The View From a Horse

An unencumbered view of Southwest Virginia’s foothills settled into my subconscious, gently forcing acceptance

Photo by Grace Franklin

By Elizabeth Poland Shugg

For two years, I lived on a horse farm in southwestern Virginia. My mother remarried the summer of 1986 and we left Athens, Georgia, for a rental home on State Route 812 in Fincastle, Virginia, 20 miles northeast of Roanoke. The two-story duplex fronted a horse pasture at the foot of a hill. We could watch the horses graze from our kitchen window. 

I turned 14 that summer—not a good age for disruption. The horses definitely helped.

State Route 812, also known as Farmers Road, ends at State Route 606, also known as the Blue Ridge Turnpike. I never heard it referred to as the Blue Ridge Turnpike the entire time I lived there, but I recall large milk trucks passing by our home en route to a dairy farm on 606. One of those trucks ran over and killed our schnauzer, Ralph.

Frank and Lois Farmer, our landlords, owned much of the property along Farmers Road—thus the name. They also owned the horses, horse barn, equestrian ring, and large cornfield I walked by many a day on my way home from the activity bus drop-off point after basketball practice. 

But before I could build up enough confidence to even try out for the James River High School basketball team, I had to navigate my resentment of leaving grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and best friends; of missing University of Georgia football games with my dad. I had to adjust from 10-minute city bus rides to 30-minute commutes on winding mountain roads that passed creeks, hollers, and hayfields. I wish I could say at 14 I appreciated the beauty of the surrounding landscape. That didn’t happen until I had grown up and left. 

Or did it?

Looking back, I believe the mountain valleys, creeks, and farmland settled my anxieties. The horseback riding lessons my sister and I experienced on that farm gifted us tender moments with the horses—learning how to properly pet and feed them, brush and dress them, take long, nourishing walks on them around the property. Today, we call this equine therapy. 

On horseback, there’s no need to look down at your steps—the horse does that for you. This unencumbered view of the foothills we trotted across each week settled into my subconscious, cleansing my mind of resentment and fear, gently forcing acceptance. My equestrian experiences, although brief, gave me exactly what I needed at that pivotal point in my life. I regained the confidence I had lost in the move. Made friends, joined clubs, tried out for as many sports teams as I could. I became a class president twice and student body president once. I have lifelong friends from these experiences. 

This fork in my life road took me down a southwestern Virginia backroad that brought me peace, acceptance, and the joy of setting and achieving goals. I developed a love for a region I never imagined I’d live in, that eventually lured me to attend Virginia Tech, where I met my husband. 

Growing up, I knew someday I would go to college and get married. I just thought it would happen in Athens. At 13, I fully intended to become a Bulldog. At 14, that horse farm in Virginia had other plans.

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