Riding Barranca by Laura Chester Page A

sandwiches along the way and only stop once near Picacho Peak to fill up the truck and give the horses slices of apple to moisten their mouths. Climbing out of the congested Phoenix traffic, we leave Highway 10 and enter a barren high plateau that reminds us both of Scotland.
    Helen amuses me with tales from her childhood. How her parents would dock five cents from her twenty-five-cent allowance if she said the word
Gol
(too close to God) or
shoot
(too close to shit). We talk about our grandmother, Alice, mother to both of our fathers. Helen says Gramma’s funeral was more green than black because there were so many Girl Scouts present. Helen’s memories are always different than mine. I think I was grieving too much over the loss of my grandmother to notice what anybody was wearing.

    Papa, Gramma, Laura
    Soon we see Sedona’s red rock mountains in the distance. I had forgotten how grand and awesome this area is. As we pass through Cave Creek, we find the turn off for Jack’s Canyon Road, and then the final righthand turn into Horse Mesa Ranch—a lovely boarding situation for our two boys. I thinkthey feel like they are at summer camp, happy to settle into their adjoining stalls with fresh hay and water.
    The owner of the facility is there to greet us. The place has a relaxed atmosphere, with about fifty or more horses in regular boarding. Dogs and mules roam about the lot. We uncouple the trailer from the truck, leaving our horses in their open-air stalls. It feels light and free traveling the next stretch without a load behind us.

    Mounting Rock
My Birthday Ride
    Helen, Kathleen, and I are all staying in Mom’s comfortable two-bedroom casita at the Enchantment Resort outside of Sedona. Her place is currently up for sale since she never uses it anymore. It is a wonderful spot, far from the tourist shops, with winding trails beneath the dramatic cliffs and hoodoos where “vortex” energy supposedly exists.
    Today is the thirteenth of April, my birthday. Fresh orange juice has been delivered to our door in a little wicker purse.I make eggs with green chile, and we have a leisurely breakfast out on the deck. The red cliffs are just across the way, and the air smells full of fresh pine.
    Back at Horse Mesa Ranch, our big boys are waiting for us. Once saddled, Barranca seems especially excited this morning. He dances around while we wait for our guide to get ready—then we follow her down the drive, passing through the surrounding suburbs until we find the gate that leads us out toward Bell Rock. Here we thank our guide and say goodbye. She has filled our heads with so much information about various trails that we have not been paying much attention to the route. We figure we can just follow the paths and pick our way back.
    Heading out over a flat plain, we take various turns on red earth that is luxuriously soft after the hard-packed trails of Patagonia. It is a perfect riding day with bright blue sky, warm but not too hot. We canter along these flat, comfortable paths, passing hikers and mountain bikers—a lot of people out enjoying the scenery in this glorious terrain. Bell Rock does indeed look like a big earthen bell, or maybe a teapot without spout or handle. At first, the horses seem a bit unnerved by all the foot traffic, but soon they settle down and are good company for each other, as are we. I feel lucky to have my closest cousin as a regular riding companion.
    Helen always came through for me, remembering my birthday and Christmas, traveling across country to attend my father’s memorial.
    We almost didn’t have a service because Mom insisted that there would be none. She didn’t want to come back to Milwaukee. Scheduled for knee replacement surgery, she didn’t feel up to thetrip, even though her doctor had told her that she should be up and walking, leading a normal life.
    The four of us siblings had a conference call and decided that we had to have a proper