Finley | NJ to OR: My Partner Through It All

“The horse is a mirror to your soul; sometimes you will like what you see, sometimes you won’t.” — Buck Brannaman

“Big butt. Bigger heart.” — Michael Scott about Stanley in “The Office” — Gin about Finley

We made it!

On September 30th, 2023, Finley and I finished riding ocean to ocean from New Jersey to Oregon!

3,600 miles.

11 states. 11 months. 1 winter off.

Not a mile skipped, nor a moment apart.

It has been a long, hard road but one so very good to us, too.

I would be remiss if I did not credit my entire ride to Finley, my better half and my truest partner.

In selecting a wild mustang fresh from the corrals, I am extraordinarily lucky to have gotten one with so much heart and courage. Especially when you consider that I had to choose Finley from a single photo, without ever seeing him in person first, and that everyone at his adoption event who wanted to pick a horse in advance had gotten the chance to before me. Finley was one of the leftovers, overlooked for his plain red fur.

Originally, my plan was to purchase a trained horse until I thought-What will I have done to deserve them?-and could no longer stomach it.
I knew: I wanted the challenge, and the immense honor, of having a horse who I could learn and grow with from the ground up, who would be all my own.

It’s not for everyone, but it was the right call for me.

It was my calling, really.

So along came Finley. My first horse and my first wild mustang.

I adopted him for $125.

If invisible strings exist, the kind that join two souls together long before either knows it, then Finley and I must share many.

As Finley would have reached his late adolescence, the age when a stallion must leave his natal herd behind and venture out on his own for the first time, the same year I became an adult and left home in 2019.

He was then gathered from the wild during a helicopter roundup in August of 2021, the very same month that I moved in with my long riding mentor, Sea, and rode a horse for the first time.

If you add a zero to Finley’s BLM identification numbers, #7184, it marks the zip code for Newark, NJ, a city less than 30 miles from where I planned to start riding across the country.

While Finley himself is from Oregon, my intended destination.

So by embarking on this journey together, it meant I would get to take Finley home.

Finley and I left to ride across America on May 20th, 2022, when he was just 110 days out of the wild.

I led him on foot across the entire state of New Jersey.

While Finley had been started under saddle a few weeks earlier, he had less than 30 rides on him, so I did not want to chance riding him in New Jersey, the most densely populated state in the U.S. Especially when he still couldn’t be touched by strangers, his wild proclivities too great.

This raises the question — “why start at ALL under such dire circumstances?”

I was equally ensnared by the question of — “How much risk is too much?” 

I did not want to set Finley up for failure by letting dreamy ideals cloud my judgment.

That was the last thing I wanted to do.

Yet, too often in our early relationship, I underestimated Finley. As contrary as that sounds, it is true.

I had a consistent urge to play things safe, to shield him from harm’s way for fear of what could go wrong if I didn’t.

And he suffered for this. I held him back. Too often, I mistook my own lack of confidence as an implicit need for caution when that was nothing but a pretty illusion.

This is exemplified best in our very beginning together.

6 weeks into adopting Finley, when he was still known by his neck tag numbers, #7184, I could hardly touch him. He would flinch at every contact, his eyes unwaveringly cold, lips tight.

I judged him for this.

We made little progress and, after one training session where he chased me out of the round pen, our progress became even slower, as now I was scared of him and had to grapple with the immense shame of such a feeling.

Only later would I realize, How can I judge him when the fear in his eyes is only two mirrors reflecting my own? 

Things reached a boiling point when my housing suddenly fell out from under me. Holed up in a nearby motel with no friends or family in sight and my spirits crushed, I wavered on what to do next. My heart took on a heaviness that it could not let go of to save its life.

I wondered, How can I go on? 

But then I could imagine #7184 saying, “Now you know how I feel.”

After all, hadn’t he had everything — his home, his family, his friends — ripped away from him when he was captured from the deserts of Oregon, a place where free will is a given and humans are alien, and thrown into a corral? While it had been done to save him–his herd was overpopulated and a drought had dried up every watering hole in their territory that summer, promising to kill many without intervention– that doesn’t change the fact that he was taken from the only home he had ever known and dropped into a strange new world where everything was foreign to him. And by the hard set of his jaw and the anger that never left his eyes, it was clear that he felt up against it. Alone.

I didn’t have things nearly as bad. At least I could choose where I stood in life.

