Riding Barranca (23 page)

By the Pond

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

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.

I am beginning to wonder:
How many apples can a big horse munch if a big horse has access to apples?
I know there is a limit. I am already giving each horse about six apples a day,
a couple at a time, slicing them up so that the smaller fruit doesn't get caught in the esophagus. I just hope Little Rose Chapel will protect these apples, keep them cool and safe. If not and they rot, I might take it personally, as if I were the fallen apple with a bad blemish. Please forgive me for being such a greedy gatherer. But maybe it's not so terrible to hoard such bounty when it's not for me but for my hungry horses.

Rocket in Motion

Barranca and Rocket are both saddled up, waiting in their stalls when my cousin Helen arrives from Colrain where she has a summer house. I am happy to go out in the late afternoon as the heat of the day is diminishing, and it is lovely
riding through the forest into the golden late light. Rocket keeps breaking into a trot to keep up with Barranca but, Helen agrees, he has a wonderful canter.

Helen and I have been riding companions for as long as I can remember. Growing up together on Oconomowoc Lake, one year apart, we were like sisters. Sometimes, competition would flare up between us, and we would have a knockdown, drag-out fight over something as stupid as a plastic pad of fake butter, but for the most part we were daily companions.

Firstborn daughters, we both had difficult mothers, though Helen's mom fit in, for she was the daughter of my grandfather's roommate at Princeton and his best friend—Dr. Wilder Penfield, a renowned brain surgeon, while my mother's father, Mordecai Giffin Sheftall, worked on the railroad in the Deep South.

Aunt Priscilla was highly organized and had charts for chores that had to be completed before Helen could come out and play. Sometimes, wanting my cousin to be set free so we could head to the barn, I would come up into their loft apartment and help her sweep. Aunt Priscilla told me that if I couldn't do a job happily and nicely, it was best not to do it at all.

At other times, I was left waiting on the lawn while Helen had her enforced reading time after lunch. I had little interest in books at that age—there was far too much to do. I couldn't help her read, so I just had to wait, and then wait some more— then off we'd go to the family farm where we'd visit the old head gardener, Krietz. He was going blind, so we'd sneak one of his Chesterfield cigarettes while he was offering us butterscotch, the one kind of candy I didn't like.

Aunt Priscilla was hard on Helen, just as my mother was on me, but perhaps for different reasons. Helen's younger sister, Caroline, appeared to be the favorite—she was quite beautiful and did everything perfectly, while Helen and I were considered the black sheep of the family. I was amazed that Helen would dare steal a silver dollar from her mother's wallet. She got kicked out of school for smoking, and developed a reputation with a few “townie” guys. Helen was brazen enough to bring marijuana seeds back from Kenya on one of our family trips. She put the contraband in her camera case and planted the seeds in our grandmother's garden. One of Gramma's Garden Club ladies identified the plants. When Lyle Downs, the new gardener, was informed, he said he thought they were some sort of tomato plant (though he knew perfectly well what they were).

Even though Helen was one year younger, she was always more daring. She liked to initiate games of strip poker, which horrified me with my undeveloped body. But she was always comfortable in her skin. I didn't even like anyone watching me brush my teeth.

There aren't many people with whom you can share your whole childhood history, who have witnessed the upsets and family gatherings over the years. Together we shared our passion for horses. Our memory banks were full of similar information, including the songs that Gramma taught us, sung in rounds—“Make new friends, but keep the old, new are silver but the old are gold.”

In the middle of the night we have a thunderstorm, but the morning is bright, windy, and clear. I am riding Peanut today, and Helen is riding Rocket. We unload on Baldwin Hill and
pass through numerous fields, one yielding to the next. This hilltop land is so expansive and well-maintained. Mature trees stand between each section, serving as windbreaks in the winter.