Riding Barranca Read Online Free PDF

Phil sits in the sand and eats his sandwich and Fritos. I try giving the horses a couple of chips but they are not sure about the crunchy texture of this junk food. They’re more interested in splitting Phil’s apple core.

    Bagna de Terra
    Tightening up Barranca’s girth after our rest stop, I hold the opposite stirrup on Phil’s saddle as he mounts. Tonka seems overly eager, throwing his head and breaking into a canter every chance he gets. What is his problem?
    By the time we return to the barn, we see that we’ve been out for almost five hours. We figure we must have ridden about twelve miles over some fairly rough territory. I want to give the horses a bath, and collect two pails of warm water from the house. We sponge them down, and curry them, before they proceed to ruin our work, taking their
bagna de terra
out in the corral.

    El Chapo
Such a Sucker
    Why am I such a sucker for almost every available horse I see? I just talked to Ian Wingfield, who inherited his uncle’s ranch in Amado on the Tubac side of the Santa Ritas. Not only did he receive this adobe fortress, but also some cattle and six horses, one of which is supposedly a small Friesian. Is there such a thing as a
small
Friesian? Of course, I am curious to see this horse, eager to see it, imagining its long black mane blowing in the wind.
    Agua Caliente
was once a huge working ranch started by Ian’s grandfather, but the family sold off most of the land, and now only this section remains. Ian, Mason, and I plan on meeting at the ranch around nine in the morning. I wake before the alarm goes off in order to feed my horses and walk them across the road to their pasture. Then I pile the car with saddle, pad, bridles, halters, currycombs, and leads. I want to try to ride this little Friesian and assess his potential, though he might not have been ridden in some time.
    I know what a Friesian should look like, so I’m a bit surprised to see El Chapo (the short one), who only stands about 14 hands. (With horses, four inches equals a “hand.”) He is black with the traditional full mane, but he has very few “feathers” on his fetlocks. Perhaps he is a crossbreed. His temperament is calm and sweet, and he is easy to catch and halter. I put Barranca’s dressage saddle on him, and the stirrups look absurdly long. He takes the bit, and I adjust the bridle. He doesn’t seem to mind much.
    No one has any idea if this horse has ever been ridden. So I strap on my hard hat and lead the little Friesian around the yard. He follows me like a docile doggie, quite endearing. He is easy to mount, so close to the ground, yet he does not seem used to the bit. El Chapo walks out nicely enough and has a great big trot. I need to post and realize how I have become used to the flat gaits of my walking horses. He doesn’t seem to understand my request for a canter. Perhaps he was never trained to the saddle, but with his quiet nature I assume he could become a nice child’s horse.
    Ian is very enthusiastic about his ranch and his excitement is infectious. Even though his uncle was an eccentric recluse, they had a nice connection. Geoff Wingfield, Ian’s uncle, had been a self-made archeologist, and after I ride El Chapo around the yard, Ian takes me through his uncle’s garrisonstyle dwelling. It feels like something from another era. Every window has a place to set one’s rifle, just like the old Wild West. The gates are narrow, and the plank steps up to the tower are short and steep. The thought was that if one was attacked, it would take more time for the enemy to get up those steps.
    In the bedroom, where his uncle died not long ago, there is a metal bed frame without a mattress and a nice old armoire. “He had his hands crossed over his chest,” Ian says, “so we assumed it was a heart attack.” There are pilesof old family photographs, boxes of arrowheads and cabinets of Indian