Riding Barranca Read online

  Other books by Laura Chester:

  Rancho Weirdo, 2008

  Marvel the Marvelous, 2008

  Hiding Glory, 2007

  Heartbeat for Horses, 2007

  Eros & Equus, 2006

  Sparks, 2000

  Kingdom Come, 2000

  Holy Personal, 2000

  The Story of the Lake, 1995

  The Unmade Bed, 1992

  Bitches Ride Alone, 1991

  The Stone Baby, 1989

  Cradle & All, 1989

  Deep Down, 1988

  Free Rein, 1988

  In the Zone, 1988

  Lupus Novice, 1987, 1999

  My Pleasure, 1980

  Watermark, 1978

  Proud & Ashamed, 1978

  Chunk Off & Float, 1978

  Primagravida, 1975

  Nightlatch, 1974

  Rising Tides, 1973

  First published in 2013 by

  Trafalgar Square Books

  North Pomfret, Vermont 05053

  Copyright © 2013 Laura Chester

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, by any means, without written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer quoting brief excerpts for a review in a magazine, newspaper, or website.

  Disclaimer of Liability

  The author and publisher shall have neither liability nor responsibility to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book. While the book is as accurate as the author can make it, there may be errors, omissions, and inaccuracies.

  Trafalgar Square Books encourages the use of approved safety helmets in all equestrian sports and activities.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Chester, Laura.

  Riding Barranca : finding freedom and forgiveness on the midlife trail / Laura Chester.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-57076-578-0

  1. Horsemanship—Psychological aspects. 2. Human-animal relationships. 3. Nature, Healing power of. I. Title.

  SF309.C468 2013

  615.8’51581—dc23

  2012049869

  Book design by Michelle Thompson | Fold & Gather Design

  Cover design by RM Didier

  Typefaces: Fiesole, Florence

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  to the memory

  of my mother, Margaret Sheftall Chester

  at long last

  CONTENTS

  Foreword

  Preface

  ARIZONA

  Blue Moon on the San Rafael

  Rough Riders in the Making

  Snow on the Road

  Sisters in the Saddle

  Back Wash

  You Don’t See Them but They See You

  Blackwell Canyon

  Such a Sucker

  Spurs of the Moment

  Ladies Trail Lunch

  Cold Crotches

  Etchings in the Wash

  How I Love to Find a New Trail

  Guajolote Flats

  MEXICO

  Off to Alamos

  Over the Mountain

  ARIZONA

  Part of the Family

  Definitely an Off Day

  Peanut’s Drop-Off

  Grateful

  AUSTRALIA

  A Civilized Ride?

  ARIZONA

  Picking up Peanut

  Daphne’s Visit

  Back on the San Rafael

  Illicit Passage

  Temporal Canyon

  Riding with Abigail

  Easter Sunrise

  Hog Heaven

  Ready to Roll

  My Birthday Ride

  Helen’s Day

  Brisk Barranca

  Cochise Stronghold

  A Watched Moon

  Keith and Kacy

  Anxious

  We Saw Everything!

  Goodbye San Rafael

  MASSACHUSETTS

  Barn Again

  Baldwin Hill

  Familiar Territory

  Riding in the Rain

  Summer Fields

  Mount Washington

  Kacy, Regular Rocket Rider

  WISCONSIN

  Lake Country

  MASSACHUSETTS

  Heat Wave

  Love at First Sight

  Burst of Energy

  New Trail

  Riding the Same Loop Backward

  Fallen Timber

  Beartown Mountain Bugaboo

  Wilcox Farm

  Too Much for Marcello

  Red Umbrella

  Back to Beartown

  Apple Chapel

  Swarm

  Round Pond

  Riding by the Sea

  Columbus Day Weekend

  Euonymus Woods

  Bliss on Barranca

  INDIA

  Varanasi Carriage Ride

  Pushkar Camel and Cattle Fair

  Jodphur and Rohet Garh

  Jaipur Polo Club

  MASSACHUSETTS

  First Snow

  Lunar Eclipse

  Blizzard Begins

  ARIZONA

  Epiphany, the Deed is Done

  Cooling the Story Down

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  FOREWORD

  by Thomas Moore

  I don’t know why I am so enchanted by this book by Laura Chester. I’m not a horse person, though after reading the book, I wish I were. If it were a simple book about horses or about various rides taken during the course of a year, I could treat it lightly and let it go. But it is much more than a chronicle or diary. Laura punctuates the rides with unsettling stories of her family, especially her father and mother, and the stories are not all nice. She doesn’t tell us how or why her father was a renegade husband. But she’s clear that her mother was a difficult person. The counterpoint of horses and family makes this book unusually satisfying. This intrigue, the unanswered questions, the mysterious juxtapositions, are what make this book, to me, a work of art.

  I’ve known Laura for over twenty-five years. Though we haven’t seen each other much in a long while, I feel that we’ve never lost a sense of being colleagues, not only as writers but as pilgrims on this odd path of life. Maybe this connection with her accounts in part for the pleasure I felt in reading her words. It helps that she’s a very good writer.

