DRIVING THE CATTLE TO YEPACHIC
Tuesday, 18 October 2005
I ride an old paint, I lead an old Dan
I’m goin’ to Montan for to throw the hoolihan
They feed in the coolies, they water in the draw
Their tails are matted, their backs are all raw
Ride around, little doggies, ride around them slow
For the fiery and snuffy are rarin’ to go
I’ve worked in the town and I’ve worked on the farm
And all I got is this muscle in my arm
Got a blister on my foot and a callus in my hand
But I’ll be a cowpuncher as long as I can
Ride around, little doggies, ride around them slow
For the fiery and snuffy are rarin’ to go
Around the corral there is apparent confusion. Who exactly is riding and who is driving in the trucks? What mounts are needed? Do we have enough saddles and bridles? After milking the cow, Simon and Dutch head out in different directions to bring in horses and mules. The cows are bawling and milling around.
The final “cattle-drive party” includes Simon on Zebra, a dun-coloured mule, Dutch on his now-standard mount Snip (that very same beast that threw me last week), Tanner (10) on her little pony, Ginger, and me on Macho Grande, a big black mule. Macho Grande means big male. But, though he is big, he is very tranquilo. Bob, the ranchero, will also ride with us for a couple of miles on Gus, his big bay horse. The boys are starting to wail because they are going to town in the trucks; they thought they were going to be riding horses or ponies. It’s a huge drama that seems never to end; when we follow the cows later down the ravine, across the river and up the other side, I can still hear Eli keening up at the house. Tanner is riding her pony because it going to the fair in Chihuahua next weekend and the only way to get Ginger there is to take her in the trailer from Yepachic with the cattle.
Confusion is added when Cindy, the ranchera, walks behind Zebra, who kicks her in the ribs with his hind leg. Even though I happen to be watching at the very moment it occurs, the mule is so fast that I barely see it. Cindy is livid with anger and starts smacking the mule around the face. Bob tells her to give it a good kick in the belly to let it know who is boss. We all stare.
The plan was to start driving the cattle towards the river at 0900. Someone has helpfully saddled Macho Grande for me. Now the horses and mules are tethered to the corral or standing patiently with their reins on the ground like good cattle horses. They shift their body weight from one leg to the other in the warmth of the sun. Except for the ongoing crying from the boys, quiet settles over the corral while we wait to get started. Nobody knows why we are waiting and we wonder if we will be back as advertised by dark tonight. Dutch lights another cigarette while he talks about giving up smoking. Simon as usual is still.
Finally, at around 1100, we mount. The pain in my ribs and shoulder is excruciating when I have to pull myself up into the saddle. The corral gate down to the river is opened and the first cattle start to move.
When all the sorting and culling is done, we are now driving fourteen head of cattle to Yepachic, four cows and eight calves. Most of the calves are Corrientes roping calves that will go to a dealer in Chihuahua. The cows will go to auction, some of them to be made into hamburger, some for breeding. The beef calves will be bought at auction by feed-lot owners, cattle dealers or other ranchers. In addition to raising cash for el Nogal ranch operations, Bob and Cindy are selectively culling their herds to conform to their ideal mix of cattle. Rancho el Nogal is a leading supplier of roping calves to the U.S. rodeo market.
Both Bob and Cindy say that the first mile or two is the worst until the cattle get the idea that they should just follow the road. The older cattle usually will take the path of least resistance; the calves tend to be all over the shop. The job of the cowpunchers is to keep the cattle moving, don’t lose any of them in the underbrush. This is a mountain ranch and the whole way to Yepachic is through very rugged terrain. The roads can be very steep, the hills off the road even steeper. Sometimes the arroyos are hundreds of metres deep. Once a cow gets out of sight you can lose him easily.
T. on her pony and I on Macho Grande follow the herd with their three drovers and the three ranch dogs down the steep path to the river. We push into the water, now fairly low since it has not rained for a couple of weeks, and up the road on the other side feeling that we have really started now at last. As we cross the river I can still hear Eli wailing up on the hill. “He’ll get over it,” T. says.
