Sitting atop Duke, my beautiful Morgan horse, gazing down across the lush, rolling hills and meadows of Wyoming, I was happy with my decision to leave the concrete jungle of Chicago and escape the bright lights and take a step back into reality. The land was speckled with spots of purple and yellow of the native flowers, and the blue sky was as wide and spacious as I remembered. These huge valleys and open fields that my aunt and her family plowed and planted on the help their small Wyoming town, and help themselves. I was reminded of the fact that she, and everyone else, is given the opportunity to reach unlimited potential. I took hold of the reins and turned Duke towards the forest trail and encouraged him into a run. To feel those seasoned muscles, moving with grace and elegance under the heavy, worn leather saddle, was one of pure bliss. I gathered the reins tighter and raced down the steep hill into the open, vast valley, one of which my aunt dubbed Stone Valley when she first moved to her farm. Duke and I raced through the valley, faster and faster, so fast that it felt like we were flying, and to me we were. Nothing is better than the feeling of 1000 pounds of pure muscle, strength, and love that you get from a horse. As we neared the entrance of the forest trail, I slowed Duke down to a trot and reached down to praise him and pat his silky neck, which was damp with sweat. I was meeting up with one of my aunt’s ranch hands, Ty. I had known Ty for as long as I could remember, he was the older brother I never had.