  I’ve often wondered what an animal is. We assume all kinds of things, but I’ve never felt satisfied with any philosophy of animals. They are like us in many ways. They have some talents that place them above us, especially the power of their senses, and some that seem to place them below us, especially their lack of speech. But when you live with animals, as I have done for fourteen years now with our dog, you know that they have emotions and some kind of thoughts. They can relate and inspire love. You can argue with them and also worry about their safety. I appreciate the places in this book where Laura tells us what a horse is experiencing. I trust her on this.

  Recently I read from one of my favorite Zen masters, Shunryu Suzuki, that he’d like to be a frog, able to sit perfectly still for a long time, and when a fly zips by, gulp it down. He doesn’t want to eat flies, but he’d like the capacity for sitting and the quick alertness. I think I might like to be a horse, at least the kind that Laura describes, and especially if I had a rider like her.

  There’s something mysterious about the joining of human and horse. Old stories tell of horsemen arriving at a community where people had never seen horses before. At first, rider and horse looked like one being, a centaur. That’s an intimate bond. To me, a psychotherapist, it means a lot to know that for the Greeks o
ne of the prime educators, especially in the field of medicine, was the Centaur Chiron.

  Maybe today when a person rides a horse, she becomes a centaur. There were female centaurs in myth. Maybe it’s the blend of human and horse that unleashes the healing power. I get that sense in this book, especially toward the end, when there is an unexpected and beautiful passage of forgiveness. I wonder if this was the purpose of the book, conscious or unconscious, to find family healing through companionship with horses. As in myth, the centaur heals—woman and horse.

  Thomas Moore

  Author of Care of the Soul;

  Soul Mates; A Religion of One’s Own

  PREFACE

  Unconfined space and a feeling of freedom are what I love most about riding. Sinking into the rhythm of the horse, I am more in touch with my instinctive self—more alert to my surroundings, much like the forgiving animal beneath me. I enjoy exploring new territory, not sure of what challenge might face me next. Even getting lost in the wilderness has its own rewards—reminding me that I am never completely in charge—that the earth is a huge, magnificent place full of surprises. More often than not, I have found that my horse has a better sense of direction than I do. A horse’s memory is profound.

  I feel extremely lucky to have found four great geldings in the past seven years. As with children, I could say that I don’t have any favorites, but Barranca will always be my best boy. He is a big chocolate-colored Missouri Fox Trotter, with the kindest eye, a smooth moving, comfortable-gaited horse with a four-beat walk. His forelock ripples over his face and his tail almost sweeps the ground.

  While visiting my mother in Scottsdale, Arizona, soon after my father’s death, I encountered Barranca in a barn nearby. It was love at first sight. When he saw me coming, he started to prance around his pen, and I was instantly taken. He was recovering from a barbed-wire injury, and I feared that I might be falling for a lame horse with insurmountable problems. But with proper care and chiropractic work, he became the most relaxed and lovely ride. I often feel there is a genuine telepathic communication going on between us.

  I had the joy of riding Barranca out West during the winter of this account. During this season I was struggling with my mother’s descent into Alzheimer’s disease. Mysteriously, during the course of this illness, her once angry, jealous personality was transformed into a sweet and loving presence, making reconciliation possible between us.

  But forgiveness is a slow process, and many difficult memories surfaced in the course of writing this book, a process that allowed me to release old hurts and anger. Many of the accounts I share in the italicized portions of this book are part of my struggle to put family problems behind. After sifting through so many scenarios, riding Barranca put me in the moment, which is where I want to live.

  In the spring of the year, Barranca came back to the Berkshires of Massachusetts, our primary residence. Rocket, a palomino Tennessee Walker from the Box-Hanging-Three Ranch in Dubois, Wyoming, became his steady companion. This palomino is never more glorious than when I shampoo his massive mane, which falls equally on either side of his neck. Like most horses, Rocket hates to be left alone. I hope to give him the attention he deserves, so that he doesn’t feel compelled to jump out of his stall from a standstill, or leap out of his pasture—quite the escape artist!

  Tonka Waken, my Missouri Fox Trotter in Arizona, looks like a strong, solid, Indian pony with a compact body and stud-proud neck. His white-blond forelock falls low on his forehead and he is always eager to get going. I often think of him as my four-wheel-drive vehicle, as he is able to climb almost any incline and actually likes a challenge. An easy keeper, he has the energy and power of a much younger horse. He was born on Valentine’s Day.

  Peanut, my fourth horse, is everybody’s favorite baby. He is the same age as Rocket, but he will always seem like the darling youngster of this equine family. Because of his thin coat, which never seems to grow thick and warm, I chose to leave him in Arizona. With calm amber eyes, he is sweet and gentle. I have had Peanut since he was six months old, and it is a relief to know that he has never been mishandled. I know his history, and there has been nothing traumatic to warp his sense of trust.

  On occasion, I rode other horses—in Mexico, Australia, and India. Though these adventures were exciting and new experiences for me, I was always happy to return to Barranca and his gliding gaits. Understanding a horse’s soul is more important than mere novelty.

