices in my head, reminding me of the importance of caution. They were always a bit wary of people they didn't know. But then, there were my parents' voices too, reminding me of the importance of second chances. They had always believed in giving people the benefit of the doubt, or at least a chance to prove themselves.

Talking it over with the staff helped me decide. Sarah, Jake, and Old Ted all had different perspectives, but in the end, they agreed with my parents' philosophy: everyone deserves a chance, no matter their background. And honestly, I couldn't ignore that feeling I had—that Alex might surprise us. My parents always used to say, "Never judge a book by its cover," and that's a lesson they applied not just to people, but to horses too. Sometimes the ones with the roughest exterior have the most to offer.

So, I gave Alex the opportunity. He arrived at the station a few weeks ago, and although he's quiet, he's been nothing but hardworking. He spends more time with the horses than anyone else, and I can already see a bond forming between him and some of the more temperamental horses in the stables. There's something about the way he moves around them—calm, patient, like he's talking to them without words. The horses sense it too.

As I stood there in Wattleford, hearing the gossip swirl around me, I couldn't help but feel a pang of frustration. It's easy for people to talk when they don't know the full story. They make assumptions and jump to conclusions, especially about someone like Alex, who's kept his past to himself.

But if there's one thing I've learned from running Southern Lights, it's that people—and animals—are full of surprises. And I've got a feeling Alex might just prove everyone wrong.

I couldn't help but notice the way Old Ted had been watching Alex these past few days. Ted's been around horses—and people—for longer than most of us have been alive, and he's seen it all. Or so I thought.

But the other day, as Ted and I leaned against the fence, watching Alex work with Saltarin, one of our more temperamental horses, Ted shook his head slowly and said, "I haven't seen anything like it in my many years of teaching."

Coming from Ted, that was saying something.

It all started when Alex had taken to Saltarin like they had some kind of unspoken understanding. Saltarin wasn't the easiest horse to handle—he had a reputation for being a bit unpredictable, even with our most experienced riders. But from the moment Alex started working with him, there was a shift. No rough handling, no sharp commands. Alex just moved around him, almost as if they were communicating through body language alone. Salt seemed calmer, more settled—like he finally found someone who understood him.

Ted's eyes narrowed as he watched. "That boy... he's got something. Reminds me of someone I used to know."

I looked at Ted curiously. "Who?"

"Your great-grandmother, Emily," he said quietly. "She had the same quiet way with the horses. Could read them better than anyone else. Never had to force anything. It's like she was born with it."

That comparison took me by surprise. Emily McGregor had been a legend at Southern Lights Station for her connection with the horses. She could understand their quirks, their moods, and bring out the best in them when no one else could. And here Ted was, saying Alex had that same natural talent. It wasn't something you could teach, Ted always said. Either you had it, or you didn't. And Alex... apparently, he had it.

Ted nodded towards Alex, who was now running his hand down Saltarin's mane, whispering something softly. "He's got a past, sure, but there's something about him. Horses don't lie. If they trust him, there's something good in there."

Watching Alex, I had to admit, Ted was right. Despite the rumors, despite the whispers around town, Alex had proven himself where it mattered most—here at Southern Lights. He was quiet, but his actions spoke volumes. There was a calmness about him when he was with the horses, like all the noise and chaos of life melted away.

As Saltarin relaxed under Alex's touch, I saw it too—the way the horse responded to him, like there was a bond forming that went beyond rider and horse. It was rare, and it was special.

Ted chuckled under his breath. "Who would've thought, eh? That boy's got more horse sense in him than most people I've trained. He might just teach us a thing or two."

I smiled at that. Old Ted didn't hand out compliments easily, especially when it came to handling horses. But Alex, with all his quiet mystery and his rough past, had earned Ted's respect. And that meant something.

Ted straightened up, adjusting his hat. "You did right, giving him a chance. I don't know what he's running from, but whatever it is, it doesn't matter here. He's good with the horses—that's what counts."

I nodded, feeling more certain than ever that I'd made the right call. I still didn't know much about Alex's past, and I wasn't sure if he'd ever tell me. But in that moment, it didn't matter. What mattered was that he had found something here at Southern Lights—maybe a purpose, maybe a second chance. And with the way things were going, I had a feeling he was going to be just fine.

