Riding Barranca (29 page)

On the Loose

It is truly a joyful Christmas Eve with family and friends gathering down at Em's house. Settling down on the carpet in Em's bedroom, we play the silly game of random present picks and exchanges. Little Nikko passes out gifts to everyone—
what
a gem.
Em gets a rather grotesque rhinoceros head made out of plastic, which I found at the dollar store. She examines it with curiosity, perplexed. But then it is Lucy's turn and she takes the rhino away from Em. Perhaps, this hilarity is a bit too much for my mother-in-law, but I know she enjoys the company and the little white lights twinkling on her tree.

Then, on we go to the candlelit dining room with its low ceiling and hearth fire going. The table is decorated with Em's best white linens, china, and silverware, red roses, and holly. We all help ourselves buffet-style to a big, bountiful Christmas meal—squash soup laced with cream and Cointreau for starters, then a perfectly cooked salmon and scalloped potatoes. But in the middle of our intimate dinner, I feel a pang—a poignant sadness—for my mother-in-law. I had a similar feeling when sharing my last meal with my father.

The next day, when everyone leaves for New York, a big winter storm moves into the Berkshires, promising to deliver up to two feet of snow. By mid-afternoon, it is already falling. I am inspired to take one last ride on Barranca through the snowy woods. I bring a kettle of warm water out to the barn to pour over his frozen bit so that it will be more comfortable for him.

It is already getting dark and the blizzard is coming on full force, but I want to ride through this wintry forest one last time. Off we go with wet flakes gathering on my lashes. As we move out at a fast walk, the slanted snow makes it difficult to see—I should have worn ski goggles. But Barranca knows the way and seems to like being out on the trail, even at this hour, even in these conditions. One lone deer springs across the trail— Barranca spots it before I do. I'm glad it survived hunting season, though I wonder how the forest creatures make
it through the long, harsh winter and how my big boy will fare. I imagine him drawing into himself and being stalwart, bearing down through the months of ice and snow without complaint. Does he know how much I will miss him?

Ready to Leave

Lone Horse

When Mason and I arrive in Patagonia,
Casa Durazno
is freezing cold, no heat. Mason starts up both fires, and we walk around in layers of clothes, retreating to bed with icy noses, shivering. It is almost like sleeping on a grave stone, colder inside than out, colder than Massachusetts.

But today, we have radiant floor heat again, and things are slowly warming up. It is January the sixth, Epiphany, and my friend, Phil Caputo, suggests that this would be a good day to spread my mother's ashes.

I haul Tonka out to the San Rafael for his first ride of the season, tucking the ziplock baggie filled with ashes into my parka pocket. I imagine letting them fly as I ride along. Tonka is ready to go after months of pasture rest, very well-behaved, easy to mount, as the dogs run about in the high grass exploring.

Heading down the dirt road toward Saddle Mountain, where I rode just over a year ago when the Blue Moon rose
over the Huachucas, I think about all that happens in the course of a year, and all of the fabulous rides along the way.

More and more, it seems to me that life and death are so intertwined, that all we can do is exist in the moment, pulling that single thread from the warp and the woof of it.

Riding silently, we are alert to the season, the movement, every minute. I'm not sure if I will ever find the last piece of the puzzle or see the whole picture anymore than I do right now— riding across this prairie grassland, solitary yet connected.

Leaving the dirt road, I head out into the field, pulling the baggie from my parka pocket, but the sound of plastic and the ash dust flying immediately spooks my horse. I tense up as he seems ready to bolt or rear. I don't want to be found on the hard desert ground with a broken neck, clutching a ziplock baggie of my mother's ashes, so I ease it back into my parka, and Tonka settles down.

It is a glorious sunny day. There is no one else in sight as I dismount and walk along the fence line, spreading the dusty ashes in the desert grass. It seems a fitting and peaceful place.

There is a tremendous feeling of openness out here in the valley, and I wonder if this simple act will release her. Will she make it to wherever she's going? Is this her last ride or will there be more? What exactly is an epiphany other than the realization that there is something more grand and awesome out there—
Star of Light, Sun of Wonder.
Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, everything living passes. Riding alone, I am content to do so. Who knows where the trail will lead next
—one simply continues.

