Hoodini

I despise sheep. The only place I enjoy seeing them is on my plate. I didn't always hate them. I used to think sheep were cute and soft and fluffy. It's a lie. To prove it, I will tell the tale of Hoodini.
This last summer was my second year working at a glorious summer camp for kids. That statement, in and of itself, declares an adventure. I live and breathe camp all summer - there is nowhere I would rather be during the hot, sunshiny days of June, July and August. Last summer I was a survival camp counselor and a wrangler. I was given the position of Equestrian Director this year and that was... a learning experience. Delightful - but full of lessons, both from the campers and the horses. Hoodini, however, was not a horse. Hoodini was a sheep.
It was a calm, balmy day during Blind Camp week and I was sitting in the tack room finalizing my lesson plans for Horsemanship Camp. Barb, my assistant wrangler, was oiling tack. It was pleasant and relaxing with the electric fan circulating the smells of leather, sweat and hay. I glanced up when I heard Beth's voice call Barb to come help her for a minute. Beth was in charge of the camp petting zoo and I assumed she needed help hauling feed or setting up the duck pond. I nodded to Barb and she slipped out. Seconds later, I heard a loud shriek and the panicked yells of the two girls. I dropped my pen and ran into the field.
Both Beth and Barb were running frantically across the meadow, tripping in their boots. I bolted after them and was reminded of how impossible it is to run in cowboy boots. I had no idea what was going on, but they needed help with something. I caught up to them as they paused behind some trees near the trailer park.
"Cheyanne- the sheep are out! They're running away!"
"What? Where?"
"They're in the trailer park. If we can circle around without being seen, we can chase them back in the direction of the barn. If they get out the gate, there's nothing between them and the coyotes!"
We split up, each attempting to get behind the creatures and direct them home; but sheep either have super eyes, super ears or super noses, because they broke into a run before we were halfway around them. Barb and Beth sprinted after them, and I kept ahead of them, down the road and toward the camp gate, which was open. We cut them off at the archway and stood, like a Western shootout, waiting for them to move. When they did, I swear they had a force field around them. They physically slipped right through my clutching fingers and dashed into the road, which, fortunately, was deserted as it regularly is.
The two girls cut off their escape toward the open wild, so they followed the road as it bordered our property. Technically, we were still on our land, but if we had to chase them into the forest on the other side of the road, we'd be violating the large, red and white NO TRESSPASSING signs posted everywhere along the treeline. I put on my best country-girl-run and flew through the trees on our side, hoping once again to cut them off and turn them home. I succeeded merely in chasing them into the neighbour's property. Now it was desperate - on the other side of the forest was a wheat field, with new, tender, green wheat. THAT was the real problem.
It was a flat out race. We chased the sheep between trees, over logs, through ditches of mud and sludge. The animals were filthy, panting and maneuvering through the woods with the skill and grace of a Greek nymph. I kept waiting for one of them to slam face first into a tree, but the stupid things never did. It had been at least fifteen minutes since Beth's first call for assistance and it was starting to get funny - really funny. Our laughter echoed among the trees along with the bleating of the sheep. I leaped over a log, hot on the tail of the larger sheep, and landed in something both soft and hard - like moss and twigs, but not. I stared down, horrified by what was surrounding my feet. I stood in the middle of a decaying moose carcass.
I stood for a full five seconds before I jerked my feet up and out, flying six feet in one leap. (I'm not exaggerating, I've done it before when a spider crawled into my lap. But that's another story.) Beth's call for me pulled me back to the task at hand and I sailed through the forest toward her. The sheep were cornered between two massive anthills and two panting wranglers. Finally, we had won. 
Confidence is a false friend, because the second I moved to grab their fleece, they dashed in opposite directions, rejoined behind me and bounded into the wheat field that was only ten feet away. Fool.
The sight that greeted me when I turned around, however, almost took my breath away with gales of laughter. The wheat was taller than the sheep and as they moved, tiny, shimmering green trails showed their every twist and turn. They could not see a thing and so began running in wild zigzags and circles.
"Come on!" I shouted gleefully and plunged into the waves, followed closely by Beth and Barb.