Watching him with Saltarin, I couldn't help but feel like there was something more to Alex than any of us had realized. And maybe, just maybe, he was exactly what the station needed.
Happy Trails!

A long, tiring, but good day today. Ranch life is always about hard work and dedication, but there's something refreshing about a day spent riding, focusing on fine-tuning things. With our first Versatility Ranch Horse competition just days away, I wanted to make sure everyone was progressing well. So, I gathered the team for a ride out in the open—no arenas, just pure outback training.

We set off early, with the horses eager to get moving as usual. I decided to ride Cielo Estrellado, my trusted 10-year-old Criollo gelding, who always seems ready for anything. I'd offered Alex the chance to ride Cielo, but he preferred Esperanza, the 5-year-old grey mare he's been bonding with. Even though Alex hasn't been with us long, he's doing impressive work with the horses and is slowly starting to open up more with the team. I can already see him growing into his role here.

Our first task was simple—opening and closing the station gates as we headed into the outback. It's a basic skill, but an important one, especially for a competition like this. Each of us took turns, and it was good practice for the horses. Not all horses take easily to gate work, but everyone handled it smoothly. It was a good start to the day.

Once we were out on the trails, the landscape opened up. With wide stretches of land ahead of us, the horses settled into a comfortable pace, and we took the opportunity to work on some transitions between walk, trot, and lope. Tom and Alice were riding side by side, as they often do, guiding Erique and Serena—our young but sharp 4-year-olds. Despite their age, these two Criollos work like old pros, moving in sync with their riders. It's always a pleasure to watch the partnership between Tom and Alice, and their horses seem to reflect their calm and confident energy.

Along the way, we incorporated various obstacles into the ride—logs and branches scattered on the ground, small creeks to cross, and narrow bridges. It's important that these horses are ready for anything, and today was about making sure they were comfortable with any challenge. Every time we faced an obstacle, the horses moved through it with ease. It's amazing to see how adaptable and sure-footed they are, especially out here in their element.

At one point, we stopped to give the horses (and ourselves) a short rest. The sound of the wind through the trees and the distant call of birds provided a calming backdrop, making the break feel like a peaceful pause in an otherwise busy day.

Further along, Rex and Dan spotted some cattle grazing nearby, so naturally, we took the opportunity for some light cattle work. It wasn't planned, but the horses didn't miss a beat. It's in their nature to take on tasks like this, and they moved instinctively with the cattle. We didn't push them too hard—there would be plenty of time for serious cattle work tomorrow—but it was a good warm-up.

When the trail narrowed, the horses handled it effortlessly. Whether it was rocky terrain or soft ground, they navigated with confidence, never once losing their footing. I always marvel at the Criollos' endurance and versatility—they could go all day if we let them.

By the time we circled back toward the station, the sun was starting to dip lower in the sky. The horses had worked hard, but there were no signs of fatigue—they seemed as sharp and responsive as when we first started. All the riders agreed that the day had been a success, and it was clear that the horses were progressing beautifully. Cielo, Esperanza, Erique, Serena, Solana, and Pablo all performed incredibly well. No one had any problems, and it looks like we're in good shape for the show.

As we made our way back home, I couldn't help but feel a surge of pride for the horses and riders. There's nothing quite like a day spent out in the open, working together as a team and knowing you're preparing for something great. The competition's just around the corner, and I can't wait to see how we'll perform.

"Heya, Diamond," Jewel said, slipping the halter onto the sleek black mare's head. She gave her a scratch behind the ear, smiling as the horse leaned into her touch. "Well, you've certainly had a good roll, haven't you? Let's go make you shine."

Jewel led Black Diamond from the paddock, the mare's hooves soft against the grassy earth, leaving faint impressions of where she'd wandered earlier that morning. Despite her dirty coat, Diamond still carried herself with the grace and power of the thoroughbred she was—strong, elegant, and full of energy. Spring had a way of waking everything up, and Black Diamond was no exception.

As they made their way to the stables, Jewel noticed Old Ted walking by, a knowing grin on his face.

