Riding Barranca (24 page)

“There's something nice about farmland up high on a hill, isn't there? You feel as if you're closer to the sky,” Helen says. We spot a flock of Canada geese as we take a little path to the side where burrs stick to my pants and Peanut's blanket. I busy myself, plucking them off. Autumn is surely coming— as burrs stick and birds migrate.

Moving along the path, Peanut suddenly leans down, aggravated, and then seems frantic. Helen yells out, “Bees!” I turn and see Rocket dancing up and down as the bees swarm up all around us. I try to maneuver Peanut away from the path, out into the field, turning to see that Rocket is bucking and rearing. Helen doesn't know what to do. I jump down and yell at her, “Get
Off!”

“I don't think I can!” she screams.

Rocket is going up on his rear legs, trying to get away. I rush over and grab his reins and tell her to bail—she does, hitting the ground with an audible thud. Then, I dash both horses out into the field. Helen comes after, huffing and puffing. I take off my flannel shirt and swing it around my head to discourage the last few lingering bees.

We lead the horses further away and wait to catch our breath before attempting to mount again. I decide to ride Rocket now, in case he is too worked up. The bees have disappeared and we are safe. Neither Helen nor I got stung, and Bali managed to stay away from the swarm altogether, unfazed by the attack.

Calm before the Storm

Perhaps because of the solemnity of the day, September eleventh, the air seems particularly still, as blue and clear as it was nine years ago when the world was left in shock by the attacks on the World Trade Center.

I saddle up Barranca and decide to take him out alone, heading along the top of the ridge, planning to take a new path down toward Round Pond. Riding through the sarsaparillas, a tunnel of grey opens to a chartreuse splash at the end.

Soon, the new path disappears into unmarked woodland, but we continue bushwhacking along. No one has been down here in a long time, and there are lots of branches to break. We reach a treacherous slide of rocks, but with a little urging, Barranca makes it over. I keep expecting to spot a glimpse of the pond, but all I see is palomino-colored bracken, the magnificent forest dressed up in green and gold.

Finally, I spot a bit of blue through the leaves and know we are almost there. I feel a definite thrill, riding this new trail
for the first time. I'm inside the moment, and Barranca is all fired up. When we hit the dirt road at water level, we canter to the end of the lake where there is a manmade dam. Standing there, looking out over the pond, I hear someone shooting a gun, target practice, getting ready for hunting season, no doubt, and it is disturbing. Guns, ammunition, explosions, crashes, towers collapsing—why is there so much destruction when peace can surround us?

By the time I get home, Barranca is covered with pine needles. As my feet hit the solid earth, I feel grounded, as if I have somehow absorbed my horse's sure-footedness and a powerful surge of energy moves through me, passing into my core.

Cape Cod

Saltwater Farm in Chatham, Massachusetts, is a funky little stable, but the horses are all in good shape. I will be riding a chestnut mare named Roxy. Vicci and her boyfriend load up all three horses, and we follow them over to the seashore.

It is a windy morning and quite a bit cooler, but the sun is shining and the horses are familiar with the sand and the sea. Today is the first legal day for riding on the beach so I lucked out. We take a trail on the land side of the dunes to warm the horses up and Roxy seems quite manageable.

Reaching the lighthouse at the end of the trail, we head over to the beach where Vicci tells me, “When the tide is out, you can ride all the way out on the sandbar to that buoy.” But the tide is not radically in or out, just somewhere in between. She walks her horse into the lapping shallows, and I follow. The horses seem to enjoy the cooling effect of the water. Then, we ride back onto the hard-packed sand, and Vicci suggests a canter. I'm game. They say how Roxy has a nice, slow, plodding canter, but once we take off, it is more like a racing gallop. Not familiar with this horse, I'm a bit apprehensive—I don't know if she might shy or buck, but I lean forward, standing up slightly in my stirrups as she races the others. Finally, I rein her in, exhilarated to be riding by the sea.

Dunes

For the next stretch, I suggest that I go ahead so that it doesn't turn into a contest of speed. At a slower pace, this mare is much more comfortable. I feel relaxed and confident now, but then we see a windsurfer up ahead. I am astounded when he leaps off a wave and soars into the air at least ten-feet high. The handheld sail is moving him along at about thirty miles per hour, and as we head back to our destination, it looks like he is shooting right at us—maybe he's thinking of coming into shore. We wave to alert him and steer the horses back towards the dunes. Isn't he looking? Or maybe he doesn't care about spooking three large horses. He continues to fly in our direction, and the horses are skittish, as well they should be! But then, he leaps into the air again and swings off in another direction.

