Riding Barranca Read online

  So a twelve-year-old Welsh sounds like a youngster. He could still have years ahead of him. Maybe the trouble with this pony is his name, “El Chapo,” the nickname of Mexico’s most wanted fugitive, Joaquin Guzman, head of the Sinaloa drug cartel, a mean and evil dude. Maybe the pony needs a gentle and obedient name, like El Guapo, handsome guy. Names often influence human personality, so why shouldn’t the same be true for horses?

  Saddling Up

  Ladies Trail Lunch

  My good friend, the photographer Donna DeMari, is here for a visit. I show her my morning routine of haying, mucking, graining, grooming, and it is nice to have her help. The rain seems to be holding off, and I wonder how many more days we’ll have before the predicted deluge.

  This morning Helen is picking up Phil’s wife, Leslie Ware, in town and bringing her horse Bendajo over to ride with mine. I am letting Donna ride Barranca as I know he will put her at ease. While the clouds are building, the sun comes and goes, perfect sweater weather, and a good day for a lunch ride.

  The four horses feel like a herd moving out, going nicely up the hill toward Humboldt Canyon, but when we begin to canter, Tonka and Barranca jockey for lead position.

  Riding into the canyon, we anthropomorphize various tall standing rocks—one looks just like a Gila Monster with his eye on a little stone chipmunk across the way. This is a beautiful conifer-laden canyon with rock outcroppings of chartreuse and burnt amber. We spot a Madonna plaque high on the canyon wall, just outside a small cave that protects a statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Someday I’ll bring my tennis shoes and climb up there to have a look, but today we’re all wearing leather boots.

  Riding Out

  Last May, Mason and I drove the Ford pickup to the end of Humboldt Canyon to celebrate our anniversary. I brought along a picnic, as well as a nice bottle of Australian Shiraz that my son, Clovis, had sent from Sydney. Maybe it was the bumpy road that addled my brain, or perhaps I drank the wine too fast, but I got the spins, and had to walk back out, following Mason in the truck. The road never felt bumpy on horseback for some reason. Do horses have better shocks?

  Today, three of us are protected by helmets, but Helen is only wearing a baseball cap. This concerns me because several years ago she survived a terrible fall from a friend’s horse, bashing her head on a gravel road, ending up in a coma for over a week. But people out West rarely wear hard hats, as if they’re defying the possibility of an accident, defying gravity, so to speak.

  We ride on beside a little stream that trickles down through the canyon, and the dogs get a chance to drink. I ask Helen why she didn’t bring her Pit Bull, Brindie, and Helen admits, “I can’t stand the sound of her breathing.”

  At the end of this rolling trail, stiff green grass grows around a burbling spring that is always continually flowing. We loosen the horses’ girths, take off their bridles, and tie them up before settling down for lunch. I sit on a felled pine tree to eat and the sap sticks to the seat of my breeches. Once mounted, I find that I’m stuck to the saddle, so that when I stand in my stirrups, it sounds like ripping Velcro.

  Laura on Tonka

  Cold Crotches

  It’s a brand new day—Donna and I saddle up early and head down the road to Blackwell Canyon. Though it is a very rough path, Donna is entranced by the intimate landscape, saying how she likes the grey light. A photographer always sees things differently. Now it looks like it is about to rain, but I think it might hold off. It seems like this storm is all anyone can talk about—we need winter rain so badly.

  Donna is having a good time on my best boy, but I am beginning to miss him, eager to let him know I have not forsaken him. Maybe I’ll go back to reclaiming him as my one and only. I don’t share my husband, so why loan out my favorite horse?

  I decide to turn back before we hit a steep, slick patch of rock, as the sky now looks forbidding. As we turn, we can see thin veils of cloud descending over Red Mountain. Up above, the grey mammatus clouds have taken on the appearance of Pillsbury dough buns stuck together. Then the rain starts falling—brrrrrr—slashing down at an angle.