"Looks like you've got your work cut out for you there, Jewel," Ted called, tipping his hat in passing. His gaze lingered on the muddy streaks across Diamond's black coat, evidence of the mare's playful morning in the paddock.

Jewel chuckled, pausing to give the mare a once-over herself. "I know. I hate and love early spring," she replied, shaking her head at the challenge ahead. She led Diamond up to the hitching rail outside the stables, tying the mare off securely.

The sun was higher now, casting a warm glow over the ranch. The air was fresh with the scent of grass and damp earth, a reminder that the land was waking up, shedding winter's grasp. It was a season of transitions—not just for the horses but for everything around them.

Jewel grabbed a curry comb and began working it through Black Diamond's coat. The mare stood patiently, flicking her ears at the sound of birds singing nearby. The first few strokes of the comb brought thick clumps of winter hair to the surface, loosening the matted fur. Underneath, the sleek, black shine of Diamond's true coat began to emerge. Jewel smiled as the transformation began, her arm working in steady circles.

"So, you ready to start your season, girl?" Jewel asked softly, her voice rhythmic, matching the movements of her brush. She knew Black Diamond was more than ready. At three years old, the mare was in her prime, a racehorse with speed and intelligence, honed by long months of training. The winter had kept them both indoors more than they liked, but spring was here now, and the races weren't far off.

Diamond snorted in response, tossing her head slightly, as if agreeing with the sentiment. Jewel grinned. This mare had always been one to respond, her energy as electric as it was focused.

After switching to a soft brush, Jewel moved to Diamond's neck, brushing away the remnants of winter. Her coat was coming to life with every stroke, shining brighter with each pass.

The familiar sound of hooves on dirt pulled Jewel's attention toward the round pen. Maggie was working the young mare again, her calm voice carrying on the breeze as she guided the horse through its paces. Jewel watched for a moment, admiring the ease with which Maggie communicated with the horse. The connection was there, the quiet understanding that only years of experience could create.

"I see you're working your magic again, Maggie," Jewel called out, her brush still moving over Diamond's side.

Maggie chuckled, looking up from her work. "Every spring's a new challenge, but I wouldn't trade it for anything."

Jewel nodded. That's how it was on the ranch. Every horse, every season, brought its own set of trials, but also its own rewards. Black Diamond, in particular, had been a project. From a feisty, unpredictable yearling, she had blossomed into a disciplined racer with a winning streak ahead of her.

"Are you planning to take Diamond to the spring trials?" Maggie asked as she brought the mare to a halt.

"Absolutely," Jewel said, stepping back to admire the now gleaming coat of her mare. "She's ready. We've worked hard all winter. The trials will be a good test before the big races."

Maggie smiled. "She looks fantastic. You've got a real gem there."

Jewel patted Diamond's side. "Thanks. She's special, that's for sure." The mare shifted her weight, her muscles rippling beneath the sleek black coat. It had taken time and patience to get her to this point, but the connection Jewel felt with Black Diamond was undeniable. This season, they were going to make waves.

As she continued grooming, Jewel's mind wandered to the upcoming race schedule. The spring trials would be held at the local track in a few weeks, a chance for horses and trainers alike to shake off the winter rust. But for Black Diamond, it was more than that. This was her time to prove herself, and Jewel had no doubt the mare was up for the challenge.

Finishing the grooming session, Jewel stepped back, admiring her work. Black Diamond's coat was a mirror of the spring sun now, gleaming with health and energy. The winter had been long, but they'd come through it stronger, more prepared for the season ahead.

"Alright, Diamond," Jewel said, giving the mare a final pat. "Let's tack you up and see what you've got."

Jewel headed into the tack room, retrieving Diamond's racing gear. She carefully placed the bridle on the railing and laid the saddle blanket across the mare's back. Sliding into place, she positioned the racing saddle atop the blanket and reached beneath to fasten the girth. With a firm grip, she tightened it before grasping the bridle.

"Here you go, girl," she murmured, her voice filled with excitement.