So I would stand with him. Suddenly grateful, beyond measure, to be brought down if that meant being on his same level-eye to eye, heart to heart, further apart yet closer than ever before. I couldn’t cast him back to the corrals, not after I had taken him on, and especially not now that I shared an ounce of his pain over being homeless and having no one on my side. Even if he couldn’t make for a suitable partner to cross the country with, I felt a duty to see his training through.

I transported #7184 to a local stable, renowned for their experience with mustangs, where I got a job mucking stalls. Without a place to live myself, but determined not to let that stop me, I pitched my tent in the nearest public lands eight miles away, up a mountainside, in the dead of winter. Without a license nor a car, my plan was to commute back and forth on my bicycle each day. Luckily, this arrangement didn’t have to last long as, right before a snowstorm would hit, I found a room to rent above the bar downtown instead. A week later, my barn manager found a room on site for me, so close to #7184 that I could see his stall from my bedroom window.

With the absolute guidance of an instructor, #7184 and I blossomed like never before. Over the course of forty-five days, we received an exceptional foundation in both groundwork and riding. Every time #7184 was faced with a new challenge, I would watch with uncertainty on how he would do only to be proven wrong in my assumption. He was pushed and pushed at every opportunity, and he was made better for it.

I saw who he truly was for the first time. Honest. Intuitive. Stoic. Searching, always, for solace in my eyes, tracking my expression to tell him how he should feel, trusting that I was right. That’s something I struggled with, and that our instructor emphasized to no end, how he would draw off my energy. Our fear of each other faded while our friendship flourished. I became his center of gravity; familiar and comforting when nothing else was.

I finally felt certain that he could be my partner to ride across the country with, so I removed the tag around his neck bearing the numbers #7184 and gave him my chosen name:

Finley.

On our last trail ride with our instructor, I asked her teasingly, “Do you think we’re ready [for the trip]?” I was not expecting a yes.

And I remember she said in turn, measuredly, “You know, Gin, I think he’s ready. The question is are you?” This caught me off guard.

She told me, “At some point he’s going to do something [he shouldn’t] and you almost have to … pretend it never happened.” She recognized that my relationship with Finley was still tenuous, and I think she was trying to caution me against holding undue fear or resentments towards him for the mistakes he is bound to make as a green broke horse.

She told me, “You have to remember you have a truly extraordinary mustang.”

Once Finley and I left the protective cocoon of our training stable, we spent two weeks stationed at my grandparents’. Here, I practiced leading and riding him on back roads, and he did considerably well. And when he didn’t, I began to think, “if these punches are coming either way, what’s the point of going through them here rather than in New Jersey [an hours drive off]?”

Increasingly, I saw no difference. We would be on equivalent back roads there. What would make them a greater risk?

More than anything, my decision to start when we did came down to the fact that I felt confident in Finley’s ability to be led safely.

When I was on his back, he spooked more, and with greater intensity, emboldened by being in the front. As a beginner rider, I knew I couldn’t expect to maintain control and mask my fear during such moments, not in congested New Jersey streets. Even if I kept my face impassive, my heartbeat couldn’t lie. A horse is capable of sensing the slightest touch of a fly on their back, no doubt my skyrocketing pulse would betray me to him. Same for my hands, my seat. And if I reacted, Finley wouldn’t understand that I was scared of his upset—he’d just perceive my fear as all the more reason to be scared himself.

Meanwhile, he was impeccable on the ground. It played to our mutual strengths, allowing him to take a backseat role, dutifully following my example, trusting that I wouldn’t lead him astray even in new, chaotic environments. And when he did spook–normally by jumping in place or hastily shooting a few feet forward — I had learned how to remain calm and composed, which only further encouraged him to do the same.

Besides, I have never wanted a horse to simply ride across America.

No. I have always wanted a equine partner to find companionship in being with, regardless of how.

Thus, I saw no truer way for Finley and I to bond and grow together further than by beginning our journey. Sharing the entirety of our days eating, drinking, and sleeping beside one another. Thriving and struggling in unity.

Perhaps this stems from my own background; I walked across America from Delaware to California as a shy, awkward 18 year old, weighing 195 lbs, with no backpacking experience and having never left home before. I have done the exact thing I would be asking my horse to, and it was the best decision I could have made for myself. I grew in such unimaginable, wondrous ways. It made the open road, a place so foreign to most modern Americans, my truest home, the place I felt most comfortable.

