Ready to ride again after lunch, Helen scrambles back up onto the “mounting rock.” She is always adept at finding a place to get back onto her tall black horse. Heading down the trail, we choose to go around Courthouse Butte. This loop trail is much wilder with fewer hikers, bikes prohibited, but horses seem to be allowed everywhere.
Our boys do well on the rougher trails, always choosing the best footing, and from time to time, I stop to use the little camera Mason gave me for my birthday, documenting this amazing terrain. The Canon camera flattens out to the size of a pack of playing cards and fits easily into the snap pocket of my shirt.
As we circle around to the front of Courthouse Butte, I insist that our return path is further west. We are back on soft footing, and we get to canter some more, but at a certain point, Bendajo stands stock still and refuses to follow, as if he has had enough for one day and knows we are not headed home. “It’s this way, I’m sure,” I call back to Helen, but her horse will not budge, so I turn and follow them, and sure enough, Bendajo takes us back to the exit gate. A horse’s sense of direction is not to be second-guessed!
On Top of the World
Helen’s Day
Ready for our afternoon ride up Schnebly Hill, a short trailer drive from the stable, we choose the first parking lot we see, hoping we will find the equestrian path.
Finally, we see a sign and drop down to a little pool to let the horses drink, not noticing that the trail continues on the other side of the stream. It isn’t until we see an immense, round-shaped rock with a large wide skirt of land around it that we finally connect to the trail. Here we look down on several huge pancake formations that could be UFO landing pads, petrified batter that has flattened out and hardened over time.
Up on the rim of this round mountain we take a break and look back down the valley. I give the horses a couple of Tic-Tacs, and they nod in approval. Up higher, we can see how the road climbs, and decide on making it to a high lookout point before returning back down the mountain. The afternoon sun is warm, and I tie my jacket around my waist. It takes us another half-hour to climb up to the lookout but it is worth it—we can see such a distance it makes us feel small, a small part of this extensive grandeur.
Helen understood my history, my struggle with my mother. She would often sigh, a deep heart-felt sigh, but she rarely made a negative comment. While I was growing up, my mother had been the target of endless jokes, which were hurtful to me as a girl. No matter how much I suffered under the rule of “Mean Margaret,” a child can only be defensive in the face of such put-downs.
No one ever pointed a finger at Popi, for he was part of the dynasty. He was the fun one, the life of the party, the upbeat one. No wonder he was on so many executive boards. He made those old men laugh, leading his llamas into various meetings, arriving in costume, planning a prank or pulling a gag.
But now it seemed as if the family dump site was being excavated by Mom’s grief. She was just a sore, scraped plot of turf. And it was time for me to plant some growing things, time to find forgiveness. I kept trying to locate my storehouse of sympathy. I realized that being a target, she had needed her own victim.
I fit the role, being the favored, oldest daughter. I took Dad off to the country to ride when she wanted him at home in River Hills. She was insatiable for his company, and struck out at anyone who challenged her claim.
After a horseback ride, I was asked to pull off my father’s big black boots, tugging at the close-fitting two-toned leather. I remember the smell of man musk on his feet and horse-fresh dander on his thick beige jodhpurs. Was this innocent contact too intimate for her?
But now she was just an old woman who could not stop crying. She was furious with him, for many reasons. She ranted and raved, but bottom line, she missed him terribly. She was lost without him. For the first time in her life, she was alone and missed him like a lake sucked dry. She was trapped in a nightmare with dull dark dread. No teasing, no conversation at the dinner table, no bantering before the TV, no backdrop, no husband.
Instead of giving up chocolate or caffeine or wine for Lent, I decided to call my mother daily. I no longer cowered around her. On the contrary, I told her what to do and got a little bossy, but she was flattered by the firm and consistent attention. “You need to find a physical therapist,” I insisted. “You should be getting a weekly massage, and at least one pedicure a month.”