  Of course, the horses are excited by this strange weather. The wet earthy smell on the once dusty path is delicious, nothing like rain dampening the desert. But then, it turns into tiny pellets of hail. We are moving fast, our pants getting soaked in the saddle, sitting in puddles of icy water—wet crotches! All very invigorating, I’m sure, when we know there will be a hot steam shower waiting for us at home.

  Barranca Boy

  Etchings in the Wash

  Yesterday’s snow chill is still in the air, though the scant white covering has already melted. The short-lived drama of the running wash has passed, and the sloppy road is firm again. It’s been a week since I’ve ridden Barranca, so I saddle him up, and we head down Harshaw Creek toward the Turner’s Ranch about three miles away. I rarely go this way because there are four cattle guards and gates that I have to open, but Barranca stands nicely as I open and close each one. I have both dogs with me today. They can drink from the small, winding creek that runs through the canyon here, dodging the cattle that graze down below.

  I remember when Mason and I were looking at land out on the San Rafael Valley and my parents came down from Scottsdale to consider it with us. My mother’s response was, “Who would want to build in this godforsaken place? You should look for land along that small dirt road by the creek. That would be perfect.”

  Though I was disappointed that she didn’t appreciate the vast expanse of the San Rafael Valley, I knew she had a point. We ended up buying ten acres at the end of Harshaw Creek and now see it as a preferable location.

  One day years ago, when I was taking the dogs for a walk, I came upon a horrible sight here—a huge pile of young cow carcasses on the road. A cattle transport truck had tipped over the edge at one of the sharper turns, landing in the stream below. Most of the calves had died on impact and had to be lifted out with a front-end loader. Why the driver had taken the right hand turn onto this small dirt road, nobody knew. He would have been safer on the straight, paved road to town.

  Before getting to the Turner’s ramshackle yard with their two chained watchdogs, I take Barranca down into the wash where the recent waters have brushed the muddy sand in feather patterns. There are a lot of leaves gathered on the stream bed and pools of water. Barranca is unnerved by the sound of the crunching leaves beneath his hooves. Horses seem more easily spooked when they are out alone.

  White-boned sycamores and cottonwoods grow all along the way. There is a large field to the left, which the Turners sometimes cultivate with soy beans, and there are many small fruit trees out in the yard. I heard that John Turner’s father, Jack, once ordered a large quantity of quince trees, but when they arrived and were planted, they turned out to be pomegranates. It’s nice to see the red round fruit still hanging from the grey bare limbs, making holiday for the birds.

  Indianhead Mountain

  How I Love to Find a New Trail

  Eager to explore the forest road up Indianhead Mountain, I call Sonny McQuiston and ask about the gate with the padlocks. He says that the lock he left there is just dangling from its chain, not really securing anything. In any case, he’s fine with me riding up there. I am always grateful when ranchers are lenient.

  Phil and Leslie arrive at half-past-ten, and we begin to get all three horses ready, until I notice that Peanut has lost a shoe. We won’t be able to take him out. Phil says he can take his dogs hunting and that Leslie and I should go.

  We walk the horses for a mile down the road, finding the gate with the padlock. I realize that if I undo the top two wires, I can ease the post out from under the circle of the chain. I put on my gloves so that I won’t get cut from the rusty barbed wire, but it’s not hard to dismantle the gate—we’re through!

  With a yelp we head up the rolling trail, climbing higher and higher until we are close to the face of the mountain. Quickly, we gain altitude and stop to look back down on the Harshaw Cree
k Valley with its proliferation of dark -green oaks. As we continue to climb, I spot Casa Durazno. Getting out my cell phone, I give Mason a call. “Can you see us? I’ll wave my arms.” He finds us with his telescope, though he says we seem miniscule against the enormous face of the mountain.

  There are many inviting pastures up here that level out as we go. Clearly, this road has not been traveled by truck in quite some time, but we are able to follow the trail and keep wending our way around obstacles. The chartreuse lichen is particularly vibrant on the tall rock face. From this height, we can see all the surrounding mountains covered with snow—sun on snow, such a brilliant combination.

