On my last day, I brought my father a St. Christopher’s medal on a silver stirrup key chain and told him that he would have to take good care of himself. Perhaps, I had been too present, too over-organized, too much in her way, but I felt terrible about the situation as I got ready for departure. I could not see how this transition to home would work for him. I only wished that my sister was there, but she and her family were still in Africa.
When I talked to Mom on the phone from Massachusetts, her anger was palpable. “I wash my hands of him, the whole thing! He’s just impossible. I’m not even speaking to him.”
One day, I tried for hours to get through, and it was obvious that she had taken the phone off the hook. I wanted to get a release for my father’s pathology reports, to have them sent to another doctor who had had success with alternative medicine. When I finally got through around dinnertime, I said to Mom, “You can’t just take the phone off the hook for six straight hours. The doctors couldn’t even get through.”
“Do you have anything more you want to say?” she snarled. “Do you want to speak to your father?” Then, I could hear her yell in the background. “She thinks you are her husband!”
A half-hour later, my mother called Mason crying hysterically and saying that I was such a troublemaker I had ruined their evening, and that I should never call their house again.
Breeze
Back on the San Rafael
Daphne longs to see the valley, so we decide on a short morning ride, before heading down to Nogales for lunch at La Roca. She tries out Tonka this morning, and I take Peanut, who has had several days of rest since coming back from Melinda’s. I am eager to see how he will do on the trail now, and he goes beautifully.
It is pleasing to see Daphne’s dark silhouette on the top of a rise with all that space surrounding her. She is having a bit of trouble keeping Tonka in his gaited walk as he continually breaks into a canter. She is probably sitting too far forward, and I tell her to let her feet drop from the stirrups as if she were bareback—“That’s how you’re supposed to sit.” At some point, after riding a gaited horse, it just clicks in. One has to listen for the sound of the hooves on the hard-packed road, sounding like “a piece of meat a shucked potato, a piece of meat a shucked potato…”
When we do want to go faster, Peanut shows me a lovely little lope that is extremely comfortable. I keep giving him lots of praise as we ride out over the open valley. Leaving the dirt road, we cross the grasslands, toward the headwaters of the Santa Cruz, now filled with water—it is good to see this place transformed back to wetlands from the muddy hole it had been just a month ago.
On the drive home, I take it easy. I have heard that every bump in the road is magnified in the trailer, and that one should drive as if carrying a full tray of champagne flutes. We pass the Hale Ranch where two cowboys are mounting mules. Daphne says how she likes to ride mules when she is at their ranch in Montana, because they are so surefooted and not scared by bears.
One time, when she was only twelve years old, riding out West near Yellowstone National Park at a friend’s family place, she went out with five others, up high in the mountains. They were all just standing in a circle when they spotted—“A bear!” The other horses all dumped their riders, and some of the people were trampled, but Daphne stayed on. She put herself between the fallen riders and the bear and stared the huge grizzly down until it lumbered off.
Because she was the only one still on her mount, they told her to head back to the ranch to get help. It had taken them hours to get to that point, but she galloped off and came into the ranch house panting. A fancy party was in progress with a lot of New York City and Virginia guests. When she announced that there had been a bear, no one believed her. They thought she was pulling a prank—at which point, she burst into tears. Only then did they listen to her and send out a helicopter to pick up the injured.
Ready to Ride
Illicit Passage
Helen and I descend to Sonoita Creek, but once we are down, I suggest that we take a right-hand turn on the Cottonwood Loop Trail, which is supposed to be for hikers only, no horses. Helen is game. The two of us have always been apt to break the rules. In any case, we wonder why horses are banned from this trail as there aren’t any low-hanging branches. It seems perfectly fine. Perhaps it is a bit wilder here, with a lot of bird life—ducks lifting off from the stream in pairs.
At the far end of the loop, we take another forbidden path up the Blackhawk Trail, until we see a ranger’s white truck across the creek, and decide to leave the path and wander upstream through flowing water. Barranca picks his way over the submerged stones. As we proceed up the gradual incline of the river, we turn a corner, and see white water and a forty foot waterfall at the end of the canyon. We are both giddy with excitement.