Daphne and Kevin

My niece, Daphne, and her fiancé, Kevin Crowe, arrive on Saturday morning with their Springer Spaniel, Sawyer—a beautiful puppy with perfect, symmetrical markings on his
face. Bali and Cello are eager to play with him, and he is ecstatic to have free run, splashing in the rock garden pool, exploring the horse pasture. In fact, he is quite entranced by the horses, as if he thinks they are enormous dogs.

After lunch, we put Sawyer in his crate and saddle up the horses. Daphne is a great rider. I know she can handle Rocket's little quirks, and Kevin surprises us by being very competent. I take them down to Long Pond to see the autumnal splendor reflected in the water, and then up we go to the top of the ridge, cantering through the pine forest. Daphne's long golden hair is held back in a ponytail, and she is relaxed in the saddle even though Rocket has already given a couple of bucks.

The next morning, Daphne and I ride alone together. She is happy to have Barranca today. I work with Peanut, who seems to have lost his natural four-beat gait—partly a problem of having so many different riders over the course of the summer. The euonymus is just beginning to turn a pale pink color, but soon the low-growing bushes will dazzle these woods with candy-apple red.

Daphne is a reserved young woman with amazing intellect, happily in love with her fiancé, Kevin. She tells me that she knew she would marry him when he sat with Grandma on the porch one afternoon, reading
Life's Little Instruction Book
out loud to her, with Grandma commenting all along the way. “I thought, if he's patient enough for that activity, he'll be able to put up with me.”

Daphne is also a “family planner.” I have told her how that can be a thankless task. Still, we seem to persist in being the Little Red Hens with a bunch of Chicken Littles around us.

Always one of Grandma's favorites, I know Daphne had a very different experience of my mother than I did. When Mom was
descending into Alzheimer's, she called Grandma every day to check on her.

“You know growing up,” Daphne admitted, “I hated anything that was a salad sandwich…chicken salad, tuna salad, ham salad, egg salad…but those were Grandma's favorites, so I would DESPERATELY try to avoid having lunch with her out at the lake. Eventually, I learned to negotiate for a hot dog before accepting an invitation.”

Daphne recalled how much Grandma loved to lie out on her plastic white and yellow chaise in the garden of Broadoaks, hiking up her housedress to tan her legs, how she would swim every afternoon along the lakeshore in her rubber cap and old-fashioned suit, then rest on the raft or dock. “And boy did she love those Kiltie milkshakes!”

“And chocolate,” I added. “She was crazy for chocolate.”

At one of our big Thanksgivings dinners in Patagonia, she hoarded all the chocolates that were being passed out by our Swiss friends—guarding them in her lap like a small child before gobbling them up.

“I remember Grandma always doing her nails,” Daphne said. At the end of her life it became an obsession. “And her buzzing around in that golf cart. She really loved that golf cart.”

One week when Grandma was in town, the grandchildren found the hidden key in a dresser drawer and took the golf cart for a spin. They ended up crashing it into a tree, denting the fender. Though they had the damage repaired, Grandma knew there was something different. “This cart doesn't drive like it used to.”

Daphne used to work in Grandma's garden every afternoon, picking fresh vegetables with her for dinner. “One day, Abigail and I decided to be industrious, and we had a vegetable stand
out by Sawyer Road.” All went well until Grandma returned and saw them hawking her produce by the side of the road without having asked permission!

But Daphne's favorite part of the summer week was Sunday evening, sitting with Grandma and Popi out on the porch, while they watched 60 Minutes, their favorite show. They would each enjoy a glass of white wine and Daphne would create a cheese plate for everyone to enjoy. “I felt so loved and supported by both of them,” she said wistfully.

I think of how lucky we were to have a summer place that had been in the family for generations. Now my cousins were putting together a scrapbook of all the horses from the family farm, with photographs dating back to our grandparents day: Stories of the mischievous Bunko; Busytown with his rocking horse canter; Eagle, the horse Gramma bought for me, shipping him all the way home from Montana; Sharif, my grandfather's prize-winning jumper; the ponies—Lady and Texas; and who could forget that chestnut, Frisky, the nasty mare who would pin her ears back and chase us across the pasture.