  On the way down, I spot the old white horse that the Turners have turned out alone on this land. He is so old and wasted he doesn’t even move when he sees us. Barranca is interested in what this white horse is all about, but even as we approach him, the horse stands stock still. I worry that perhaps he is not getting enough food and water up here. Horses like to have at least one companion, and this poor old guy is a lonely sight.

  Tonka Waken

  Guajolote Flats

  I have an afternoon ride planned with Helen but run into Patagonia first to go to the post office. I see Miguel Fuentes, who helps supply our firewood. One time he was helping me clean up the wood pile when a pack rat ran up my sweatpants! We always have a good laugh over la rata.

  I ask Miguel if he would be willing to do some trabajo, dos horas, con caballos, ahora,” and he says, “Si.” I don’t really speak Spanish and he doesn’t understand English, but somehow we communicate, I think.

  I need help forking up the old, wet hay embedded in the mud around the feeder. But Miguel doesn’t show up on time, so perhaps he misunderstood me. Helen and I wait a bit more, then take off for Guajolote (turkey) Flats. The trails here go up high into the Patagonia Mountains. As we climb, we look down on Soldier’s Basin where we see a border patrol SUV on a distant red clay road cut into the mountain. We wave. Do they have their binoculars trained on us? I wonder if we look dangerous.

  Today, we are seeking out an old mesquite corral that is somewhere up in this direction. Passing through three gates, we finally have the option of bearing right or going down a steep bumpy road to the left. My memory tells me—left— and soon we find it. Leading the horses into this broken-down enclosure we think about camping out up here—what fun we would have together.

  On family vacations, Helen and I often went riding in the most unusual places, whether it was on the beaches of Mexico or looking for elephants in Kenya. A family trip was not a proper adventure without a horseback ride, and it was a great way for the members of our boisterous, athletic family to be together.

  Helen’s father, my Uncle Billy, still liked to ride, and owned several Icelandic horses in Vermont, while Popi was in charge of the family stable in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. It held a motley crew of llamas and Thoroughbreds, purchased off the track, (obviously not winners). There was not one truly sound and steady horse amongst them. People often offered him their rejects, for he never looked a gift horse in the mouth. He did have one or two personal favorites, and Merlin was one of them.

  Once when he wanted to give me a piece of jewelry he’d purchased in Tuscany, he took me into the stall of this dappled Arabian, a horse I considered too small for my dad. There around Merlin’s neck hung a golden chain with lapis stones. For a moment, I thought he was getting queer for this horse, but no, it was actually a necklace for me.

  In the winter Popi rode out in Carefree, Arizona, and he liked to joke that his chestnut gelding had saved his life. On an all-day ride in the desert, my dad had collapsed from heat prostration and had to be collected by helicopter. When they took him to the clinic, the doctors discovered that he was anemic. The anemia led the doctors in Milwaukee to detect esophageal cancer in its earliest stages. Thanks to this riding mishap, a successful operation, and subsequent radiation, he was able to live another six years.

  Even after radiation treatment, losing close to eighty pounds, he kept on riding. He rode days before he was taken into intensive care. He rode right up to the pearly gates, I suppose. Don’t worry, Dad, we’ll take care of Mom and your horses. I wonder where he’s riding now.

  Helen and I look out over the San Rafael Valley in the distance and feel like we are on top of the world. Few people know the land around here as well as we do, having ridden over so much of this landscape. Today, I feel especially intimate with this great expanse. Our dogs follow nicely, scooting in and out of the red-barked manzanita, which flourishes up at this altitude.

  Helen points out the deep grinding hum of a drone somewhere out of sight. These are unmanned glider planes, controlled from Sierra Vista, looking for drug runners and other transients. “Why can’t they use mufflers on those things?” Helen protests. We agree that the drone creates an unfortunate noise in this otherwise peaceful terrain. Often we ride in deep silence.

  On our way home, every vehicle that passes us on the road is a border patrol van. Three BP men all dressed in green are having a bit of a break by the roadside. Helen stops the truck to chat and asks if there has been much activity in the area. “Yeah, we’re always busy,” one responds. But they don’t look too busy at the moment.