Riding back up to the edge of the bluff, the footing is precarious, but the horses are only disturbed by one tall barrel cactus that is lying down on its side, rather than standing upright. Helen says one horse she knew was frightened by a felled Christmas tree. Somehow horses know how things are supposed to stand, and their instincts for survival always keep them on the alert, ready to balk or flee. The other day Peanut didn’t like the looks of a big brown boulder. Did he think it was a predator or someone in a crouched position?
Passing through the arid desert pasture we come over a rise and are at the same level as Patagonia Lake. There is something so surprising in this that we liken it to the feeling of awe one has driving over the rim of the San Rafael Valley, seeing the abundant grasslands spreading out beyond.
At the level of the spillway, where the water flows from the lake down to the cascading falls and into the creek below, Barranca resists crossing the cement area covered with shallow water, though he has just gracefully picked his way across slippery river rocks and forded deeper water. He must sense that the wet cement could be treacherous.
We decide to go back down into the leafy green comfort of the riverbed, taking the other side of the Cottonwood Loop Trail until it disappears into the unmarked woods. Bushwhacking through the forest on the western side of the river, we make our way back through groves of large mesquite trees, rummaging around. We are not quite sure where we are, but it doesn’t seem to matter, other than—we are not supposed to be here.
Finally, we find our way back to the trail and then settle down for lunch. I share my sandwich and chocolate with Helen, as she has not packed anything today. The Saga blue cheese and chicken sandwich with a layer of sun-dried tomato paste is enough to fill us both, and the horses munch. Golden poppies have begun to flower all about their hooves.
Helen on Ben
Temporal Canyon
I am supposed to meet Helen at her corral at ten in the morning, but at nine-thirty she calls to tell me that Mike is out looking for the horses on their forty-acre spread. After breakfast, Pinto Bean wormed his way out of the corral, followed by Bendajo. The mare, Copper, was so aggravated, she jumped into the huge water trough and out again on the other side to join the geldings. Mike is now trying to round up the horses with his four-wheeler. I suggest that she call me when the horses return.
Later that morning, we head out to Temporal Canyon with Barranca and Ben in tow, winding around through the mountains, the dirt road washboard-rough, but a sweep of poppies has coated the foothills with a profusion of yellow, stunning.
This trail is accompanied by running water all along the way—melting snow from Mount Wrightson, no doubt. It pools in the “blue bathtubs,” a place where Helen and friends like to tie up and swim when it’s a bit warmer. Today, it is already in the high seventies but not warm enough for a plunge.
The horses enjoy walking through the stream as it crosses the trail, cooling their hooves. The ash trees have just begun to leaf out, looking as if a thousand bright green grasshoppers have alighted on their limbs. Bali lies down in the river every once in a while, perhaps a bit overheated by his growing coat.
Halfway down the trail, something
catches my eye—I spot a transient on the far hillside, hiding behind an agave cactus as if that spindly plant could protect him from view. I yell out, “Hola,” but he does not move. We assume that he’s on his way toward Tucson, taking this back route through the foothills where he won’t be seen by the border patrol.
Wandering on, getting closer to the great peak of Mount Wrightson, we find a nice place to break for lunch. Looking down on the trail, Helen notices a sign spelled out with sticks on the path: “WE HERE.” But so are we, and we are ready to eat. I realize I’ve forgotten to bring Barranca’s halter—I’m getting so forgetful these days.
On the way back to the trailer, I keep drinking from my water bottle as the afternoon grows warmer. I suggest that we unsaddle the horses and lead them down to the stream to see if they might like to roll in the nice shallow water, but neither horse wants to do more than take a slurping sip.
After loading Barranca into the trailer, I grab a large plastic bottle from the tack room floor and take a swig—but it is not a water bottle—I have just taken a big gulp of floor-cleaning liquid! I spit it out and grab real water and try to flush it out of my mouth, but the toxic taste is hard to get rid of—NASTY. I can feel it burning down my throat.
