TACP Close Air Support

Your bombs are invalid 

Biggest Horse in Mongolia


Alone


June, 2015, I came home alone. Nine months of conducting war and my world changed. No fanfare, no celebratory hugs. I came home alone.

I can't begin in a single post to explain the vastness of experience in the past year. I had a dog and a horse and a backpack full of seething rage all while treading in an ocean of sadness.

I was alone.

And here I am. One year later - whole and thriving with the best I am paired against the steepest adversity my sport offers.

In the past year I have been flooded with outpourings of support, encouragement, love, training, assistance, even admiration. Me. Admiration. Even now it boggles my mind when I read the emails. I live at home, alone, with my dopey horse and perhaps dopier dog. I forget to put the garage door down. I talk out loud to my deaf dog. I sing in the shower. My fridge is packed with meager things I know I will never use. I never make my bed.

I live alone.

I slept on the hard floor of Kansas City airport and woke up alone where no one knew me. I boarded a plane and ventured where I had never been - alone.

I'm staying in a hotel room by myself in a place no one has ever heard of my or Honor's story. I'll hop on 25 half-feral horses whom I've never met and blast across unknown terrain alone.

June 2015, I came home alone.

Then I found myself among a swarm of amazing people, experiences, and healing.

July 2016, I left alone.

As I sit here on this hotel lobby couch, plinking out words on my phone, I can hear them - every voice not here. Ever pat on the back, every cheer, every word of advice and concern, every iteration of "you can do this," every smile that says, "you are not alone."

And so - I am not alone.

Fenders

Didn't realize my fenders wouldn't fit onto the saddle.

"Tim, what did you learn at SERE that might help you in the Derby?"

How to rig my fenders to fit my fucking saddle.

Beatles

Mongolians like them - I guess 

Ready