Riding Barranca (19 page)

But now, we pass through the field undisturbed and head into the deep woods. The deerflies aren't too bad. In fact, Barranca shakes off his bright blue, net ear-covering, and I tuck it into my pocket. There is the faint smell of grape on the road home, followed by fresh tar, and then mown fields. It is so mild and blissful, Barranca so easy in hand, that I feel I could almost fall asleep in the saddle.
Somnambulistic.

Mountain Laurel

Betsy Spears and Christopher Bamford live at the end of Mount Washington Road. It is a long haul uphill, but a welcomed change from the normal known. Today, Betsy wants to take me up her dirt road to see the voluminous mountain laurel that blooms wild along the roadside in pale pink and subtle rose. The bushes spread back into the forest like a fairyland.

Heading back into the woods, I note how it has a sylvan medieval feel to it. A small stream runs alongside the path
with large rock outcroppings covered in moss. The forest here is like nature's chapel, flickering with bird song and filtered light. Riding beside the stream, I imagine these ravines filled with turbulent water when the winter snows melt, but now it is simply flowing along at a soothing pace.

The trails are all well-marked, but few riders have come this way, apparently, as many branches hang rather low. She ducks under while I try to prune a bit as we go,
snap, snap.

On the path, we meet a solitary hiker who says that the stone boulders on top of the mountain have rattlesnakes right now. It is breeding season, and they are coming out. Betsy and Chris found two large rattlesnakes behind their barn this morning. A local snake man caught them in a garbage can, marking their rattles so that their movement could be tracked for a local study—funny to come from the land of desert reptiles and to feel their presence right here in the Berkshires.

Double Mane

Luckily, Rocket has not been stumbling this year. Perhaps, he has outgrown that awkward adolescent phase where his limbs were not quite connected to his brain.

This morning, Kacy and I trailer over to Mountain Road. If my memory serves me right, there is a long path up here that runs along the crest of the ridge through abundant woods. We find it easily enough. Soon, we are in forest wilderness with birds singing all about us. It is a lovely day to be riding, getting a scent of juniper and sweet fern that smells mildly like peppermint when crushed by the horses' hooves.

Maneuvering around a steel cable meant to keep out cars, we pass a handmade sign that says CARDIAC HILL. Several doctors own this tract of land, and they have done some clearing since the days when I used to ride here with Ayler on his New Forest pony. Ayler always liked exploring new areas, and we often snuck onto private land. Once, we were chased by a farmer in his beat-up truck. We knew all the hiding spots, the getaway paths, and we were never caught. One land owner, fed up with us, posted a sign, “NO
WHORS RIDING.”

The biggest difference between riding in the East and the West is that Arizona has so much public land that you have easy access to almost every possible trail. Even ranchers, who lease land from the government, don't mind you riding through as long as you close all gates behind you. But here we are often trespassing, sneaking around. One neighbor created big branch barricades to keep me out and even went so far as to hide broken bottles along the trail I used. I don't ask permission because I'm afraid of being told, “No.” My father's friendly method of persuasion was—
if I am stopped, I will talk my way out of it.

I don't believe the cardiac doctors are anywhere around. They mostly come here for hunting season, so we have these wild woods to ourselves today. Passing several marsh ponds coated with algae, we hear the deep croak of bullfrogs. What a great place for birders. But then as I'm day-dreaming,
Barranca almost steps into a rotted-out metal culvert hole. That could have been a disaster. Horrified, I yell back to Kacy, “Watch out!”

I remember the terrible accident Donna's horse Zwen had when he stepped through a rusty culvert like this and sawed up his leg. At the time, everyone in the barn thought he should be put down, but Doctor Hammond and the stable groom, Pinky, saved his life. The great Dutch Warmblood survived the trauma and is still Donna's beloved pet.

One tragedy reminds me of another, and I think of Cody trapped in that cattle guard. It's hard to imagine his panic and pain.

I tell Kacy about giving up Ayler's little pony, Star, one autumn day when my son had outgrown her, and how Cody whinnied desperately after her, staring in her departing direction. After hours of calling out, he hung his head and became depressed for the rest of the winter. How thoughtless of me to deprive him of his beloved companion. I'm convinced that horses do fall in love, and they too can suffer heartbreak.

On our way back to the trailer, I dismount, and go to gather branches to plug up the treacherous hole. This should mark it for future rides. When we reach the chain that marks off this private land, I smile at the hand-scribbled sign:
“No Trespassing. Surveillance cameras in operation. You will be prosecuted!”
Good luck.

By the Cottage

Returning to Oconomowoc for our mother's funeral, I greet family from all over the country. Even Clovis and his wife and their two small sons, Kailer and Cash, have come all the way from Australia.