Jewel untied the mare and gently slipped the halter off, settling the bridle into place. Together, they walked toward the exercise track, where the soft earth awaited them. A light breeze stirred, carrying the fresh scent of blooming flowers and the promise of warmer days ahead. The ranch buzzed with the vibrant energy of spring—new beginnings, fresh challenges, and the exhilarating prospect of what lay ahead.

With Black Diamond's coat gleaming and her muscles primed for action, Jewel couldn't help but feel the anticipation rising. This was their time, the season they had been waiting for.

I've been here my whole life and never really had to deal with snakes—until now, that is.

Today started out as a normal spring day. The morning was still a bit chilly, but you could feel the warmth creeping in, the kind that hints at the long, dry days to come. Alex and I were getting ready for an afternoon ride out to one of the far paddocks to check on the calves and start tagging their ears. It's a routine job, one of those tasks you don't really think too much about.

We went through our usual motions—rounding up the horses we'd ride (Ceniza for Alex, Diego for me) from the nearby paddock. Ceniza, as usual, gave Alex that side-eye he does, like he's sizing him up before deciding he's alright for today. Diego was his usual steady self, standing calm as I slipped the halter over his head.

We headed back toward the barn to get the gear together. Saddles, bridles, tagging equipment—all the things we needed were piled up, waiting in the shed by the tack room. It was there, right by the door, where things took an unexpected turn.

I reached down to grab the old saddle blanket I always use for Diego when something flickered in the corner of my eye—a flash of movement so quick it barely registered. At first, I thought maybe it was just a shadow, or the wind shifting something loose in the shed. But then I saw it—a long, smooth shape curled up under the stack of gear, blending in so well that I hadn't noticed it until it was too late.

A snake.

My heart skipped a beat as I realized what it was. I've seen a few over the years, sure—brown snakes mostly, and a few pythons in the high grass—but never this close, never hidden so neatly among the gear. It was coiled up, still, its body barely visible except for the faint ripple of scales along its back.

I froze, trying to remember everything my parents ever told me about staying calm around snakes. Don't move too quickly. Don't startle it. But in that moment, all those years of growing up here on the land didn't matter. Instinct kicked in, and all I could think about was getting Alex and me the hell out of there before it decided to strike.

"Alex," I said quietly, not daring to take my eyes off the snake. "Step back. Slowly."

He didn't question me—smart kid. He moved just like I told him, slow and steady, his eyes darting to where mine were fixed. He spotted the snake almost instantly, and I could see his whole body tense, but to his credit, he didn't panic. He stood perfectly still, waiting for me to take the lead.

We backed away, inch by inch, until we were far enough that I felt like I could breathe again. Only then did the snake move, slithering out from under the gear and disappearing into the brush just beyond the shed. I let out a shaky breath, realizing how close we'd come to an accident that could've turned the day upside down.

It's funny how something like that can remind you of your place out here. For all the years I've spent on this land, there are still moments when nature reminds you that you're not in control. It's easy to forget, sometimes, that we share this space with creatures who've been here long before us. Snakes, like that one today, don't care about your plans or your routines. They're just doing what they do, hiding among the gear, waiting for the right moment to remind you that they're here too.

After a few deep breaths, we carried on, saddling up Diego and Ceniza like nothing had happened. But I couldn't help glancing around a little more carefully after that. We rode out to the paddock, the sun high overhead, and as we worked, I found myself thinking about the balance we strike out here—between what we know and what we can't control.

It's not the first time I've had a brush with danger on the station, and I'm sure it won't be the last. But it reminded me of something my parents used to say: "This land has its secrets, and it'll keep them hidden until it's ready to show you." Today, I think we got a glimpse of one of those secrets.

Bruma Blanca had been nearing her due date for weeks, and I'd been keeping a close watch. The foaling alarm had been set up days ago, and though she'd shown the typical signs of a first pregnancy—restlessness, changes in her eating habits—everything had seemed on track. The vet had come by for regular check-ups, and each time, I felt a bit more at ease.

Still, last night, something told me to stay extra alert. It's hard to explain, but there's a certain feeling you get after years of being around animals—a gut instinct you learn to trust. And sure enough, around 5 a.m., the foaling alarm went off, cutting through the early morning quiet like a shot.

