Evening neighbors, with my parents' ranch in the background

I come from a place and, in some ways, a time for which the only way to explain home was to paint mental geographic signposts. There are no stoplights in Modoc County, and my hometown of Cedarville has a bustling main street with just one stop sign. It’s the biggest town in Surprise Valley, a 75-mile long picturesque valley that is also home to Eagleville, Lake City and Fort Bidwell. Ranchers still gather in the morning at the café, and the Modoc Country Fair, held at the end of August, is still by far the biggest deal of the year. People don’t lock their cars and every graduating class of seniors – kids from all four Surprise Valley towns – is never above 20. The closest freeway, Best Buy and sushi bar is over three or four hours away, depending on whether you head back to “civilization” south through Reno or west through Redding.

I would imagine that “home” is a place few people imagine exists, especially in California.

But that’s where I’m from and it’s where I recently spent two weeks. Thanks to the Internet, Quarter Horse News didn’t feel the remoteness of my location. There was no cell phone coverage, but by land line and DSL, I was close. But really, I was a million miles from the hustle and bustle of my busy life, of the NCHA Derby, of Reining By The Bay and the arguments of whether a non-pro and amateur are different or one in the same.

Under the coolness of an unimpeded sky and rustling poplar trees, my mind cleared, my work ethic rejuvenated and my mom and dad stayed close. I hugged my dad’s horse Popcorn, the gelding who flunked out of reining training, and let my mom’s Churro lambs crawl from one side of me to the other. The bummer calves needed bottles morning and night, and the big cow, Argenta, calved and had to be milked twice a day – a process that never ceases to require hobbles, threats and cussed mutterings under my dad’s breath.

Geographically, home is close to everything else. Mentally, it’s a nowhere near.

Sometimes it’s as though I live in two lives, distinct existences, each with its own set of demands and pleasures. When I drive through the south end of Surprise Valley, I’m once again the ranch girl whose summer days started at 5 a.m. with chores, breakfast and haying until dinnertime. There were dances in the summers and we walked through deep snow to find the perfect Christmas tree.

When I leave Surprise Valley, it’s like diving into the piercing ice-cold water of the fast pace, the deadlines, the signal my cell phone finally finds.