Returning home from her operation, my mother’s brother came for a visit, driving all the way from Augusta, Georgia. He was an excellent chef and cooked elaborate meals every night. When I called, it sounded as if they were having an almost manic, hilarious time, but hours after his departure, in a state of careless exhaustion, my mother slipped on the carpet by her bed, fell down, and broke her hip.
Two weeks out of the hospital, she now had to return for hip replacement surgery. More pain, more tears, more angst. This operation was harder to take. She didn’t have her pick of doctors. She didn’t have the same good rehab facility. Would there be no end to her suffering?
Coming back down the mountain on our horses, we decide to follow the trail all the way to the bottom. It is a splendid little path that winds down beside the running creek. At one point, we come through a wonderland of cactus. It looks like it could be a botanical garden, wildflowers scattered all along the way.
Back at Horse Mesa Ranch, some new arrivals, Buzz and Cathy, have just pulled in from Pennsylvania. They offer us gin and tonics, so we sit down outside their large house/horse trailer and put up our feet, drinking and talking until the sun goes down.
Connected
Brisk Barranca
We woke to snow yesterday morning, snow, at the end of April. But today, everything has melted, and it is brisk and moist. A Mexican Jay flits about in the mesquite, and the air is as cool as fresh cucumber. I have such a heart connection with Barranca and just hope that he will go on and on, healthy and happy. He is always so willing, as if he wants to please me. How lucky I am to have found this horse, my perfect equine companion.
All Wet
Cochise Stronghold
As we drive toward Dragoon, Helen reads from the tear sheet Mason has printed off the Internet: Cochise Stronghold is a protective rampart of granite domes and sheer cliffs that was once the base of operations for famed Chiricahua Apache Chief, Cochise. Sentinels, constantly on watch from the towering pinnacles of rock, could spot their enemies in the valley below and sweep down without warning….Upon his death, Cochise was secretly buried somewhere near his impregnable fortress. The exact location has never been revealed.
Turning toward the mountains the road becomes dirt, rippled with washboard ridges. The equestrian parking lot is just a half-mile up ahead next to an old, abandoned, stone house. When we pull in, we see that we are the only riders in the stronghold this morning—nice.
Heading down the trail, we meet three middle-aged women on foot with their tiny dogs. They suggest that we take the Middlemarch Trail instead of the Cochise Trail, which is difficult for horses to traverse with its narrow cuts and switchbacks. I say, “Thanks,” but I should have said, “No thanks,” as the Middlemarch Trail turns out to be extremely rocky and uninteresting with low cedar growth and no significant vistas. We keep on climbing for about an hour, going through three gates before we get to a rise and see more of the same ahead.
“What do you think?” I ask Helen. “Maybe, we should turn back and try the other trail.” I remember it as being spectacular, and this is rather boring. She agrees, so down we go. In the distance, we spot a large watering hole, and decide to stop and have our lunch here before riding up the Cochise Trail with its grand domes of stacked rock.
Helen lets Bendajo wander around untied with his hackamore knotted over his pommel. But then he takes it upon himself to wade out into the dark water up to his belly. He is about to submerge, saddle and all, when Helen gets him to return. I hold onto Barranca’s reins, and he stands over me, looking for treats, grabbing mouthfuls of grass where h
e can. I realize how much I trust this horse and feel a rush of affection for him.
After lunch, we find the turnoff for the Cochise Trail and are immediately entranced. The path winds around through alligator juniper, century plants, and prickly pear cactus, affording constant views of the unusual mountains that look like balanced piles of smooth stone stacked up by a giant three-year-old. We have to pass over one difficult, slick section, and the horses pick their way down a steep staircase of rough rocks, but they both manage, sure-footed. I only wish that we had time to ride all the way to the top.
We imagine all the hiding places that Cochise and his tribe secured. The leader’s wild spirit seems to float over this landscape as if inhabiting the repeated call of a mourning dove. I answer—calling back—pretending to be an Apache speaking in native code. When I bring up our grandmother, Helen says, “I was just thinking of her!” Maybe, her spirit is hovering about us, pleased that her two oldest granddaughters are exploring these wild mountains together.
