A Scrapbook of Memories
by Susan Paddock

Its 2:20 a.m. and the alarm goes off. My sleepy son stumbles to the shower, I head for the coffee pot. Outside the night is black and cloudy, the moon is nowhere to be seen. No lights show in the neighboring houses, their occupants soundly asleep.

It doesn't take long to dress. We grab his uniforms, a thermos of coffee for me and carrots for the horses. By 3:15 a.m., we're on our way out the door.

We load everything in the truck and make a last check - saddle, bridle, water bucket, grooming tools for the horse. His personal gear and a sack lunch for the trip. We puff out of the driveway and head for the pasture, a few minutes' drive away

He and I hook up the trailer together, working as a team at a task we know by heart. He gropes around the tack-room for the halter, his flashlight making eerie patterns through the cracks in the wall. I unlock the gate, trying hard to muffle its creaking hinges, and we head down the hill to the pasture below.

No flashlight now - it spooks the horses. No moon still but we know the path so well that we're not bothered. It's another story when we get down below. 9 acres is a lot of pasture when you're hunting for a couple of horses. We know they will be together, but its hard to even see one another. We choke back our laughter when we mistake a stand of bushes for the horses. Further down, we see them outlined in the distance. They're both sleepy boys, and it's no trouble to walk up and halter his horse. A few carrots for each and we lead them back up the hill. In a matter of minutes we've loaded his horse and are on our way to Westernaires with just enough time to make the 4:00 a.m. schedule.

There's an air of expectation when we reach Fort Westernaire. The drivers have the diesel engines running on the big over-the-road vans and on the bus that will carry the riders and their horses. The riders unload their horses and get them ready to load on the vans, wrapping their legs for support and protection and giving them a final sweep with a brush. The horses are fully awake now, casually munching a last bit of hay, seasoned veterans of so many such trips. The call comes for loading and in a matter of minutes the horses are aboard the vans, each in its assigned space. The vans pull forward. A hurried goodbye and the riders and their chaperones board the bus. The vehicles assemble behind the command car and the troup is off down the road. Linked by radio, the impressive lineup of vans and trucks, bus and support vehicles will keep in constant communication over a trip which may take them hundreds, and occasionally thousands of miles on a journey that started for these riders some years ago.

Westernaires are, for the most part, city kids. There is little space left for horses in today's urban society. Although ultimately many will own their own horses, for the most part they come to Westernaires having never ridden a horse. They start by renting a Westernaire livery horse. They start young, from 9 to 14 years of age. We call them Tenderfeet, these first year Westernaires, and the name is apropos. They bring youthful eagerness, excitement, and anticipation. They will learn discipline, and master skills and talents far beyond their wildest dreams. Some stay a short time, a year or two. Many will work their way through the teams, year after year until they move into the Red, or performing Division. The very best and most dedicated riders achieve the dream they have when they come to us - the Varsity Big Red Drill team, considered to be the finest perforrning drill team at speed in the world.

The upper Red Division riders, principally Red Team and Cavalry, and less frequently Precisionettes, Indian Warriors, Crimson Rangers, and Royal Rangers, are the teams who will make these early morning treks to Fort Westernaire for out-of-town trips. Their arrival time is not always the same, but it's almost always very early in order to get on down the road to their . destination. It may be an arena show or a convention in Colorado, or Wyoming, Utah, or Kansas. It may be a movie or documentary location somewhere in the Rockies. It may be in Texas, or Chicago or as far north as Canada. Whatever the destination, the excitement is high and the hour doesn't matter. This is what they've worked for, sacrificed for, dreamed of since those Tenderfoot days.

It's difficult to describe clearly the experiences of these trips. The closeness the teams achieve when they live together and depend so much on each other to make these shows work. Sleeping bags on gym floors. Sharing snacks and stories and secrets late at night. Special friends, forever friends.

The unpredictability of open arena shows. Weather so hot and humid that keys rust in your pocket. A sudden storm bringing flashes of lightning, whirls of dust and torrential rain in the middle of a performance that washes out the show. Finishing that performance the next morning to a screaming, cheering crowd.

The crowds, the applause, the wonderful people they meet. A bar-b-que in the city park of a sleepy little Kansas town brought to life by the yearly county fair. A pancake breakfast cooked by the local Kiwanis club of a Nebraska town. Chicken-fried steak and biscuits on a Texas prairie from an authentic chuck wagon manned by two weathered cowboys. Farmers and ranchers from the great plains states; senators, heads of state and princes from foreign lands.

A scrapbook of golden memories to hold close for the rest of their lives. That's Westernaires.