Riding Barranca (12 page)

Later that morning, we head out to Temporal Canyon with Barranca and Ben in tow, winding around through the mountains, the dirt road washboard-rough, but a sweep of poppies has coated the foothills with a profusion of yellow, stunning.

This trail is accompanied by running water all along the way—melting snow from Mount Wrightson, no doubt. It pools in the “blue bathtubs,” a place where Helen and friends like to tie up and swim when it's a bit warmer. Today, it is already in the high seventies but not warm enough for a plunge.

The horses enjoy walking through the stream as it crosses the trail, cooling their hooves. The ash trees have just begun to leaf out, looking as if a thousand bright green grasshoppers have alighted on their limbs. Bali lies down in the river every once in a while, perhaps a bit overheated by his growing coat.

Halfway down the trail, something catches my eye—I spot a transient on the far hillside, hiding behind an
agave
cactus as if that spindly plant could protect him from view. I yell out, “Hola,” but he does not move. We assume that he's on his way toward Tucson, taking this back route through the foothills where he won't be seen by the border patrol.

Wandering on, getting closer to the great peak of Mount Wrightson, we find a nice place to break for lunch. Looking down on the trail, Helen notices a sign spelled out with sticks on the path:
“WE HERE.”
But so are we, and we are ready to eat. I realize I've forgotten to bring Barranca's halter—I'm getting so forgetful these days.

On the way back to the trailer, I keep drinking from my water bottle as the afternoon grows warmer. I suggest that we unsaddle the horses and lead them down to the stream to see if they might like to roll in the nice shallow water, but neither horse wants to do more than take a slurping sip.

After loading Barranca into the trailer, I grab a large plastic bottle from the tack room floor and take a swig—but it is
not
a water bottle—I have just taken a big gulp of floor-cleaning liquid! I spit it out and grab real water and try to flush it out of my mouth, but the toxic taste is hard to get rid of—NASTY. I can feel it burning down my throat.

Luckily, there are no significant repercussions. But when I get home, I sweep out the trailer's tack room, throwing away all the half-empty water bottles and the random junk that has accumulated there. Maybe a little order will help me pay more attention.

Abigail

After a two-day visit with her grandmother in Scottsdale, my niece, Abigail, is ready to ride with me. Abigail, my sister's oldest daughter, is easy to be with, so calm, she almost floats through the world with her soothing voice. Her relaxed nature
makes for a pleasant companion on the trail. I must say that my nieces are faithful granddaughters. Perhaps it is easier being in that generation-skipping role than it is for a daughter like me.

“How's Gramma doing,” I ask her.

“Pretty good,” she responds. “Thank God she has Wanda.” We both agree that Wanda is amazing. Mom couldn't function without her. Wanda is Mom's touchstone, her totally true north, her Rock of Gibraltar, her saving grace.

Abigail goes on to tell me how Wanda was spoon-feeding Gramma lunch, and Gramma almost seemed asleep, her eyes half-closed, but she ate almost all of her soup. “She hasn't been eating much lately. But just as Wanda was getting ready to leave the room, Gramma opened one eye and said,
Isn't there any chocolate ice cream?”

Abigail grins, and we ride on in silence for a while, but then Abigail adds, “It's so nice that Gramma can be at home. She really loves Arizona.”

Mom built her modern fortress of a house years before we built Casa Durazno. She lived in an upper-end, gated community and thought we lived in “no man's land.”

At one Thanksgiving in Patagonia, my sister Cia brought her three girls down to our house to join in the festivities. On the car ride from Scottsdale, Mom told Cia, in front of her adopted daughter, Claire, “You know adoption is usually unfortunate, because of the genes.”

Claire started crying, “Gramma, you are so mean!”

“I'm never mean,” Mom responded.

In contrast, the last thing Popi said to Claire was, “I love you, Claire. I love you as much as all the other grandchildren. Don't ever feel like I love you differently because you are adopted. You are a Chester and that's all there is to it.”

Cia took a lot of abuse. Claire was too fat. Abigail had piercings. Lily was rude and unhelpful. I could see Cia wince, receiving this shrapnel. Mom kept talking to Cia about my house, how gorgeous it was, but this compliment came off as a kind of twisted put-down.

Is the pain of rejection so fierce that I now make sure others don't have to feel it? Do I mother my boys with greater love and attention, because of what was withheld from me? Who was I trying to impress with my five-course meals, with my abundant gift-giving? Was it overcompensation or a warped form of spiritual pride?

At least Cia knew how to confront our mother. For some reason, my sister had always been open and direct with her. Cia challenged Mom about how tight she was with her cash—she had some astronomical amount sitting in her checkbook, yet she still quizzed Wanda about the cost of gas and lamb chops. “You know, someday you're going to have to stand up in front of Jesus and explain how you used your money,” Cia said.

“If God doesn't like it, that's His problem.”

Mom then continued, “Your father was such an idiot, giving so much money to the government.” When she tore him down, I tried to switch the subject, derailing her, pointing out the good he had done, putting all of our children through school, but she didn't want to hear about that.