It turns out that humans cannot run faster than sheep and sheep cannot run faster than humans - at least in a wheat field. The sheep were bouncing - literally - through the thick wheat and the people were stepping just as idiotically to clear their feet of the tangled stalks. The sheep stayed just ahead, and as I slowly came closer, laughing hysterically, I prepared myself to tackle. At the precise moment that I leaped, I also tripped and executed a face plant that would have become a viral video had it been recorded. I was convulsing with laughter when I heard another person laughing with me.
"That was quite amusing," said a male voice and I lifted myself up to see Chad, another wrangler, standing on the edge of the field, sweaty and smiling broadly. I had no idea why he was there, but I was having too much fun to care.
"Don't just stand there - help us!" I gasped. At that moment, one of the sheep ran by and he reached for it. Missing, he leaped after it and joined the chase, laughing just as loudly as me.
For a brief moment, it was like a music video. My wavy blond hair was down and flying, my cowboy hat was bouncing against my back. I was dressed in a red plaid button down shirt, jean shorts and cowboy boots. The sun shone down on the field, making every blade of wheat sparkle and every golden hair on my head shine. Chad was tall, handsome and athletic. His smile lit up his face and he leaped and jumped with playful abandon. With the music in my head and the two of us running side by side through the green, never ending sea, it was perfect. Minus the two other girls, the twigs in my hair, the mud covering Chad's shoes and the frantic sheep running just ahead of us. The sudden thought almost paralyzed me with its humour. After another five or so minutes, Chad took a valiant dive and landed on top of the larger sheep. Pinning it to the ground with his body, he looked up at me.
"Now what?"
"Flip it over and we'll carry it," I replied, still snickering. I really couldn't stop. After about two minutes, I realized that Beth and Barb couldn't catch the other sheep on their own, so I sent Chad back to help them after we settled our sheep across my shoulders. 
I felt like King David or the Good Shepherd as I walked down the road, carrying my "little" lost lamb home. It was pleasant - like a story book - until the little lost lamb threw a temper tantrum and began trashing wildly. His tiny, sharp hooves jabbed me in the throat over and over and over again. I stumbled, thrown off balance by the epileptic thing on my shoulders. Within seconds, the sheep was back on the ground. I'd love to say I was strong and gentle and lowered him to the road, but the truth is I tripped again and while falling, flung him off my shoulders and onto the gravel. He laid there, a little stunned and I took the opportunity to put him back on my shoulders. Ya - good luck with THAT, stupid. I was like Rabbit straining against the carrots in his garden. So I sat, in the dirt, with both hands embedded in the sheep's wool, waiting. For someone. Anyone. And I waited a while.
Finally, Chad, Beth and Barb appeared, chasing the other sheep back toward the barn. Chad took the sheep from me and manhandled it onto my shoulders again. The exact same thing happened after only a few steps. Chad took pity on me and picked up the sad, bruised monster, carrying it against his chest, his biceps flexed and taut to keep it there. And that's when the sheep peed. 
I died in the middle of the road. I couldn't breathe, couldn't talk. I could only cackle like Honey Hotwings, the petting zoo chicken. Poor Chad set a grim smile on his face and walked all the way back to the petting zoo, the screaming sheep in his arms. He placed it inside the fence and turned around, slowly. 
"I'm going to go change. I may be late to work," he stated. 
"Of course," I replied in a mock serious tone. "You have done us a great service and duly earned the right to retire." I laughed once more and said, "Go shower, Chad. Barb and I can start rides on our own."
He was half-way across the field when I turned back and yelled, "Don't forget to check for ticks!" He broke into a dead run and Barb and I had to hold onto each other to save ourselves from our laughter.
That was the first time I chased Hoodini. It was not the last. In fact, we had a daily date together and our games of tag were routine within a week. He could jump any fence we built, no matter how high or how thick. Somehow, he was always on the other side, staring at me across the field with mellow eyes that sent a silent, secret challenge. Fortunately, he always left Sidekick at home and we never had to chase the two of them together again.
As much as I hated the stupid thing, I miss him too. He gave me a story that every camper loved hearing and he gave me a title too. Admittedly, though, I'm not sure The Sheep Wrangler really flatters me as much as Chad says it does.

