Read Riding Barranca for Free Online Page B

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.
    There are many inviting pastures up here that level out as we go. Clearly, this road has not been traveled by truck in quite some time, but we are able to follow the trail and keep wending our way around obstacles. The chartreuse lichen is particularly vibrant on the tall rock face. From this height, we can see all the surrounding mountains covered with snow—
sun on snow,
such a brilliant combination.
    On the way down, I spot the old white horse that the Turners have turned out alone on this land. He is so old and wasted he doesn’t even move when he sees us. Barranca is interested in what this white horse is all about, but evenas we approach him, the horse stands stock still. I worry that perhaps he is not getting enough food and water up here. Horses like to have at least one companion, and this poor old guy is a lonely sight.

    Tonka Waken
Guajolote Flats
    I have an afternoon ride planned with Helen but run into Patagonia first to go to the post office. I see Miguel Fuentes, who helps supply our firewood. One time he was helping me clean up the wood pile when a pack rat ran up my sweatpants! We always have a good laugh over
la rata.
    I ask Miguel if he would be willing to do some
trabajo, dos horas, con caballos, ahora,”
and he says,
“Si.”
I don’treally speak Spanish and he doesn’t understand English, but somehow we communicate, I think.
    I need help forking up the old, wet hay embedded in the mud around the feeder. But Miguel doesn’t show up on time, so perhaps he misunderstood me. Helen and I wait a bit more, then take off for Guajolote (turkey) Flats. The trails here go up high into the Patagonia Mountains. As we climb, we look down on Soldier’s Basin where we see a border patrol SUV on a distant red clay road cut into the mountain. We wave. Do they have their binoculars trained on us? I wonder if we look dangerous.
    Today, we are seeking out an old mesquite corral that is somewhere up in this direction. Passing through three gates, we finally have the option of bearing right or going down a steep bumpy road to the left. My memory tells me—
left—
and soon we find it. Leading the horses into this broken-down enclosure we think about camping out up here—what fun we would have together.
    On family vacations, Helen and I often went riding in the most unusual places, whether it was on the beaches of Mexico or looking for elephants in Kenya. A family trip was not a proper adventure without a horseback ride, and it was a great way for the members of our boisterous, athletic family to be together.
    Helen’s father, my Uncle Billy, still liked to ride, and owned several Icelandic horses in Vermont, while Popi was in charge of the family stable in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. It held a motley crew of llamas and Thoroughbreds, purchased off the track, (obviously not winners). There was not one truly sound and steady horse amongst them. People often offered him their rejects, for he never looked a gift horse in the mouth. He did have one or two personal favorites, and Merlin was one of them.
    Once when he