It was the summer of 1996. Our girls were eight, six, and three. Our vacation destination––the Alamo, River Walk, and Sea World in San Antonio, then beach time on Padre Island.

Bored after hours of riding in the car through Texas and knowing we had more hours ahead of us, I decided we needed some excitement along the way. Isn’t this state known for cowboys and long horn cattle ranches? Wouldn’t it be fun if we found a ranch and rode horses? Even though, we’ve never rode horses before.

When I vocalized my idea to my husband, he gave me his usual “really?” expression and continued driving down the highway. I’m sure he was praying I’d forget about it once we reached San Antonio.

But my imagination kept spinning images of us riding off into the sunset like the westerns I watched as a kid. When we would stop to refuel our minivan, I would scour the brochure stands, hoping to find a lead. No such luck.

After many miles of driving, a billboard appeared in the horizon. I can’t remember exactly what it stated, but I remember seeing the words “horse riding” and “ghost town.”

Before my husband could cruise past the exit, I was pointing ahead at a smaller sign with a painted blue arrow pointing right. “Turn, turn!” I yelled.

“Are you serious?” he asked, incredulous.

I nodded emphatically at him, already envisioning a great adventure for our family. Excited I turned to the back seat and told the girls we were riding horses through a real ghost town.

My husband let out a long sigh, then turned off onto a small country dirt road in the middle of nowhere. We traveled for several miles before reaching the only home on that road.

My husband gave me another questioning look. I smiled and assured him, “It will be fun. You’ll see.”

All five of us piled out of the minivan wearing shorts, tee shirts, and tennis shoes. But in my imagination, I pictured us clad in cowboy hats, handkerchiefs draped around our necks, leather gloves, jeans, and cowboy boots––like John Wayne.

A middle-aged man in a brown cowboy hat, striped red and white long sleeve cotton shirt, jeans, and square toed cowboy boots greeted us. Perfect!

He small talked a few minutes with my husband, then motioned us to follow him to a small corral at the back of his house.

After saddling our assigned horses, the cowboy gave us a few simple instructions on how to use our reigns.

Our youngest was only three, so she rode with her dad. Our oldest and middle daughters each had their own horse to ride. Because our middle daughter was small for her age, we thought he would give her a pony. Instead, he picked her up and sat her on his largest horse, Goliath. He claimed he was the gentlest.

Once we were in our saddles and holding our reigns, the cowboy made a clicking sound with his mouth. His horse began to move towards a small dirt trail through scrub brush. Without any prompting, our horses started walking behind his horse in a single file line. My oldest daughter’s horse was first after the cowboy. My middle daughter’s horse was second. My horse followed hers. My husband and youngest brought up the end of the line.

The girls and my husband did great traveling over the uneven, rocky terrain. I gripped the horn of my saddle tightly, keeping an eye on my daughters ahead of me, while praying I wouldn’t fall off.

Once we reached a small creek, the cowboy told us to stop. He rode his horse down our side of the bank, walked his horse through the creek, then trotted it up to the bank on the other side. Once he was on the other bank, he motioned for my oldest daughter to follow. Her horse gently climbed down the bank, crossed the creek, and climbed up on the other side to stand next to the cowboy.

Then, it was our middle child’s turn. Her horse, Goliath, decided to do his own thing. He jumped high in the air from one bank to the other, as if jumping a tall fence. His hooves never touched the creek. The cowboy jumped off his horse. His face white, he quickly grabbed her reigns. Our daughter stayed in the saddle like a pro, giggling the whole time.

Once we were all safely across, we continued to ride along this man’s property. Where is this ghost town? Shouldn’t we be there by now?

After riding a little longer, I heard my husband laughing. Understanding dawned on me the closer we got to a tall structure. Standing in the middle of the brush was a twenty-foot-tall by sixty-foot-long one-dimensional front of a painted-on saloon, bank, and hotel, reminding me of a theater set. My “Ghost Town” was made of plywood!

We circled our horses around to the back. Several two by fours were nailed to the back of the painted plywood to keep it propped upright. At that moment, I pictured my husband’s expression, but I wasn’t going to look back at him to confirm it.

After circling one more time around “The Ghost Town,” we began our trek back to the corral. This time the cowboy took Goliath’s reigns to lead him through the creek.

Once we all crossed the creek again, the cowboy’s horse began to snort and back up. The cowboy put his hand out to halt us. “Wait a minute,” he said urgently. We all stopped our horses. The cowboy told us he thought it was a rattlesnake nearby.

After a few tense moments, his horse settled down. Thankfully, we finished the rest the trail without any more incidents.

While it might not have been what I pictured, we did have an exciting adventure. The girls had fun. I think my husband did too, but he would never admit it. As for me, it made a great story to tell.