Startled awake, I grabbed my flashlight, threw on my robe, and headed out to the barn with the dogs hot on my heels. The fog was thick, the kind of mist that clings to everything, turning the paddocks into a hazy, dreamlike landscape. I knew Bruma was in trouble before I even reached her stall.

When I got to the barn, I found Bruma already lying down, her sides heaving as she struggled through labor. I'd prepared for this moment, but no amount of planning can really prepare you for seeing your mare in pain. I called her name softly, and she flicked an ear towards me, but her focus was entirely on what was happening inside her body.

I left the dogs outside the stall to keep watch, their soft whines the only sound besides Bruma's heavy breathing. If anyone came by, I knew they'd alert me. Moving into the stall, I crouched beside her, carefully watching her every movement.

At first, everything seemed to be progressing as expected—her contractions were strong, and she was doing what nature intended. But it wasn't long before I noticed that she was straining more than normal. Her sides heaved, her muscles quivered, and she kept shifting uncomfortably, trying to find a position that might ease her pain.

The knot in my stomach tightened. Something wasn't right. I placed a hand on her neck, whispering softly to calm her, though the anxiety in my own voice probably didn't help much. I'd seen enough foalings to know when things were taking a turn, and this wasn't progressing the way it should.

Trying to keep her and myself calm I quickly dialed the vet. Bruma's breathing had become faster, more labored, and the contractions were intense, but still no sign of the foal. Time slowed down as I waited for the vet to arrive, each minute feeling like an eternity. I could feel that creeping fear—what if help didn't come in time?

When the vet finally pulled up, I felt a rush of relief. She wasted no time, quickly assessing the situation. The foal was positioned awkwardly—breech, which explained Bruma's struggle. The vet worked swiftly and carefully, repositioning the foal while I stayed beside Bruma, whispering soft reassurances, though they felt small against the enormity of what was happening.

The next few minutes felt like hours. Bruma's strength was fading, her body trembling under the strain. For a brief moment, I feared she might not make it. But Bruma, my strong and stubborn girl, didn't give up. She fought with everything she had, and just as the first light of dawn began to filter through the barn's open door, she gave one last mighty push.

And then, there she was. A small, trembling figure, covered in the sheen of birth, but unmistakably alive.

The vet stepped back, a quiet smile on her face, and I finally exhaled. "It's a filly," she said softly. A bay.

Bruma lay still, completely exhausted, while the filly shivered beside her, trying to make sense of her new world. The vet checked Bruma first—her breathing was steady, no signs of tearing, and within minutes the placenta followed naturally. Another wave of relief washed over me. We'd made it.

Then, attention turned to the foal. The vet examined her gently, checking her heart rate and reflexes. The filly was small, but determined, and after a few wobbly attempts, she stood on her spindly legs, swaying but upright. Bruma, despite her exhaustion, reached out to nuzzle her foal, the kind of instinctive, quiet affection that only a mother could give.

It was in that moment, as I watched them together, that I knew what her name would be—Neblina, after the mist that hung over the paddocks that morning. It felt right, fitting. She had arrived in the early hours, shrouded in fog, but now she stood in the light, full of life.

After the vet left, I had stayed in the barn a while longer, watching mother and foal bond. Alex popped in to check on the newborn and myself, quietly taking the dogs back to the house for breakfast. For the first time in hours, I felt the tension leave my body. We'd pulled through, all of us.

---

After a few days in the barn, once both Bruma and Neblina were strong enough, I knew it was time to move them to a paddock. I carefully led them out, feeling a rush of joy as I watched Neblina take her first tentative steps into the fresh air. Bruma followed closely, her protective instincts on full display as she guided her foal into this new world.

The paddock was a welcome change, the grass swaying gently in the breeze. I could see Neblina's curiosity blossoming as she explored, nuzzling the ground and taking in the sights and sounds of the outdoors. Bruma, though still weary, seemed to regain some of her vitality in the open space, grazing contentedly while keeping a watchful eye on her daughter.

In that moment, I felt a deep sense of fulfillment, knowing they were both thriving in their new environment. Watching Neblina and Bruma together reminded me that, even after the struggle, life continues, and there's beauty in every new beginning.

