Riding Barranca

by Laura Chester

  When we retire for the evening, music still fills the streets from a distance. I want to get a good night’s sleep before tomorrow’s long ride. I keep hearing warnings about El Promontorio, often including the word, peligrosa (dangerous), and I’m a little wary as I sit outside in the courtyard and watch the lightning in the Alamos Mountains high above. A light rain begins to fall—good for sleep—but will it make the trails too slippery? While the town is now clean, out celebrating, cat-claw tracks from the recent mudslides are still scarring the mountains as if embedded in natural history.

  Whoa!

  Over the Mountain

  This morning is dry and clear, perfect weather for riding, though I have been warned that it could be very cold up in the mountains, especially if we ride into the clouds. I take along multiple layers when we go over to the Red Door for breakfast. Teri Arnold, the owner of La Puerta Roja, has organized our adventure. Another friend of hers, Rosemary Kovatch, will join us. She is a beautiful woman with blonde curly hair and warm eyes, all decked out in a red cowboy shirt and matching boots, ready to go.

  But first we feast on the best breakfast in town and have cup after cup of strong coffee. Then Erma heads off to the notary to get the title to her little “ruin,” which she purchased three years ago. She will join us for dinner out in Aduana, a small village about fifteen minutes away. Leon, a Mexican cowboy, is waiting for us there with three horses tied to a chalate tree, an enormous fig.

  Again, I use my own saddle, and Leon admires it, though I have to redo his cinching. I think this annoys him, but I don’t want to ride with a large knot of leather under my knee. Leon does not speak English, and despite my blank stare, he assumes I can understand his instructions. I gather that he wants me to keep the horse’s head up high as he thinks the horse might trip otherwise, but many Mexican bits are so tough I want to handle her mouth gently.

  Teri is all decked out in Argentinean gear—a maroon poncho trimmed in black and a flat-topped gaucho hat. “I might not know how to ride,” she laughs, “but at least I look good!”

  Leon’s nephew is accompanying the ride on foot. They feel they need an extra man along in case anyone gets into trouble. I wonder what kind of trouble they are imagining, but no one thinks that last night’s rain will cause a problem. In fact, the earth looks dry. One of the largest fig trees in the area grows near the wash, perched on top of a wall with its rope-like roots streaming down the embankment in a combed out, mud-grey flow.

  Quickly climbing up out of Aduana, we comment on the petrified mining sludge that has been left like frozen lava on the hillside. Passing the luxurious home of two renovators, Peter and Bob, we note a flame tree blazing with blossoms in their well-kept courtyard. The long main building was once part of the mining operation, as the mine had to bring silver over the mountain by aerial tram.

  There are some stray cattle along the way, accompanied by the sonorous sound of cowbells. The horses know the trail and seem sure-footed. Pochote trees (also known as kapok) are scattered here and there. The large seed pods have opened to expose little puffs of white fiber. Sometimes the birds line their nests with this cozy cotton, but the local Indians also gather the fiber, spin it, and use it in their weaving. Long-tailed blue-black magpie jays take off into the mountain air—exotico.

  Squeezing through one narrow rickety gate, we each take turns ducking under a low-hung tree and scramble up some loose rock to get to the trail. Then it is fairly easy riding. All my fears are blown away. There are no radical drop-offs, only tremendous views.

  As we continue climbing, Casharamba is dominant in the distance. This flat-topped mountain reminds me of one of Yosemite’s majestic peaks. Not surprising that the local Indians consider it a holy mountain. Its name means “needle in the ear” because there is a hole in the base of the rock, like a pierced lobe. I wonder if the wind whistles through there at times, speaking an unknown language to the indigenous.

  At the crest, we can see all the way to the Sea of Cortez, and in the other direction—the Sierra Madre and the beginning of the Barranca del Cobre, Copper Canyon.

  We are headed for the ruins of an old mine that was once owned by the mayor of Alamos. He reasoned that Sonora could use a prison and that the prisoners could help work his operation. This was a prison without bars, because apparently no one had the energy to escape after a long day’s work. In fact, the life expectancy of the prisoners after incarceration averaged only eighteen months.