  While I love the silence of riding by myself, I also enjoy showing family and friends my favorite spots, exploring new places I wouldn’t dare go to alone, riding at dawn or under a full moon, meandering beside the Sonoita Creek where one can wander in and out of the water beneath the carved out bluffs, lying down in a field of wildflowers and dozing off in the sun, or finding a surprising, fresh trail. But the familiar can also be comforting. My familiar horses are my greatest solace, along with my old broken-in saddle and well-worked reins. I hope in the course of this account, you too can take part in the mishaps and delights I have had the privilege to encounter this past year on horseback, lifting us into another realm, purging the daily grumble and allowing our spirits to soar.

  ARIZONA

  Tonka, Twilight

  Blue Moon on the San Rafael

  The sun is still high at four o’clock when I drive my horse trailer over the rim of the San Rafael Valley and look out over this glorious prairie grassland. Tightening Tonka’s girth, I mount up and head toward Saddle Mountain, bending east along the dirt road toward the headwaters of the Santa Cruz. As the sun begins its descent, light streaks over the rolling valley floor, lighting up the mountains in the distance.

  Alone on this great expanse, I worry for a moment about drug runners and illegal transients, but this land seems so gloriously peaceful, I don’t want to waste my time picturing dangerous scenarios.

  Knowing it will get cold as soon as the sun disappears, I wear a burnt orange parka and gloves. Tonka’s thick winter coat is already warming up even though I am not pushing him. I keep stroking his withers, telling him that he is a good boy, and he seems to understand this.

  There is something so soothing about riding alone, without the distraction of conversation—just listening to the horse’s hooves on the hard-packed road, hearing the swish of water in my plastic bottle strapped to the back of my saddle. Everything is still and subdued. Tonka is a bit wary of his own elongated shadow at first, but then he moves right along with a nice fast walk, standing patiently when I have to dismount to open a cattle gate.

  Once I make it to Bog Hole, the headwaters of the Santa Cruz, I check my watch. It is now 5:15 P.M. I believe I should see the moon rise in less than half an hour. This will be a “blue moon,” the second full moon this month. I can see my trailer in the distance, a mile or so away.

  My neighbors, Al and Judy Blackwell, pass by me in their truck. I have invited their granddaughters to come over on the following morning, New Year’s Day, to give them a ride on Peanut, my caramel-and-cream-colored Tennessee Walker. Children love this horse.

  Peanut is still recovering from a night out on the range. One night, all three of my boys escaped their corral through a feeble Mexican gate with a flimsy wooden bolt. (I have since added metal closures on either side.)

  The next morning, I knew something was wrong as soon as I left the house and didn’t see any waiting horses staring over the fence. The open gate confirmed my fears. I only hoped that they had remained inside the federal land that my neighbor, Sonny McQuiston, leases for his cattle, but they knew the terrain well enough, and had found the open passage out to the road. Telltale droppings lay right before the closest cattle guard, where they had stopped and turned, ending up miles away on the Mowry Road near McQuiston’s paddock and his one lone horse.

  Luckily, none of the three had been seriously injured, but Peanut had cut his fetlock on some barbed wire. I spent the past week doctoring his three-stitch wound, pasting on a pad soaked in antiseptic, and wrapping him with Chr
istmas-colored, red-and-green wrap, then duct tape. The little pad inevitably fell out during the night, so I was now simply spraying his sore with antiseptic. There is always something happening with horses.

  A month ago, when I trailered Barranca up to the San Rafael alone, he rode out nicely as always, but when I loaded him back into the trailer and retreated to shut the door, he broke free, jumped out and ran off with his tether flying. I felt stupid—not having tied a proper cowboy knot, and helpless, for out on this wide open range I had no hope of catching him on foot. All I could think of was more barbed wire and dangerous cattle guards.

  Panicked, I immediately called my husband Mason on my cell phone. He drove out, and we passed each other on the road as I pulled the empty trailer back home to pick up Tonka, thinking I might be able to catch Barranca on horseback before he got into trouble. By the time I returned with Tonka in tow, Mason was standing by the side of the road with Barranca tied to an oak tree. Two helpful men had caught my renegade and secured him. People take care of each other out here, and I was extremely grateful. Shaken, Barranca was quick to join his equine companion, and I had escaped a close disaster.

  This past year streams through my mind as I ride back up the darkening valley. I think of my mother, descending into Alzheimer’s and wonder where this disease will take her. Her days are now only barely lit, as if she too is waiting in semi-darkness.

  I still detect no moon glow, and wonder if my calculations have been wrong. But just before I reach the dirt road that crosses the valley floor, I look to my left and catch the enormous upper lip of the golden saucer ascending above the mountains. Quickly, it rises, magnified in size, and a thrill goes through me—just seeing it makes me let out a whoop as I canter up the incline. Suddenly the moon is there in full form, balanced on the mountain line and rising surely, revealing its golden appearance as it continues to ascend, shedding its light on the last of the old year and the beginning of the next.

  Laura and Lucy

  Rough Riders in the Making

  As planned, my neighbors bring their two little girls over to the house at 10:30 A.M. The horses have already been fed, and I’ve haltered Peanut. Both girls are wearing colorful bike helmets, and my four-year-old goddaughter, Lucy, comes out to watch, somewhat in awe of these older children.