Adios

After this glorious year in the saddle, riding out on a variety of trails, from the expansive beauty of the Southwest to the lush comforts of the East, I feel that I've attained a kind of midlife bravado with greater self-confidence. Midlife riders have earned this—we have put in time with children, careers, and household chores, but when taking to the trail, we find we are connected to a bigger world.

I now understand more deeply how much the beauty and silence of nature heals me when I ride, lifting me into a meditative state that always puts me in a better mood. Even the same trail, ridden over and over, changes dramatically
from one season to the next, and there is always something to witness.

Throughout these pages I have mulled over the past and gained some understanding for the complexity of family. I no longer see my parents in black and white. I no longer feel responsible for their problems. Having forgiven their faults, I've become more aware of my own, and have forgiven myself, also.

Over the past year, I have learned to call it quits when a ride seemed too dangerous. Perhaps I've moved on from being an acquiescent child to becoming a more responsible adult, a little less naïve about the potential mishaps that can occur while riding. Certainly anything can happen on a horse, and the unexpected is to
be
expected.

There is no counting on the timing of things. You never know when a beloved family member will pass or when a butterfly might appear. Emily Rose, my dear mother-in-law, made it to her one-hundred-and-second birthday, then died four hours later. She taught me so much about appreciating life—raising her hands in delight before a cloud formation, a tree laden with apples, a view, a taste, a bouquet of flowers— how every gesture and arrangement should acknowledge transience and evoke the beautiful.

Recently, I returned to the place where I spread my mother's ashes and had a good cry. Finally, I felt connected to my own sadness, capable of mourning her. I should have had more compassion for her while she was still alive. I should have reached out and told her that I understood her loneliness.

Often, I have wanted to pick up the phone and give her a call—
Mom, this is your daughter, Laura.
I feel that if she
could answer, she would wish me well, that she would want happiness for me just as she had wanted it for herself.

Witnessing life as it passes makes me want to enter the moment, and what better way to do that than riding out into nature, out into the elements, breathing in the forest air— riding
all out
with gratitude and joy, every day that we are able.

End of Day

My closest cousin, Helen Chester, was my most frequent riding partner during the year of this account. Her relaxed and easygoing manner made for many leisurely, enjoyable rides. My thanks also go out to the many other friends who joined me on the trail—Phil Caputo, Leslie Ware, Elizabeth Beautyman, Lizbeth Marano, Ayler Young, Betsy Spears, Avia Rose Stanton, Arizona Muse, Donna DeMari, Kacy Brehm and Keith Warner, Melinda South, Betsy Pettit, Erma Duran, Teri Arnold Shannon and Rosemary Kovatch, Anita Cloveski-Wharton, Peter Phinney, Cia and Abigail McKoy, Kevin Crowe, and Daphne Chester. You were all great riding companions! My special gratitude goes to Jill Johnson and Summer Brenner for their enduring friendship and careful readings of the manuscript in progress. I also want to thank Martha Cook, and Caroline Robbins of Trafalgar Square Books, as well as senior editor Rebecca Didier for her insightful direction, which helped me shape this book in its final stages. Loving gratitude goes to Wanda White, my mother's devoted caregiver, and to my darling sister Cia who managed our mother's medical and personal issues during the last years of her life. Finally, I know this book wouldn't be what it is without the wonderful, revealing photographs of my dear friend Donna DeMari and my husband Mason Rose.

Laura Chester has published many volumes of poetry, prose and non-fiction. Most recently, a book of short stories,
Rancho Weirdo,
became available from Bootstrap Press. Editor of six anthologies, her latest collections are
Eros & Equus, a passion for the horse,
and
Heartbeat for Horses,
both from Willow Creek Press, including extensive photographs by Donna DeMari. Indiana University Press published the non-fiction book,
Holy Personal, looking for small private places of worship,
while Station Hill Press released an updated version of
Lupus Novice, toward self-healing,
an account of Chester's personal struggle and breakthrough with the auto-immune disease SLE. Other recent books include
The Stone Baby,
and
Bitches Ride Alone,
Black Sparrow Press;
The Story of the Lake,
Faber & Faber;
Kingdom Come,
Creative Arts; and
Sparks,
The Figures. Having grown up in Milwaukee and Oconomowoc, Wisconsin, Chester now lives in Patagonia, Arizona and the Berkshires of Massachusetts.