Bozeman, the rest

On the last day, we decided to go horseriding. There were beautiful, lush, horse trails through the mountains, and we weren't about to miss out on the experience, so we reserved ourselves in a local riding school.

There was inevitably much comaraderie and jibing before hand, about who would get the stubborn horse, or the lazy one, or the flatulent one. In the end, turned out that all the stereotypes were true, and each of us got one of the caricatures above.

I was pleasantly surprised by how much I remembered from my horseriding days of youth. Not quite enough to control my horse when it stopped, on whim and fancy, to have a tasted of surrounding shrubbery. But definitely enough keep my balance, rise to the trot, and avoid a pained posterior. Or so I thought, anyway. That is, until I got off the horse.

Pete, Delta and I, who had been the equestrian adventurers, all stared at each others bow-legged waddling and tried to smother our giggles. As it turned out, it stayed with me, that posterial soreness, well into my return.