Riding Barranca by Laura Chester Page A

all three of my horses out is a lot of work with the machinations of feeding, mucking, catching, grooming, saddling, bridling, and loading. Tonka steps on Phil’s foot. Then driving out of the paddock, I ram the side of the trailer into a fence post, bending a fender up against the tire. We have to get out a hammer to pry the metal away from the rubber or we’ll have a flat in no time.
Wind.

    Heading Out
    Helen remains calm and patient, even though riding with four people on a day like this seems crazy. Up on the San Rafael the wind is even more intense and the horses are unnerved. Everything seems an extra effort. Phil has trouble with his saddle, slipping, his stirrups too long, uneven, and then he pulls so hard on Peanut’s mouth, I have to insist that he ease up. Wind,
wind,
WIND!

    Under the Sycamore
Peanut’s Drop-Off Day
    Heading to the barn to grain and ready the horses, I groom out all the mud that has accumulated on their coats—little pigpen boys. Barranca gets into the trailer with ease, and then I load Peanut. He doesn’t realize that after this morning ride with Leslie, we will be taking him over to Melinda South’s for training while I’m in Australia for two weeks.
    Mason and I rented a house at the end of Blue Haven Road when we were building our place. I often took long walks with the author Jim Harrison there. He and his wife, Linda, were our closest neighbors. I made their acquaintance by hanging a little bag of New Year’s gifts on their gate—a pear, a firecracker, and a note asking if it was okay to harvest watercress from the Sonoita Creek that ran by their house. He wrote back immediately, saying,
“NO!” I should not eat the watercress or I might get giardia.
That was the beginning of a good, long friendship, which we have had over these past ten years.
    Leslie and I decide to ride all the way to the Harrison’s house this morning, passing the Nature Conservancy and then the Circle Z land where I used to ride when I stayed at the ranch with my sons. We cross the creek at the end of the road. The water is deep here, and the horses take a long drink. The Harrison’s gate is open so we ride up to the house calling out,
“Yoo-hoo, anybody home?”
Both Linda and Jim come out to look at the horses. I tell them that we’ve come for an espresso, and they invite us in. “Just kidding. We’ve had enough caffeine for one day.” Besides, we’ve got to get back to Melinda’s. We’re running late.
    When we arrive, Melinda’s gate is wide open, and her two horses are wandering about the lot freely. Peanut seems a bit nervous eyeing the unfamiliar yard and animals, including a small brown calf named “Steak.” We shut Peanut into a pen, get him some hay, and unload grain. I hand over his bridle and attempt to leave a bag of carrots and apples, which could be given to him with his morning feed, but Melinda says that she doesn’t like to feed apples because of the carbohydrates. I’ve never heard that one before. But this is her place, and she is the trainer, so she can call the shots.
    Melinda is quite a pistol, a beautiful young woman with long brown hair. She is part Native American, and has a special way with horses.
    â€œI just have one request,” I tell her. “Once Peanut is free to roam about the yard with the other horses, can you be sure to close your gate?”
    â€œI’m usually here,” she responds, “and I know horses.”
    But I remain adamant. “I just need you to honor that one request. You know what happened to Helen’s horse.”
    I had given Cody to Helen years ago, and when she came west to build her house in Patagonia, she brought him along. Cody was blind in one eye and thirty-six years old whenhe escaped his pasture and went careening across Route 82. Spooked, he tried to re-enter his field by crossing a cattle guard where he got his leg stuck and