Somehow Levi, 4, has talked Bob into taking him with him on Gus but, once across the river, Bob sets Levi down to walk until Bob can come back for him. He trails us crying and whining. I am not sure what to do about Levi, to send him back to wait for Cindy to come along in the white pickup, which is going to Chihuahua for repairs, or to let him follow us. I decide to let him come on.
Fortunately for Levi, T’s pony is very slow. I do not like to leave her or Levi following alone a long way behind. If the herd gets too far ahead, I will be faced with constant painful dismounting and remounting to open and close barbed-wire gates (there are four of them between the river and town). This and straining to get the gates actually opened and closed is not something I look forward to. I urge them along.
All the more reason to stay closer to the cows. Their forward movement is so far not very rapid although they are covering a lot of ground, zigzagging back and forth like bird dogs trying to flush pheasants. Up ahead I can hear Dutch yipping and hooting at the cows to keep them moving, calling to Cody, the herd dog, to get after some animal that has strayed from the road. I see Bob and Simon up in the brush above the road. We catch up with them at the first gate at the top of the river hill opposite the ranchhouse.
At every opportunity the cattle attempt to evade the cowpunchers who are then forced to crash down into a ravine or up a steep hill to get them back on the road. The horses are covered in sweat already and we have not yet done one mile. The cattle, normally of the bovine ilk, are excited now. They are not used to being pressured. One old cow with big curved horns is being taken to market because she is mean and has a bad habit of goring other animals, horses or people. “Stay away from her,” Cindy told me, “if you can.” Hm!
We are through the first gate. This is still familiar ranch road to me. The cattle and the cowboys are 100 yards ahead of T, Levi and me. We stop occasionally to stay out of their way and allow the cowboys to get the cattle back on the road. At some point Bob returns and loads Levi up on Gus behind him where the 4-year-old hangs on to the saddle or Bob’s belt. But in the underbrush Bob is at a big disadvantage because he has to be so careful with his passenger when in fact he needs to be aggressive to get at the calves. He rides back to me and asks if I can take Levi behind me on Macho Grande. Levi cheerfully comes aboard, scrambling up like a little monkey, chatting amiably and authoritatively about this and that aspect of cattle ranching, cattle drives, Mexican marijuana growers, snakes, Yepachic, private family matters, and a myriad of other topics in an uninterrupted flow. Ah, to be four years old and still know everything!
Macho Grande turns out to be Mucho Lento. This is just fine with me since he is a smooth ride and I cannot leave T and Ginger behind. In fact we have to stop sometimes while Bob, Dutch and Simon bring the cattle back to the road and for Ginger and T to catch up. After a couple of miles, Bob asks Simon if he and Dutch will be all right without him. He needs to go back to the ranch and sort out the brand mark-registration papers and the ear tags and to get the big red Ford diesel, which will be towing the cattle trailer tonight or tomorrow to Chihuahua.
Levi switches horses once again and leaves seated behind Bob on Gus. T and I plod on behind the cattle and cowboys. Sometimes, the cattle will stream down the road at quite a good pace. Then suddenly, they will head down the ravine or into the woods. A curve in the road – and there are lots of them in these mountains – is an open invitation to abandon the beaten track for the wilds. Somewhere early on we have lost two calves, one of them a prime roping calf, I think. They have escaped but at least are still on el Nogal property. We are now down to four cows and eight calves.
On we go past the site of the dozer crash, climbing a steep hill where the road is badly washed out and down the other side. The road is in really bad shape and I wonder how Bob will get the bigger Ford truck out. The three or four spots where Simon and Dutch have spent a day repairing are still ahead of us. Since I am only tagging along I feel rather like a gentleman rancher, the mule perhaps not the most elegant of steeds but equal to the task of bearing me gently to Yepachic, fifteen miles away.
And so it goes. Up. Down. Yipping and yaying. Crashing in the underbrush. The cows on upper or lower pathways rather on than the road. We stop at the next two gates to allow everyone to catch up. T is a long way behind on her short-legged little mini-horse. She says it is a little lonely and boring back there alone. I resolve to stay with her even though it will mean slow going.
