Riding Barranca Read Free

ago. We climb the hill from Mowry Road, and begin the descent on the other side of the ridge. My Standard Poodles, Bali and Cello, are with me today, padding along in tandem. There is nothing nicer than riding out on a good, steady horse with attentive dogs by your side.
    Maybe this isn’t snow, but a strange white powder— calcium, gypsum, alum? There has been a lot of exploratorymining going on in these hills recently. It seems tragic to disturb the peaceful grandeur of these mountains just to collect copper, silver, or manganese for fiscal gain. But today it is amazingly quiet. I feel like I am the only one enjoying this great expanse. Nobody else is out here,
just me and the drug runners.
    Continuing on down the slope, I can see Mount Wrightson poking up in the distance behind Red Mountain’s muscular yet feminine form. Up ahead there’s a huge grey outcropping I like to think of as “Rhino Rock”—so different from the rest of the iron-rich, red-colored mountains. I wonder about this landscape, its geologic history—what it is made of, when it was formed.
    A deer bounds away up the slope, and I am aware that mountain lions are becoming more of a presence. Recently a friend saw three grown lions crossing Harshaw Creek Road just a hundred feet from our driveway. Surely there are enough deer around to satisfy these carnivores, but still it worries me. I imagine seeing a big cat, and wonder what I would do to scare it away. Would it be interested in my dogs, trotting along so faithfully?
    I have forgotten my water bottle and am now very thirsty. Barranca stops to sample various puddles—some of which are probably filled with iron or sulphur or worse. Who knows what elements the mining has disturbed? The proposed Wildcat Mine is planning a massive 150-acre open pit with trucks running down Harshaw Road every eight minutes. I wonder how the Forest Service, which is supposedly the steward of our public land, can let this happen. Who knows what this operation will do to our already compromised water, not to mention the rest of the local ecology?

    Barranca on the Move
Sisters in the Saddle
    My sister Cia arrives today with Mom and Wanda, our mother’s caregiver. Mom’s Alzheimer’s has clearly progressed. After greeting me, she asks, “Whose house is this? Have I been here before?” though she has visited me three times since November. Her mind is like a Teflon pan—everything sliding right off. Mysteriously, this disease—so terrible in many ways—has allowed her to forget many of the conflicts of our past and has made her a much nicer person.
    The beds are all made, and supper composed, so I urge my sister to come out and ride with me. I am willing to give her my best boy, Barranca, though she is somewhat wary due to her last ride here a couple of years ago, when a friend’s horse dumped her in the wash.
    As we head out, I suggest that we try to focus on riding, and not talk too much, for I have noticed when riding with groups of women—and surely I am as much to blameas my companions—there is an almost compulsive need to communicate. Often a ride of three or four can be a cacophony, close to distracting.
    It is nice to be comfortable enough with a riding partner (like I am with my cousin Helen) to not have to talk constantly. But Cia and I have a lot of catching up to do. We are both concerned about our mother—her medications, her bruising, her balance, and of course, her mental state.
    We proceed up a very steep hill where Cia can get a full view of the mountains. It pleases me to hear her awed response to this expansive desert landscape.

    La Roca
    Cia would often visit me here in Arizona, bringing our ailing father down from Scottsdale. Since I was not welcome at my mother’s house for the past few years, this was the easiest way for me to see them, and I always looked forward to their company.
    On his last visit to Patagonia, we took