Riding Barranca by Laura Chester Page B

funeral for our father. He had been too important to the community, and our extended family needed a time to come together and grieve. “Closure” was not really the point. For some, there would never be closure.
    Together, we decided to override our mother’s wishes. When we told her of our decision, she went ballistic. How dare we go against her! I urged her to join us. Mason and I could take her to the airport and fly with her. It didn’t seem right that she would boycott her husband’s funeral. We would have to make excuses for her, as usual.
    But her decision, oddly, felt normal. Popi might have even appreciated her egocentric ways, for it confirmed what everyone thought—that she was impossible and that he was a saint for putting up with her. It was quite a role she had served as his foil. People rarely suspected him of being anything other than a cross between a perfect prince and the good-time guy who always picked up the bill.
    The funeral was held on a sunny, balmy mid-March day, and most of our family was present. The mild-mannered Broadoaks caretaker (labeled by Mom as “a moron”) had managed to bring a well-groomed llama and horse by trailer from Oconomowoc into Milwaukee. The animals stood outside the front door of the church with leis of flowers around their necks. True Popi style!
    My brother, David’s, eulogy was a highpoint: “Dad was a joiner who relished the dynamics of the group. He was a habitual includer (never an excluder), and his motto whenever asked if one more person could come out for the weekend was alwaysimmediate and predictable—‘The more the merrier!’ He cut a swath through the world and had enormous fun doing it.”
    Abigail, my niece, also took a turn. “When we were little,” she began, “my grandfather would on occasion turn into a polar bear. He would get down on all fours, roaring, and chase us around the house. For my grandfather, every moment was a potential adventure, every stranger a potential friend. He may have been a respectable lawyer and investor in the eyes of the community, but to his grandchildren, he was a hero.”
    Two weeks after our father’s funeral, Mom was going through her own private season from hell. She went in for double knee-replacement surgery. I think it came as a relief to exchange her emotional pain for physical suffering.
    I came up to Scottsdale numerous times during her recovery. Once banished by my mother, she now encouraged me to come, as if it were the most natural thing.
    Clambering over rock, picking one path or another as the trail splits, we find ourselves on the less inhabited Llama Trail, which makes me think of my father, who raised llamas in Oconomowoc. People always stopped by the field to ask, “What are they?”
Llamas.
“What are they like?”
Gentle, alert, prancy.
How he would have enjoyed riding here in the Munds Mountain Wilderness. We feel at ease picking our way as we ride along with no concern about how we will return.
    My cousin points out grey-blue juniper berries that have fallen on the red earth with little pokes of fresh grass finishing the picture. There are lots of one-seed junipers with leaves called scales instead of needles, pinion pine, and manzanita, which have a sensually smooth, red-brown bark. The winterrains have brought out a scattering of wildflowers—purple dick, Indian paintbrush, and little yellow daisies.
    The horses drink from the shallow water of the rock pools, slurping it up between their teeth. We choose a high, flat area to tie them up for lunch. In the middle of this open space, there is one large rock where Helen dismounts. The horses are used to getting a treat at their rest stops, and I have a couple of carrots and nibbles in my saddle pack. Loosening their girths, we tie them up in what has to pass for a bit of shade, then we settle down for a rest.
    Ready to ride again after lunch, Helen scrambles back up