I don’t ride on the first day back but wait until the following morning to saddle up Barranca. I take him out on the familiar trails behind the house. We have miles and miles of trails here—most of them on our neighbor’s lumber land—but many trees have fallen across the paths during the course of the winter, and I am annoyed by all the blockages. We work our way around the debris and head down to Long Pond. But I still don’t feel like I’m “home.” The lilacs are out in abundance, dripping with moisture, and Barranca moves out beautifully, but I am in an off-mood, not even entranced by the wild lavender phlox that is springing up along the trails.
The next morning, I take Peanut out for a go, and he surprises me with his willing, fast walk. I treat his mouth with utmost gentleness. The trick will be teaching others how to handle him so that he doesn’t get confused or sour from varied communications.
Meanwhile, my sister and I exchange emails and phone calls about our mother, back in Wisconsin. One day, she seems to be doing fine, and the next, she barely opens her eyes. She is in a comfortable hospital bed, facing the lake, and seems content for the most part. She still seems to recognize people, and beams at Mary Read, my cousin’s wife, one of her favorites, though when my brother David arrives, she asks, “Are you mine?”
Arizona Muse
Baldwin Hill
Baldwin Hill Farm, just fifteen minutes away, is another world of wide open fields on top of a gentle rise. This is where we first lived when we came to the Berkshires, when Ayler was only two years old. We rented the Burdsall farmhouse with its four-hundred acres, and I rode all over this hill with Bunny Kirchner, an eighty-year-old, mad-for-horses local man. I know the trails here well.
During Bunny’s last few years, he lived in an ambulance. Whenever we dropped by his emergency vehicle, it was disturbing to see the deep trash on the floor. Sometimes, when I sent Ayler in to deliver food, he was afraid that Bunny was dead. But Bunny lived into his nineties, and kept on riding right up to the end. Horses were his passion.
Bunny was an old-timer who knew everything about every family who lived along the road. But he often did things in a strange manner, like using a knife to cut a slit in my girth, rather than using a hole-punch. One day when I was riding his stallion and we took off at a gallop, the burst of energy straining against the leather made the girth snap, and I went flying, banging my head on the hard gravel road. Now I always wear a helmet.
My young friend, Arizona Muse, and I proceed to the crossroads on Baldwin Hill and follow the tractor trails that go from one field to the next to the next. There is a sweet expansiveness up here that one does not feel in the closed-in forest—it lifts my spirits.
Now that Arizona’s baby Nikko is getting older, she is considering getting back into modeling. At twenty-one, she thinks she is too old, but her agency, NEXT, is thrilled to have her return. She has her willowy figure back and a lot of jobs seem to be coming her way. I tell her to watch out and not scratch her face. Arizona is so beautiful, it is almost difficult to take her in—a natural perfection that is dazzling, and yet she seems grounded, confident, and very assured for someone so young.
We ride up to the little Egremont Cemetery and down the dump road until we find an opening into another set of fields. Now, we ride quietly and just take all of this in. So often, it is better not to talk on horseback but to try and remain in touch with what is happening with your horse, how the bit feels in his mouth, how he is walking on the path—giving leg signals and making subtle moves.
Arizona and I both appreciate the great silence that surrounds us.
She is getting the hang of the four-beat gait, and is a lot more relaxed about her son, who is now with her mother, Davina. Last year, while Arizona was still nursing, she paid more attention to the clock when we rode. The tug of the mother-nursing-baby bond was always there, putting her on remote alert, but now neither of us wears a watch, for we are in a timeless zone of pure pleasure.
Rocket Man
Familiar Territory
I ride Barranca alone through the woods and then up the Sarsaparilla Highway. This woodland trail is surrounded by thin, dark-skinned, birch-like trees, and if you break off a twig and give it a chew, it tastes vaguely like root beer. Climbing the narrow switchback trail, we head to the top of the mountain, zigzagging back and forth—good for the horses’ haunches.
