When Godfrey took the tracks and hiked, for days in solitude he would walk, but meeting up in the huts at eve, with fellow trampers for tea and talk.
Up the lovely St James Walkway, the snow grass grows. And wild horses roam where the braided river flows. Was the Boxing Day Races, a racing fair held by the sea, the old tramper over dinner told the story to Godfrey.
“They raced them on the sand at low tide, he recalled as they waited for wild horses to come for water, they could hear them, coming down through the trees, raising dust along the riverside”. And Godfrey sat on a stone rapt with the story, of Ian’s Mare who won the big prize every year, she earned her freedom he spoke kindly of the mare, still young and sound, he turned her loose to run wild up here.
The sun went down behind the peak, it was cold at dusk down by the creek. He was pleasantly sweaty, and tired from the long day.He saw the mare come down to drink, golden coat bright amid the pinto, blacks and bay.She was known only as Ian’s Mare, she drank long and deep, sorrel colt by her side.
Wild now but once so gentle his kids would ride, bareback on her about the racing fair. No amount of money, could buy from Ian his fine mare.
…There were places and tracks Godfrey would long recall, days so beautiful he never wanted his hike to end.This day he walked through wild horses, to the swing bridge high above the braided river bend.
And should you tramp the St James Walkway, look for the horses running wild up there.. you may see her still, coat as gold as the alpine tussock grass, racing still on long, strong legs is Ian’s Mare…