Homestyle Horseshow
Helen and I were always getting into trouble as adolescents, going out into the horse field to sneak a smoke behind the jumping log, or riding bareback in the moonlight, only to discover that our horses had escaped their pasture after our wild midnight ride.
Our grandmother was a very moral, upright person. She disdained TV and called it, “Truck.” She never drank or smoked or even chewed gum. She was horrified when I came home from a summer in France and had started drinking coffee. She reprimanded my mother, saying, “But that is caffeine!” My mother’s response to that was—“So what.”
Gramma and my mother were impossibly different. My mother was southern, glamorous, passionate, yet poor. Unfortunately, these two women were thrown together in such close proximity that it must have been very difficult for them both. But perhaps their differences were what had attracted my father to my mother in the first place, after his highly-supervised, insulated upbringing.
My grandmother nearly insisted that my mother convert to the Episcopal Church when she married into the family. Early on, Mom’s heritage was questioned. My Aunt Isabelle wrote a letter questioning my mother’s genes—how important genetics were to a family, and how my father’s fiancée was one of the “Chosen People.” Certain negative traits might be passed down through the blood, my aunt wrote, as if my mother’s background would be a stain on the purity of the family.
Curiously, there seemed to be even more fuss over my mother having been raised a Catholic. My grandmother was very concerned about how this would affect my father’s marriage and the raising of his children. She wrote to him at length— galled by the thought of ignorant, superstitious priests telling children a lot of poppycock. “It seems terrible to tell as Gospel truth to credulous trusting little minds, things which you cannot accept as intelligent concepts.”
Wedding Day
Mom was convinced that being an Episcopalian was not much different from being a Catholic, but she kept the Jewish part of her history hidden. In Germanic Milwaukee, one couldn’t even join the country club if you were part Jewish.
My grandmother took me under her wing and became a significant maternal figure. Strangely, Mason’s mother, Em, reminded me a great deal of my father’s mother. Perhaps, that’s why I became so close to her. When you can’t get along with the parent you’ve been given, it’s natural to choose a loving substitute.
Why are families so important? It’s as if we are dealt a handful of cards and we simply have to play them, or close. We can’t select our brothers or sisters or parents, though some think the unborn do choose, a charming notion. I can see how I might have picked Popi, but I have to dig deeper to uncover the reasons for selecting my mother. Maybe, she was part of the package deal, or she was my daughter in some past life, and I had not been very nice to her. Was this my chance to get it right?
Cowgirls
A Watched Moon
Helen and Anita arrive on the rim of the valley right after I do, Anita wearing one of her fabulous, quirky outfits, blue jeans under her splashy pink and yellow dress, with a beaded, blue cashmere sweater and sparkly glasses. She is always a soothing balm on our rides, sighing deeply with appreciation.
Mariposa lilies dot the prairie grassland. There are also a scattering of tiny pink asters and lavender blue dicks. Most of the oak trees out here have lost their old leaves and are already producing soft grey-green ones. The sun is about to go down so we head back in the direction of the trailers. Helen’s dogs, Brindi and Bear, run about the horses’ feet, then race down a swell to a cattle tank and splash around. Seen from a distance, I think that Brindi is in some kind of trouble, but the dog simply doesn’t know how to swim and tries to paddle in an upright position so that only her head is visible. She manages to make it out of the water and then the dogs run around the tank after harriers.
When the pack returns, Barranca accidentally steps on Bear’s foot. Howling, he goes hopping away on three feet. Helen immediately dismounts to comfort her dog, swatting at Brindi to stay away—she doesn’t care for this Pit Bull with her crooked tail and heavy breathing. But after some soothing Bear is running beside us again. I’m glad my dogs aren’t with us adding to all the commotion.
The sun has now set, and we all make predictions as to where the moon will rise. We believe that it will come up somewhere over the Huachuca Mountains, but we will have to wait and see. It’s getting darker and colder by the minute. In March, the sun and moon rise directly across from each other, but now, a month later, as the sun sets further north, the moon will rise further south. None of us can decipher any moon glow.
