Nancy Beach, one of her caregivers, stands by me. We both try to decipher what Em says, but her sense of language has retreated to another world where she seems to slip back and forth over some invisible edge. “Is she going,” Em whispers in a very hushed voice. “Is she going?”
I lift her from behind into a standing position, and she is able to maneuver her walker back to bed. Then, I head off to ride Barranca. I know a big storm is coming. You can feel it in the air, the humidity and the clouds building up to a sodden, oppressive density.
But Barranca and I have enough time to try out the back trails all the way down to the bottom of Rose Hill. There is a massive set of logs blocking the path. As I look down toward the brook, there are other gigantic trees felled from age and wind, the base of their root systems tipped, exposing the earth that once held them in place. A few of these magnificent trees are probably over a hundred years old, and the loss of them in the forest reminds me of the passing of great personalities who are also felled by time. Emily Rose will be like one of these honorable trees, one of the Great Ones, when she goes.
Left at Home
Beartown Mountain Bugaboo
I ask Mason if he would like to come along to Beartown State Park with me. He would remain on foot while I ride, but I feel like his presence would give me more confidence in this new terrain. Even though I would navigate the bridle paths solo, we would each have a cell phone and a park map, as well as a little adventure.
Mason agrees and gets his camera equipment. We take Blue Hill Road to the Beartown entrance, and once unloaded, I tell him that I’ll probably be back in two hours or so, around 1:00 P.M. Peanut, unnerved by the flapping flags by the lake front, the strange planters, picnic tables, and elevated barbeques, is eager to get out of there. Bali is with us, and I think that gives Peanut some reassurance. My dog at least is another creature—creature comfort.
The trail is rough with lots of branches to break, clearing the way for the next happy trail rider. I pass a couple of middle-aged women with their two wee dogs. “We’re heading back,” they tell me. “This isn’t a very nice trail.”
Nice enough, I think, following the red arrows that are tacked to trees at every turn, though I find myself losing my way soon enough and wonder about turning around before it’s too late, but my father’s favorite motto was “We never go back,” so I push on, asking myself, “Where in the hell am I?”
Following the park assistant’s advice, I take Wildcat Trail— are there wildcats here? And come to think of it, this place is also called Beartown! But off we go for about seven miles before the trail loops back. I’m well on my way to nowhere. Peanut is behaving beautifully, yet I am already conscious of our agreed upon meeting-up time. When riding, it’s nice not to have to keep to a schedule. I check my cell phone, and it gives that warning beep that signals I am almost out of power. Oh Boy. So I turn it off, hoping to save at least thirty seconds to check in with Mason and tell him that I am probably lost.
I have the park map tucked in my pocket, but when I pull it out, I can’t tell which way is up or down. Besides that, I can’t really read the map without my glasses. But I figure I must be going in the right direction when we finally cross a road and the little red arrows—like Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs— lead me into the forest on the other side.
We should begin to head back toward the pond now—I have already been out for over two hours. I, at least, have my bottle of water tucked into my saddle pack, and I keep taking swigs. The woods are lovely. I am not afraid. I’m just glad I had eggs for breakfast.
We pass several woodsy marshes and move on through a tall pine forest of seemingly naked trees that go up and up and so do we, climbing, bending, wandering aimlessly— all of it lovely with bird song, and though it is warm, it is not stifling. My flannel shirt is handy. The pockets hold my cell phone, Chap Stick, gum, and tissue. I check to see if I have reception out here, and when I turn the phone back on, it makes that miserable little melody that indicates my cell phone is now dead. I eat the yoghurt I have in my saddle pack—lunch on the run. Nervous? Nah. I just have punctuality anxiety, and don’t want to be inconsiderately late.
There are plenty of fallen trees to cross and several mucky passes where there are feeble wooden footbridges, not meant for the equestrian, surely. At one point, I dismount and lead Peanut over the mud so that he won’t sink any deeper. I believe he is getting tired, but so am I and so is my dog. I wonder if Mason is having any fun, or is he looking at his watch wishing he had heard me yell—“Pack a lunch.” I eat cherries from their ziplock baggie and am glad that I brought something to snack on.
