Riding Barranca (14 page)

Papa, Gramma, Laura

Soon we see Sedona's red rock mountains in the distance. I had forgotten how grand and awesome this area is. As we pass through Cave Creek, we find the turn off for Jack's Canyon Road, and then the final righthand turn into Horse Mesa Ranch—a lovely boarding situation for our two boys. I think
they feel like they are at summer camp, happy to settle into their adjoining stalls with fresh hay and water.

The owner of the facility is there to greet us. The place has a relaxed atmosphere, with about fifty or more horses in regular boarding. Dogs and mules roam about the lot. We uncouple the trailer from the truck, leaving our horses in their open-air stalls. It feels light and free traveling the next stretch without a load behind us.

Mounting Rock

Helen, Kathleen, and I are all staying in Mom's comfortable two-bedroom casita at the Enchantment Resort outside of Sedona. Her place is currently up for sale since she never uses it anymore. It is a wonderful spot, far from the tourist shops, with winding trails beneath the dramatic cliffs and hoodoos where “vortex” energy supposedly exists.

Today is the thirteenth of April, my birthday. Fresh orange juice has been delivered to our door in a little wicker purse.
I make eggs with green chile, and we have a leisurely breakfast out on the deck. The red cliffs are just across the way, and the air smells full of fresh pine.

Back at Horse Mesa Ranch, our big boys are waiting for us. Once saddled, Barranca seems especially excited this morning. He dances around while we wait for our guide to get ready—then we follow her down the drive, passing through the surrounding suburbs until we find the gate that leads us out toward Bell Rock. Here we thank our guide and say goodbye. She has filled our heads with so much information about various trails that we have not been paying much attention to the route. We figure we can just follow the paths and pick our way back.

Heading out over a flat plain, we take various turns on red earth that is luxuriously soft after the hard-packed trails of Patagonia. It is a perfect riding day with bright blue sky, warm but not too hot. We canter along these flat, comfortable paths, passing hikers and mountain bikers—a lot of people out enjoying the scenery in this glorious terrain. Bell Rock does indeed look like a big earthen bell, or maybe a teapot without spout or handle. At first, the horses seem a bit unnerved by all the foot traffic, but soon they settle down and are good company for each other, as are we. I feel lucky to have my closest cousin as a regular riding companion.

Helen always came through for me, remembering my birthday and Christmas, traveling across country to attend my father's memorial.

We almost didn't have a service because Mom insisted that there would be none. She didn't want to come back to Milwaukee. Scheduled for knee replacement surgery, she didn't feel up to the
trip, even though her doctor had told her that she should be up and walking, leading a normal life.

The four of us siblings had a conference call and decided that we had to have a proper funeral for our father. He had been too important to the community, and our extended family needed a time to come together and grieve. “Closure” was not really the point. For some, there would never be closure.

Together, we decided to override our mother's wishes. When we told her of our decision, she went ballistic. How dare we go against her! I urged her to join us. Mason and I could take her to the airport and fly with her. It didn't seem right that she would boycott her husband's funeral. We would have to make excuses for her, as usual.

But her decision, oddly, felt normal. Popi might have even appreciated her egocentric ways, for it confirmed what everyone thought—that she was impossible and that he was a saint for putting up with her. It was quite a role she had served as his foil. People rarely suspected him of being anything other than a cross between a perfect prince and the good-time guy who always picked up the bill.

The funeral was held on a sunny, balmy mid-March day, and most of our family was present. The mild-mannered Broadoaks caretaker (labeled by Mom as “a moron”) had managed to bring a well-groomed llama and horse by trailer from Oconomowoc into Milwaukee. The animals stood outside the front door of the church with leis of flowers around their necks. True Popi style!

My brother, David's, eulogy was a highpoint: “Dad was a joiner who relished the dynamics of the group. He was a habitual includer (never an excluder), and his motto whenever asked if one more person could come out for the weekend was always
immediate and predictable—‘The more the merrier!' He cut a swath through the world and had enormous fun doing it.”

Abigail, my niece, also took a turn. “When we were little,” she began, “my grandfather would on occasion turn into a polar bear. He would get down on all fours, roaring, and chase us around the house. For my grandfather, every moment was a potential adventure, every stranger a potential friend. He may have been a respectable lawyer and investor in the eyes of the community, but to his grandchildren, he was a hero.”

Two weeks after our father's funeral, Mom was going through her own private season from hell. She went in for double knee-replacement surgery. I think it came as a relief to exchange her emotional pain for physical suffering.

I came up to Scottsdale numerous times during her recovery. Once banished by my mother, she now encouraged me to come, as if it were the most natural thing.

Clambering over rock, picking one path or another as the trail splits, we find ourselves on the less inhabited Llama Trail, which makes me think of my father, who raised llamas in Oconomowoc. People always stopped by the field to ask, “What are they?”
Llamas.
“What are they like?”
Gentle, alert, prancy.
How he would have enjoyed riding here in the Munds Mountain Wilderness. We feel at ease picking our way as we ride along with no concern about how we will return.