While I ride, I think about my mother at my sister’s house in Wisconsin and wonder if I should go out there. Cia assures me that I don’t need to come. The hospice workers have said that Mom only has another day or two to live. That is hard to believe. I keep wondering when I will feel something.
Elizabeth Beautyman
Riding in the Rain
Last night, I woke three times gasping for air, a kind of sleep apnea I rarely experience. The second time, I felt a dark brown presence by my bed, which I struck out at with my hand. Turning on the light, getting my wind back, I wondered if it related to my mother’s struggle for oxygen, as she had begun “Cheyne-Stokes” breathing. Was this a visitation of some sort?
It is raining this morning when I awake so I figure that my ride with Elizabeth will be cancelled. But she calls and says that she is still game to go out, so we decide to take our chances. The rain does let up, but the wind through the leaves sends showers down upon us. When I break a branch overhead and she gets sprayed, she yells out, “Hey!” Don’t do that.
“Sorry,” I answer. It is a compulsive habit I have, always clearing the trails overhead, snapping branches. Helen’s ex-husband, the psychologist, liked to say that breaking branches indicated anger. Helen and I always laughed over that, snapping away.
I take Elizabeth down to Long Pond. The trail is slippery going downhill—we leave horse-hoof skid marks all along the way. Once we are on solid ground, we enjoy a few good canters, and she gets the feel for Peanut’s moves. It is a stormy morning with thundershowers coming and going, but that only adds to our excitement—all those negative ions.
That evening, I hear one of the horses ringing the tall standing bell by the corral. I assume it is Peanut, my trickster. Horses have an innate sense of timing and love a regular schedule. I guess it is time to walk them down to their field for the evening. Rising from the comfortable love seat, I hear the phone ring. It is my sister. Quietly she says, “Mom just went. You were my first call.”
I sit on the love seat in silence, thinking of what Phil Caputo said after his father died last winter, how it was like looking up at a familiar landscape and the mountain that had always been there, was suddenly gone.
Alford Brook
Summer Fields
With the sun shining through the clouds, the air is at that perfect temperature. I ride Barranca out into the fields, which exude such a sweet smell of earth and grass, I feel intoxicated. We wade through the Alford Brook, climbing up a bank, proceeding uphill into more open pasture.
A few years ago, my horse Nashotah balked when I urged him into this field, but I made him move forward. And then, I saw a big black dog at a distance and yelled out, “Go on, big dog, go home.” But the “big dog” stood up on its hind legs. It was a BEAR! No wonder Nashotah had almost refused to enter this field, for bears have a very pungent smell, like rotting meat, quite unpleasant to horses. Luckily, we got out of there before Nashotah took the bit in his mouth and bolted.
But now, we pass through the field undisturbed and head into the deep woods. The deerflies aren’t too bad. In fact, Barranca shakes off his bright blue, net ear-covering, and I tuck it into my pocket. There is the faint smell of grape on the road home, followed by fresh tar, and then mown fields. It is so mild and blissful, Barranca so easy in hand, that I feel I could almost fall asleep in the saddle. Somnambulistic.
Mountain Laurel
Mount Washington
Betsy Spears and Christopher Bamford live at the end of Mount Washington Road. It is a long haul uphill, but a welcomed change from the normal known. Today, Betsy wants to take me up her dirt road to see the volumin
ous mountain laurel that blooms wild along the roadside in pale pink and subtle rose. The bushes spread back into the forest like a fairyland.
Heading back into the woods, I note how it has a sylvan medieval feel to it. A small stream runs alongside the path with large rock outcroppings covered in moss. The forest here is like nature’s chapel, flickering with bird song and filtered light. Riding beside the stream, I imagine these ravines filled with turbulent water when the winter snows melt, but now it is simply flowing along at a soothing pace.
The trails are all well-marked, but few riders have come this way, apparently, as many branches hang rather low. She ducks under while I try to prune a bit as we go, snap, snap.