Gibraltar Dreams

So the last Sunday in Spain was upon me and I had planned it out perfectly. The Rock of Gibraltar has always been on my bucket list and there was no way I wasn't going to take this opportunity. It was three hours each way, creating nine hours with which to explore the peninsula. I should have plenty of time and so I prepared to leave. I only had one problem - no one else wanted to go.

It has been noticed more than once by my male friends that girls like to travel in packs. Admittedly, it is not safe to travel alone as a young woman, especially in a foreign country. That day I didn't care.

Everybody wanted to go to the beach that we had gone to the first Sunday in Spain - a gorgeous place called Nerja. I begged and pleaded with my friends in the hopes that someone would go, but everyone turned me down. Not to be discouraged I determined to go anyway. I did not tell the class sponsor as she would not have allowed me to go.

The morning of the trip, I caught the 7:00 am bus and stretched across the back five seats, sleeping all the way to La Línea, where I disembarked and walked to the British Border. I could see the Rock rising above the town and I was actually giddy with excitement. Gibraltar is a British Protectorate and so I needed to have my passport with me. Being Canadian, they hardly glanced in my direction as I went through security. It's nice being universally loved. 

I walked across the military airstrip and into Gibraltar, where I immediately began looking for a bus to take me to the top. I saw a map station and bought a map, but it didn't have bus routes on it. So I asked in the stores and gas stations, using both English and Spanish. You'd think that people who lived in Gibraltar would know how to get to the top of the Rock. Nope. It took me an hour to find a city bus that I thought would take me to the top. It didn't. It took me to a very large but quaint plaza, surrounded by little shops and restaurants and a men's vocal quartet singing in the center. I love Europe.

As cute as it was, I really had no idea where I was or how to get to the top of the Rock. And it was already noon. I was lost in a (supposedly) English speaking country (Province? Protectorate? I know not) and it was starting to make me mad. So I walked into the nearest bar and asked for help. They pulled the chef out of the back of the kitchen to talk to me because no one else spoke English and I was too flustered to formulate any kind of sentence in Spanish. They pointed me in the right direction and I sat down on a bench to wait for the bus. It was almost twenty minutes and I was beginning to wonder if there were no buses running to the top. Finally, the bus arrived and I rode it for another twenty minutes until it stopped and I was told to get off. I was nowhere near the top.

Instead of standing on the edge of the cliffs, I was standing at the bottom.

At first I was very frustrated and I immediately looked for a way to get to the top. But I rethought and realized that the lighthouse in front of me was beautiful. So I took some pictures, smelled the sea breeze, watched the gulls and listened to the tourists and the birds squawking with equal vigor. As I turned to begin the attempt for the summit, I saw a beautiful mosque - white and green, with spires and domes and intricate lattice work on the windows. I was amazed, intrigued and a little intimidated by the idea that popped into my head. I wanted to go into the mosque and pray. Could I? I could try.

I walked over, put on my jacket to cover my tank top and wished I had brought my skirt. But I slipped in the gate, which was open a crack, and slowly tip toed inside. It was almost like a regular Western building inside. A mint and white hallway, filled with Arabic scroll work stretched in either direction. I turned right and found the library. The walls and the room were lined with orderly rows of dark wooden bookshelves and every shelf was full of thick, gold embossed, Qu'ranic inscribed tomes. The spines of the books lined up to spell Arabic words and if one spoke Arabic, you could have walked up and down the aisles literally reading the shelves. I pulled one book out and opened it. The soft green pages were full of more Arabic script and the borders were fancy letters. It was art - simple and useful but beautiful to behold. I slipped back out of the library and down the hall in the other direction. I found a door to what must have been the main worshiping room, but all the lights were off and I didn't want to invade or be disrespectful. So I sat on a chair in the hallway, communed with God for a while and then stole back outside and down the road. I still don't know if I was supposed to be there, but I know God was supposed to be there. And He was.

So there I was, standing at the base of the Rock of Gibraltar, the cliffs towering above me and I really had no idea how to get up there. The other tourists from the bus had long since left and I had to decide between turning left (back inland) or right (toward the sea). I chose to go right, as it took me nearer to the rock. Perhaps there was a path I could hike to the top. I stopped a lovely couple and asked for the route, they pointed me in the opposite direction and said it would be at least fifteen minutes before I made it to the trail. Not the top - the trail.

I gritted my teeth and started walking. I walked for at least half an hour and finally found the road that lead to the top. It was steep, and the sun was right overhead. I put one foot in front of the other and began the climb. I hiked for another hour, and saw no end in sight - the road was endless. I was sweating and panting as though I had just finished a set of dive lines at volleyball practice. My body burned. If I made it to the top, it was going to be the only thing I did that day - and I had a list to complete! So, I did the only thing an intelligent, single woman travelling alone in a foreign country does: I stuck out my thumb and prayed for a ride. Four or five cars passed me and my hope was wearing thin, when a small, beat-up blue car pulled alongside me. A middle-aged man sat in the driver's seat. He smiled and motioned for me to get in. My stomach jumped, but I ignored every screaming message my brain was sending me and climbed into the passenger seat. 

His name was Bessi and he had moved to Gibraltar from Africa. He worked as a tour guide, had a wife and kids and was hoping to get a new car in the near future. We chatted amiably as we drove, ever higher, and I finally asked him how far he was going to take me. He replied, "As close to the top as possible." We passed police officers and signs that declared no private vehicles were to go beyond this point. Still we drove. Finally we came to a gate with a police car parked out front. He stopped and I got out, thanking him profusely for driving me so far. Slipping through the gate, I watched him turn around and drive back down the hill. 