If one of her grandchildren offended her, she would take off like a terror, delivering a scathing litany. It reminded me of all those car rides as a child when I was trapped in the passenger seat, listening to her ongoing monologue. There was never a question of interest in my life, only her ranting opinions. Did she make herself feel better by putting others down? Maybe,
it had to do with hormones, or it was just her personality, left unchecked. Certainly, my father never stopped her.

Mom was appalled that Cia's daughters were in blue jeans and t-shirts, not dressed up for Thanksgiving dinner, and that they even brought cans of Coke to the table. I didn't mind, and I was the hostess. I was pleased that everyone liked my delicato squash soup, laced with light cream and Grand Marnier. The turkey was done to perfection. I only wanted to feel grateful that family was together, that we were having a good time and that the sun was shining as only the Arizona sun can shine.

I remember a letter Mom sent me after Mason and I visited my parents in Scottsdale. She was furious because we had decided to go riding with Popi instead of playing tennis with her. If everyone didn't cooperate, she went into a tantrum spreading poisonous fumes over everyone. No wonder we headed for the stable.

“Whose genes are in you?” she wrote to me. “I cannot believe that you are my daughter. You twist your father around your little finger and it is disgusting!”

What can I say? That I don't want to become like my mother, but I am still her daughter. I want to understand what made her the woman she is, but I don't want to replay the inner voice I heard haranguing me since I was an infant. I can still see ticks of resemblance, and notice little facial expressions in photographs, verbal repetitions that are deep in the iceberg of personality formed before I had a choice. But now I do have a choice. And I choose to ride out. I choose to relinquish the past and relish the present, finding freedom and forgiveness on horseback.

Helen is going to meet us at the Patagonia Lake corral at ten. I am riding Tonka, as he seems to do well on this trail, and Abigail has Barranca. On the way down the slope we note new signs of spring —pale mauve bottle-brush flowers and some Indian paintbrush, as well as little purple star-shaped flowers, lovely. The cottonwoods are almost fully leafed out now, and the day is warm and brilliant. There is nothing more beautiful than desert sunshine filtering through those bright spring leaves while riding through creek water. We forge the stream every chance we get and ride for long stretches through the shallows. Tonka is a bit hesitant when he sees long strands of green slime streaming beneath him, but soon he discovers that this is not to be feared. In fact, it might even be edible.

Abigail is enjoying herself, splashing along. We take a few fast gallops along the straight paths, and at one point, Tonka bucks and veers, and I feel a twinge in my spine. He doesn't like to be last, but he's got to learn to behave.

We ride all the way to the gate that leads to Rio Rico. It is as far as we have ever gone, and Helen feels it is far enough. We wander back up through the stream, cliff swallows wheeling overhead, until we find a good place to tie up the horses in the shade. Taking off our boots and socks, stripping down to our underwear, we cross back over into the sun and eat our lunch. A half-hour later, it is not so easy getting sandy, wet feet back into socks and boots. I can feel little pebbles in my pants as we remount, but this lazy break was worth it.

In Front of the Fire

Abigail and I decide to get up at 5:15
A.M.
to go for an early ride. After a double espresso, we load up and head to the San Rafael Valley. The morning light is just beginning, and by the time we arrive at the rim of the valley, it is getting brighter. The sun is supposed to rise by 6:08
A.M.
, though it takes a few extra minutes for it to climb above the Huachucas. The folds of the foothills make a spectacular vision—the lower hills appear darker, scattered with oaks, and a misty lavender haze washes over the paler mountain range behind.

I decide to take Ab to the north end of the valley, and along the way we spot a dead coyote on the road, probably shot by some rancher. Now it just lies there, decaying, but it still has a lovely, intact tail. We ride all the way out to the edge of the valley where I spot a dirt road that seems to be going up the backside of Saddle Mountain. I have often tried to find
a way through the fence out here in the hopes of climbing this incline, never meeting with success. But today we find an unlatched gate—
an Easter opening!
We continue to climb until the trail becomes very steep. We have to stop and let the horses rest along the way. I wonder who would make a road up here and for what purpose? Phil Caputo once told me that drug smugglers used the top of Saddle Mountain as a lookout post. Were we riding into danger?

We inevitably talk about Abigail's mother, my sister Cynthia (Cia), five years younger. I loved my serious, little sister, who wrote haiku and absentmindedly walked into trees while contemplating some grand philosophical thought. True, I had been jealous of my father's taunting, saying over and over—“Cynthia has the most beautiful hair in the family.” Her luscious auburn locks were the same color as my father's when he was a boy. My darling dumpling of a sister was not a serious threat, but his terrible teasing drove me (a straggly haired blonde) to snap off forsythia wands and whip them against various objects. This is For-Cynthia, and this!

I can remember how mortified I was when my mother exclaimed, “You're just jealous of your sister.”

“No, I'm not,” I lied.

My father used jealousy as a clever tool, a major psychological weapon in his arsenal. He used it to protect himself. He used it as a smokescreen, setting us up like figurines, moving us into position, so that we would be jealous of each other, instead of focusing on his faults. But I was tired of being pitted against mother and sister, for what? So he could have his illicit freedom—running off to Paris or San Francisco for some dangerous fun?