Sonoita Barn Bum on Missy in Aravaipa Canyon.

Narrow canyon, sheer cliffs, hawks circling overhead, sun boldly shining down, about seventy degrees - this is our 41st wedding anniversary trip. For year number 39, our first in Arizona, we rented a hotel room in Rio Rico and spent the day exploring Arivaca. Last year, anniversary number 40, we enjoyed two performances in Tucson: Garrison Keillor and Art Garfunkel. This year it was back to nature again for us - who can resist a glorious winter day in Arizona?

When the Army first moved us to the area, we loved the warm, splashy sunlight and endless trails so much we decided to retire here. It was a case of love at first sight - rolling grasslands surrounded by sky islands with unmarred blue skies overhead. Southeast Arizona is the prettiest part of the state, in my opinion. And Aravaipa, from what I had read, was one of the prettiest spots in southeast Arizona. So, off we went to see it for ourselves.

While the wilderness area is only 126 miles from our home, the trip took almost three hours. Most of the route is paved, but the last few miles had to be taken slowly. First, three miles before reaching the trailhead, we stopped at the ranger's cabin to show him our permits, then we continued on. After circling the truck and trailer, we unloaded our mares Missy and Ginger and got tacked up. A rough trail wove between cactii down to the creek bed. Once down, the footing wasn't too bad - mostly gravel and small rocks - and the horses actually seemed to enjoy riding in the creek.

Every twist and turn presented a new photo opportunity. Thankfully, we don't have to pay for film and developing anymore! Back and forth across the creek we went picking our route as we went. As always, Missy and Ginger carried us boldly along - always a surprise for me since my Missy is 25 years old. Eventually, we found a place to rest, eat, and take a nap. Regrettably, we had to turn back toward the truck so we could make it home before dark.

It was a lovely, memorable way to spend an anniversary. We plan to return a little later in the summer when the days are longer.

The Day Dad Died

We think our parents will live forever.  Regardless of their age and health concerns, we never really expect to say that last goodbye.  I was no different.

My niece, my brother's third child, a troubled girl, had come to visit us in Michigan, so I planned an outing for the day.  She, my son and his friend, and I drove to a nearby stable and rented horses for a couple of hours.  Whenever I see those pictures, I remember the day vividly because of what came next. When we returned home, I could tell from my husband's expression that something was wrong.  While we were out, he had received THE call - the one saying my father had died the night before.

Ours was not a well functioning family.  It was bruised and scared by problems occurring 15 and 20 years before I had even been born, for I was a cowtail, 13 years younger than my next youngest sibling.  I'll never know what each member was really like - their thoughts, fears, loves, concerns - because I was too young and too much water had flowed under the bridge before I had made an appearance.  There was on-going conflict, and then they were married and gone.

But my father - both in his strengths and weaknesses strongly influenced my life.  He valued family and was always planned to meet our needs despite any problems.  He valued education and always spoke of when I would go to college, never if I would go.  He drove me to church twice a week, in addition to our Sunday morning family trip to worship, and never missed, no matter what the weather; and Minnesota could have weather.  Strong Republican and writer of many letters to our representatives and senators, he passed on political activism and the belief that by speaking up and getting involved we can influence the course of our nation.  Son of a viking, he passed on his love of exploration.  While I used to hate it when he announced he was taking a new "short cut", I am just like him, always enticed by the unexplored path.

So knowing he was gone was a sad shock.  I cried not so much for the loss of a relationship as for the one the didn't exist.  I grieved for the father I never had, never really knew, for now it was too late.  My counsel to anyone who will listen is take time to know your parents now for one day you'll wonder who they were and realize all you knew was a role and not a person.  And take time to visit now, because you can never know when those opportunities will be lost.  And say, "I love you" as many ways and as often as you can.  Make sure your loved ones never doubt that love, because one day THE call will come.

We Met Ferzon

After selling Shenandoah and Sundown, we returned to the world of horseless people for 15 years. This isn't to say horses were not a part of our life, but a much diminished part.  Other priorities were were more important - school, budding careers, military service in the Air Force, and eventually, our family.  A few events stand out and one stood out above the rest.  That was the day we met Ferzon.

