Well, we did “horse around” but it wasn’t in New Bedford. And some of our summer adventures concerned clams, not four-legged mammals. But both experiences did occur during summer visits to New Bedford, so this title isn’t as misleading, I hope, as Voltaire’s famous comment about the Holy Roman. Empire (neither holy, nor Roman, nor an empire).
New Bedford is marvelous in the summer, especially when contrasted with the hot humidity that defines Orlando from June through September. (Ok, maybe it starts in May and doesn’t truly end until October. Just another slightly inaccurate statement.)
Our summer visit coincided with J’s birthday, and I thought an appropriate gift would be to add to our collection of horseback riding experiences. To the dismay of some of our travel companions, we’ve added “horseback riding around the world” to our repertoire of desired travel events. We’ve managed Russia, Croatia, Hawaii, South Africa, Arizona, California, and the list continues.
What I eventually found around the New Bedford area was an outfit located in Middletown, Rhode Island, not far from Newport. (BTW, none of the rest of the family indicated any desire to join us.) After an hour or so drive, we finally found the entrance to the stable and after some waiting around a guide showed up – we were the only two who’d signed up for the “trail ride” out to the Sachuest Point National Wildlife Refuge. After circumnavigating the barn a few times to get used to the horses – J had Pumpkin and mine was named Cool Whip – off we went.
Because the beach was still open, the much advertised “riding on the beach” wasn’t available and we were relegated to the roads with a few forays across some fields, paralleling the ocean. The wildflowers were spectacular.
But I have barely any photos, because the winds were as ferocious as the wildflowers were spectacular. The further out the peninsula we rode, the rougher the wind became, to the point that it truly felt we were riding out a tropical storm.
This had the decidedly unfortunate effect of kicking sand and dirt up into the horses’ faces. – which they, most decidedly, did not like. J’s horse weathered the situation with aplomb, but poor Cool Whip – who was supposed to be elderly and calm (albeit extremely big) – did not. All of a sudden I was galloping along, fervently trying to remember how to hold on with my legs and not drop the reins.
Somehow I stayed on, the horse calmed down, and our guide announced he’d never ridden out there in such winds before. I don’t think there were any more trail rides that day.
Four legged creatures were one thing – but I’ve also always had a strong desire to catch a large fish. The effect, perhaps, of studying The Old Man and the Sea in 8th grade? In any event, having met with no luck on that front, clams seemed like a good option. During our horseback riding visit to New Bedford, A and N’s friend B had brought clams he had caught (retrieved? pulled out of the water? not what the appropriate retrieval verb is) to their summer solstice party. I was hooked. Yes, that’s a fishing joke. Anyway, he promised to take me clamming on my next visit.
So, in August I took a several day solo trip up to New Bedford to see A, N and the grandson, and clamming was indeed on the agenda. It started with having to obtain a license. Apparently Rhode Island residents are allotted a certain amount of clams per year as a right under the state constitution. But the rest of us have to get a license. And getting a license requires filling out a form that asks for your social security number, drivers license, and about all of the personally identifying information you can think of. For some reason, a clamming license is basically the same one you have to get if you’re going out to actually hunt something with a rifle. Anyway, I filled it out, took a deep breath and prayed it was a legitimate website, and pressed send.
Due to rainfall the night before we couldn’t go to the place B had originally found. Apparently clamming is one of those things where the prime locations are kept as a deep dark secret by those in the know, and this was one of them. Sort of like terminal top parking at the Orlando International Airport or the secret recipe for making Coke.
But ever-resourceful B found an alternative, and very early on the designated morning, A, N, grandson L and I were off to go clamming. To be honest, L loved the beach, but didn’t last long at clamming activities and fortunately A was able to take him to a nearby playground.
The tide wasn’t all the way out, and what I hadn’t realized is that clams are not like coquina shells on southeast coast Atlantic beaches just waiting to be picked up. Nope, you have to wade out there, feel around with your feet, and then use a rake like implement to literally scrape the sand, scoop it up, and hope that it contains some clams.
There were a couple of problems from the perspective of a five foot one inch clammer. First, since the tide wasn’t all the way out, we had to wade out such that the water was approaching my shoulder level. And second, with that amount of water weighing on you it is exceptionally difficult to lift up your clam rake up above your shoulder and drive it down through the water and waves at a sufficient depth to pick up anything other than the finest trace of sand, with a few bits of gravely rock mixed in for good measure.
However, I’ve always prided myself on foot and toe dexterity, and what it turned out I was really good at was finding where the clams were, alerting B, who, with his much greater height, could swoop in for the final capture.
It was enormously rewarding.
And particularly rewarding when we had a clam boil that night.
As October begins, summer’s technically over. Time now to find some fall equivalent to horsing and clamming. Our intrepid friend in adventure S has signed all of us up for another 20-mile Mammoth March on January 30, 2027 – so I guess there are some long training hikes in my future.
