Horse and buggy cruisin' the strip in downtown Ligonier, Indiana.
When we entered Ohio, I went on the lookout. I had thoughts of spotting the Amish horse and buggy in Pennsylvania, but it was a short transit and we really weren't there for too long. We'd seen one horse and cart in New York, but I knew for sure we'd start seeing them in numbers on our transit through Ohio.
Mile after shoulderless mile we walked. The traffic was relentless. I looked furtively right and left every day. I gazed into the horizon hoping to catch a glimpse of of the shining black buggy drawn by a dark horse. I saw cars and motorcycles, and an endless river of eighteen wheeled trucks. I lost my hat to their turbulent wake three times in one day. We saw trains and cyclists and even another walker or two. No horses or buggies.
Eighteen days we spent transiting the state of Ohio at nearly it's widest east to west expanse. Eighteen days and not a single horse and buggy appeared.
Today, at about forty-six miles into Indiana at the end of a hot and sweaty trek, I heard the distinctive clip clop and smooth rush of true horsepower drawn locomotion. I was no longer on the lookout. I'd given up hope. I wasn't even thinking about the possibilities.
It was at that moment the long sought sight of the horse and buggy materialized. They overtook us quickly headed toward town. I picked up my pace.
Sometimes that's how life goes. I find myself seeking something. Searching high and low, only to be accompanied by the bitter taste of unrealized expectations. Eventually, I give up. I'm no longer seeking that thing or experience that I wanted so badly.
It's at that moment that the thing I desire shows up, and with its sudden appearance, comes the glorious surprise of discovery that I would have missed if the object of my attention had shown up while I was still seeking. There's probably a lesson in there somewhere, but my feet are tired. I'm going to bed.
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