I went down on my knees, taking his hand. “Dad,” I said, “I’m here. It’s Laura.” His face looked so handsome, peaceful.
No response.
Mom was at home in bed. She had just received a phone call, telling her to come.
Later she told us that just moments before her phone rang, a bobcat slowly sauntered past her bedroom window, right next to the huge plate glass, peering in. I couldn’t help but think that my father, the prankster, had chosen the body of a bobcat to tease her, to make his last farewell, all the while enjoying the fun of startling my mother out of bed.
But now it was as if I was talking by cell phone, not knowing if we were still connected. The circle of doctors slipped away. Only one remained. “What do those numbers mean?” I asked. They were steadily falling from 113, to 110, 98, 97…
“His heart is slowing down.”
“Shouldn’t we try to keep him alive until my mother gets here?”
The doctor responded, “Just this morning, your father requested no heroic measures.”
I nodded.
Popi’s hand was still warm, still alive, so I whispered the Lord’s Prayer and told him how much we all loved him, how he had been the very best father, that we would take care of Mom and his horses. “Go, Dad, go. Don’t hold on. It’s okay. You know that we love you very, very much.”
And then just as easily as a fountain clicks off from its steadily rising and falling motion, the water of his life became still. Peacefully silent, without any pain or even a gasp, as simple as that, it was over. The numbers rested at zero.
Then my mother walked in. The first words out of her mouth were, “What are you doing here? I told you not to come!” followed by a weeping intake of breath, as she went to him, her husband.
As I left the room, Wanda, my parents’ housekeeper for over twenty years, was backing away. “What are we going to do now?” She didn’t know how she would function without his kindly protection.
She went on to tell me how close my parents had been during those final weeks. But he had been tending to her, and no one had been looking out for him, as he didn’t like having anyone hovering over him. After all, he had spent most of his life trying to escape “The Mother,” and he had done a fine job—he had escaped us all, for good.
When I went back into the room a few minutes later, Mom was still whimpering. I sat down on the edge of the bed beside his body and said to her, “Our relationship is going to be different now.”
She answered simply, “Yes.”
And then, it was as if some dark tattered veil fell from her shoulders, the shroud she had worn for him, like a protective cloth that deflected attention away from his secret life. It was an instant of transformation that I could barely trust, though the change itself was visceral. She no longer seemed to hate me. She had become like a child, needing me, wanting me to stay with her, but was the rivalry really over? Were we allies now in death?
Sitting together now in our living room, the fire settles down into embers, and my sister and I start getting silly, laughing over the blog I tried to create for this book last fall.
“The day I wrote my first entry, I was going down this flat dirt road—there were no holes or ruts or anything— and Rocket just fell down, on TOP of me!” We all find this hilarious. “And then the next day when I searched the Internet, I couldn’t even find my own blog!”
At last we can laugh together.
Tonka’s Eye
You Don’t See Them, but They See You
Riding Barranca beneath the big-boned sycamores that line Harshaw Creek, a few leaves left clattering, little golden balls dangle like leftover Christmas decorations. Picking our way around thorny mesquite, I break branches where necessary, so that each time I come this way there will be less chance of getting clawed.
In Massachusetts, falling off is not such a threat. The earth is sodden, and the trails often soft with mud. But here in the desert the ground is like cement, the climate harsh, trees rough and ready to get you. Old mesquite breaks brittle in my hands. Riding out onto the sand of the wash feels safer, and I let Barranca canter. He has a lovely fast walk and a graceful, smooth lope, but he is still somewhat wary of cattle.
Climbing up an extremely rocky hillside, he keeps trying to turn toward home, but I insist, firmly, and he goes on. Not far away, there is a little turn out, and I see that many transients have come through here. There is a scattering of plastic bottles, black-washed for camouflage, discarded clothing, toilet paper stuck in crannies, a little cave with a sleeping ledge, opened tins of food, the remnants of a fire for cooking or warmth.
One border patrol friend, Danny Cantou, said, “You don’t see them, but they see you.” Danny informed me that they recently captured five men with semiautomatics in a cave right above one of the gates I open to go toward the Hale homestead. Last year I found six, fifty-pound bales of marijuana less than a mile from our house, and more recently a truck with 1,850 pounds of grass was apprehended on our small road. In response, the border patrol began setting up sensors along various footpaths—one of which is a favorite riding trail.
When I get home, I give Barranca a bath with warm hose water, then work some Cowboy Magic conditioner into his tail and proceed to comb out the snarls. I’ve heard that horses are quite proud of their tails, and his is exceptionally long and thick, almost sweeping the ground. The dark brown strands are streaked with gold, just like his fetlocks. I think he likes the feel of his dust-free hide, the sensation of my hands separating the strands of his magnificent banner.
Washing Tonka
Blackwell Canyon
I decide to take Barranca out today, and put my friend, Phil Caputo, on Tonka. For the most part I am the only one who has ridden Barranca these past three years, and he has responded well to my consistency, but now, too often, I am tempted to let others ride him because he is the easiest horse with the best gaits. I know Tonka is a bit of a challenge, but Phil is a trooper.