  By the time we get back to the corral, Miguel is there working away and I join him. He has already gathered up most of the old rotten hay, and we finish cleaning up together. Most people out West don’t bother with manure, letting it dry up and blow away, but we are making compost. I remove three cholla plants, which could be potential hazards. Miguel wonders if I’d like a bottle of bacanora, tequila moonshine, and it seems like the perfect gift for Clovis when we go to visit him in Australia.

  MEXICO

  In Town

  Off to Alamos

  Fifteen months ago, Hurricane Norbert swept over this colonial town dropping twenty-seven inches of rain on the already saturated mountains. Three major mudslides were released, bringing a torrent of muddy water through Alamos, sweeping cars aside, destroying bridges, taking out roads and electricity and leaving the beautiful Hacienda de los Santos knee-deep in mud. But even worse, the poor people in the lower land were devastated, often trapped in their adobe homes, holding babies over their heads as the waters mounted.

  Now, as Erma Duran and I drive into town, everything looks relatively normal. The lush hillsides of Alamos are covered with the bright magenta blossoms of the amapa trees, which are always blooming this time of year when we come down for the annual music festival. It has taken eight hours to get here, and we are eager to unload our bags and settle in.

  The next day, my friend Erma goes to work on one of the hacienda’s antique wooden statues. Erma has done restoration work all over the world, and she is scheduled to restore the hacienda’s little theater with Venetian plaster and stenciling.

  That morning, I meet up with an American woman named Linda on the outskirts of town, and follow her pickup to the corral at the end of a twisting maze of unpaved roads. Linda Knieval Damesworth is related to the famous motorcyclist, Evel Knieval, and I wonder if she has some of the same death-defying genes.

  I get out my own saddle and pad, as many Mexican saddles have stirrups that are far too short for me, and my Western saddle seems to fit this little mare, Rayulita, perfectly. She is part Arab, and her five-month-old colt is a smart-looking dun, but he will have to stay behind with the other horses as we ride up the cobbled streets on the far side of the wash, waving to the local children who gaze at us from their well-swept yards.

  Continuing out into the foothills, Linda points out the palo santo trees, which are now bare, a grey-barked tree with white saucer-like flowers that are sweet and succulent. “Hunters often position themselves near these trees because the blossoms draw the animals,” she explains.

  We jog on down a small dirt road, passing the entrance to Rancho Palomar. Linda mentions that many hunters go there to shoot quail and dove, and the chef then cooks them up. The road continues with fragrant, wet sage
growing on either side. As we wind up into the higher hills, there is a gradual incline, and I suggest we try a canter.

  Rayulita takes off. I can tell she is not used to an easy lope but likes to flat-out run. Her gait is a bit choppy, and I have to hold myself down in the saddle as we leave Linda and her horse behind. At the top of the hill, I wait for her to join us. The air smells fresh—they had quite a bit of winter rainfall the previous week—and I wonder if that will be a problem on our ride over the Alamos Mountains scheduled for the following day.

  Big, dark clouds are building, and the lights of Alamos are coming on in the distance. If it rains again tonight, the ride might be called off. Linda thinks that the five-hour ride to El Promontorio is a bit arduous—there is a lot of climbing over slick rock and rubble to get to the old mining site.

  In 1683, silver mines were discovered here by the Spaniards, and by 1790, mining was at its peak. Alamos produced more silver during this period than any other place in the world. Now new mines are starting back up, which pleases the local Mexicans as that means jobs, a much different attitude than we have in southern Arizona.

  On the way back, the sky continues to darken. Rayulita shows me how fast she can walk, eager to get back to her nursing colt. She is a very responsive little mare. I hope I can go out on her again.

  I thank Linda and head back into town to join Erma for dinner. Then we race across the street to the opera. Afterward, the crowd spills out onto the cobbled streets where we spot Ramon and his patient white donkey, Gaspar, loaded down with casks of red wine. The young people follow the estudiantina singers, decked out in their traditional beribboned costumes. Meandering around the streets of Alamos, the crowd sings along with the instruments, helping themselves to free wine, a very festive tradition.