On the path, we meet a solitary hiker who says that the stone boulders on top of the mountain have rattlesnakes right now. It is breeding season, and they are coming out. Betsy and Chris found two large rattlesnakes behind their barn this morning. A local snake man caught them in a garbage can, marking their rattles so that their movement could be tracked for a local study—funny to come from the land of desert reptiles and to feel their presence right here in the Berkshires.
Double Mane
Kacy, Regular Rocket Rider
Luckily, Rocket has not been stumbling this year. Perhaps, he has outgrown that awkward adolescent phase where his limbs were not quite connected to his brain.
This morning, Kacy and I trailer over to Mountain Road. If my memory serves me right, there is a long path up here that runs along the crest of the ridge through abundant woods. We find it easily enough. Soon, we are in forest wilderness with birds singing all about us. It is a lovely day to be riding, getting a scent of juniper and sweet fern that smells mildly like peppermint when crushed by the horses’ hooves.
Maneuvering around a steel cable meant to keep out cars, we pass a handmade sign that says CARDIAC HILL. Several doctors own this tract of land, and they have done some clearing since the days when I used to ride here with Ayler on his New Forest pony. Ayler always liked exploring new areas, and we often snuck onto private land. Once, we were chased by a farmer in his beat-up truck. We knew all the hiding spots, the getaway paths, and we were never caught. One land owner, fed up with us, posted a sign, “NO WHORS RIDING.”
The biggest difference between riding in the East and the West is that Arizona has so much public land that you have easy access to almost every possible trail. Even ranchers, who lease land from the government, don’t mind you riding through as long as you close all gates behind you. But here we are often trespassing, sneaking around. One neighbor created big branch barricades to keep me out and even went so far as to hide broken bottles along the trail I used. I don’t ask permission because I’m afraid of being told, “No.” My father’s friendly method of persuasion was—if I am stopped, I will talk my way out of it.
I don’t believe the cardiac doctors are anywhere around. They mostly come here for hunting season, so we have these wild woods to ourselves today. Passing several marsh ponds coated with algae, we hear the deep croak of bullfrogs. What a great place for birders. But then as I’m day-dreaming, Barranca almost steps into a rotted-out metal culvert hole. That could have been a disaster. Horrified, I yell back to Kacy, “Watch out!”
I remember the terrible accident Donna’s horse Zwen had when he stepped through a rusty culvert like this and sawed up his leg. At the time, everyone in the barn thought he should be put down, but Doctor Hammond and the stable groom, Pinky, saved his life. The great Dutch Warmblood survived the trauma and is still Donna’s beloved pet.
One tragedy reminds me of another, and I think of Cody trapped in that cattle guard. It’s hard to imagine his panic and pain.
I tell Kacy about giving up Ayler’s little pony, Star, one autumn day when my son had outgrown her, and how Cody whinnied desperately after her, staring in her departing direction. After hours of calling out, he hung his head and became depressed for the rest of the winter. How thoughtless of me to deprive him of his beloved companion. I’m convinced that horses do fall in love, and they too can suffer heartbreak.
On our way back to the trailer, I dismount, and go to gather branches to plug up the treacherous hole. This should mark it for future rides. When we reach the chain that marks off this private land, I smile at the hand-scribbled sign: “No Trespassing. Surveillance cameras in operation. You will be prosecuted!” Good luck.
WISCONSIN
By the Cottage
Lake Country
Returning to Oconomowoc for our mother’s funeral, I greet family from all over the country. Even Clovis and his wife and their two small sons, Kailer and Cash, have come all the way from Australia.
Every time Kailer sees me, he cries out, “HI GRAMMA!” It is enough to melt my heart. I realize, since my mother passed away, I am the only “Gramma” in our immediate family now, and I love the title—it doesn’t make me feel old.
The little boys love to walk over to the farm to look at the horses and feed the chickens. They never seem to tire of gathering those delightful, warm eggs, placing them in the grey cardboard carton, counting them up. I should also count my blessings.
