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We break through the trees and are overlooking the pristine coast with green water breaking onto the rocks just beyond the edge of the sand. The horses find it hard to stand still because they know soon they will be in their element, a strand of hard packed sand reaching out in front of us as far as tomorrow.
Safety is always non-optional as Lari leads us and we break into a measured trot behind her. She turns in the saddle invites us all to ride abreast. Into perfect columns, we trot on in the sand striking in unison and blending with the pounding surf. Zhivago strains to step hooves out, but I gently check him and he returns to me.
Satisfied that all riders are correctly matched to their horses and are riding with comfort and confidence, Lari suggests an easy canter up the beach.
Zhivago accelerates like a Formula One race car, smooth, steady with enthusiasm and intensity. We are all moving together now at a strong canter. There are broad smiles on everyone's face. I find it hard to comprehend this reality. I cannot believe this is my 20th ride here. But it is real. It may be the only reality worth experiencing again and again for it is never the same. It is an elixir for the soul and a recharge for the batteries.
Four miles later, only the riders are out of breath form excitement. We stop and hand our cameras to Lari, even though the horses are eager to continue. She asks if anyone wants to continue to canter on the beach and everyone starts to grin at the same time. Now we canter in single file as Lari rides 20 feet to the side of us twisted on her saddle taking perfect pictures of us galloping up the beach against a background of those magnificent waves sent from faraway to die on this beach.
We have another several miles to go on the beach and eventually slow to a walk to allow our horses to catch their air and also so as not to disturb the seals crowded onto rocky perches.
A right turn at Ten Mile River and we are in a bird sanctuary, a natural habitat unspoiled by the hand of man. The landscape has changed dramatically as we leave the beach and head into the sand dunes. Scrub brush and the debris from the sea left by the last storm have created a palpable metamorphosis among the riders. Strangers are now friends as if the eight mile gallop up the beach was a path leading to a higher state of being; it is. Equipment and extra clothing is now a shared commodity. Someone's glasses that will not stay in the pocket are in my saddle bag as I passed away my water bottles to thirsty friends.
After an hour, we work our way to a pasture that gently climbs the lazy hill before us. Lari asks us if we are hungry yet. There must be something about being horseback outdoors that allows you to think of food shortly after finishing the farmer's sized breakfast. We all answer "yes", but by now we are also so pumped up we would answer yes to almost anything. "Well then, let's trot on."
The top of the first hill is really just the knee of a longer and much higher hill. Nothing but a day at the office for Zhivago. "We can canter to the top of the hill if you like." We like. This time we all give the horses their heads and let them pace themselves. Supporting and balanced, I am tipped forward with alight seat, Zhivago needs no other encouragement. He devours the hill at top speed.
An hour later, I am finding it difficult to move form the grassy ridge overlooking the California coast. The breeze has picked up a bit and fog has begun to roll onshore and search for a way to find us. As we stretch the stiffness from our legs, we give carrots to our horses and remount. Lari suggests if we are just a bit tired, we could pick up the pace.
Shortly after we leave our lunch spot, the clouds have won and obscured the weakening sun and a gentle, misty rain begins to fall. We stop and redress for the occasion and have entered the deepest part of the forest as the Angels shed their tears on us. Protected by a cathedral like canopy, we canter along a forest stream. The verdant, lush growth is redolent of wild mushrooms and Bay Laurel. We pass the final ridge to see in the valley below our stock trailer, which also means hay for the horses and ice cold beer for the jockeys.
High fives and hugs at the end of only the first day. And this is only the beginning... | 
