Riding Barranca by Laura Chester Read Free Book Online Page B

breakfast.Teri Arnold, the owner of
La Puerta Roja,
has organized our adventure. Another friend of hers, Rosemary Kovatch, will join us. She is a beautiful woman with blonde curly hair and warm eyes, all decked out in a red cowboy shirt and matching boots, ready to go.
    But first we feast on the best breakfast in town and have cup after cup of strong coffee. Then Erma heads off to the notary to get the title to her little “ruin,” which she purchased three years ago. She will join us for dinner out in Aduana, a small village about fifteen minutes away. Leon, a Mexican cowboy, is waiting for us there with three horses tied to a
chalate
tree, an enormous fig.
    Again, I use my own saddle, and Leon admires it, though I have to redo his cinching. I think this annoys him, but I don’t want to ride with a large knot of leather under my knee. Leon does not speak English, and despite my blank stare, he assumes I can understand his instructions. I gather that he wants me to keep the horse’s head up high as he thinks the horse might trip otherwise, but many Mexican bits are so tough I want to handle her mouth gently.
    Teri is all decked out in Argentinean gear—a maroon poncho trimmed in black and a flat-topped gaucho hat. “I might not know how to ride,” she laughs, “but at least I look good!”
    Leon’s nephew is accompanying the ride on foot. They feel they need an extra man along in case anyone gets into trouble. I wonder what kind of trouble they are imagining, but no one thinks that last night’s rain will cause a problem. In fact, the earth looks dry. One of the largest fig trees in the area grows near the wash, perched on top of a wall with its rope-like roots streaming down the embankment in a combed out, mud-grey flow.
    Quickly climbing up out of Aduana, we comment on the petrified mining sludge that has been left like frozen lava on the hillside. Passing the luxurious home of two renovators, Peter and Bob, we note a flame tree blazing with blossoms in their well-kept courtyard. The long main building was once part of the mining operation, as the mine had to bring silver over the mountain by aerial tram.
    There are some stray cattle along the way, accompanied by the sonorous sound of cowbells. The horses know the trail and seem sure-footed.
Pochote
trees (also known as kapok) are scattered here and there. The large seed pods have opened to expose little puffs of white fiber. Sometimes the birds line their nests with this cozy cotton, but the local Indians also gather the fiber, spin it, and use it in their weaving. Long-tailed blue-black magpie jays take off into the mountain air—
exotico.
    Squeezing through one narrow rickety gate, we each take turns ducking under a low-hung tree and scramble up some loose rock to get to the trail. Then it is fairly easy riding. All my fears are blown away. There are no radical drop-offs, only tremendous views.
    As we continue climbing,
Casharamba
is dominant in the distance. This flat-topped mountain reminds me of one of Yosemite’s majestic peaks. Not surprising that the local Indians consider it a holy mountain. Its name means “needle in the ear” because there is a hole in the base of the rock, like a pierced lobe. I wonder if the wind whistles through there at times, speaking an unknown language to the indigenous.
    At the crest, we can see all the way to the Sea of Cortez, and in the other direction—the Sierra Madre and the beginning of the
Barranca del Cobre,
Copper Canyon.
    We are headed for the ruins of an old mine that was once owned by the mayor of Alamos. He reasoned that Sonora could use a prison and that the prisoners could help work his operation. This was a prison without bars, because apparently no one had the energy to escape after a long day’s work. In fact, the life expectancy of the prisoners after incarceration averaged only eighteen months.
    We begin to descend and look out over uninhabited land.