Nkhata Bay, Malawi

When I was quite young, I rode a horse. It had been a fabulously U-shaped steed named Gluestick (joke courtesy of Jerry Seinfeld). I tried to saddle up a second time when visiting Corine's family home in the Okanagan Valley - a curious place, half chalet and half barn made of straw. I had joked about galloping briskly through a meadow - but Corine's horses were nearly dead and the other was incredibly anti-social. It was not meant to be.

This morning I went on a real horse for a real ride. It was surprisingly great - and I now have some insight into Mark and Jess's obsession with this sport. I'm joining them for their next trip to Wyoming.

The horse's name was Glen. Glen is a girl, despite her name. We took a route through farms and corn and hills and then along the beach back to my lodge. I walked, trotted, and then horribly lost control while attempting to canter - holding on desperately to the horse's mane and neck. The second attempt felt much better, very natural - but I apparently screwed it up also, because when I finished, the sexy Brazilian guide I was with said "that was more of a gallop."

I can't canter to save my life, but I achieved the dream of galloping briskly through a meadow. The meadow was more of a sandy wet rice field - but I'm not picky. I knew Glen was happy too when he instigated a celebration by taking a roll in the swampy water giving us both a proper soaking.

Other than this, I've had three sequential rainy days on the lake. Its been a good chance to sketch out some plans for the remaining sabbatical and to dream of paths for life beyond ...