But coming back here to the scene of my childhood, a lot of memories surface and they aren’t all nice.
When we gathered for my father’s last birthday party, he was in the middle of radiation treatment and Mom was at her worst. She didn’t like the focus being all on him, and she didn’t like so many people in her house. When I arrived, I asked if I could stay in the “pink room.”
“But that’s a nice room, why don’t you stay in the…”
Why shouldn’t I stay in a nice room?
Then one morning, while helping myself to some orange juice out of the fridge, she came raging into the kitchen and grabbed the carton out of my hands, spraying it everywhere, screaming, “That’s not for you—it’s for your father!”
I grabbed it back and yelled at her, “Why are you always so mean to me?”
She hit me, and I struck her back. My niece, little Isabelle, was cringing, and my son, Clovis, dragged me away. But I’d had it with her! HAD IT.
Once when I was visiting Oconomowoc, we were all sitting around a large, round table at the Lake Club, and I asked Mom if I could have a bite of her Schaum torte, my favorite, not wanting to order a full portion for myself. She turned on me and announced over the table, “You should be losing five pounds a week.” Good idea, in a matter of months I wouldn’t exist.
I think about when my parents were passing through New York and I wanted to have a meal with them—my mother’s response was, “This is our time to be alone together, Laura. We’re only seeing the people we really want to see.”
But finally, I have grown tired of my own processing, tired of opening old wounds. Isn’t it time to heal them, let them go? I have so many good memories of those summer months— building forts in the horse field with leftover fence poles, organizing rodeos, running our putt-putts through the canals where we hid out on secret islands. We had picnic lunches down on the dock, and watched the sunfish slithering beneath the white planks of the pier as we fed them bits of Wonderbread.
I really liked our family dinners over at the big house where there was a painted mural of pheasants running all around the room. The cousins would try to out-eat each other, piling up ears of baby bantam corn, sprinkling sugar on thick-sliced tomatoes from our voluminous garden. There were popovers with homemade currant jelly—each jar with a little wax lid— and Winnie, our grandmother’s cook, always had frosted ginger cookies for us if we were willing to listen to her. Even our rather aloof grandfather allowed us to drop saccharin pills into his coffee as we chanted, “Swimming swimming swimming swimming,” while they dissolved.
But best of all was riding with Gramma. “Uphill fast, downhill slow, on the level let them go.” She was a fearless rider and took off when we hit the edge of a shorn field. I only worried if we’d be able to stop the stampede when we came to the end—a boundary of tall, dense corn.
My
mother could not abide my grandmother, and she mistrusted my boyfriend, Kenny Buchanan, the “bad boy” of the lake. I think she was afraid that he would knock me up, but we never went beyond first base.
Of course now I want to ride over to Kenny’s old summer house where we first learned how to kiss. I know it is time to let my negative memories go, and what better way to do that than to go for a ride? Eager to get out alone by myself, I decide to try out Daphne’s new horse, Booker, a Friesian/Quarter Horse cross.
“He needs a strong rider,” Daphne warns me, for he is an eight-year-old powerhouse.
Still, I am eager to try him. Over at the stable, the farmhand is wiping Booker down with bug spray. The deerflies here can be terrible. Seeing this majestic bay horse standing cross-tied, I realize how huge he is. I know he bucked off my cousin, Ross, this spring, so I feel a bit apprehensive, but go ahead and throw on his Western saddle. He stands nicely while I mount, but I can feel his nervous energy as we leave the other horses and head down the road.
Passing the tennis court, I ask the players if they could hold the ball for a moment while I pass, for Booker seems spooky. The driveway is now paved, rather than dirt as it was in our childhood. I keep giving him leg signals to move him forward, stroking his neck and praising him constantly. I know he has not been ridden much, and he is clearly herd-bound, but he does seem willing to please.
Riding Barranca Page 11