My cousin points out grey-blue juniper berries that have fallen on the red earth with little pokes of fresh grass finishing the picture. There are lots of one-seed junipers with leaves called scales instead of needles, pinion pine, and manzanita, which have a sensually smooth, red-brown bark. The winter
rains have brought out a scattering of wildflowers—purple dick, Indian paintbrush, and little yellow daisies.

The horses drink from the shallow water of the rock pools, slurping it up between their teeth. We choose a high, flat area to tie them up for lunch. In the middle of this open space, there is one large rock where Helen dismounts. The horses are used to getting a treat at their rest stops, and I have a couple of carrots and nibbles in my saddle pack. Loosening their girths, we tie them up in what has to pass for a bit of shade, then we settle down for a rest.

Ready to ride again after lunch, Helen scrambles back up onto the “mounting rock.” She is always adept at finding a place to get back onto her tall black horse. Heading down the trail, we choose to go around Courthouse Butte. This loop trail is much wilder with fewer hikers, bikes prohibited, but horses seem to be allowed everywhere.

Our boys do well on the rougher trails, always choosing the best footing, and from time to time, I stop to use the little camera Mason gave me for my birthday, documenting this amazing terrain. The Canon camera flattens out to the size of a pack of playing cards and fits easily into the snap pocket of my shirt.

As we circle around to the front of Courthouse Butte, I insist that our return path is further west. We are back on soft footing, and we get to canter some more, but at a certain point, Bendajo stands stock still and refuses to follow, as if he has had enough for one day and knows we are not headed home. “It's this way, I'm sure,” I call back to Helen, but her horse will not budge, so I turn and follow them, and sure enough, Bendajo takes us back to the exit gate. A horse's sense of direction is not to be second-guessed!

On Top of the World

Ready for our afternoon ride up Schnebly Hill, a short trailer drive from the stable, we choose the first parking lot we see, hoping we will find the equestrian path.

Finally, we see a sign and drop down to a little pool to let the horses drink, not noticing that the trail continues on the other side of the stream. It isn't until we see an immense, round-shaped rock with a large wide skirt of land around it that we finally connect to the trail. Here we look down on several huge pancake formations that could be UFO landing pads, petrified batter that has flattened out and hardened over time.

Up on the rim of this round mountain we take a break and look back down the valley. I give the horses a couple of Tic-Tacs, and they nod in approval. Up higher, we can see how the road climbs, and decide on making it to a high lookout point before returning back down the mountain. The
afternoon sun is warm, and I tie my jacket around my waist. It takes us another half-hour to climb up to the lookout but it is worth it—we can see such a distance it makes us feel small, a small part of this extensive grandeur.

Helen understood my history, my struggle with my mother. She would often sigh, a deep heart-felt sigh, but she rarely made a negative comment. While I was growing up, my mother had been the target of endless jokes, which were hurtful to me as a girl. No matter how much I suffered under the rule of “Mean Margaret,” a child can only be defensive in the face of such put-downs.

No one ever pointed a finger at Popi, for he was part of the dynasty. He was the fun one, the life of the party, the upbeat one. No wonder he was on so many executive boards. He made those old men laugh, leading his llamas into various meetings, arriving in costume, planning a prank or pulling a gag.

But now it seemed as if the family dump site was being excavated by Mom's grief. She was just a sore, scraped plot of turf. And it was time for me to plant some growing things, time to find forgiveness. I kept trying to locate my storehouse of sympathy. I realized that being a target, she had needed her own victim.

I fit the role, being the favored, oldest daughter. I took Dad off to the country to ride when she wanted him at home in River Hills. She was insatiable for his company, and struck out at anyone who challenged her claim.

After a horseback ride, I was asked to pull off my father's big black boots, tugging at the close-fitting two-toned leather. I remember the smell of man musk on his feet and horse-fresh dander on his thick beige jodhpurs. Was this innocent contact too intimate for her?

But now she was just an old woman who could not stop crying. She was furious with him, for many reasons. She ranted and raved, but bottom line, she missed him terribly. She was lost without him. For the first time in her life, she was alone and missed him like a lake sucked dry. She was trapped in a nightmare with dull dark dread. No teasing, no conversation at the dinner table, no bantering before the TV, no backdrop, no husband.

Instead of giving up chocolate or caffeine or wine for Lent, I decided to call my mother daily. I no longer cowered around her. On the contrary, I told her what to do and got a little bossy, but she was flattered by the firm and consistent attention. “You need to find a physical therapist,” I insisted. “You should be getting a weekly massage, and at least one pedicure a month.”

Returning home from her operation, my mother's brother came for a visit, driving all the way from Augusta, Georgia. He was an excellent chef and cooked elaborate meals every night. When I called, it sounded as if they were having an almost manic, hilarious time, but hours after his departure, in a state of careless exhaustion, my mother slipped on the carpet by her bed, fell down, and broke her hip.

Two weeks out of the hospital, she now had to return for hip replacement surgery. More pain, more tears, more angst. This operation was harder to take. She didn't have her pick of doctors. She didn't have the same good rehab facility. Would there be no end to her suffering?