Riding Barranca by Laura Chester

It is already getting warm, and we all strip down to our t-shirts, tying extra wraps to the backs of our saddles. After an hour or so, we come upon the abandoned mine buildings, with one towering smokestack made out of well-maintained brick, but the stone foundation of the old hacienda is crumbling. We tie up near another massive fig tree that reminds me of Peter Pan’s hideout.
    Wandering about the ruins, we come upon a brick tunnel. Walking inside, I smell bat guano and see a mass of tiny bats flying about—disarming. We are told that the prisoners had to enter this tunnel at night, first on their knees and then flat out on their bellies before reaching the sleeping quarters where twenty to thirty men were housed.
    Settling down at the base of a fig tree, we share our snacks, though we want to save our appetites for Sam’s in Aduana, knowing we’ll have a feast of
boltanos,
platters of family-style food. Teri pulls out her cell phone and—guess what—“No
reception!”
Leaning back against the trunk of the tree, we talk about the ride that Teri is going to take with some women-friends in Africa. “I might not be the best rider, but at least I know how to have fun,” she laughs.
    After an hour’s rest, we mount back up and retrace our steps. It is always interesting to experience the landscape in both directions. We can now see the little village down belowand the town of Alamos to the west. It is about a nine-mile ride, and as we come into town, we feel triumphant. Cantering up the last stretch of cobblestones toward the church plaza, a herd of goats dances around us. One little guy even bounces up onto the stone wall to get out of our way.
    It is only four o’clock and we have an hour before the others arrive for dinner, so Rosemary and I have a cup of tea before we head over to the cooperative shop up the hill. Here local women make all sorts of primitive dolls—the more naïf the better. There are tiny purses fashioned from goats’ balls, trimmed in gold with dangling fringe. It is a most curious assortment of finds: tiny, old burro shoes, minerals, hand-stitched pillows, and rustic baskets made from saguaro cactus.
    An elderly man takes us into his house at the end of the lane. He has an old carpenter’s chest for sale, painted orange and blue—it would make a perfect tack box. When he opens it up, I see that the chest contains all sorts of treasures: a bag of old coins, baby shoes, his passport and other important papers. It seems sad for him to part with it, but he assures me that he wants to sell.
    Soon Erma and the others arrive. Sam serves up some excellent margaritas, and we are all ready for the
boltanos
that follow—grilled shrimp, marinated in an orange marmalade mixed with five kinds of chilies, garlic, oil, vinegar, and sugar, delicious, especially because they’ve been grilled in the shell. We peel and devour them by hand. Then a delectable chipotle-creamed chicken with slices of apple, and another platter of filet mignon and local green beans. Finally, there is chocolate cake and coffee to get us back on the road to town so that we can get to the evening performance. Horses and opera, feasting and fete-ing, all on the night of the full moon.

ARIZONA

    Raven
Part of the Family
    Two ravens have made themselves at home in the horse paddock. I assume they have come to gather dropped bits of grain. They sit together on the gate like a pair of old cronies contemplating their domain. I wonder what the horses think of them. Do they consider them part of the herd, part of our extended family?

    Wind
Definitely an Off Day
    Not in a great mood even on waking. Why. Is it the wind? I hate the wind as much as the horses do. I even prefer a blizzard or hail to this incessant blowing. They say that the wind carries the scent of predators and that is why horses get spooky.
    Helen arrives with her trailer, and then Phil and Leslie show up, but taking