Riding Barranca by Laura Chester

Author:Laura Chester
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Trafalgar Square Books
Published: 2013-03-21T16:00:00+00:00

All Wet

Cochise Stronghold

As we drive toward Dragoon, Helen reads from the tear sheet Mason has printed off the Internet: Cochise Stronghold is a protective rampart of granite domes and sheer cliffs that was once the base of operations for famed Chiricahua Apache Chief, Cochise. Sentinels, constantly on watch from the towering pinnacles of rock, could spot their enemies in the valley below and sweep down without warning….Upon his death, Cochise was secretly buried somewhere near his impregnable fortress. The exact location has never been revealed.

Turning toward the mountains the road becomes dirt, rippled with washboard ridges. The equestrian parking lot is just a half-mile up ahead next to an old, abandoned, stone house. When we pull in, we see that we are the only riders in the stronghold this morning—nice.

Heading down the trail, we meet three middle-aged women on foot with their tiny dogs. They suggest that we take the Middlemarch Trail instead of the Cochise Trail, which is difficult for horses to traverse with its narrow cuts and switchbacks. I say, “Thanks,” but I should have said, “No thanks,” as the Middlemarch Trail turns out to be extremely rocky and uninteresting with low cedar growth and no significant vistas. We keep on climbing for about an hour, going through three gates before we get to a rise and see more of the same ahead.

“What do you think?” I ask Helen. “Maybe, we should turn back and try the other trail.” I remember it as being spectacular, and this is rather boring. She agrees, so down we go. In the distance, we spot a large watering hole, and decide to stop and have our lunch here before riding up the Cochise Trail with its grand domes of stacked rock.

Helen lets Bendajo wander around untied with his hackamore knotted over his pommel. But then he takes it upon himself to wade out into the dark water up to his belly. He is about to submerge, saddle and all, when Helen gets him to return. I hold onto Barranca’s reins, and he stands over me, looking for treats, grabbing mouthfuls of grass where he can. I realize how much I trust this horse and feel a rush of affection for him.

After lunch, we find the turnoff for the Cochise Trail and are immediately entranced. The path winds around through alligator juniper, century plants, and prickly pear cactus, affording constant views of the unusual mountains that look like balanced piles of smooth stone stacked up by a giant three-year-old. We have to pass over one difficult, slick section, and the horses pick their way down a steep staircase of rough rocks, but they both manage, sure-footed. I only wish that we had time to ride all the way to the top.

We imagine all the hiding places that Cochise and his tribe secured. The leader’s wild spirit seems to float over this landscape as if inhabiting the repeated call of a mourning dove. I answer—calling back—pretending to be an Apache speaking in native code.

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