I am now the only one mounted, and from my high vantage point, I keep thinking that I see a glimmer of light—“Oh look!” No, it’s nothing. “There it is!” Nope.
“She’s crying moon,” Anita laughs.
Only Venus is visible in the dark night sky, crisp and clear, the sinking sun setting off the Patagonia Mountains with a lovely pinkish hue.
Anita and I ride back to the trailers to get her bottle of Pinot Grigio. The horses’ hooves spark in the darkness and Saddle Mountain stands out in silhouette. I pick up the long wool coat I have just had cleaned for Helen. It had been so hot this afternoon I didn’t think I would need more than a parka vest. Now I am chilled, and the long black coat makes me feel toasty warm and equine elegant.
Back up on the rise, Mason joins us in the Nissan. Anita opens the bottle of wine, passing glasses around. She then cuts some Saga blue cheese to put on crackers. We’re all starving. I, for one, have never had wine and cheese on horseback before—but this is fun!
There is still no sign of the full moon, not even a glimmer, and I am getting tipsy. It is hard to wait for a moon to appear, sort of like a watched pot doesn’t boil. Maybe, we have to turn our backs on it. Meanwhile, the horses are happily munching. Green grass is beginning to sprout up everywhere thanks to the glorious winter rains. The horses don’t seem to mind the novelty of being out in the dark with half-drunk riders.
Finally
Finally, Helen is the first one to spot the moon—way down in the direction of Mexico. What a surprise—it is actually nowhere near the Huachucas. Rising over the plain makes the moon’s appearance less dramatic than when it rose over the mountains on New Year’s Eve. It is now as golden as the sun. “It looks like a peach!” Helen cries, and we are all glad to see it come into view.
We ride back to the horse trailers, Mason transporting our wicker basket filled with food. After loading the horses, we are eager to eat. Anita is especially appreciative that I have brought real linens and a full dinner. We decide on a French picnic out of the back of the car, so that we can see what we are eating—fried chicken, asparagus, potato salad vinaigrette, red wine, and Mint Milanos.
By half past eight, Mason is ready to head home, while the three of us lie down on the ground and look up at the sky, laughing and carrying on as women do when they’re together. A multitude of stars have now appeared overhead. Even tho
ugh the horses rumble around in their trailers, we are relaxed and hoot when a border patrol van goes by—“Hide,” I yell. “They’ll see us!”
We each have a smoke and puff into the darkness, talking about the art center where Helen teaches. Anita is working on a play with eighteen kids that will be performed in our local Tin Shed. Then, Anita announces that both her father and father-in-law have the same birthdays, and that her mother and mother-in-law both cut off the same index finger while chopping wood. For some reason we find this hilarious.
Helen says that horses sleep in seven-minute segments, and this sounds peculiar but possible, I guess. Where do people get their information? Have our horses dozed off and woken up several times, wondering where they are in the middle of the night while their riders roll around on the ground, delighted by the sight of pristine stars? I have never seen the night sky so clearly.
Keith Warner
Keith and Kacy
Keith and Kacy fly into Tucson from Great Barrington, ready to transport my horses back to Massachusetts. Kacy is astounded by how much Peanut has grown over the winter. He is now just as tall as Barranca, perhaps 16.1 hands, but he is still so skinny he doesn’t seem like a very imposing horse.
It is a beautiful, sunny day with only a light breeze. All the mesquite trees have leafed out, and wildflowers surround the trails with sweeps of lavender, red, and yellow. The ocotillos have not fully opened their red tips, poised there on the ends of their tall, spindly wands, but soon they will be in full flower.
Down by the Sonoita Creek, the water is low, but there is still some visual refreshment. A large owl takes off in front of us, and later down the trail we see a pair of gray hawks. Coming onto the long narrow trail where the footing is soft and clean, we enjoy several long canters. A great blue heron lifts off downstream.
Riding Barranca Page 9
