PERSPECTIVES: Spending the Night in the State Forest

The first night:

By Ingrid Grenon

My horse friends and I loved riding in the state forest so much that we finally made our dream to spend a night there with our horses materialize. It was 1978, and we were grown-up, sort of. Teenagers still, but mature teenagers.

We didn’t pack much, so hot dogs and beans were our meal. We fashioned a pit using stones and started a fire. The horses were tethered to nearby trees and seemed to have no problem with that. Rather than carry water in for the horses, we brought a bucket and pilfered water from a nearby spring/cistern. We took grain in our saddlebags.

The first night we didn’t bring a tent, planning to sleep under the stars. Well, it wasn’t as romantic as the old songs and movies would have one think. My antique western saddle was hard and uncomfortable to use as a pillow, so I threw the saddle blanket onto it for comfort. The saddle blanket that was covered in horse hair and sweat. The mosquitos were relentless, and things were crawling onto me from the ground.

Despite all these perceived hardships, the evening stars shone brightly above and a breeze developed later in the evening that kept most of the mosquitos at bay. For a while. Then it got cool so I wrapped myself in my sweaty, hairy horse blanket. So much for the romance of sleeping under the stars.

The second night:

The next time we visited the state forest we took a tent, brought hay & grain in for the horses in advance, and again used a spring for water. To satisfy our palates, instead of hot dogs, we brought steak in plastic bags with Italian dressing and put that in our saddle bags. The ride into the forest, with all the bumps and shakes, marinated our steaks. We fashioned another pit out of stones for cooking and brought a grill. While the steak was cooking, we placed ears of corn into the fire after we soaked the husks in water from the spring.

The food was good, but we had no silverware, just one knife each. I admit it was fun to tear the meat apart with my hands and devour it, juice running down my chin. The horses were quiet, as was the night. Unfortunately, it began to rain. There wasn’t much room in the tent, but I brought my antique McClellan cavalry saddle inside to protect it from the elements, so I had to sleep on it. The horses were quiet but we were wet and cold. The forest was dark, quiet and forgiving.

The rain stopped the following morning; we packed everything up and headed out. We survived the storm. Presuming we’d do it again we waited to figure out our next camping trip. Seeing how one thing leads to another we never went back—but the memory lingers still.

Ingrid Grenon is a writer, historian and farrier, who lived in Franklin for many years.