Riding Barranca (6 page)

My son's New Forest pony lived to a ripe old age. When Ayler was in third grade, I bought Star for his birthday. When Ayler awoke, a used English saddle was sitting on the footboard of his bed, and his black pony was out in the corral. We had five years of glorious rides together. The two of us would often go down trails holding hands, or we'd gallop up dirt roads and explore new territory, sometimes getting chased by land owners.
What a time.

But when Ayler went into eighth grade, his interest in team sports took over, so we gave Star away to a family with several little girls who loved this able yet aging pony. Later, we found out that after the girls had outgrown Star, the pony was returned to the original owner, who now had her own daughter, and Star was almost forty!

So a twelve-year-old Welsh sounds like a youngster. He could still have years ahead of him. Maybe the trouble with this
pony is his name, “El Chapo,” the nickname of Mexico's most wanted fugitive, Joaquin Guzman, head of the Sinaloa drug cartel, a mean and evil dude. Maybe the pony needs a gentle and obedient name, like
El Guapo,
handsome guy. Names often influence human personality, so why shouldn't the same be true for horses?

Saddling Up

My good friend, the photographer Donna DeMari, is here for a visit. I show her my morning routine of haying, mucking, graining, grooming, and it is nice to have her help. The rain seems to be holding off, and I wonder how many more days we'll have before the predicted deluge.

This morning Helen is picking up Phil's wife, Leslie Ware, in town and bringing her horse Bendajo over to ride with mine. I am letting Donna ride Barranca as I know he will put
her at ease. While the clouds are building, the sun comes and goes, perfect sweater weather, and a good day for a lunch ride.

The four horses feel like a herd moving out, going nicely up the hill toward Humboldt Canyon, but when we begin to canter, Tonka and Barranca jockey for lead position.

Riding into the canyon, we anthropomorphize various tall standing rocks—one looks just like a Gila Monster with his eye on a little stone chipmunk across the way. This is a beautiful conifer-laden canyon with rock outcroppings of chartreuse and burnt amber. We spot a Madonna plaque high on the canyon wall, just outside a small cave that protects a statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Someday I'll bring my tennis shoes and climb up there to have a look, but today we're all wearing leather boots.

Riding Out

Last May, Mason and I drove the Ford pickup to the end of Humboldt Canyon to celebrate our anniversary. I brought along a picnic, as well as a nice bottle of Australian Shiraz that my son, Clovis, had sent from Sydney. Maybe it was the bumpy road that addled my brain, or perhaps I drank the wine too fast, but I got the spins, and had to walk back out, following Mason in the truck. The road never felt bumpy on horseback for some reason. Do horses have better shocks?

Today, three of us are protected by helmets, but Helen is only wearing a baseball cap. This concerns me because several years ago she survived a terrible fall from a friend's horse, bashing her head on a gravel road, ending up in a coma for over a week. But people out West rarely wear hard hats, as if they're defying the possibility of an accident, defying gravity, so to speak.

We ride on beside a little stream that trickles down through the canyon, and the dogs get a chance to drink. I ask Helen why she didn't bring her Pit Bull, Brindie, and Helen admits, “I can't stand the sound of her breathing.”

At the end of this rolling trail, stiff green grass grows around a burbling spring that is always continually flowing. We loosen the horses' girths, take off their bridles, and tie them up before settling down for lunch. I sit on a felled pine tree to eat and the sap sticks to the seat of my breeches. Once mounted, I find that I'm stuck to the saddle, so that when I stand in my stirrups, it sounds like ripping Velcro.

Laura on Tonka

It's a brand new day—Donna and I saddle up early and head down the road to Blackwell Canyon. Though it is a very rough path, Donna is entranced by the intimate landscape, saying how she likes the grey light. A photographer always sees things differently. Now it looks like it is about to rain, but I think it might hold off. It seems like this storm is all anyone can talk about—we need winter rain so badly.

Donna is having a good time on my best boy, but I am beginning to miss him, eager to let him know I have not forsaken him. Maybe I'll go back to reclaiming him as
my one and only.
I don't share my husband, so why loan out my favorite horse?

