Opinion
In this new series, My Happy Place, Traveller’s writers reflect on the holiday destinations in Australia and around the world that they cherish the most.
December 26, 2025 — 5:00am
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On my fridge, I have a magnet depicting a cherubic blonde-haired girl, head bowed and hands clasped in prayer, saying, “So where’s my f—ing pony?”
This was my daily conversation with God throughout my teenage years. Much as I loved my lord and saviour, the fact that he continued to deny me my one true passion really irked me.
Julie Miller at age 13 at Teen Ranch.
Clearly, Jesus, in cahoots with my parents, didn’t want me to be happy. If they did, surely they would have given in to my constant nagging for a horse. Instead, they came up with every excuse in the book. “Nowhere to put it. Too expensive. You’ll grow out of it. Blah de-blah blah.” Not fair.
But when I was 13, my friend Kim – who suffered a similar affliction as a pony-less pony girl – cooked up a plan. As a Christmas present, we asked our parents to book us into a week-long summer camp, at a place which would meet with both their approval and ours – a Christian recreational camp called Teen Ranch.
Located in what was then the rural outskirts of Sydney at Cobbitty, Teen Ranch was a long-established facility run similar to American summer camps, offering wholesome outdoor activities such as canoeing, horse riding and archery, all wrapped in a mantle of good old-fashioned evangelistic ministry.
Our parents, reassured that the program was run by upright, God-fearing Christians with a daily dose of Bible study, agreed. But what they didn’t realise is that they were actually fuelling their daughters’ obsession with horses and riding, which was a major element in the Teen Ranch activity program.
Pardon the pun, but Kim and I were in heaven that week, having daily riding lessons in the corral or setting out on bush trail rides. When we weren’t in the saddle, we were picking out hooves, brushing manes and tails, filling hay bags and picking up poo. No matter how dirty the job, we did it with gusto, embracing every aspect of horsemanship, soaking up the knowledge of more experienced equestrians (including a real-life Stetson-wearing, handlebar moustache-adorned cowboy) and learning the fundamentals of horse care.
The writer now on her horse Cass.
I soon developed a favourite among the Teen Ranch herd – a splashy pinto gelding named Dandy. Dandy was an alpha, preferring to be in the lead on trails (as did I) and often using his teeth to jostle for supremacy (once catching my sister Kerrie’s thigh in his vicious line of fire, resulting in her being terrified of horses ever since). Despite his cranky demeanour, I fell in love with this handsome, brown and white demon, professing he was misunderstood and that I alone could soothe the savage beast.
Away from the barn, I fell into the rhythm of camp life, from breakfast slops to midnight feasts, bunkhouse shenanigans to campfire singalongs. While some sooky kids sobbed themselves to sleep from homesickness, I found my happy place in a full itinerary, time spent in nature and acceptance of my pony-mad idiosyncrasies. Even the fire-and-brimstone message preached at the altar, of mortal sin, the horrors of hell and sinners saved by grace, was accepted as an integral part of my enlightenment, the holy pathway back down the hill to Dandy and his four-legged cohorts.
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My week in paradise ended with a tearful goodbye but the promise of future happy trails; and over the next three years, my summer holidays were pre-ordained, one week turning into two, then the Easter break, then weekends, every cent earned from casual jobs dedicated to my Teen Ranch holiday fund.
Later, when we turned 16 with our bunkhouse days behind us, Kim and I volunteered at the ranch as camp staff, working as counsellors, in the kitchen or as horse wranglers, assisting the next generation of young campers on their journey to redemption. Along the way, we learnt independence and the value of hard work, made great friends and firm bonds borne from a shared passion.
Over my adult years, my obsession with horses faded intermittently, at times taking a back seat to boys, relationships, work and children. But in my liberated, unshackled 50s, my prayers were answered, and I finally, at last, got my first f—ing pony. And for that, dear God, I am eternally grateful.
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Julie Miller scrapes a living writing about the things she loves: travel, riding horses and drinking cocktails on tropical beaches. Between airports, she lives in a rural retreat just beyond Sydney.Traveller GuidesFrom our partners