I arrived at the Broken Saddle Ranch in Cerillos. The sun was still pretty high as I had gotten there early, as the cowboy rather sternly informed me that I needed to get there on time. Turns out my good doobee-ness wasn't all that necessary as the cowboy waited for a young couple from Baltimore which put us about 20 minutes closer to sunset. I parked and headed for the sign in area, a tiny building which appeared to be roofed with steer skulls. The bones were pure white, bleached from the burn of sun. There were two small corrals and several pretty horses that looked at me as if they begged me to let them stay out of the sun in the shade. Lots of snorting and tail swishing. Clearly pissed. Naw...
Met a nice couple from Oklahoma City. The guy looked like that cute doctor (who was on The Bachelor)who now has his own show. Cute. The girl matched his movie star looks with a perfect make up job. perky boobs and a tight little ass in her tight jeans. I wanted to hate her, but she was charming. The other couple was from Baltimore...yes...the tardy ones.
Our trail cowboy was named John Wayne-really-and he was the archetypal cowboy with a floppy felt hat with greasy spots on it. His jeans were faded and baggy in the seat, held up by a well loved leather belt with a silver buckle the size of a box turtle. An old faded plaid shirt and a red kerchief around his neck completed the look. And he was dusty as all hell. I was soon to find out why.
As we were all total neophytes, he gathered us in the corral and a cute blonde wrangler gal brought the horses forward one by one. Baltimore Emily was the first to mount and she was freaking out every time the horse moved. Old John was very reassuring and told us how these horses were gentle "beginners" horses. He gave us a ten minute crash course in horse handlin' to include the crucial foot in stirrup position: stirrup across ball of foot, heels down. He also told us to keep our legs turned out with our knees bent and how to clamp onto the horse using our thighs. A too quick review of steering with the reins- and we were off.
My horse was named Danvers and was reasonably responsive. We spent about ten minutes just ambling along and then Johnny Boy informed us we were going to pick up the pace. He kicked his horse into action and told us all to keep up. Well...I kicked the horse and it took off like Secretariat. I clamped my thighs and tried to look like I wasn't scared to death as my boobs bounced up and down with considerable force. I should have worn two bras, I think, in retrospect. It was terrifying-but oddly thrilling- all at the same time with all that snorting clippity clopping muscle clamped between my thighs. I had feared the worst but here I was-still astride my trusty steed. I began to relax and enjoy (except for the clenched thigh component) and delighted as the cowboy weaved our posse up through the canyons, stopping now and again to look at the vistas of the Jemez and Sangre De Christo mountain ranges that surrounded us on all sides. The mountains purpled as the blue skies golded. Astonishingly beautiful. At about this time, 30 minutes in to the ride, the sweat of my brow mixed with my sunscreen with a healthy dose of dust. My eyes burned and watered and I squeezed them hard shut on and off and sopped at them with my shirt. When we reached the vista point where John had perfectely timed the sunset for pictures of each of us on our horses back lit by the firey sky...I was informed (by perfect Whitney from Oke City) that I had black streaks running down my cheeks from under my sunglasses. She, on the other hand, looked like she was ready for a photo shoot. She did confess to me later that she regretted wearing a tiny thong because it rode up her ass (and perhaps other crevices) and was burning badly. Oddly...I felt no sympathy.
As the sky lost its fire with the setting sun, my eyes were still afire. But the twinkling stars and the whitening half moon were beyond beautiful, even through the burn and the tears. I let the horse rock me with her rhythmic clip clopping and softly sang James Taylor's song, Sweet Baby James, very quietly to myself. For those few moments, I felt happily alone. But another look up at the moon over the mountains, made me think of Chris. On this-our thirtieth anniversary-I hoped he could feel my love.
At trails end when I had to remove my glasses lest I look like Stevie Wonder at the ranch, I looked horrid. But frankly didn't give a damn.
No comments:
Post a Comment