Purchased as a foal by Daniel Gainey, he went on to become one of the best of the best arabians in all history.  He is the sire of 251 registered progeny and grandparent of 7616 purebred arabian horses.  His impact on the breed is known as the "Gainey look".   But we didn't know all this when a neighbor and friend brought us to the Gainey Stable in Owatonna, Minnesota, where he worked.  The year was about 1970, he was about 18 years old, and this was about 12 years before his death in 1982.

Since we were students living in the upstairs apartment of a three-way divided home, we were in awe of the Gainey stable - rich woods, stalls so clean you could almost eat off the floor.  Our friend's job included the handling of mares who had come in for breeding.  He explained the process to us and introduced us to the poor fellow whose job it was to get the mares turned on so they could then be presented to Ferzon for all the action.  People said he was a little crazy.  Is there any wonder?  Poor guy.

Ferzon was a beautiful grey, confident and elegant.  I had expected a fiery, temperamental stallion, but he was quiet, gentle mannered and inquisitive, welcoming his guests will polite curiosity.  His character is something I've seen repeated over and over in truly great people, too - confident in himself, he was kind and gentle with others, interested and engaged.  We stroked his head and murmered admiring words, but our visit ended too quickly.  

Returning to our little compound in the country, a horse-shoe road with six homes scatter along the edges, we were able to enjoy two of Ferzon's daughter's,  Gai-Rouge and Gai-Monique, owned by our landlord.  It wasn't until year's had passed that I realized how very privileged we were to have been surrounded by exquisite examples of lovely arabians.   And I'll always remember the day I met Ferzon in all his grace and beauty.

Our first gaited mare came into our lives with neither our knowledge nor intent.  Like most new horses owners, we quickly realized that one horse is not enough - you want to be able to ride with someone.  With this lingering in the back of our minds, we passed a, "Horse for Sale" sign at the end of a dusty farm road and turned in.

A kid-trained chestnut mare was led out.  Free grazing on rich Wisconsin grass hadn't done much for her figure, but she was gentle and kind. Why we thought we could afford a second horse is a mystery; her price was $150, two weeks pretax income at the time in our lives.  A week later, we returned with a trailer.  Regrettably, Sundown, as she was called, wasn't anxious to leave.  After encouragement, persuasion and coercion had failed, the farmer brought on brute force.  He built a wire chute to the trailer's opening then put a front-end loader behind her and pushed.  At first she began to condense - shorter, shorter, collapsing accordion like until she gave up and popped into the trailer.  

We were living in one-third of a rented home in a horse compound owned by an arabian horse breeder.  In exchange for work, he allowed Shenandoah, my spotted first pony, and Sundown (Sunny now) to live on the grounds.  Sunny taught us that appearances were deceiving and that, as Mark Rashid said much later in the title of one of his books, a good horse is never a bad color. 

Sunny looked like (and this may actually be charitable) an army tank when she was at rest - solid, formidable, and not a creature of grace.  When she began to move, though, all that changed.  At sale, we had been told she was half quarter horse and half american saddle breed, but we knew little of breeds, so we didn't know what that meant.  Transformed, she would move into her gait and carry us along as though on a magic carpet, we would say.  Her whole demeanor changed as she radiated  confidence, grace, and - to our surprise - breeding.

In addition to looking lovely, she had a sweet and generous spirit.  She gave Tom and I the energetic, spirited rides we needed.  Only once did I doubt her, but it was unfairly.  While riding bareback at a canter, a barbed wire fence appeared just ahead.  Not sure if we could make the turn, I asked for the turn but prepared to jump, hoping she saw and could clear the wire.  Just at that moment all that quarter horse genetic programming came through and we wheeled to the left - I think she had been concerned, too, about my intentions.  While she gave us an exciting ride, she was gentile with children.  A five-year-old neighbor girl Piper enjoyed riding her from time to time.  For her, Sunny would move out quietly and neck rein impeccably, never balking or trying to choose her own direction.  She took her job as baby sitter seriously.  

Regrettably, we came to the point where someone in our family had to quit eating.  We felt that, as the wage earners, it should not be us, so we put an ad in the paper for Sundown and Shenandoah, our first horses. Shenandoah went home with a man who had little boys and Sundown returned to a farm.  We sadly said goodbye to our first horse, our first teachers.

