The Wild Ride
In the fall of 1972, I had finished my Master’s Degree. My first ex-husband (love that phrase), Bob Schuerman, had finished his classes for a teaching certificate. One of our married friends had gone to Bogota, Colombia, South America for a Ph.D. study of the role of the church in Colombian politics. Of course, we had to go. I was pretty unassertive in those days, so I agreed to drive a car to Florida for a resident and hitchhike back to Chicago from Miami. In those days, hitchhiking was an acceptable form of travel because all the “hippies” were doing it. But that’s another story.
It was an amazing adventure. We stayed in a residencia with Steve and Mary Brzezinski, where we met other Colombians. They advised us on places to see and what to avoid. One of the residents was a young man whose family owned a coffee plantation. He offered to take us horseback riding and we jumped at the chance. The buses in Colombia at the time were old school buses that had been painted in bright colors. People brought their chickens on the bus with them. We rode on narrow roads around mountainous curves to the plantation. The Andes we saw were very old mountains, high, round and covered with grass.
At the plantation, we mounted up and I was put on a beautiful horse. It would go wherever I wanted. I was fairly new to riding, so I probably wasn’t the greatest at leading the horse, but I followed our leader and he was a great rider. We rode for hours and never left this family’s plantation. We met the residents who lived on the land every few miles.
Our friend Mary had a stubborn horse. She could barely get it to move. It wanted to stop and eat grass the whole way. So, being gracious, I offered to trade horses with her on the way back. No need to make sure the stirrups were fitted correctly because the horse never ran. We headed back to the main house and all of a sudden my horse realized we were going back to the stables. He took off as fast as he could go. My feet went flying in all directions as I tried to stay on the horse. As cool as I had felt before, I now felt embarrassed. I was a female Ichabod Crane flying down the mountain. I pulled on the reins as hard as I could (I know, you’re not supposed to) and finally got the horse to stop. Climbing down, I sat on the ground and got my breath. When the rest of the group caught up with me, they made sure I was okay and we successfully made back for a cup of café with fresh coffee beans. Whew!
We had another wild ride when we hitchhiked back to Chicago, but that’s another story.
In the fall of 1972, I had finished my Master’s Degree. My first ex-husband (love that phrase), Bob Schuerman, had finished his classes for a teaching certificate. One of our married friends had gone to Bogota, Colombia, South America for a Ph.D. study of the role of the church in Colombian politics. Of course, we had to go. I was pretty unassertive in those days, so I agreed to drive a car to Florida for a resident and hitchhike back to Chicago from Miami. In those days, hitchhiking was an acceptable form of travel because all the “hippies” were doing it. But that’s another story.
It was an amazing adventure. We stayed in a residencia with Steve and Mary Brzezinski, where we met other Colombians. They advised us on places to see and what to avoid. One of the residents was a young man whose family owned a coffee plantation. He offered to take us horseback riding and we jumped at the chance. The buses in Colombia at the time were old school buses that had been painted in bright colors. People brought their chickens on the bus with them. We rode on narrow roads around mountainous curves to the plantation. The Andes we saw were very old mountains, high, round and covered with grass.
At the plantation, we mounted up and I was put on a beautiful horse. It would go wherever I wanted. I was fairly new to riding, so I probably wasn’t the greatest at leading the horse, but I followed our leader and he was a great rider. We rode for hours and never left this family’s plantation. We met the residents who lived on the land every few miles.
Our friend Mary had a stubborn horse. She could barely get it to move. It wanted to stop and eat grass the whole way. So, being gracious, I offered to trade horses with her on the way back. No need to make sure the stirrups were fitted correctly because the horse never ran. We headed back to the main house and all of a sudden my horse realized we were going back to the stables. He took off as fast as he could go. My feet went flying in all directions as I tried to stay on the horse. As cool as I had felt before, I now felt embarrassed. I was a female Ichabod Crane flying down the mountain. I pulled on the reins as hard as I could (I know, you’re not supposed to) and finally got the horse to stop. Climbing down, I sat on the ground and got my breath. When the rest of the group caught up with me, they made sure I was okay and we successfully made back for a cup of café with fresh coffee beans. Whew!
We had another wild ride when we hitchhiked back to Chicago, but that’s another story.