Suffice to say, many people see long riding as the ultimate goal in training their horse.

I saw it as the path there.

Left: Finley and I at the beach in NJ | Right: Finley showcasing his love for lying down in the randomest of places … like in the dirt along a busy highway, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world so long as the spots comfy. A funny quirk of his.

New Jersey . . . made for a soft start! A 70 mile, week long trek from the Atlantic Ocean back to my grandparents’ home in Pennsylvania where we could safely stop and reassess our situation.

I was holding my breath the first day out, but we couldn’t have chosen a better route through the state! The roads were as kind to us as the people we met. Finley did exceptional, never once faltering, no matter how much he was pushed, and he was pushed out of his comfort zone every day.

When we returned to my grandparents’, I wondered how Finley would feel about me the following morning. The last week of travelling had been rewarding, but challenging. In his fatigue, would he be wary of me? Would he refuse to be caught, feeling now that my presence meant work?

When I next pulled into the driveway on my bicycle, I rounded the corner of the barn to see Finley already waiting at the gate of his pasture for me. Later, he surprised me by resting his head on my shoulder for the first time. He had never shown such physical affection before. In the past, his stoicism always came with this aloofness, an icy wall between us.

Until now.

Around the same time, my grandmother gave me one of the greatest compliments I would ever receive: “You and Finley have the same personality. Somehow, Gin, you found a horse just like you!”

Pennsylvania . . . was a roller coaster of a state!

Just as I was ready to start riding Finley on the Horse Shoe Trail, he developed a severe rain rot infection. Lesions formed on his back, making it impossible for him to be saddled and threatening to halt our travels indefinitely!

No matter! I ditched all of our tack at my grandparents’ house to relieve Finley of the burden and carried on with only the bare essentials strapped to my back instead in an army green rucksack I nicknamed “Draft Pony.” Although part of me was disheartened by this setback, I knew many riding days lay ahead and, thus, there was no reason not to continue savoring the chance to walk alongside Finley for longer. Especially when carrying this 25-pound pack gave me a deeper appreciation for the effort he normally had in bearing such a weight across the country.

When I finally got to ride Finley for the first time on our journey, I did so bareback and bitless–something we had never done before. He didn’t miss a beat.

For every misfortune–after all, we had to traverse the rugged Appalachian mountains here!–there were as many blessings in Pennsylvania! Once Finley’s rain rot healed, I got a new saddle fitted for him. In a matter of weeks, he went from being untouchable to completely unfazed by strangers, desensitized and dependable in traffic and towns. I would go on to ride Finley across the entire country in his rope halter.

In Ohio . . . newly bombproof, Finley and I cruised along in style. That is, until an Amish buggy sent him running away with me, full gallop!

Halfway through the state, rain rot struck with a vengeance. Finley and I were forced to take five weeks off at a fairgrounds while his back healed. I slept in the stall next to his. This opportunity wouldn’t have been possible without the help of a new friend: long rider Pam Kline, who we met through a stroke of luck at our lowest point. Pam is a legend, and I owe much to her.

After two vet visits, multiple baths with topical ointments, a prescribed dose of anti-fungal treatment, and a switch to a foam saddle pad, all our problems were solved, phew!

In Indiana, Illinois, Iowa . . . we really hit our stride! Finley and I rode through these states during harvest season, by endless rows of corn and soy fields, with autumn biting at our heels and Midwestern hospitality greeting us all along the way. Happy to be in lands flatter-than-not!

In Nebraska . . . winter met us on the Cowboy Trail, dashing any hopes I had of reaching the Rocky Mountains before snowfall! We braved the cold for as long as we could, enjoying the splendor of the Sandhills and cattle country, even with all the wind! (Turns out Finley’s crotch makes for an excellent, impromptu hand warmer.)

We spent the next four months in Chadron, NE, where Finley roamed a 100-acre pasture owned by fellow long rider Mike Kennedy while I rented an apartment in town. When I came to visit, Finley never failed to walk up to greet me, and we enjoyed running through the fields together when they weren’t too blanketed by snow. Yet, during this time off, Finley unexpectedly regressed with other people, hesitant to be touched again.

Only, once we departed the following spring, he made an immediate, epic comeback, dissipating all my worries! We picked up right where we had left off at the gateway to the wild, wonderful west.

