Riding Barranca by Laura Chester Read Free Book Online

wanted to give me a piece of jewelry he’d purchased in Tuscany, he took me into the stall of this dappled Arabian, a horse I considered too small for my dad. There around Merlin’s neck hung a golden chain with lapis stones. For a moment, I thought he was getting queer for this horse, but no, it was actually a necklace for me.
    In the winter Popi rode out in Carefree, Arizona, and he liked to joke that his chestnut gelding had saved his life. On an all-day ride in the desert, my dad had collapsed from heat prostration and had to be collected by helicopter. When they took him to the clinic, the doctors discovered that he was anemic. The anemia led the doctors in Milwaukee to detect esophageal cancer in its earliest stages. Thanks to this riding mishap, a successful operation, and subsequent radiation, he was able to live another six years.
    Even after radiation treatment, losing close to eighty pounds, he kept on riding. He rode days before he was taken into intensive care. He rode right up to the pearly gates, I suppose. Don’t worry, Dad, we’ll take care of Mom and your horses. I wonder where he’s riding now.
    Helen and I look out over the San Rafael Valley in the distance and feel like we are on top of the world. Few people know the land around here as well as we do, having ridden over so much of this landscape. Today, I feel especially intimate with this great expanse. Our dogs follow nicely, scooting in and out of the red-barked manzanita, which flourishes up at this altitude.
    Helen points out the deep grinding hum of a drone somewhere out of sight. These are unmanned glider planes, controlled from Sierra Vista, looking for drug runners and other transients. “Why can’t they use mufflers on thosethings?” Helen protests. We agree that the drone creates an unfortunate noise in this otherwise peaceful terrain. Often we ride in deep silence.
    On our way home, every vehicle that passes us on the road is a border patrol van. Three BP men all dressed in green are having a bit of a break by the roadside. Helen stops the truck to chat and asks if there has been much activity in the area. “Yeah, we’re always busy,” one responds. But they don’t look too busy at the moment.
    By the time we get back to the corral, Miguel is there working away and I join him. He has already gathered up most of the old rotten hay, and we finish cleaning up together. Most people out West don’t bother with manure, letting it dry up and blow away, but we are making compost. I remove three
cholla
plants, which could be potential hazards. Miguel wonders if I’d like a bottle of
bacanora,
tequila moonshine, and it seems like the perfect gift for Clovis when we go to visit him in Australia.

MEXICO

    In Town
Off to Alamos
    Fifteen months ago, Hurricane Norbert swept over this colonial town dropping twenty-seven inches of rain on the already saturated mountains. Three major mudslides were released, bringing a torrent of muddy water through Alamos, sweeping cars aside, destroying bridges, taking out roads and electricity and leaving the beautiful
Hacienda de los Santos
knee-deep in mud. But even worse, the poor people in the lower land were devastated, often trapped in their adobe homes, holding babies over their heads as the waters mounted.
    Now, as Erma Duran and I drive into town, everything looks relatively normal. The lush hillsides of Alamos arecovered with the bright magenta blossoms of the
amapa
trees, which are always blooming this time of year when we come down for the annual music festival. It has taken eight hours to get here, and we are eager to unload our bags and settle in.
    The next day, my friend Erma goes to work on one of the hacienda’s antique wooden statues. Erma has done restoration work all over the world, and she is scheduled to restore the hacienda’s little theater with Venetian plaster and stenciling.
    That morning, I meet up with an American woman named Linda