At one point the cattle take off up the hill and I lose sight of Dutch and Simon in the woods. I decide that T and I might just as well go on ahead. I know the road and there is not much chance of getting lost if we stick to it. Eventually we will wind up in Yepachic. We plod along in the midday sun, the woods around us now quiet. Even at his slow pace Macho Grande is faster than Ginger. So I stop when I get to the top of a hill or in an arroyo where the road crosses a stream and wait for T to catch up. I hear her coming because she is singing, her small silvery voice clear in the silence. She is working through all her nursery rhymes and has made it to “Mary had a little lamb”. Later I hear her singing “The Old Chisholm Trail”. When she catches up she is still cheerful but her bottom is beginning to hurt. Mine too. But I try not to think about it since we have a long way to go.
We do not hear either the cattle or the cowboys any more and I think we have got a long way ahead. T thinks they have somehow got past us. Certainly there are signs of cattle and horses on the road; hoof marks and fairly fresh scat. But I cannot believe they could have got ahead of us without us noting it. We reach a stream and decide we will stop for a rest. T. has made two tortillas with peanut butter and honey and she now offers me one. It was supposed to have been for Eli but he is riding in the truck. I have a couple of apples. So we stretch out on the grass, the mule and the pony standing by the trees in the shade. I have tied them each to a tree; a well-trained cow pony won’t run off when they have the reins simply hanging to the ground. But I don’t want to risk being left without a ride this far out in the bush.
After twenty minutes we decide to continue along the Yepachic road. We’ll catch up with the cattle, we will get to town before them, or they will catch up with us. At the worst, Bob and Cindy will be coming along this road in their vehicles. We cross a river and climb out the other side over an acre of smooth white rock and on up the steep gravely road. Macho Grande has got the drill now; his normal walking pace is faster than the pony’s and when we reach a convenient spot, he stops and turns to see if Ginger is catching up. I immediately say “whoa” so I can stay nominally in charge. When T gets up to us, Macho Grande turns and walks on while T and I chat for a moment or two before the distance increases. Then I hear her singing again.
Since crossing the last river we have started a very long climb over a mountain. I estimate that the road zigzags some 500 metres higher. The ranchhouse is at about 2,000 metres (over 6,000 feet) above sea level. I think we must be at 2,500 metres now and we are in fragrant piny forest rather than oaks and cactus. It is cool and the wind makes a sighing sound through the needles. We have occasional glimpses from near the top out across the valleys to blue mountain peaks.
At some point we come out into a broad valley of pastures. At the far end is a ranchhouse off to the left in the valley and on the left, near the road, is a wayside chapel. The dirt road carves gentle S’s across into the woods way up ahead and starts to climb once more. Halfway along the valley we are overtaken first by Cindy and Levi in the white pickup and then by Bob and Eli in the red Ford.
“Lose your herd?” Cindy asks with a grin.
“Nope! Just checkin’ out this road,” I lie. We both grin.
“It’s about three miles ahead to the turnoff to Santiago’s place. I’ll wait for you there so you don’t miss it. I don’t want to spoil your wilderness ride by trailing you in the truck.”
“Who’s Santiago?” I ask, thinking she means the elderly retired Pima cowhand who visits the ranch from time to time.
“Santiago has a ranch near Yepachic. That’s where we are bringing the cattle to load them.”
“Oh!” Good thing she came by. First I’d heard of it. I thought we were heading directly into town. Of course, I guess we would not want actually to drive a herd of cows down the highway.
Bob pulls up ten minutes later.
“Too bad you missed the turn-off to the short cut. It’s really a lot farther this way.” My heart sinks. Glad T hasn’t heard it.
“How much farther?” I ask, suddenly noticing the pain in my bottom more intensely.
“Oh, another three miles or so. Continue along this road over this hill and cross the river. Then go on up over the next mountain for about two miles or more. I’ll mark the turnoff. Of course, you could drive the truck and I could ride Macho Grande and lead the pony?”
“Oh, no. I’m fine,” I lie again. I am really all right. My arse hurts, is all. “You need to be there to supervise the loading.”
Off he goes. T catches up and we plod on for what seems a very steep four hundred miles with T asking whenever Macho Grande allows her to catch up,
“How much longer?”
“Media hora,” I say each time, which is what Simon always says no matter how far it is yet.
