Riding Barranca (2 page)

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.

Tonka, Twilight

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
Christmas-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

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.

Ashley, aged nine, has close-cropped hair. She has just undergone a non-malignant brain tumor operation. What an ordeal for a small child. She is calm and reserved, while her six-year-old sister is wild and enthusiastic. Well, she was named “Haley” after all. She is eager to help brush Peanut, watching me pick his hooves, dashing here and there.

Ashley stands on the mounting block and manages to hoist herself into the saddle. We walk down the dirt drive all the way out to the road. I am happy to give these girls a chance to ride. Lucy is all eyes, and though she just rode Peanut yesterday with a parent on either side, today she declines. So Haley the comet gets a turn in her purple helmet. The girls discuss their favorite colors, and Lucy pipes up, “I like
maroon!”

Haley would like to trot or even canter, but I am leading, and Peanut is taking his time. I tell her that I think she has “the horse bug,” and that she will become a real rider. “You can even ride with me in a few years,” I say.

Sharing my riding life with these girls, I am reminded of all I received in my childhood. I was passionate about horses from an early age, strapped into the saddle by the time I was two. As a child, I found the greatest times of togetherness riding alone with my father. Off through the open fields of Wisconsin—off into the dairy wind.

Out on the trail we were free, part of nature, at one with our horses and each other, embraced by the deep green foliage of the Prime Woods or the Nashotah Mission forest, alert to holes when we galloped the trolley track, whisking the heads and rumps of our mounts, so they knew we were not so unlike them.

After putting Peanut away, the three little girls explore the courtyard and all the secret hiding places—the gate that leads
to the back garden and the pathway up to the mesa. Haley's mother has to keep telling her younger daughter to slow down, be careful,
stop,
to not grab everything, but it falls on deaf ears. She is dealing with a comet, after all, a rough rider in the making.