The brochure had me at "Make a memory that will last a lifetime." I agreed to go horseback riding through Arizona's Sonoran Desert with my husband and our youngest daughter.

When we arrived at Wyatt Earp's ranch, a ranch hand of indeterminate gender approached me wearing a cowboy hat, bandana around the neck, western-style long sleeve shirt, Wrangler jeans and cowboy boots. Looking directly at me the ranch hand asked, "Why are you dressed like that?"

My guess was that this person wrote the dress code for the brochure. "This was an impromptu thing," I replied sheepishly.

In my haste to make a lifetime memory, I skipped over the part in the brochure that read: Due to the nature of our rides, long pants and closed toe shoes are recommended. Boots, sunscreen, long sleeves and hats are also recommended. Don't forget your camera!

I was a "Glamour Don't" in the western fashion world. That day I wore a halter-top, white jeans, Donald Pliner Sport shoes and carried a $7.49 instamatic camera that I purchased at the local Quick Mart—I forgot the good camera at home.

My husband growled and went inside the ranch's gift shop. He purchased a XXL T-shirt for $20. The circus-tent size shirt covered my back and most of my arms, protecting my skin from the desert sun.

Children under the age of 18 had to wear helmets. Our youngest daughter complained about wearing the bowl-shaped roller derby helmet. Until Mom and Dad strapped a helmet on their heads.

One by one the ranch hand chose a specific horse for each of the riders. When it came to my turn, the ranch hand stood and stared at me — all the while looking me up and down. With my thumbs in my pockets, I took a sure-footed stance and squinted back at her — the sun was in my eyes. "What?" My voice cracked. "Is there something wrong?"

"I learned just the other day that a person who stands with their thumbs in their pockets have somethin' to hide."

"I got nothin' to hide," I squeaked.

Riding a horse was just like riding a bike. Wasn't it? A person doesn't forget how to ride a horse? Even if that person hasn't ridden a horse in over 20 years. Right?

In the past, I rode horses that galloped at a grazing pace through flat lands. But these horses, I heard, were young Mustangs. Horses that once ran wild and free through mountain desert.

The ranch hand walked a P.F. Chang-sized horse named Jake in front of me. "Here, you might need this," and the ranch hand placed a set of wooden steps next to the horse. I stood on the top step and hurled my leg up and over the saddle. Stretching my inner thigh beyond rubber band limits. Then I rode off into the blazing sun.

Our guide named Chip rode to the side of the riders. A crusty desert rat, he smoked Marlboro Reds and wore Wrangler jeans (FYI real cowboys wear Wrangler jeans). He made my horse, Jake, the lead horse. I don't know if he did this because I purchased a Wyatt Earp T-shirt, or because I wore a special helmet. Or maybe, he actually thought I could lead a team of riders. Nah. The real leader was Jake. He had his own built in GPS system. I rarely had to use my reins.

There was a comforting sameness to the trail and the panoramic vistas of mountains and Saurao cactus. It had rained the entire week before, and the desert was lush with wildflowers. Just when I became one with the saddle, the desert floor dipped dramatically, sending me over Jake's head and meeting him eye-to-eye. "Easy. Easy. Good horsey," I whispered in his ear.

Dispelling a horse whisperer moment, our guide Chip yelled, "Lean back, blondie. Hold tight on the reins."

We returned to the ranch two hours later tired and dusty. The ranch hand looked surprised to see me. He or "she" probably expected me to be Life Flighted back to the ranch. I manage to get down from my horse without using steps. And I walked away like a real cowgirl. I didn't say I looked like a cowgirl. I just walked like one.

To find out more about Mimi Kopulos and read her past columns, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.

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