Riding Barranca (9 page)

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.

“I 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?”

“I'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 when
he 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 had to be shot, then grotesquely dismembered before receiving a too-shallow grave. It was a terrible end for a truly valiant horse. I had never heard my cousin cry so long and hard as when she received this horrible news.

Melinda agrees to keep the gate shut, but seems a bit put off by my request. Perhaps her horses didn't wander, but Peanut could try to head home. Leaving a beloved horse in someone else's care is a bit like leaving a child at nursery school for the first time. I just want to feel confident and at ease.

“Alpha meets Alpha,” I grimace, as we pull on out of the drive.

My Best Boy

Yet again, I'm entranced by Barranca's beautiful gaits as we ride through the federal land behind the paddock. He is so easy in hand, so willing and wonderful, while Tonka, left alone
in the stall, is agitated. I wonder if they both miss Peanut. Do they notice that he is gone? But Peanut is having a fine ole time at winter camp with Melinda South. “He and the filly have fallen in love,” Melinda tells me over the phone. Her mean, older, aggressive mare is not quick enough to catch him.

Melinda has more than a few tricks up her sleeve— one is to put sweet feed in a couple of open, lidless, gallon containers, and the horses take turns tossing them about, trying to get out the grain. She also drizzles molasses on some big play balls, and they enjoy licking and kicking the balls. When I drop by for a visit, Peanut comes over to say hello and nuzzles me, then he is off to play with his friends.

Later Melinda calls to tell me that she has gotten Peanut into an excellent flat walk. Her two small sons rode Peanut together bareback, and the older one said, “Peanut is
my
horse.”

Ayler

There are over two-hundred horses boarded at the Centennial Parklands Equestrian Centre in Sydney. It is an old-fashioned, well-kept facility that includes five different stables within the complex. A friendly woman recommends Moore Park Stables, so we seek them out and sign up for a ride on March third, which will be right before our flight back to the United States.

I check out their horses and pick Decs for myself. The owner says he is her favorite horse—a strong-looking Appaloosa. Another gelding, Howie, stands 17 hands. Ayler can ride this beautiful bay Thoroughbred. I am just hoping that he won't have an allergic reaction.

The following morning all of us—including my older son, Clovis, his wife and their boys, Kailer and Cash—return to the airport for a flight to Hamilton Island in the Great Barrier Reef. Here we catch a ferry boat to Lindeman Island.
It is wonderful being with my two little grandsons. I only get to see them once or twice a year, and I relish these visits.

Traveling north, we move closer to the equator, and it is sweltering with heat and humidity. The resort is filled with small children who don't seem to notice or mind. Both boys love swimming with their father, and little Cash lights up whenever he sees “Gramma,” reminding me of baby Clovis thirty-five years ago.

We have a great day snorkeling out on the reef where fish glide by in an endless variety of forms. My favorite is the curvy purple lip of a giant clam that opens and shuts so languorously. Another day, we take a boat ride to the silica white sand beach of Whitehaven and spend an afternoon in the buoyant sea water. Using Kailer's plastic shovel and pail, I dig out some of the pure soft sand to bring back to my mother-in-law, Em, knowing how she would love putting her hands in it. Later I find out that she tried to eat it!

Kailer and Cash

When we return to Sydney for one short night, we rise early for our horseback ride, searching out some good coffee before
grabbing a cab for the stable. Unfortunately, my original horse of choice, Decs, is lame. Dante will be his substitute. I decide that Howie is awfully big, and perhaps I should ride him instead of Ayler.

The owner tells us that we will only be able to walk and trot on the equestrian trail that runs around the park. The pathway is separated by a white fence, and the trail itself has good sandy footing. But once we are out, our guide can see that we know what we're doing, and she doesn't mind our cantering on.

There is something so urban about riding in a well-groomed park like this. It reminds me of movies where people are all dressed up in their riding habits, posting in Paris or London or New York—all very civilized, I'm sure, but a far cry from the freedom of the wild, Wild West.