My first pony had rockers.  We have pictures of me as a three year old mounted on my steed - cowboy hat on head, gun and holsters, leather-fringed vest and shirt, boots, and a guitar, for I was a singing cowgirl.

I've hypothesized that love of horses is genetic but won't deny some environmental influences.  Crusader Rabbit was an early hero mounted on his horse warring against the State of Texas to save its jack rabbit population.  Fury, Flicka, Gunsmoke, Bonanza, Sugar Foot, Wagon Trail and all the other western and horse stories flooded out television screen from infancy.  If reincarnation is true (and my personal theology doesn't support it), I think I am a direct descendant of Gheghis Khan, for I had intense emotional responses to riding across the steppe on rugged mongolian ponies and to sitting on a hill overlooking Khan's ancient captial of Kharahorum.

Whatever the reason, I loved horses from my earliest days.  Until I was 10 or 11, I would build Lincoln-log barns and corrals and have marble horse stampedes to the other end of my sloped bedroom floor.  Three times a year my father would take me to Hilltop Riding Academy in St. Paul, Minnesota, to ride.  My earliers photo on a horse was taken at age three in the Black Hills just before talking with Chief Not Afraid of Guns.  Our church camp had two spotted ponies, Nina and Beauty.  Punishment for inappropriate behavior was shoveling manure.  This, of course, increased by bad behavior exponentially.  Nothing at camp was as interesting as being at either end of a horse.

My father promised to buy me a pony when I reached age 10.  Well, 10 came and went without the appearance of a pony.  As we learned from the old Massey Tapes, 10 is a critical year: what we lack as a 10 year old is what we will crave the rest of our lives.  Hence, the horses and mule sitting in our pasture.  My husband blames my horse fixation on my father.  Dad finally came through when I used blackmail while in college to buy my first pony Eight Ball, named for the circle of black around his tail on an otherwise mostly white body.

I've learned a lot from each horse we have had.  From Eight Ball, whom I renamed Shenandoah, I learned it is never wise to trust too completely.  We were too poor for a saddle, so I rode my little round pony bare back.  He was always easy to catch because his philosophy was that he could always get rid of me when he was tired of me.  Again and again I would play my Charley brown to his Lucy, falling for his good behavior, trusting, relaxing, and immediately finding myself sitting on the ground.  A bad relationship?  No, just a challenging one, though when he was finally surrendered to dog food, I had a certain uncharitable sense of satisfaction.

Decreasing the Number of Horses on My Payroll

With the rising costs of everything - shoes, hay, vet, gas, life in general, I have to cut back.  Three horses and a mule stand in my soup line.  Ginger is my husband's quarter horse - she stays.  Missy, Molly, and Gitana are mine - one needs to stay, the others need new jobs.   At $16.50 a bale for grass hay and $90 for a pair of shoes, how can I keep on the payroll animals I don't need?

Missy is my faithful 23 year old paso fino mare, awesome trail horse who has carried me courageously all over the southwest.  Sadly, she can no longer do the hard work of mountain trail riding.

Molly and Gitana were purchased as possible replacements for Missy.  After extensive on-line research, I found Molly, a paso-gaited mule who had been imprinted at birth, raised and loved by a veterinarian, and started kindly and well.  She was first chosen as Missy's replacement, but then Gitana and another mare came my way.  A friend has 18 horses and needed to cut back fast - I bought two paso fino mares at ridiculously low prices and traded the highest quality mare for the training of the other, which I felt was better suited to trails.

Molly or Gitana?  Molly's long ears and off beat personality keep us laughing - everyone loves a clown.  Regrettably, I never noticed she had slightly crooked back legs that would keep her from being the heavy duty mountain mule I was looking for.  This was pointed out to me by an accomplished mule man when I was trying to find her a new home.  She also doesn't canter, having been discouraged from doing so as a gaited mule.

Gitana has been in training with a professional and is just at the point where i can begin riding her.  She does well on the trail and is brave and sound, a thoroughly adequate replacement for Missy.

So, Missy, my faithful but aged trail mare, and Molly Mule need a new job.  Will I succeed in finding them new homes?