The two middle-aged women made the right decision. I have no idea where I am or how long it will take to get back, so when I see a gravel road running parallel to the forest path, I decide to let it lead me onward. We canter a ways uphill. Peanut stumbles and goes down on one knee but quickly recovers. Still, what if he had gone lame?
Finally the gravel ends at a cement road, and I am now pretty well turned around. There is not a single road sign to show me the right direction. If this were Italy, there would be arrows pointing me to Florence from fifty miles away. I make a decision with total assurance and take a right on the paved road and ride in the wrong direction. Peanut has never ridden on pavement before in his life, with the exception of crossing a road from one field to the next. I worry that pushing him on this pavement might make him sore.
Finally, a car approaches. I wave it down by riding down the middle of the road. They have to stop, and they do. The couple is very friendly. I ask them where this road goes, and they say Route 102, toward Lee. Whoops. “Do you know where Benedict Pond is?” I ask, and luckily they have a GPS. At least someone is well equipped. Now they can assure me, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that all I have to do is turn around and ride another eight miles back on the pavement!
“Do you think I could use your cell phone?” I ask. “Mine is dead.” But there is still no reception. So I ask them to do me a favor—“If you see a handsome man with a camera near a horse trailer in the second parking lot, could you tell him I’m on my way?”
Cows by Alford Brook
Wilcox Farm
Yesterday, I took West Road through Alford, and when I passed the Wilcox Farm, I saw Ray Senior riding his lawnmower tractor and stopped to introduce myself. I had never heard back from Ray Junior about the possibility of riding in their valley, but the old man, almost ninety-four, thought it would be fine.
So today, Elizabeth and I head back to the Wilcox Farm, parking the trailer on the grass just beyond the barn where they are loading hay bales into the upper loft—quite a commotion. The horses skirt around this activity. Then, we head down the dirt road past a lot of suspicious farm machinery that the horses are loath to pass, but we push them forward and enter the genuine splendor of the valley.
At the first gate near the Alford Brook, I dismount, and a herd of cows starts heading our way. I want to get through, close the gate, and remount before they surround us. The odd thing about eastern cows is that they are so curious, expecting to be fed, whereas western cattle always leave you alone or head in the other direction.
There are lovely, tall trees by the little brook. It is so idyllic. We could be in the English countryside. The big fields are freshly mown to perfection. We canter up the rolling hill to the top corner then head through the woods into an upper area where Ray Junior is now busy baling. The machine he rides is whisking hay into tidy rows, and we are careful not to get in his way.
Approaching East Road, we hear a lone horse whinnying, and our horses respond as if anxious for him. I wonder if he is saying something they can understand—Come rescue me. I’m lonely here!
Open Fields
“I used to ride with my son here,” I tell Elizabeth. “One time we were galloping along and Ayler’s pony came to an abrupt halt, putting her head down. Ayler did a perfect somersault over her neck and landed on his feet.” Star also had the habit of pawing wa
ter when we crossed a stream, which often meant that she was about to lie down, saddle, pad, rider, and all. Ayler came to realize that he had to kick her forward through the water before she got the idea for a swim in her mischievous head.
Back at the truck, I get out my basket to collect fresh corn. I tell Ray Senior that I’m going to make him some fresh corn chowder.
Sitting out on our deck, I shuck the husks, then steam the tender white ears of corn and scrape the kernels off. Boiling the bare cobs in chicken broth with carrots and onions creates a sweeter stock.
When I drive my container back over to the farm, Ray Senior is sitting out on the porch by himself, holding a fly swatter. He knocks the arm of his rocking chair with his cane. “Come sit down with me,” he says. I ask him if he thinks the torn wicker seat will hold me. He says he wants to have it repaired, but he doesn’t know if anyone does cane work anymore, and if someone did, it would cost a fortune. We talk about my mother-in-law, Emily Rose, who is now one-hundred-and-one. Not too many old-timers left from their generation, but Ray is sharp and knows the names and history of everyone around here.