I decide to turn back before we hit a steep, slick patch of rock, as the sky now looks forbidding. As we turn, we can see thin veils of cloud descending over Red Mountain. Up above, the grey mammatus clouds have taken on the appearance
of Pillsbury dough buns stuck together. Then the rain starts falling—
brrrrrr
—slashing down at an angle.

Of course, the horses are excited by this strange weather. The wet earthy smell on the once dusty path is delicious, nothing like rain dampening the desert. But then, it turns into tiny pellets of hail. We are moving fast, our pants getting soaked in the saddle, sitting in puddles of icy water—wet crotches! All very invigorating, I'm sure, when we know there will be a hot steam shower waiting for us at home.

Barranca Boy

Yesterday's snow chill is still in the air, though the scant white covering has already melted. The short-lived drama of the running wash has passed, and the sloppy road is firm again. It's been a week since I've ridden Barranca, so I saddle him up, and we head down Harshaw Creek toward the Turner's
Ranch about three miles away. I rarely go this way because there are four cattle guards and gates that I have to open, but Barranca stands nicely as I open and close each one. I have both dogs with me today. They can drink from the small, winding creek that runs through the canyon here, dodging the cattle that graze down below.

I remember when Mason and I were looking at land out on the San Rafael Valley and my parents came down from Scottsdale to consider it with us. My mother's response was, “Who would want to build in this godforsaken place? You should look for land along that small dirt road by the creek. That would be perfect.”

Though I was disappointed that she didn't appreciate the vast expanse of the San Rafael Valley, I knew she had a point. We ended up buying ten acres at the end of Harshaw Creek and now see it as a preferable location.

One day years ago, when I was taking the dogs for a walk, I came upon a horrible sight here—a huge pile of young cow carcasses on the road. A cattle transport truck had tipped over the edge at one of the sharper turns, landing in the stream below. Most of the calves had died on impact and had to be lifted out with a front-end loader. Why the driver had taken the right hand turn onto this small dirt road, nobody knew. He would have been safer on the straight, paved road to town.

Before getting to the Turner's ramshackle yard with their two chained watchdogs, I take Barranca down into the wash where the recent waters have brushed the muddy sand in feather patterns. There are a lot of leaves gathered on the stream bed and pools of water. Barranca is unnerved by the sound of the
crunching leaves beneath his hooves. Horses seem more easily spooked when they are out alone.

White-boned sycamores and cottonwoods grow all along the way. There is a large field to the left, which the Turners sometimes cultivate with soy beans, and there are many small fruit trees out in the yard. I heard that John Turner's father, Jack, once ordered a large quantity of quince trees, but when they arrived and were planted, they turned out to be pomegranates. It's nice to see the red round fruit still hanging from the grey bare limbs, making holiday for the birds.

Indianhead Mountain

Eager to explore the forest road up Indianhead Mountain, I call Sonny McQuiston and ask about the gate with the padlocks. He says that the lock he left there is just dangling from its
chain, not really securing anything. In any case, he's fine with me riding up there. I am always grateful when ranchers are lenient.

Phil and Leslie arrive at half-past-ten, and we begin to get all three horses ready, until I notice that Peanut has lost a shoe. We won't be able to take him out. Phil says he can take his dogs hunting and that Leslie and I should go.

We walk the horses for a mile down the road, finding the gate with the padlock. I realize that if I undo the top two wires, I can ease the post out from under the circle of the chain. I put on my gloves so that I won't get cut from the rusty barbed wire, but it's not hard to dismantle the gate—
we're through!

With a yelp we head up the rolling trail, climbing higher and higher until we are close to the face of the mountain. Quickly, we gain altitude and stop to look back down on the Harshaw Creek Valley with its proliferation of dark -green oaks. As we continue to climb, I spot
Casa Durazno.
Getting out my cell phone, I give Mason a call. “Can you see us? I'll wave my arms.” He finds us with his telescope, though he says we seem miniscule against the enormous face of the mountain.