  We begin to descend and look out over uninhabited land. It is already getting warm, and we all strip down to our t-shirts, tying extra wraps to the backs of our saddles. After an hour or so, we come upon the abandoned mine buildings, with one towering smokestack made out of well-maintained brick, but the stone foundation of the old hacienda is crumbling. We tie up near another massive fig tree that reminds me of Peter Pan’s hideout.

  Wandering about the ruins, we come upon a brick tunnel. Walking inside, I smell bat guano and see a mass of tiny bats flying about—disarming. We are told that the prisoners had to enter this tunnel at night, first on their knees and then flat out on their bellies before reaching the sleeping quarters where twenty to thirty men were housed.

  Settling down at the base of a fig tree, we share our snacks, though we want to save our appetites for Sam’s in Aduana, knowing we’ll have a feast of boltanos, platters of family-style food. Teri pulls out her cell phone and—guess what—“No reception!” Leaning back against the trunk of the tree, we talk about the ride that Teri is going to take with some women-friends in Africa. “I might not be the best rider, but at least I know how to have fun,” she laughs.

  After an hour’s rest, we mount back up and retrace our steps. It is always interesting to experience the landscape in both directions. We can now see the little village down below and the town of Alamos to the west. It is about a nine-mile ride, and as we come into town, we feel triumphant. Cantering up the last stretch of cobblestones toward the church plaza, a herd of goats dances around us. One little guy even bounces up onto the stone wall to get out of our way.

  It is only four o’clock and we have an hour before the others arrive for dinner, so Rosemary and I have a cup of tea before we head over to the cooperative shop up the hill. Here local women make all sorts of primitive dolls—the more naïf the better. There are tiny purses fashioned from goats’ balls, trimmed in gold with dangling fringe. It is a most curious assortment of finds: tiny, old burro shoes, minerals, hand-stitched pillows, and rustic baskets made from saguaro cactus.

  An elderly man takes us into his house at the end of the lane. He has an old carpenter’s chest for sale, painted orange and blue—it would make a perfect tack box. When he opens it up, I see that the chest contains all sorts of treasures: a bag of old coins, baby shoes, his passport and other important papers. It seems sad for him to part with it, but he assures me that he wants to sell.

  Soon Erma and the others arrive. Sam serves up some excellent margaritas, and we are all ready for the boltanos that follow—grilled shrimp, marinated in an orange marmalade mixed with five kinds of chilies, garlic, oil, vinegar, and sugar, delicious, especially because they’ve been grilled in the shell. We peel and devour them by hand. Then a delectable chipotle-creamed chicken with slices of apple, and another platter of filet mignon and local green beans. Finally, there is chocolate cake and coffee to get us back on the road to town so that we can get to the evening performance. Horses and opera, feasting and fete-ing, all on the night of the full moon.

  ARIZONA

  Raven

  Part of the Family

  Two ravens have made themselves at home in the horse paddock. I assume they have come to gather dropped bits of grain. They sit together on the gate like a pair of old cronies contemplating their domain. I wonder what the horses think of them. Do they consider them part of the herd, part of our extended family?

  Wind

  Definitely an Off Day

  Not in a great mood even on waking. Why. Is it the wind? I h
ate the wind as much as the horses do. I even prefer a blizzard or hail to this incessant blowing. They say that the wind carries the scent of predators and that is why horses get spooky.

  Helen arrives with her trailer, and then Phil and Leslie show up, but taking all three of my horses out is a lot of work with the machinations of feeding, mucking, catching, grooming, saddling, bridling, and loading. Tonka steps on Phil’s foot. Then driving out of the paddock, I ram the side of the trailer into a fence post, bending a fender up against the tire. We have to get out a hammer to pry the metal away from the rubber or we’ll have a flat in no time. Wind.