Neblina's start in this world might have been difficult, but there's something about her spirit that tells me she's going to be just fine.

So, today started off in a way I didn't expect. Grace caught me completely off-guard over our morning coffee. She looked over and asked, "You ever thought about what's going to happen to the station when you're gone?" Morbid, right? Not exactly the kind of question I get from the crew around here. But it's been playing on my mind all day.

What will happen to Southern Lights after me? It's a question I've managed to dodge for years, buried under all the day-to-day work, the horses, and the land. I guess I've always assumed I'd be around for a long, long time—at least long enough to keep the place running. But life doesn't work that way, does it? Eventually, I'll have to let go, and then what? Will the station just go to some stranger or a corporate investor with no soul, who'd bulldoze all the work I've put into it? The idea of that is... unsettling. Southern Lights isn't just land; it's part of me.

If I had kids, maybe things would feel different. I'd like to imagine passing down the station to them, sharing with them everything I've learned about the horses, the land, the sunsets that feel like they belong only to us. But that's not the reality, is it? My relationships have been sparse, just a handful of attempts that never panned out. I guess part of me always thought that someone would stick around eventually, but life has a way of proving otherwise. It's sad, honestly, admitting that, but it's the truth. Sometimes I wonder if I've put too much into this place and not enough into building a life outside of it. But then I think about leaving here and realize there's nowhere else I'd rather be.

Southern Lights is more than just a job or a home; it's everything I've poured myself into, my purpose, and my legacy, if I have one. There are so many memories wrapped up in this place—the early mornings, the smell of horses and earth, the silence before dawn. If I close my eyes, I can see every inch of it, from the way the gum trees catch the light to the spots in the paddocks that need mending. It's a part of me, and I'd like to believe it'll keep going, even if I'm not here to see it.

I guess all I can do for now is keep at it, take it one day at a time, and hold onto the hope that Southern Lights will find a way to live on, somehow. Whether it's passed down or just left to the hands of someone who cares, I'd like to think this land will keep telling its story long after I'm gone.

---

The weeks have gone by, and Grace's question is still lingering in my mind. But it's not just the future of the station—it's made me think about my own family history. It's strange—I've always felt so rooted here that I never really thought about where I come from or the people who came before me.

My dad was an only child, and then there's me—an only child as well. On his side, the family line seems to end with me. But my mother... I never really thought to ask if she had siblings, or if there might be more of us out there. I'm not sure why I never questioned it before. Maybe because it felt irrelevant to my life here on the station, or maybe because I always felt rooted enough in what I'd built here.

Now, though, I'm starting to wonder if I really am the last link in the chain. Do I have cousins or other relatives who share my history, my blood? Am I truly alone, or is there a bigger family web I've yet to untangle? I think part of me would find comfort in knowing there's someone out there who might understand what Southern Lights means to me. Someone who could understand the pride, the love, the ache of this place.

It looks like I'll have to do some digging to find answers—see if there are records, traces, or even stories that might bring some clarity. Maybe this search will turn up nothing, or maybe it will change everything. Either way, I think it's time to find out.

---

Today, while scrolling through the internet for pedigree records on some of my horses, I stumbled across a DNA and family tree website. I hadn't done much research on my family since the thought crossed my mind a few weeks ago, mostly because work has kept me so busy. But now, I feel like I can't put it off any longer.

I went ahead and sent off the paperwork they require, and in a few days, they'll be sending me an at-home test kit. Part of me is excited at the thought of finally getting some answers. Another part is nervous, wondering what I might uncover.

I will keep you in the loop when i get the results back.

Halloween isn't exactly a typical celebration here at Southern Lights Station. It's always felt like more of an American tradition—pumpkins, costumes, and all that. But this year, I thought, why not give it a try? The idea of hosting a Halloween festival on the station started as a casual thought over breakfast, and before I knew it, we were planning the biggest event we've ever thrown. Not just for the staff, but for the entire community.

Getting everything organized took more planning and determination than I expected, but as I look back on tonight, I can honestly say it was worth every bit of effort. Emma and Alex were right by my side, helping design colorful flyers to hand out around town. They even convinced the general store to put up a poster in the window. Once word got out, excitement started brewing, and I realized we might be in for a bigger turnout than I'd planned. But the more, the merrier, right?