Every time Kailer sees me, he cries out,
“HI GRAMMA!”
It is enough to melt my heart. I realize, since my mother passed away, I am the only “Gramma” in our immediate family now, and I love the title—it doesn't make me feel old.

The little boys love to walk over to the farm to look at the horses and feed the chickens. They never seem to tire of gathering those delightful, warm eggs, placing them in the grey cardboard carton, counting them up. I should also count my blessings.

But coming back here to the scene of my childhood, a lot of memories surface and they aren't all nice.

When we gathered for my father's last birthday party, he was in the middle of radiation treatment and Mom was at her worst. She didn't like the focus being all on him, and she didn't like so many people in her house. When I arrived, I asked if I could stay in the “pink room.”

“But that's a nice room, why don't you stay in the…”

Why shouldn't I stay in a nice room?

Then one morning, while helping myself to some orange juice out of the fridge, she came raging into the kitchen and grabbed the carton out of my hands, spraying it everywhere, screaming, “That's not for you—it's for your father!”

I grabbed it back and yelled at her, “Why are you always so mean to me?”

She hit me, and I struck her back. My niece, little Isabelle, was cringing, and my son, Clovis, dragged me away. But I'd had it with her! HAD IT.

Once when I was visiting Oconomowoc, we were all sitting around a large, round table at the Lake Club, and I asked Mom if I could have a bite of her Schaum torte, my favorite, not wanting to order a full portion for myself. She turned on me and announced over the table, “You should be losing five pounds a week.” Good idea, in a matter of months I wouldn't exist.

I think about when my parents were passing through New York and I wanted to have a meal with them—my mother's response was, “This is our time to be alone together, Laura. We're only seeing the people we really want to see.”

But finally, I have grown tired of my own processing, tired of opening old wounds. Isn't it time to heal them, let them
go? I have so many good memories of those summer months— building forts in the horse field with leftover fence poles, organizing rodeos, running our putt-putts through the canals where we hid out on secret islands. We had picnic lunches down on the dock, and watched the sunfish slithering beneath the white planks of the pier as we fed them bits of Wonderbread.

I really liked our family dinners over at the big house where there was a painted mural of pheasants running all around the room. The cousins would try to out-eat each other, piling up ears of baby bantam corn, sprinkling sugar on thick-sliced tomatoes from our voluminous garden. There were popovers with homemade currant jelly—each jar with a little wax lid— and Winnie, our grandmother's cook, always had frosted ginger cookies for us if we were willing to listen to her. Even our rather aloof grandfather allowed us to drop saccharin pills into his coffee as we chanted, “Swimming swimming swimming swimming,” while they dissolved.

But best of all was riding with Gramma. “Uphill fast, downhill slow, on the level let them go.” She was a fearless rider and took off when we hit the edge of a shorn field. I only worried if we'd be able to stop the stampede when we came to the end—a boundary of tall, dense corn.

My mother could not abide my grandmother, and she mistrusted my boyfriend, Kenny Buchanan, the “bad boy” of the lake. I think she was afraid that he would knock me up, but we never went beyond first base.

Of course now I want to ride over to Kenny's old summer house where we first learned how to kiss. I know it is time to let my negative memories go, and what better way to do that than to go for a ride? Eager to get out alone by myself, I decide
to try out Daphne's new horse, Booker, a Friesian/Quarter Horse cross.

“He needs a strong rider,” Daphne warns me, for he is an eight-year-old powerhouse.

Still, I am eager to try him. Over at the stable, the farmhand is wiping Booker down with bug spray. The deerflies here can be terrible. Seeing this majestic bay horse standing cross-tied, I realize how huge he is. I know he bucked off my cousin, Ross, this spring, so I feel a bit apprehensive, but go ahead and throw on his Western saddle. He stands nicely while I mount, but I can feel his nervous energy as we leave the other horses and head down the road.

Passing the tennis court, I ask the players if they could hold the ball for a moment while I pass, for Booker seems spooky. The driveway is now paved, rather than dirt as it was in our childhood. I keep giving him leg signals to move him forward, stroking his neck and praising him constantly. I know he has not been ridden much, and he is clearly herd-bound, but he does seem willing to please.

We continue down Pettit Road to the old Buchanan driveway. The woods here are dense, and the deerflies nest in Booker's mane, annoying him. They even bite my thighs, but I want to find that lovely riding trail that goes down to the lakefront and around the point.

In the fall, the oak leaves here are a dazzling yellow against the autumnal blue. I find the hidden path and ride down to the lapping shore, still reluctant to canter, but I do get into a nice spongy jog. I don't want Booker taking off with me so I keep him in check, but it is tiring holding him back.