Flying Free

Creative Nonfiction by Bailey J. Crocoll of Cerro Coso Community College
3rd Place for College Creative Nonfiction - 2017 Met Awards

I remember my first time flying. Not in the elbow-to-elbow jam-packed rows. Not in the seats with the grimy fingerprinted windows. Not squished between two strangers, jostling about from the turbulence. No, my first time flying was beneath an April sun, soaring through the nippy mountain air. With the earth falling away into a blur of green and the wind rushing by with insistent pressure. I didn't need an airplane to fly, not on the back of a horse.

Harley was a stocky horse with light cream  fur and a wild mane of flaxen hair. He had huge brown eyes that were in always held in patient appraisal. A short neck and a deep sloping chest gave him a friendly little stature. His velvet pink nose was constantly prodding beneath my arms and wedging its way into my pockets, hopeful that a treat had somehow found its way into my possession. He was a Halflinger, a breed made for pack work and driving carts. Compared to Thoroughbreds, his long legged counterparts, with their slim frames and athletic build, he was a slowpoke. Harley would trudge along in circles to his heart's content, meandering along the pasture nibbling through weeds. He rarely had any motivation to move any faster than a walk and it took a miracle to bump him into a trot. So I was feeling particularly optimistic the day I decided to run him.

That morning I brushed him down while he lazily gnawed on a piece of alfalfa. I cradled each thick hoof in my hand, picking out the rocks stuck there and admiring the sleek silver shoes that hugged along his curving foot. My stiff leather saddle was lugged up onto his back and slid into position where it fit like a puzzle piece against his withers. I tightened his saddle – then tightened it again, the last thing I wanted was a slipping saddle. I let Harley steal one last mouthful of hay before he begrudgingly allowed himself to be pulled away.

Sitting up in the saddle was the easy part. He felt safe, comfortable and steady in his movements. He walked along, letting his head bob and his ears swivel happily as he stepped. We trotted along a fence line, warming up the brawny muscles hidden beneath his glossy coat. Dogs jutted out from yards, yapping and nipping at his legs. Harley didn't spare them any attention, he merely cocked an ear in their direction and idly stepped on by. A few cars slowed and waved, as Harley was a favorite of the neighborhood kids.

After a short trot across the street, we made it out to where the crops of lettuce and carrots sprouted from the ground in long tidy rows. Here, the air was heavy with the earthy scent of damp soil and the sprinklers sent water arching through the air. In one row, the earth was freshly plowed, the previous crop harvested and gone for the season. The ground was soft and stretched out far into the distance. I positioned Harley in the empty lane of soil, pointed towards the steep snowcapped mountains rising in the distance.

With a little flutter of excitement, I urged him forwards. He took a few casual steps and still, I pressed him onwards. In smooth rhythmical movements he picked up speed, moving from a trot into a rolling canter. I clicked my tongue at him, swinging my legs to encourage him. I let my reigns hang loose, giving him full leeway. I could almost feel the moment the realization washed over him; that he was allowed to plow ahead as fast as he could. It turns out that Harley could run after all. He let out one loud snort and then shot ahead, breaking into a charge.

And then we were flying. Tearing up the dirt, chunks of mud flinging into the sky behind us. The wind surged in my ears and tore tears from my eyes. Harley shook his head, that flaxen mane whipping around behind him. Thrill squeezed tight in my stomach and sent a rush of goose bumps up my arms. The fields blurred by in a confused cascade of colors. Tears streaked along my temples and gathered in my hairline as a laugh built in my chest. His hooves collided with the ground, a beautiful thundering sound that sent birds scattering. His body was thrumming beneath me, surging with life as he sucked in breaths. I stood slightly, leaning forward on my knees like a jockey and suddenly I could feel the air pulsating all around me, flapping my t-shirt and sending my hair back in a wild tangle.

There was a part of me that was terrified. A part of me that screamed and cautioned me to slow down. Warnings and red flags. A reminder that I was high up, going fast, and one wrong move away from slamming into the ground. And then there was the part of me that was electric, urging me to go faster. That part of me was surging with energy and a thirst for that feeling of freedom. Together, those parts made an equilibrium. A perfect balance of liberation, and I found myself flying free.

Contributor's Note: I was a little apprehensive about entering a piece of nonfiction, just because it's a bit out of my comfort zone. Although I've had many adventures, I had a hard time choosing a true story that I thought people would like to hear about. I haven't had any crazy trips to foreign countries or faraway places, but I decided that perhaps the beauty in an everyday event would inspire an audience.