  Heading Out

  Helen remains calm and patient, even though riding with four people on a day like this seems crazy. Up on the San Rafael the wind is even more intense and the horses are unnerved. Everything seems an extra effort. Phil has trouble with his saddle, slipping, his stirrups too long, uneven, and then he pulls so hard on Peanut’s mouth, I have to insist that he ease up. Wind, wind, WIND!

  Under the Sycamore

  Peanut’s Drop-Off Day

  Heading to the barn to grain and ready the horses, I groom out all the mud that has accumulated on their coats—little pigpen boys. Barranca gets into the trailer with ease, and then I load Peanut. He doesn’t realize that after this morning ride with Leslie, we will be taking him over to Melinda South’s for training while I’m in Australia for two weeks.

  Mason and I rented a house at the end of Blue Haven Road when we were building our place. I often took long walks with the author Jim Harrison there. He and his wife, Linda, were our closest neighbors. I made their acquaintance by hanging a little bag of New Year’s gifts on their gate—a pear, a firecracker, and a note asking if it was okay to harvest watercress from the Sonoita Creek that ran by their house. He wrote back immediately, saying, “NO!” I should not eat the watercress or I might get giardia. That was the beginning of a good, long friendship, which we have had over these past ten years.

  Leslie and I decide to ride all the way to the Harrison’s house this morning, passing the Nature Conservancy and then the Circle Z land where I used to ride when I stayed at the ranch with my sons. We cross the creek at the end of the road. The water is deep here, and the horses take a long drink. The Harrison’s gate is open so we ride up to the house calling out, “Yoo-hoo, anybody home?” Both Linda and Jim come out to look at the horses. I tell them that we’ve come for an espresso, and they invite us in. “Just kidding. We’ve had enough caffeine for one day.” Besides, we’ve got to get back to Melinda’s. We’re running late.

  When we arrive, Melinda’s gate is wide open, and her two horses are wandering about the lot freely. Peanut seems a bit nervous eyeing the unfamiliar yard and animals, including a small brown calf named “Steak.” We shut Peanut into a pen, get him some hay, and unload grain. I hand over his bridle and attempt to leave a bag of carrots and apples, which could be given to him with his morning feed, but Melinda says that she doesn’t like to feed apples because of the carbohydrates. I’ve never heard that one before. But this is her place, and she is the trainer, so she can call the shots.

  Melinda is quite a pistol, a beautiful young woman with long brown hair. She is part Native American, and has a special way with horses.

  “I just have one request,” I tell her. “Once Peanut is free to roam about the yard with the other horses, can you be sure to close your gate?”

  “I’m usually here,” she responds, “and I know horses.”

  But I remain adamant. “I just need you to honor that one request. You know what happened to Helen’s horse.”

  I had given Cody to Helen years ago, and when she came west to build her house in Patagonia, she brought him along. Cody was blind in one eye and thirty-six years old when he escaped his pasture and went careening across Route 82. Spooked, he tried to re-enter his field by crossing a cattle guard where he got his leg stuck and had to be shot, then grotesquely dismembered before receiving a too-shallow grave. It was a terrible end for a truly valiant horse. I had never heard my cousin cry so long and hard as when she received this horrible news.

  Melinda agrees to keep the gate shut, but seems a bit put off by my request. Perhaps her horses didn’t wander, but Peanut could try to head home. Leaving a beloved horse in someone else’s care is a bit like leaving a child at nursery school for the first time. I just want to feel confident and at ease.

  “Alpha meets Alpha,” I grimace, as we pull on out of the drive.

  My Best Boy

  Grateful

  Yet again, I’m entranced by Barranca’s beautiful gaits as we ride through the federal land behind the paddock. He is so easy in hand, so willing and wonderful, while Tonka, left alone in the stall, is agitated. I wonder if they both miss Peanut. Do they notice that he is gone? But Peanut is having a fine ole time at winter camp with Melinda South. “He and the filly have fallen in love,” Melinda tells me over the phone. Her mean, older, aggressive mare is not quick enough to catch him.