Luckily, there are no significant repercussions. But when I get home, I sweep out the trailer’s tack room, throwing away all the half-empty water bottles and the random junk that has accumulated there. Maybe a little order will help me pay more attention.
Abigail
Riding with Abigail
After a two-day visit with her grandmother in Scottsdale, my niece, Abigail, is ready to ride with me. Abigail, my sister’s oldest daughter, is easy to be with, so calm, she almost floats through the world with her soothing voice. Her relaxed nature makes for a pleasant companion on the trail. I must say that my nieces are faithful granddaughters. Perhaps it is easier being in that generation-skipping role than it is for a daughter like me.
“How’s Gramma doing,” I ask her.
“Pretty good,” she responds. “Thank God she has Wanda.” We both agree that Wanda is amazing. Mom couldn’t function without her. Wanda is Mom’s touchstone, her totally true north, her Rock of Gibraltar, her saving grace.
Abigail goes on to tell me how Wanda was spoon-feeding Gramma lunch, and Gramma almost seemed asleep, her eyes half-closed, but she ate almost all of her soup. “She hasn’t been eating much lately. But just as Wanda was getting ready to leave the room, Gramma opened one eye and said, Isn’t there any chocolate ice cream?”
Abigail grins, and we ride on in silence for a while, but then Abigail adds, “It’s so nice that Gramma can be at home. She really loves Arizona.”
Mom built her modern fortress of a house years before we built Casa Durazno. She lived in an upper-end, gated community and thought we lived in “no man’s land.”
At one Thanksgiving in Patagonia, my sister Cia brought her three girls down to our house to join in the festivities. On the car ride from Scottsdale, Mom told Cia, in front of her adopted daughter, Claire, “You know adoption is usually unfortunate, because of the genes.”
Claire started crying, “Gramma, you are so mean!”
“I’m never mean,” Mom responded.
In contrast, the last thing Popi said to Claire was, “I love you, Claire. I love you as much as all the other grandchildren. Don’t ever feel like I love you differently because you are adopted. You are a Chester and that’s all there is to it.”
Cia took a lot of abuse. Claire was too fat. Abigail had piercings. Lily was rude and unhelpful. I could see Cia wince, receiving this shrapnel. Mom kept talking to Cia about my house, how gorgeous it was, but this compliment came off as a kind of twisted put-down.
Is the pain of rejection so fierce that I now make sure others don’t have to feel it? Do I mother my boys with greater love and attention, because of what was withheld from me? Who was I trying to impress with my five-course meals, with my abundant gift-giving? Was it overcompensation or a warped form of spiritual pride?
At least Cia knew how to confront our mother. For some reason, my sister had always been open and direct with her. Cia challenged Mom about how tight she was with her cash—she had some astronomical amount sitting in her checkbook, yet she still quizzed Wanda about the cost of gas and lamb chops. “You know, someday you’re going to have to stand up in front of Jesus and explain how you used your money,” Cia said.
“If God doesn’t like it, that’s His problem.”
Mom then continued, “Your father was such an idiot, giving so much money to the government.” When she tore him down, I tried to switch the subject, derailing her, pointing out the good he had done, putting all of our children through school, but she didn’t want to hear about that.
If one of her grandchildren offended her, she would take off like a terror, delivering a scathing litany. It reminded me of all those car rides as a child when I was trapped in the passenger seat, listening to her ongoing monologue. There was never a question of interest in my life, only her ranting opinions. Did she make herself feel better by putting others down? Maybe, it had to do with hormones, or it was just her personality, left unchecked. Certainly, my father never stopped her.
Mom was appalled that Cia’s daughters were in blue jeans and t-shirts, not dressed up for Thanksgiving dinner, and that they even brought cans of Coke to the table. I didn’t mind, and I was the hostess. I was pleased that everyone liked my delicato squash soup, laced with light cream and Grand Marnier. The turkey was done to perfection. I only wanted to feel grateful that family was together, that we were having a good time and that the sun was shining as only the Arizona sun can shine.