“My father bought this farm when I was just five years old,” he claims. “It was a dirt road then, but we didn’t mind when it became macadam because moving a wagon and team of horses through spring mud was terrible work. It took all day to get to town.” Now, it takes about fifteen minutes.
Paul, a farmhand, and Ray Junior have finished baling hay, and two truckloads go by to be stored in a back barn. I will need to buy some for winter. Paul joins us and says how he is planning on separating out cream from his milk later this afternoon. That will be a good addition to their chowder. I can hear a little calf bawling, and Paul says it is because the calves were just separated from their mothers last night. “They’re missing the teat,” he explains, but that’s why fresh cream will soon be available.
Avia
Too Much for Marcello
My goddaughter, Avia Rose Stanton, is going to ride with me this morning. I decide to bring both dogs, as I don’t think we’ll be out for long, but soon the temperature rises and so does the humidity. The dogs’ coats are heavy, ready for grooming. Again, I am afraid a two-hour ride might be too much for Marcello, but both dogs are eager to go. They jump in the truck and then happily follow us through the fields.
We ride down to Phillip’s Road, which we used to call “the dump road” and go back into a wilder area. The access to this field is chained off, but we go around through the tall weeds and ride all the way down to Marsh Pond. It is not farmland here, like most of Baldwin Hill, but hilly and rough. The views of Mount Washington are remarkable. The marsh itself is a wonderful habitat and would be a great place to go canoeing.
Back on the dump road, we take a little path that heads into the forest. It winds through acres of deep woods. We have trouble finding our way back to the open fields but finally see light ahead. As we wander back to the trailer, poor Marcello seems especially tired, and as soon as we get close, he lies down, pancake style, in the middle of the road, panting. I give him water from my bottle, pouring it down his throat. Marcello is still flat-out when a truck from the Turner Farm stops, wanting to get by. I am worried that Cello might be experiencing heat stroke. Did I push him too far? Maybe, these summer rides are too much for him now. Farmer Turner is patient while I pull Marcello out of the way and get him into the truck where I keep giving him big gulps of water. Then, we’re off to a full recovery.
AZ and Peanut
Red Umbrella
“Do you have a waterproof jacket?” I ask my young friend, Arizona Muse. After all, the English would never go riding if they had to wait for sunshine. It’s not bad going out in a light rain. We’re not going to melt. My riding pants are soon damp, but I’m not uncomfortable. We move along on solid footing down by Long Pond, and Barranca gets into the smoothest fast walk I’ve ever experienced. All is fine until the horses spot Mr. Lawrence Barbieri’s huge red umbrella. He is also out for a stroll, passing the lily-pad pond, and headed our way. The horses want nothing to do with him or his oversized red umbrella. I signal to Arizona that we should move uphill and wait until he passes. Once he has gone by, we follow him back along the same pond-side trail, riding through a fine mist. The curious thing is, the horses don’t seem to mind the red umbrella when they know they are headed home.
By the Pond
Back to Beartown
Elizabeth has been hankering to go to Beartown, and this Saturday seems like the perfect day—warm, glittery, clear air without a bug in sight. We caravan over to Benedict Pond with Mason and Elizabeth following in their cars. Near the upper parking lot, children are lolling about on their camp beds, having spent the night outside. They are eager to pat the horses.
Today, I want to ride near the pond on the footpath, until we meet up with the equestrian trail, but I forgot how difficult this path can be for horses. There are fallen trees blocking our way, treacherous slabs of rock to skate over, rough roots and marshy bogs with narrow foot bridges, which we will have to bypass.
Elizabeth is beginning to wonder if she is on an Outward Bound challenge, but I assure her that the trail up ahead is lovely. “It can’t be far,” I say, and at last, we find it, cheering out loud for the nice open space it provides.
While still encased in the overhang of late summer trees, with little peeks of the pond down below, we enjoy a canter or two until we come to a wooden footbridge. Barranca refuses to cross at first but finally gives in. Then, away we go, heading down an even more bucolic lane—we could be in Thomas Hardy country.