The preparations were a sight to behold. We brought in dozens of pumpkins—some real, some fake—to line the pathways and the barn entrance. Emma and Grace spent hours carving the real ones, turning them into jack-o'-lanterns that glowed with candlelight as the sun dipped below the horizon. I have to admit, I didn't expect much from pumpkin carving, but watching those faces flickering in the dark gave the station an eerie, magical feel.

Costumes were another big part of the night. Grace took the lead on organizing that, encouraging everyone to get creative. She made her own costume—a very impressive witch's outfit complete with a pointy hat and a broom she found in the old storage shed. Emma showed up as a zombie cowgirl, her face painted with so much detail I nearly did a double-take. Alex, to everyone's surprise, went full pirate. Eye patch, hat, even a fake parrot on his shoulder. Seeing the crew in costumes was strange, but the laughter and spirit it brought out were contagious.

We also made sure to stock up on candy, of course. We set up a candy station with buckets overflowing with treats—chocolates, lollipops, caramel apples. There was something incredibly satisfying about watching kids from the community dash over with wide-eyed excitement, filling their little bags with as much as they could carry. And the adults were just as entertained, laughing as they watched their kids race around and try to scare each other with plastic spiders and rubber bats we'd scattered around.

We set up a few games, too. Apple bobbing, a pumpkin toss, and even a mini corn maze we created by arranging hay bales in the big paddock near the barn. Watching families weave their way through it, laughing and stumbling in the dark, was a sight to see. The crew joined in, cheering the kids on and even taking a turn or two through the maze themselves. The laughter echoed through the night, blending with the sounds of horses softly nickering in their stables.

As the evening wore on, the bonfire became the heart of the event. We all gathered around it, the warmth cutting through the cool October air. Grace, ever the storyteller, decided to share a "ghost story" about a wandering spirit that supposedly haunts the old windmill at the far end of the property. She made it up on the spot, her voice low and dramatic, and the kids (and a few adults) listened with wide eyes, casting glances over their shoulders. Even though it was just a story, the flickering firelight and the shadows dancing on everyone's faces made it feel almost real.

And then there were the moments of stillness, the quiet pauses in between the laughter and games. Standing there, watching everyone gathered under the stars, I realized how much a night like this meant—not just to the community, but to me. We work hard here every single day, and nights like this remind me why. Southern Lights isn't just a place to work; it's a home, a place where people come together, where we make memories that go beyond the day-to-day routine of ranch life.

As the night wound down and families headed home, I could feel a deep sense of satisfaction settling over me. I hadn't expected Halloween to mean so much here, but it did. For a few hours, Southern Lights was transformed. It felt alive with a different kind of energy—a mix of joy, laughter, and a little bit of spooky magic.

Maybe we'll make this Halloween festival an annual tradition. Or maybe it'll stay as a one-off, a memory we'll talk about for years to come. Either way, tonight reminded me that sometimes it's worth stepping out of the usual routine and trying something different. This place is more than land, horses, and buildings. It's a living, breathing community. And tonight, Southern Lights shone a little brighter.

Sunday Evening

What a weekend! I'm sitting here with a cup of tea, and the house feels so quiet now that Melissa and Sophie have gone home. It's strange – only a couple of days, but it feels like they've been a part of my routine forever. Watching them drive off with Mrs. Stapleton, I felt a pang of something, maybe an old memory of when I was that young, curious, and full of questions about everything.

I hadn't realized how much I'd miss having them around.

They've got that boundless energy that reminds me how new and exciting the world felt back then. From the moment they arrived, they were bursting with ideas – pressing flowers, exploring the property, and even asking questions about Alex. That little "look-alike" comment is still echoing in my mind... Funny how kids pick up on things so easily. But it also made me wonder what the future holds and if there's a truth waiting there that I haven't quite faced.

The flower-pressing project was probably the highlight for all of us. Seeing them get so fascinated by something as simple as flowers reminded me of why I loved it, too. Pressing flowers felt like capturing moments in time, like saving the memory of a place or a season. The girls were so careful with each petal, as if they knew how special those moments were. I found my old album in the attic, and sharing it with them – watching their eyes light up at something from my own childhood – was a memory I'll keep close.