I remember a letter Mom sent me after Mason and I visited my parents in Scottsdale. She was furious because we had decided to go riding with Popi instead of playing tennis with her. If everyone didn’t cooperate, she went into a tantrum spreading poisonous fumes over everyone. No wonder we headed for the stable.
“Whose genes are in you?” she wrote to me. “I cannot believe that you are my daughter. You twist your father around your little finger and it is disgusting!”
What can I say? That I don’t want to become like my mother, but I am still her daughter. I want to understand what made her the woman she is, but I don’t want to replay the inner voice I heard haranguing me since I was an infant. I can still see ticks of resemblance, and notice little facial expressions in photographs, verbal repetitions that are deep in the iceberg of personality formed before I had a choice. But now I do have a choice. And I choose to ride out. I choose to relinquish the past and relish the present, finding freedom and forgiveness on horseback.
Helen is going to meet us at the Patagonia Lake corral at ten. I am riding Tonka, as he seems to do well on this trail, and Abigail has Barranca. On the way down the slope we note new signs of spring —pale mauve bottle-brush flowers and some Indian paintbrush, as well as little purple star-shaped flowers, lovely. The cottonwoods are almost fully leafed out now, and the day is warm and brilliant. There is nothing more beautiful than desert sunshine filtering through those bright spring leaves while riding through creek water. We forge the stream every chance we get and ride for long stretches through the shallows. Tonka is a bit hesitant when he sees long strands of green slime streaming beneath him, but soon he discovers that this is not to be feared. In fact, it might even be edible.
Abigail is enjoying herself, splashing along. We take a few fast gallops along the straight paths, and at one point, Tonka bucks and veers, and I feel a twinge in my spine. He doesn’t like to be last, but he’s got to learn to behave.
We ride all the way to the gate that leads to Rio Rico. It is as far as we have ever gone, and Helen feels it is far enough. We wander back up through the stream, cliff swallows wheeling overhead, until we find a good place to tie up the horses in the shade. Taking off our boots and socks, stripping down to our underwear, we cross back over into the sun and eat our lunch. A half-hour later, it is not so easy get
ting sandy, wet feet back into socks and boots. I can feel little pebbles in my pants as we remount, but this lazy break was worth it.
In Front of the Fire
Easter Sunrise
Abigail and I decide to get up at 5:15 A.M. to go for an early ride. After a double espresso, we load up and head to the San Rafael Valley. The morning light is just beginning, and by the time we arrive at the rim of the valley, it is getting brighter. The sun is supposed to rise by 6:08 A.M., though it takes a few extra minutes for it to climb above the Huachucas. The folds of the foothills make a spectacular vision—the lower hills appear darker, scattered with oaks, and a misty lavender haze washes over the paler mountain range behind.
I decide to take Ab to the north end of the valley, and along the way we spot a dead coyote on the road, probably shot by some rancher. Now it just lies there, decaying, but it still has a lovely, intact tail. We ride all the way out to the edge of the valley where I spot a dirt road that seems to be going up the backside of Saddle Mountain. I have often tried to find a way through the fence out here in the hopes of climbing this incline, never meeting with success. But today we find an unlatched gate—an Easter opening! We continue to climb until the trail becomes very steep. We have to stop and let the horses rest along the way. I wonder who would make a road up here and for what purpose? Phil Caputo once told me that drug smugglers used the top of Saddle Mountain as a lookout post. Were we riding into danger?
We inevitably talk about Abigail’s mother, my sister Cynthia (Cia), five years younger. I loved my serious, little sister, who wrote haiku and absentmindedly walked into trees while contemplating some grand philosophical thought. True, I had been jealous of my father’s taunting, saying over and over—“Cynthia has the most beautiful hair in the family.” Her luscious auburn locks were the same color as my father’s when he was a boy. My darling dumpling of a sister was not a serious threat, but his terrible teasing drove me (a straggly haired blonde) to snap off forsythia wands and whip them against various objects. This is For-Cynthia, and this!
Riding Barranca Page 7
