Day 1

There was a road trip involved in getting to Utah. I think. I can't be certain because the first thing that happened was I saw a deer that clearly had the front half of his body hit clean off, and in an effort to avoid a dismembered deer butt, I accidentally ran over his dismembered leg and then just went, "Lalalalala" in my head for twelve hours.

Evidence maintains that there was a road trip, because the GPS on my phone said I was in Utah, and I was in my car, so barring any sort of teleportation scenario, which, if it ever happened, would not be used to go to Utah, I had driven to Utah.

Yay.

After spending a refreshing night watching Lonesome Dove and eating Raisinets at the illustrious Hyatt Place next to the Salt Lake City Airport, I hop into my car, ready to make the final hour journey to Planet Goat, and make an assessment of the things I will need for spending two weeks in Utah:

1. My Bible

2. My identification card that says I am definitely a white person

3. My virginity

Possessing none of these things, I turn the key and wonder vaguely if witch burnings ever made it from Salem to Salt Lake.

I realize in addition to missing my critical checklist, I also forgot to pack sunscreen, which means stopping in some grocery store. My farm host had informed me that I could solicit the friendly neighborhood Walmart, but the Portland in me raged too strongly at such a suggestion, so I look for something more friendly along the highway. Then, off in the distance, I see a sign for Soelberg's, which sounds just Jewish enough for me to feel good about my decision to patronize the local markets. It is irrelevant that this is a chain and looks like someone stuck a different name on a Safeway, because it says "FARM FRESH" on the giant stucco wall and a giant grocery store would never lie to me. 

I enter and realize I have no idea what to buy. I'm supposed to procure sunscreen and snacks to tide me over for two weeks, but without Dan around to feed me, I have no idea what I eat. I have no idea what I even like. Confused and distressed, I make my way to the chocolate milk section, but strike out, because as I suspected, they only possess TrueMoo, which is the Vanilla Ice of chocolate milks: it's the fucking worst. If I met a person who drinks TrueMoo, I would turn them immediately in to the police, because they are probably a murderer, and the police would ask, "What grounds do you have for believing that?" and I would point to the TrueMoo and everyone would nod sagely and probably execute the person on the spot. It would be the kindest thing.

Secure in my knowledge that I could apprehend a TrueMoo miscreant, I turn back to my quest for food-like items. I wander purposefully through the store, acting like a person who knows how to shop for groceries, but I get the sense people are suspecting I'm a fraud. Then I recognize a brand. Could it be? Bob's Red Mill? I creep up, hoping to find something I know, hoping to follow that thread of the known back into my brain to where I hold all the Life Skills knowledge, which is in there, but often gets covered up with I Love Candy knowledge and random facts about animals. Then I see it:

"Betcha thought you found a friend, huh, bitch?"

Stupid uninviting Utah and their bags of gluten.

I leave the grocery store relatively defeated, having procured only some apples, a block of cheese, some plain yogurt, two bags of tuna and a tiny jar of mayonnaise. Also two tomatoes. Because vegetables are a thing people eat.

I arrive at the farm and am greeted by my two hosts, Ed and Lauren. I am delighted to find they are neither Mormon nor interested in my status as an American. Still, not knowing how to maintain small talk after subsisting on beef jerky, Raisinets and Diet Coke for nearly 24 hours, I say, "How can I start laboring?" That's probably not the best way to phrase what I want, but they catch my meaning and put me to work. I brush some goats, and then learn to trim their hooves. I dig some weeds out of the high tunnel. Then I go back to petting goats, which is all well and good but

PONY PONY IT'S A PONY AND I WANT IT!

The part of the trip I was looking forward to the most comes to pass. Lauren introduces me to Coco, their 31-year-old Thoroughbred mare. I have a completely adult reaction and do not at all squeal and ask to pet the pony. She asks me if I can ride, and I say a bit, and then she says the most beautiful words I've ever heard: "Well, let's grab some wine and saddle her up."

I retract my bit about Utah being stupid. I was wrong. Heaven is in Utah.

Right out in the middle there.

Lauren walks the goats into the pasture and holds our cups, and I ride Coco. We canter around, and I pretend to be a cowboy the whole time. Occasionally I return to the goat herd to drink wine, and then go back to running around the pasture. Then it is time to go in, and I dismount and realize I must have accidentally pretended to be a Brokeback Mountain cowboy, because my ass hurts so much I wonder how I'm going to even walk back inside. I pretend like this isn't happening because I don't want pony privileges rescinded on account of me being a whiny bitch.

After drinking wine in the pasture, we move on to the more difficult task of drinking wine at the picnic tables and watching the goats frolic around. The little babies do kickflips off one of the gates, and the older ones sit around being fat. I have now lost all sense of time since the sun is still up, but my body tells me no matter what time it is, it's bed time.

Dinner is a packet of tuna. After such a day, it tastes like ambrosia, and also like tuna. Day one complete.