And then there was the ride to the creek. They were so excited about riding the Criollos, though I had to gently steer them away from the stallions. They were both so brave and confident, even trying a swim with the horses! It's funny – I felt like more of a kid than an adult today, wading through the water with them, laughing at the dogs' antics as they chased each other along the creek. Somehow, they reminded me how beautiful this place is, how lucky I am to be surrounded by it every day.

I think what struck me the most was the ease of it all. Despite the small mishaps – Sophie's saddle pad slipping off, Melissa dropping the picnic basket – they handled it with such good spirits, like it was all part of the adventure. Maybe there's something to be learned from that kind of resilience.

I'm left wondering if they feel the same way, if they'll look back on this weekend the way I look back on those summers as a kid, when the whole world felt open and every path was waiting to be explored. If nothing else, I hope they know they're always welcome here, that this place can be a bit of a home for them whenever they need it.

It's quiet now, just the dogs curled up by the door. I think I'll take a walk around the paddocks before bed, just to breathe in the stillness. The flowers we pressed are still drying on the windowsill. Maybe they'll come back next season, and we'll add even more to our collection.

For now, though, I'm grateful for the reminder that life can still surprise me – that sometimes, the smallest hands and simplest joys bring the biggest lessons.

The sun was just starting to rise over Southern Lights, casting long, golden rays across the paddocks as Jewel finished mucking out the stalls. She paused, wiping the sweat off her brow, taking a moment to appreciate the quiet beauty of the morning. Everything was calm, the world bathed in a warm, sleepy glow, and for a second, it felt like the start of a perfect day.

And then, it hit her.

Bzzzz.

Just one at first—a single fly, buzzing insistently around her ear. Jewel waved it away, figuring it was just an early riser that would move along. But soon enough, more joined in, forming a relentless, whining swarm. The flies seemed to come from nowhere, zoning in on her like she was the freshest target they'd encountered in days. They circled her face, landed on her arms, and settled on the back of her neck, tickling her skin and making her flinch.

"Those pesky flies!" she muttered, swatting the air with a growing sense of frustration. No matter how much she waved her hand or shook her head, they just kept coming back, stubborn and unyielding.

Ringo, one of her loyal Australian Cattle Dogs, trotted over, looking completely unbothered by the swarm. He sat by her feet, tail wagging, watching her flailing arms with mild curiosity. Jewel tried to focus on her work, hoping Ringo's presence would somehow deter the flies, but they were undeterred, swarming around her like she was some prize worth fighting for.

"Come on, Ringo, help me out here!" Jewel joked, giving his ear a quick scratch. But Ringo just tilted his head, as if to say, This is your problem, not mine.

Jewel grabbed her bucket and pitchfork, hoping a bit of movement would shake them off, but the flies seemed to take that as encouragement. They tightened their formation, buzzing closer, taunting her with their persistence. She hurried out of the stall, swatting at the air, but they followed her like a loyal—if unwelcome—entourage.

Finally, in a fit of desperation, Jewel made a beeline for the garden hose coiled by the tack room. She turned the water on and held the nozzle up, letting a cool spray wash over her, laughing as the water sent the flies scattering. They buzzed around angrily, finally backing off, and Jewel couldn't help but grin with relief.

"There," she said triumphantly to Ringo, who had trotted over and was now standing in the mist, snapping playfully at the droplets. "That should keep 'em away—for a little while, at least."

The two of them stood there, Jewel drenched but feeling triumphant, Ringo happily barking at the water. As she looked around at the ranch coming to life in the morning light, she couldn't help but chuckle. Life on the ranch always had its surprises—both the grand and the tiny, buzzing annoyances. But in some odd way, even these little inconveniences were part of what made the place feel alive.

"Guess you just have to roll with it, huh, Ringo?" Jewel said, giving him a fond pat. Ringo barked in agreement, shaking the water from his fur.

With a deep breath, Jewel headed back to her chores, damp but undaunted. Those pesky flies might try to steal her peace, but they'd never steal her spirit.