The park must be one of the most beautiful in the world with its undulating grounds filled with plant life and birds, small ponds and playing fields. It is a glorious morning, in the high sixties, refreshing after the intense heat of the Great Barrier Reef. I'm not used to riding on such restricted terrain, but it is still nice to be in the saddle. No trip seems complete without a ride of some sort.

Our guide tells me that Howie is a “bit of a pain,” and I soon learn why—for though he has a big strong trot, he is reluctant to get into a canter, and instead of responding to my legs and signals, he simply trots out with bigger and faster strides, until I finally kick him really hard, repeatedly, and then he only canters for a short ways and then drops back into his lazy-boy gait. I might have better luck with a crop, but there aren't even any branches within arm's reach. I have to ride ahead because
if she and Ayler canter in front of me, Howie will bolt past them, and I certainly don't want to hurt myself on a strange horse right before takeoff.

Anyway, I am glad that Ayler's horse, Dante, is behaving nicely. We ride by Busby Pond and then the equestrian grounds, where we work the horses in a small ring, but I still have difficulty getting Howie to canter.
What an effort.

We only have another hour before heading back, so we try to make the best of being out in the fresh warm air. Australia seems especially child-and-dog-friendly. There are strollers and puppies everywhere. One jogging mother goes by at a fast clip pushing her baby ahead of her. The horses seem used to all the distractions and certainly know when they are headed for home. I ask Howie for one final short canter, but when he breaks out of it, I feel a twinge in my back and fear trouble for the long flight home. I will appreciate my own good horses more than ever.

After dismounting, I notice that my inner thigh muscles are stressed, which I have not felt in years. At least I've had a bit of a workout, and Ayler was not bothered at all by the dander. He says repeatedly how happy he is to be riding again. I imagine the day when I can take Kailer and Cash out for a pony ride. What a pleasure that will be.

After showering and packing up, I have to say goodbye to my grandsons. I feel weepy leaving them, not knowing when I will see them again. I have bought each of them a little truck. As they sit at an angle to each other in their highchairs, I kiss them over and over and tell them how much I love them. Clovis ushers me out of the house as I wipe away tears, giving me an understanding hug.

Peanut's Flying Mane

After our two-week trip, we return to Patagonia jet-lagged. When I get up at eight in the morning, there is already a red blinking light signaling a message on my answering machine. I call Melinda back, and she wonders if I can make it over by nine to pick up Peanut before a threatening storm moves in. I thought she was going to have Peanut with her for a few more days, according to our agreement, but I don't want to argue. She considers his training done.

When I arrive, Melinda tells me that Peanut became buddies with the little calf in the next pen. But one night she put the two of them together in the same enclosure— Peanut became defensive of his space and really beat up on the poor little guy. The next morning the calf was all scarred up, shaking, and sorry-looking.

Before I get in the saddle, she shows me some of the stretching exercises she has been doing with Peanut, using bites of carrot to make him turn his head back to touch his side,
treat,
then the other side,
treat,
bending way down,
treat.
I lower her stirrups to the last notch. They still seem short
compared to what I'm used to, but she feels that I should have some bend in my knee, rather than riding with my legs hanging straight down.

She is using a halter/bridle combination, which she's willing to lend me until I can get an appropriate bit. Melinda doesn't like Peanut's usual bit that hangs too low in his mouth. He responds much better with a curb chain. She thinks I should buy an Imus Comfort Bit that has a lot of give.

Out on the road, Melinda suggests that I sit back in the saddle more, letting my hips move with the horse, keeping my body relaxed and my shoulders still. This feels right. I get him into a flat walk. He does seem to have made great progress, though it is a bit difficult keeping him going straight ahead.

Then she hops on and works him a while, making him stop and back up whenever he breaks into a pace. This is his reprimand, but when he moves nicely, she releases and praises him profusely. I can tell that he will need a lot of consistency and follow up before this gait locks into his young brain. But Melinda thinks he's a fabulous horse. “He has so much potential, and he hasn't gotten into any rotten habits like a lot of four-year-olds. His fast walk is just like a glide. I really fell in love with him. He only needs to pay attention. Whack him on the rear end if he needs to wake up. There you go.”