If you travel enough eventually the names of places, natural and unnatural, begin to repeat – forming some kind of staccato rhythm as you drive. Coyote Wash, Burro Mesa, Alpine, TX, Alpine, CA, Alpine, AZ. - and it is here, in the White Mountains outside of Alpine, Arizona that we camp.
The drive west from Magdalena – I love how that name rolls off my tongue – is full of wide meadows and distant mountains, and as our posse approaches the NM/AZ state line the asphalt sinks into the landscape, slicing through hills and low ridgelines. Blocking views, then exploding open like an Easter egg releasing its bounty of jellybeans and green confetti across the horizon.
Weather moves fast at 9,000 feet, I park in the shadow of Mt. Baldy, sacred to the White Mountain Apache, with just enough time to feed the horses - two this trip - myself, and the two dogs. I think it was in that order. And soon there was nothing else to do but sit under the awning and listen to the weight of the sky. Book in lap, spiral to the right, wine in hand - because every good rain deserves a good wine and who am I to deny it?
When the frogs stop their singing, I retire and wake in the morning to a new music – a humming, Disney-style – bending and looping through the dense trees and fern underbrush.
Ah, you have collie? She asks, except her accept turns the word collie to something more like ‘coati’. The younger dog follows her as she stops and stoops every few feet picking up wild mushrooms.
This has been a different kind of trip for me, less about riding and more about bonding. One of our entourage is older and needs more attention and hand feeding. Hay alone will no longer do and so he accompanies us on this trip. I dote on him.
As the sun crests the tree line, I saddle and walk Dex out, leaving the other horse food and water to spare. We weave through forest and open meadow where grasses flow like water.
Drago, whinnies from behind, his voice, softer now, follows us around the bend and fades as we approach a deep sided crossing. More like a ditch really - where the hikers and riders before us have mucked up the entry and exit to a point where the horse will have nothing to do with it. But I am not up for schooling today and after several attempts dismount. He jumps easily across and I laugh - perhaps I am the student here.
We continue along past fiddle leaf ferns, Indian Paintbrushes and Douglas Fir. Past the remains of an old split-rail fence, through a forest of deep breaths and long stretches and then back again.
There’s always something I forget when we do these little trips. I bring the bread and forget the turkey, bring the wine and forget the opener. You would think my trailer would be well stocked after so much travel but things shimmy their way in and out and I am left making do with what is there. Get comfortable with the uncomfortable, there’s not really much more I can say.
I’m learning.
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