Doing the Puyallup

     My husband and I "did the Puyallup" a few days ago.  It was fun, and we even got in for free because it was Friday, and my husband is a Vietnam-era veteran.  The Western Washington State Fair was lively and familiar, full of music, laughter, animals and the comforting scent of fair food drifting through the air.  We wandered through the crowds until our legs reminded us that time has its own way of keeping score.  A few hours were enough.

    It wasn't always that way.  There were years when we spent an entire week at the Fair, not as visitors, but as exhibitors.  The Fair folks paid us to be there with our beloved Exmoor Ponies; those sturdy, ancient souls who carried the wild spirit of the moors in their eyes.  It was an honor to show our precious animals, to tell their story, and to feel the quiet pride of representing something rare and beautiful.  It was also thoroughly exhausting, but we never minded.  As long as we had ponies to bring, we "did the Puyallup."

                                 

 

    The Exmoors are a special equine, rarer than giant pandas, remnants of the last Ice Age, and living proof of endurance and grace.  To stand beside them, and speak for them was a privilege, especially knowing how few people even realize they exist.  For the last week of the Fair, we were tucked into the "Animals Around the World" barn, sharing space with Highland cattle, a zebra or two, and other exotic critters.  It was a long week, the kind that leaves you bone-tired but full of stories.

    And we almost did not make it that first year.

    Our horse trailer had taken a beating.  I had been competing and training on the local dressage circuit with my husband's Shire, Mac.  He was a magnificent, gentle giant who could not help being a literal ton of horse.  The trailer needed repairs, and time was slipping away faster than we could catch it.

    I phoned around until I found a professional horse hauler who said he could take us.  From the start, his tone rubbed me wrong.  It was clipped, condescending, as though we were small potatoes compared to the owners of the sleek Thoroughbreds he hauled to racetracks across the country. Worse, I sensed he thought that because I was just a "little woman" he could talk down to me.  Still, I did not have many options, and I was preparing to agree to his terms.

    Then he said, "I won't be able to pick up your ponies until after the Fair.  They will have to stay overnight."

    "Pardon?"

    "I won't be able to pick them up until Monday sometime.  They will have to stay on the grounds."

    That was wrong on so many counts.  The fairgrounds closed and were deserted after the Fair: no security, no staff, nothing.  Further, our contract required us to remove our animals immediately after closing.  Suddenly, again, we had no way to get our trio of ponies to Puyallup. 

    I think it was the next day I was at a local tack shop that sold mostly Western gear, but welcomed every discipline.  I was whining, I admit, about the unaccommodating hauler.  Mike, the cowboy owner, listened quietly.

    "When do you have to get there?" he asked.

    I explained early, before opening, so we could set up and settle the ponies.  Then late at night a week later, when everything was over.

    He nodded thoughtfully.  "What were you going to pay that guy?"

    I told him.  It wasn't an unreasonable amount, but enough.  The money had never been the problem.

    Mike nodded.  "I'll do it."

    And he did.  He proved himself a consummate professional with his personal rig. He arrived at our property before dawn.  Our three usually unruly ponies loaded relatively quietly, as if they sensed the importance of the moment.  Mike hauled them safely to the fairgrounds with time to spare even when we got caught in an unloading line.  We left our stallion, Devon, at home, even though he was the most cooperative loader.  The gelding, Bramble, and the two mares, Flax and Cactus would represent their kind.

    "I'll see you Sunday," Mike called as he drove away with the empty trailer.

    The week was successful and thoroughly exhausting even though we had help and worked in shifts.  After all, we still had a herd of horses at home who required care.  The ponies on exhibit were remarkably well-behaved.  We all enjoyed the week, but by the last day fatigue had settled deep into our bones.

    That Sunday afternoon, I was sitting by our booth, so tired I had drifted into a kind of fair-induced trance.  Someone slumped into the seat beside me.  I turned, and there was Mike, grinning.

    "My family is 'Doin' the Puyallup.'  The trailer is ready to go when you are done."

    Hid kindness is unforgettable.  Out horse community is not large, but we support each other: Western, English, draft, pony.  It doesn't matter.  Mike is a prime example of the quiet generosity that holds our world together.

    In the years that followed, when we were still exhibitors, we had our own trailer repaired and ready, and we did our own hauling.  Yet, that first year stays with me:  the stress, the relief, and the gratitude. 

    This year, when my husband and I went as attendees rather than exhibitors, we found our old exhibit barn.  It had flowers.  We especially admired the dahlias; bright, bold and beautiful. 

    But in the corner, I saw ghosts of our ponies, long since crossed over the rainbow bridge.  I missed them fiercely.  I felt the kindness of our local horse community, the friendships forged in hay dust and long days, and the quiet love that lingers long after the ponies themselves are gone.

    Walking out of the barn, I realized that the Fair will always hold a piece of our hearts, not because of the rides, or the food, or the crowds, but because of the memories we made there, the people who helped us, and the ponies who carried our dreams so gently.  The Fair has aged, and so have we, but the tenderness of those years remains, soft and steady, like the echo of hoofbeats fading into the evening air.