I walked on for another fifteen minutes or so and found the tiny footpath that led to the summit. It was covered in loose gravel, no more than 50 cm wide and over-arched with lemon and tamarind
trees. Tropical birds danced from the ground into the trees and back. Finally, I broke into the open and disappointment washed over me. This may have been the summit, but it was not the furthest point - the very tip, were the ancient Greeks would have stood to watch the ships come in from the far flung Atlantic. That point, that destination, was behind a barbed wire fence and a stone wall.


There was no way I was going to have climbed all this way and risked my life to not stand on the furthest point of the Rock of Gibraltar. I saw that the wall was built against a bank of rocks, so I threw my bag to the top, hiked up my jeans and climbed up. Perching on the wall, my feet dangling over the edge of the cliff, I looked out at the ocean and watched the birds playing tag with each other. The wind whistled past my ears and made my eyes water.

I jumped down on the other side of the wall and began running, up, up, up. I didn't stop until there was nothing between me and the sky and the ocean. So many sensations flooded over me in that moment. Wonder at the beauty of the earth, awe at the grand scale of nature, fear for humanity's part in history and insignificance at my small, single self. And then I felt pride - I had done it! I was standing on the top of the Rock of Gibraltar, a place I had only dreamed about until this moment. Now I was living my dream.

A lot more happened that day, including selfies with apes, war forts, a rain storm, the Pillars of Hercules and the most amazing sorbet I have ever tasted. But the crowning achievement was standing, with my back to the railing, my arms outstretched, thunder rumbling, lightening slicing the sky, wind gluing the hairs to my face, looking at the same sea, tasting the same salt as Odysseus and Perseus and Jason.

Living your dreams isn't something that only happens once or twice. It can happen every day if you want it to. Dream big. And dream small. Let the little victories taste just as sweet. Or salty.

Why Not Here?

Yesterday I went to El Jardín Botánico de la Concepción outside Málaga, España. We rode a bus for about twenty minutes from El Centro and when we exited the highway we started driving all over the countryside. I think our driver was confused, if not lost. We finally found the gardens, but it took longer than twenty minutes.

The Botanical Garden of the Conception has an interesting story. If I understood the guide correctly, because he was speaking Spanish, a noble woman named Amalia Heredia knew of botanical gardens all over Europe and asked herself, "Why not in Málaga?" So her husband traveled around the continent and saw all styles of gardens. He decided that the English style was most beautiful and so, on his return, constructed an English botanical garden for his wife. They built a 'cottage' on the land and lived there in the summer. After a few sales, the garden came into the hands of the city of Málaga and was opened to the public. It now has 80,000 species of plants, a third of those found on earth.

I enjoyed walking through the gardens, under the shade of the huge trees. It was a very hot day, but several degrees cooler under the leaves, and I had a pleasant afternoon. There are fairly large rats living in the forests, but I only saw one and it ran away before I could take a picture. There are also tiny black squirrels and hundreds of birds, chattering. Waterfalls, tumbling over stones or falling from cliffs, add another layer to the music, and faint, like the alto part in my choir, is the whisper of the foliage. There were few flowers, as the blooming months are past, but the trees, bamboo beside spruce, were interesting enough. Hidden among the trees were also ruins of Roman times and beside the path was a small temple and amphitheatre. I would have spent more time there, but our tour ended and we had to leave.

The gardens were beautiful, but the most interesting fact was how they came to be established. Someone asked "Why not here?" And it made me realize that we limit ourselves because we assume we can't.

"I can't be a doctor. I can't go to Laos. I can't make a difference."

What would happen if we were to ask the same question - Why not? I believe we'd see that the excuses fall away. Most of the time, we have no good reason.

So - Why not here? Why not you?

Bienvenidos!

Wanderlust: a strong desire for or impulse to wander or travel and explore the world.

Welcome! I'm Cheyanne and I love new things - sights, smells, places, people. I'm nineteen years old and have traveled to nine countries, plus one other, but I didn't leave the airport. Count it if you want, but I'm not going to. Currently, I am in Spain, studying Spanish. I've been here almost a month and every day has been something new. I only have five days left and thinking about it makes my heart ache. Spain has so much culture and history; I love wandering the streets for no reason at all sometimes.

Wanderlust. It's common. Everyone's got it to one degree or another. I've got it bad. This blog is the journal of my wanderings and travels and stories from home too. Because, sometimes, the greatest adventures are just down the back alley behind your house.