  Melinda has more than a few tricks up her sleeve— one is to put sweet feed in a couple of open, lidless, gallon containers, and the horses take turns tossing them about, trying to get out the grain. She also drizzles molasses on some big play balls, and they enjoy licking and kicking the balls. When I drop by for a visit, Peanut comes over to say hello and nuzzles me, then he is off to play with his friends.

  Later Melinda calls to tell me that she has gotten Peanut into an excellent flat walk. Her two small sons rode Peanut together bareback, and the older one said, “Peanut is my horse.”

  AUSTRALIA

  Ayler

  A Civilized Ride?

  There are over two-hundred horses boarded at the Centennial Parklands Equestrian Centre in Sydney. It is an old-fashioned, well-kept facility that includes five different stables within the complex. A friendly woman recommends Moore Park Stables, so we seek them out and sign up for a ride on March third, which will be right before our flight back to the United States.

  I check out their horses and pick Decs for myself. The owner says he is her favorite horse—a strong-looking Appaloosa. Another gelding, Howie, stands 17 hands. Ayler can ride this beautiful bay Thoroughbred. I am just hoping that he won’t have an allergic reaction.

  The following morning all of us—including my older son, Clovis, his wife and their boys, Kailer and Cash—return to the airport for a flight to Hamilton Island in the Great Barrier Reef. Here we catch a ferry boat to Lindeman Island. It is wonderful being with my two little grandsons. I only get to see them once or twice a year, and I relish these visits.

  Traveling north, we move closer to the equator, and it is sweltering with heat and humidity. The resort is filled with small children who don’t seem to notice or mind. Both boys love swimming with their father, and little Cash lights up whenever he sees “Gramma,” reminding me of baby Clovis thirty-five years ago.

  We have a great day snorkeling out on the reef where fish glide by in an endless variety of forms. My favorite is the curvy purple lip of a giant clam that opens and shuts so languorously. Another day, we take a boat ride to the silica white sand beach of Whitehaven and spend an afternoon in the buoyant sea water. Using Kailer’s plastic shovel and pail, I dig out some of the pure soft sand to bring back to my mother-in-law, Em, knowing how she would love putting her hands in it. Later I find out that she tried to eat it!

  Kailer and Cash

  When we return to Sydney for one short night, we rise early for our horseback ride, searching out some good coffee before grabbing a cab for the stable. Unfortunately, my original horse of choice, Decs, is lame. Dante will be his substitute. I decide that Howie is awfully big, and perhaps I should ride him instead of Ayler.

  The owner tells us that we will only be able to walk and trot on the equestrian trail that runs around the park. The pathway is separated by a white fence, and the trail itself has good sandy footing. But once we are out, our guide can see that we know what we’re doing, and she doesn’t mind our cantering on. />
  There is something so urban about riding in a well-groomed park like this. It reminds me of movies where people are all dressed up in their riding habits, posting in Paris or London or New York—all very civilized, I’m sure, but a far cry from the freedom of the wild, Wild West.

  The park must be one of the most beautiful in the world with its undulating grounds filled with plant life and birds, small ponds and playing fields. It is a glorious morning, in the high sixties, refreshing after the intense heat of the Great Barrier Reef. I’m not used to riding on such restricted terrain, but it is still nice to be in the saddle. No trip seems complete without a ride of some sort.

  Our guide tells me that Howie is a “bit of a pain,” and I soon learn why—for though he has a big strong trot, he is reluctant to get into a canter, and instead of responding to my legs and signals, he simply trots out with bigger and faster strides, until I finally kick him really hard, repeatedly, and then he only canters for a short ways and then drops back into his lazy-boy gait. I might have better luck with a crop, but there aren’t even any branches within arm’s reach. I have to ride ahead because if she and Ayler canter in front of me, Howie will bolt past them, and I certainly don’t want to hurt myself on a strange horse right before takeoff.

  Anyway, I am glad that Ayler’s horse, Dante, is behaving nicely. We ride by Busby Pond and then the equestrian grounds, where we work the horses in a small ring, but I still have difficulty getting Howie to canter. What an effort.