Read Riding Barranca for Free Online Page A

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 appearanceof 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
Etchings in the Wash
    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’sRanch 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 thecrunching 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
How I Love to Find a New Trail
    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 itschain, 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