In South Dakota . . . we had a perfect first week back on the road, entering the Black Hills on a high that suddenly came crashing down when Finley went missing in Wind Cave National Park.

He had been dragging his 50-foot picket line at the time, so there was a serious concern that he had gotten the rope caught around a tree and couldn’t free himself. It was a living nightmare. A massive search effort was launched, greater than I ever could have imagined, with various agencies and community members valiantly volunteering to help. People searched on foot, horseback, and with ATV’s while drones, small-engine planes, and helicopters swept the sky. Day and night, I went out to look. I would not quit until Finley was found. Yet, after five days, the situation turned grim. Somehow, there had still been no sightings of Finley. It was clear that if he had been trapped in place all that time, he was now dead. The clock had run out on him.

Morale dwindled. My heart broke a little more with every passing hour. Search efforts were nearly exhausted. I told the chief park ranger that once efforts were called off completely, I would continue to look for Finley alone, as long as it took to recover his body. Even if he would never know that I had found him. That night, the last thing I did was drive the perimeter of the park looking for circling vultures. There were none, the only glimmer of hope to be had.

On the seventh day, Finley staggered out of the woods by himself, bedraggled and fatigued, with a rope burn marring his right hing leg, evidence of his struggle to free himself from entrapment. I was overwhelmed with relief and rushed him to the vet. Thankfully, his wounds were superficial and he would make a full, fast recovery.

We spent almost two weeks recuperating with Finley relaxing out to pasture. That first night back, after so many sleepless nights, he lied down next to me and rested his head in my lap. Safe.

In Wyoming . . . we crossed the high plains during thunderstorm season, getting into all sorts of slight shenanigans. The funniest being when Finley got a bug stuck up his nose! We then witnessed beauty like never before in the Rocky Mountains.

This state was my most anticipated. I kept a photo of the Wind River Range tucked into my journal from the very beginning, longing for the day when we would reach it, and it did not disappoint! Finley was a champion on our 23-mile day through Grand Teton National Park where we summited and descended thousands of feet in elevation.

Here Finley is posed in a field of wildflowers at our campsite on Shadow Mountain with the Grand Tetons pictured behind us. By the day’s end, we would be on the other side of those ridges. 

In Idaho . . . we followed in the footsteps of the pioneers, taking the Magic Valley along the Snake River. On a section of the historic Oregon Trail, Finley and I hit a new milestone by riding bridleless for the first time! One of my proudest achievements.

Despite being in our prime here, I found myself inexplicably sinking into a slump, exacerbated by the extreme heat of summer. It was as if I were a boat that had sustained too many holes in its hull over the months, and now too much water was finally closing in on me. At this tipping point, I felt so, so tired.

Yet Finley remained as resolute as ever, in peak condition physically and mentally. His strength carried us forward when mine couldn’t.

In Oregon . . . we traversed winding canyons and mountain vistas, the most beautiful terrain paired with some of the most treacherous highways.

Here, I got to fulfill my promise of taking Finley home. He was born in a place called “Palomino Buttes” southwest of Burns, OR, where he roamed  for the first two-thirds of his life. The date we arrived marked exactly two years since he had been taken from the wild.

While I loosely held onto Finley’s reins, I didn’t guide him through Palomino Buttes. He had the freedom to choose his own path through his homeland, going anywhere he pleased for a day. I felt it was the least I could do for all that he has given me. His entire body quivered in excitement as we saddled up that morning. He readily led us to the base of a small canyon where a natural spring fed lush green grass. An oasis in an otherwise arid desert, one no map would reveal, but that he knew intimately. That night, a lone wild stallion happened upon our camp, and instead of pursing him, Finley ran to my side.

When it was time to leave, I feared that Finely might be reluctant to go with me, but once I motioned him on, he walked away from Palomino Buttes with his ears forward, never looking back.

On our final day, I wore Finley’s neck tag bearing the numbers #7184 to pay homage to where we started in our journey together. Accompanied by the best of friends, we dipped our feet into the Pacific Ocean and then had a celebratory gallop down the beach!

It’s funny how time works. For so long, Oregon was this faraway land we kept striving to meet. Each day brought it a little closer, yet each day it remained on the far horizon. Now, I am l left reeling in both wonder and wistfulness at how we not only made it to Oregon successfully but that it’s all behind us!

What began as a dream evolved into a way of life and now, at last, it lives on only in memory.