I call my neighbor, Al Blackwell, and tell him that we are going to ride through his ranch on our way up the canyon. The Blackwells are unusually good neighbors, and let me keep my horses in their stone corral before we had our own barn. Twice a day I made the one-mile drive down Harshaw Creek to feed, and the Blackwells never made me feel like I was violating their privacy. Judy would go out and sit in her chair and watch the horses, getting so much pleasure from just seeing them there. I prefer having my boys at home now, but still miss the old, stone corral and adobe outbuildings nestled in at the foot of Indianhead Mountain.
Dismounting, we walk the horses under the Blackwell’s open-air barn and let ourselves out through the back gate. I tighten Phil’s girth and adjust his stirrups. He wears a Smith & Wesson pistol at his waist, and somehow that gives me some assurance as we head up this well-known drug-runners’ trail. I have ridden this way numerous times and am now more familiar with the route, though it’s always a bit tricky starting out until we find the well-trodden path that runs in and out of the wash. Along the way, through this intimate, wind-protected canyon, we note the scattered water bottles, abandoned backpacks, and other transient debris.
Recently, I came upon Danny Cantou’s wife, Summer, who was patrolling this trail with another officer. Summer used to ride with the mounted border patrol. She once told me that she was able to contain a large group of illegals by telling them she was riding an attack horse, and the first one who ran would get trampled. Summer was a beautiful, fearless young woman who was also a champion kickboxer and award-winning marksman—shooting targets at a full gallop. But I was shocked to see that her partner was holding a fifteen-pound AK-47.
“You really should be armed out here,” she told me.
Well, at least Phil had a gun, though we both knew it would do little to help us if we ran into a bunch of thugs. Gangs from Tucson were coming down to raid the poor guys who did the hauling from Mexico. These “mules” were more apt to be armed now in an attempt to protect their contraband, so violence
was increasing. Phil’s theory was that if you wore a gun, you had to be prepared to use it, and if you used it, you had to be prepared to kill. I was not prepared to do that.
Determined to go as far as we can, we have packed our lunches and tucked them into our saddlebags. This is a beautiful and varied canyon, but a bit like a roller-coaster ride, up and down, dodging mesquite, leaping into the wash and back out. We maneuver along the single-file trail that the horses remember better than we do. Horses have a great sense of direction, perfect memories for what they have and have not seen before—even a new fallen tree can be cause for alarm.
Phil has a low deep voice, so it is easy to hear him talk as we ride. Stopping to open various cattle gates, I hop off, for I can easily mount and dismount, while he has sustained several injuries from various journalistic assignments in the Middle East. Years ago he won a Pulitzer Prize for investigative journalism, but he doesn’t like to dwell on his past achievements. He’s more concerned about the synopsis for his next book, still in the mulling stage. He describes how hemmed in he feels by having to write out a plot line for his publisher before they will approve the book. Writers like to allow a story to unfold, just as we like to discover where we’re going when entering new riding territory.
We come to the familiar hillside of red gravel where the path is cut into the mountain. I usually turn around at this point, but now I open another gate and we ride on, wondering where we are headed. Are we riding toward Meadow Valley or north through the Canelo Hills?
We approach a rather treacherous stretch of smooth, black rock that is very slippery. I assume it is sedimentary since it is within the wash, but we manage to get over it, climbing up the steep parts and sliding back down into the sand of the riverbed, happily surprised to see a little creek running alongside the trail here. We follow it for a mile or so, but when we come to yet another cattle barrier, one that looks like it would be too difficult to dismantle, we decide to stop and break for lunch.
I hold both horses while Phil sits in the sand and eats his sandwich and Fritos. I try giving the horses a couple of chips but they are not sure about the crunchy texture of this junk food. They’re more interested in splitting Phil’s apple core.
Bagna de Terra
Tightening up Barranca’s girth after our rest stop, I hold the opposite stirrup on Phil’s saddle as he mounts. Tonka seems overly eager, throwing his head and breaking into a canter every chance he gets. What is his problem?
By the time we return to the barn, we see that we’ve been out for almost five hours. We figure we must have ridden about twelve miles over some fairly rough territory. I want to give the horses a bath, and collect two pails of warm water from the house. We sponge them down, and curry them, before they proceed to ruin our work, taking their bagna de terra out in the corral.
El Chapo
Such a Sucker
Why am I such a sucker for almost every available horse I see? I just talked to Ian Wingfield, who inherited his uncle’s ranch in Amado on the Tubac side of the Santa Ritas. Not only did he receive this adobe fortress, but also some cattle and six horses, one of which is supposedly a small Friesian. Is there such a thing as a small Friesian? Of course, I am curious to see this horse, eager to see it, imagining its long black mane blowing in the wind.
Agua Caliente was once a huge working ranch started by Ian’s grandfather, but the family sold off most of the land, and now only this section remains. Ian, Mason, and I plan on meeting at the ranch around nine in the morning. I wake before the alarm goes off in order to feed my horses and walk them across the road to their pasture. Then I pile the car with saddle, pad, bridles, halters, currycombs, and leads. I want to try to ride this little Friesian and assess his potential, though he might not have been ridden in some time.