In another hundred yards, we see something that amazes us—an inkblack bear cub galumphing across the trail. “Where there’s a cub, there’s usually a sow,” but we are thrilled at having seen this piece of raw animated nature out here in the middle of the day. We decide to ride on by. “I heard that bears hate opera!” I sing out loud, but the little one has disappeared into the forest with its bright rippling hide, glistening like a blackberry, possibly out searching for just that.
We decide to head back to a luncheon spot near the pond, finding a large, flat stone that faces the water. Just as we are settling down, a Golden Retriever joins us. He splashes into the water and lurches back up onto my stone platform to drench my riding breeches. I am not really bothered and give him some chicken from my sandwich. After that, he is a devoted friend.
Once back at the trailer, we unsaddle the horses. Then I hop back on Barranca, telling Elizabeth how I rode bareback in the Mississippi Rodeo years ago in a musical chair contest. “I was riding a big white horse named Washtub,” I say. I remember that it was drizzling, and I made quite a scene sliding around in the mud, having to mount and dismount without the help of a saddle. I almost made it to the final round, but then I tied with an older guy, and we had to flip a coin. He won. Still, when I rode on out of the arena, I received a standing ovation and felt like I had triumphed.
Mississippi
One of the most exciting experiences of my childhood was getting my Rough Rider badge at the Teton Valley Ranch Camp. You had to be able to rope your own horse, saddle him up, and cry out, “Ready to Ride, Sir,” in a matter of minutes. Then we were off, plunging through rivers, galloping up steep terrain. We had to take off our saddles and ride bareback through a drainage ditch that ended up in a muddy sink hole. Here, we tied up our mounts, and the counselors proceeded to pass live snakes from hand to hand. This part almost did me in. We were then blindfolded and told that they were going to “milk” the snakes into our mouths (though they squirted lemon juice instead) before letting the snakes go in the muddy water. A wild mud-fight began that left us covered from head to toe. Only then did we ride back through camp at a gallop. Quite an initiation!
Picking / Feeding
Apple Chapel
This has been one hell of a year for apples! Or perhaps, I should say, heavenly. Every single tree is bearing an abundance of fruit. They spill all over the field with new ones down everyday. They
hang in clumps on dipping limbs ready to be plucked, and believe me my horses know where they are. If one of my boys breaks free, he hightails it to the orchard to gorge on fallen apples.
I have been gathering apples for weeks now, first from Em’s large, twin trees out in front of her house, and more recently from her new orchard. Though these are only adolescents, as trees go, they are producing some mature-looking, womanly apples, not unlike many overdeveloped teenage girls, ripe and ready to go before they are really grown-up.
I fill the golf cart’s two wicker baskets and leave them in the tack room, which is always nice and cool. Then, I start to fill my market bags, some cardboard boxes, buckets, and coolers, as well as white plastic trash bags. I put boxes and cartons of apples in the basement, turning it into a makeshift root cellar, realizing that at some point I will need to cull through the lot of them and discard the rotting ones.
Today, I take my mother-in-law some elderflower jelly. Davina Muse, Em’s most lovely caregiver, is intrigued and wants a taste as well. She tells me how her English parents kept their apples in a special apple-house with slotted drawers so that not one apple could touch another. That does seem wonderful, but I don’t have anything like that. Maybe, I should store the apples in our little stone chapel.
“The Apple Chapel,” Davina agrees.
Em has finished her shepherd’s pie and is now delving into the elderflower jelly—a pale golden color—and the taste is divine. Davina samples some, “Very subtle.” She is a big fan of the elderberry bush and makes all sorts of medicinal concoctions from the fruit.
I am off to collect more apples, stopping at the one lone tree in the upper field. The horses haven’t gotten to this one yet, and the limbs are laden with yellow fruit, ripe and unblemished. I begin to gather and quickly fill up my new containers. The horses are in for a very sweet winter.
Riding Barranca Page 13