I know what a Friesian should look like, so I’m a bit surprised to see El Chapo (the short one), who only stands about 14 hands. (With horses, four inches equals a “hand.”) He is black with the traditional full mane, but he has very few “feathers” on his fetlocks. Perhaps he is a crossbreed. His temperament is calm and sweet, and he is easy to catch and halter. I put Barranca’s dressage saddle on him, and the stirrups look absurdly long. He takes the bit, and I adjust the bridle. He doesn’t seem to mind much.
No one has any idea if this horse has ever been ridden. So I strap on my hard hat and lead the little Friesian around the yard. He follows me like a docile doggie, quite endearing. He is easy to mount, so close to the ground, yet he does not seem used to the bit. El Chapo walks out nicely enough and has a great big trot. I need to post and realize how I have become used to the flat gaits of my walking horses. He doesn’t seem to understand my request for a canter. Perhaps he was never trained to the saddle, but with his quiet nature I assume he could become a nice child’s horse.
Ian is very enthusiastic about his ranch and his excitement is infectious. Even though his uncle was an eccentric recluse, they had a nice connection. Geoff Wingfield, Ian’s uncle, had been a self-made archeologist, and after I ride El Chapo around the yard, Ian takes me through his uncle’s garrisonstyle dwelling. It feels like something from another era. Every window has a place to set one’s rifle, just like the old Wild West. The gates are narrow, and the plank steps up to the tower are short and steep. The thought was that if one was attacked, it would take more time for the enemy to get up those steps.
In the bedroom, where his uncle died not long ago, there is a metal bed frame without a mattress and a nice old armoire. “He had his hands crossed over his chest,” Ian says, “so we assumed it was a heart attack.” There are piles of old family photographs, boxes of arrowheads and cabinets of Indian pottery—like a mini-museum. Ian seems like he will be the perfect family curator.
I tell him that I would be willing to take El Chapo on trial, but what with hay, feed, shoeing, and vetting, the initial price is only part of the expense involved. Plus, I already have my hands full.
“What do you need a miniature draft horse for?” Phil asks me later, and I have to respond—“Good question!”
Not Ready to Go
Spurs of the Moment
I decide to make the drive back to Amado to pick up El Chapo. No one else will be at the ranch, but Ian tells me which gates to open, and I am confident about going alone with my two Standard Poodles, Bali and Cello.
At the ranch, I halter El Chapo, leaving the dogs in the truck, as there is a vicious sounding Pit Bull barking behind the fence to the house. I have brought along a good supply of apples and carrots, and El Chapo is interested in the treats, but when it comes to the trailer, he only puts his two front feet in, then immediately backs out, repeating this stunt over and over.
Barranca behaved the same way when Les Spath tried to load him in Massachusetts, and I knew I had to be patient and encouraging, backing him up when he refuses to enter. But it is not easy backing up a reluctant, hefty pony, not used to going in reverse. I try again to entice him, but like most ponies he is wily and stretches out his neck to get what he can without committing himself to the trailer. I am getting hot and take off my outer shirt. I don’t know why I imagined this would be easy. The other horses watch with interest from inside their corral. Do they think this is funny? Do they wonder where El Chapo is going? Or do they even care? Life in a bare paddock must be boring, and the other horses seem mildly entertained by our antics.
I hate for this little guy to get the best of me, but I am running out of patience. Finally, he loads, all four feet, but instead of standing by him calmly, congratulating him as I should, I tie his lead rope and make a move to close the divider. He freaks out, pulling back as if his survival depends on it. Not a proper “unload.” Now I have one broken halter that I tie around his neck and El Chapo is unnerved. I try scooping out some pellets from the can in the shed and entice him with that, but to no avail.
I even try placing a rope around the back of his butt, pulling him forward, but he ducks under, off to the side. I try a few encouraging taps on his
rear to get him going, but he seems insensitive, confused, and I don’t want to upset him further. So, after two hours of effort, I give up. What else can I do at this point? In any case, I’m not sure if I want another difficult loader.
I remember the old black groom, Pinky, who once tried to load my horse, Zucchero. The horse was reluctant, balking, so Pinky took a crop and jammed it up the horse’s ass. Zucchero sprang into the trailer. I am not about to imitate that move, but I’m sure if Les Spath was on hand, he would get El Chapo loaded.
Later that day, Ian checks in by email, saying that he found out that El Chapo is not a Friesian but a twelve-year-old Welsh pony. Twelve is not old for this breed.
My son’s New Forest pony lived to a ripe old age. When Ayler was in third grade, I bought Star for his birthday. When Ayler awoke, a used English saddle was sitting on the footboard of his bed, and his black pony was out in the corral. We had five years of glorious rides together. The two of us would often go down trails holding hands, or we’d gallop up dirt roads and explore new territory, sometimes getting chased by land owners. What a time.
But when Ayler went into eighth grade, his interest in team sports took over, so we gave Star away to a family with several little girls who loved this able yet aging pony. Later, we found out that after the girls had outgrown Star, the pony was returned to the original owner, who now had her own daughter, and Star was almost forty!
Riding Barranca Page 3