T is tired and sore but she is plucky and never gives in to whining or complaining. We sing The Old Chisholm Trail together for a bit but my throat is dry and ti yi yippee kind of sticks in my throat. I’ll be glad when we get there. I think of a cool beer. I thought that, having become separated from the cattle, at least we would not have to ride fifteen miles staring all the while at cow bums. But it is getting a little tedious now. My shoulder is throbbing a bit and I need to take some more pain-killer. My pelvis hurts from sitting so long in the saddle. It is also getting late in the afternoon and I wonder about getting back to el Nogal tonight. T will go in the truck with her parents to Chihuahua. But Simon, Dutch and I will be heading back to the ranch. At least there is a full moon tonight, I think to console myself.
I realise once again that being a cowboy requires a huge amount of physical endurance. It’s dangerous work being around big animals all the time. You are outside nearly one-hundred percent of the time. This is likely to give you arthritis and small injuries and make you old before your time. In the old days the cowpunchers were ill-paid rural farm workers who often sustained injuries and endured sickness without medical treatment. They were poor and stayed poor and died young. The romance was all in the cheap novels and movies. There are probably lots of guns around out here. But I have so far not seen one. There is of course some cattle rustling by full moon, which is why the cowboys stay out on the ranges then. Marijuana growing is popular around here but Bob tells me it’s not a high-violence business at this end of the drug chain; the gun fights are in the cities for control of delivery.
But unless you are a rancher yourself, you won’t make much money as a cowpuncher even today. A Mexican vaquero gets paid the equivalent of US$ 200 or less plus a log cabin to sleep in or to share with others. No medical bennies, of course, and a seven-day work week of heavy physical work all on a diet of frijoles, maize tortillas and Nescafe. He can’t afford a family and he has no amenities. If he’s lucky the ranchero will finance him a few cows for a herd of his own that he can eventually sell.
O it’s bacon and beans ‘most every day
I’d as soon be a-eatin’ prairie hay
It’s rainin’ like hell and it’s getting mighty cold
And those long-horned sons-o’guns are getting’ hard to hold
Eventually we come to a log placed partly in the road pointing off to the left along a barbed-wire fence. There is also a rock cairn and, tied to a pine tree, a page out of a kid colouring book with English text. T recognises it as one of theirs and takes it along with her. We push down the narrow path until we come out onto one of those delightful hill or mountain-ringed river valleys. This one is beautiful with lush pastures and, at the far end, whitewashed ranch buildings. We hear cattle lowing and I even hear Dutch’s loud bass voice laughing in the distance. Along the river bank and then across the ford, along the opposite bank for a while and then up the little road to the ranchhouse and we are there.
Simon, Dutch, Eli and Levi are eating a snack off the tailgate of a pickup. The cattle are out of sight in a covered corral and awaiting loading in the trailer, which is parked near the river gate. There is a beautiful chestnut horse standing perfectly still, saddled and bridled, in the yard. A man in a white Stetson and cowboy jeans and a really cute little five-year-old Mexican boy with dimples complete the picture. The man, probably the boy’s grandfather is in his late-fifties or early-sixties and fairly drunk. This is Santiago.
Rancho el Boscito, some 3,000 hectares in size, belongs to a businessman in Chihuahua. Santiago and his family (two nice-looking but well-protected teenage daughters, 14 and 16) and Santiago’s married sun, Raoul all live there as caretakers. Raoul, 26, has a wife and three children and lives in a separate adobe house across the river. Dutch ogles the girls not very surreptitiously.
The cattle arrived at Santiago’s place about 1600, Bob and Cindy about 1700 and T and I about 1800. Someone sticks a can of beer in my hand and unsaddles my mule for me. Thank goodness! The pony and the mule are turned out into a pasture. My saddle is set up on a rail fence and T’s pony saddle goes into the back of the white pickup. The el Nogal boys are roughhousing with Santiago’s grandson.
Santiago trains trick horses for rodeo performances. The chestnut in the yard can shake your hand and go up on his hind legs. Maybe it can even surf the net. My Spanish is not good enough to ask. Santiago offers me the horse to ride but I cannot get up without a lot of pain so I decline. Dutch gets aboard and has the horse rearing up on its hind legs several times while he whoops and waves his hat. Altogether like a European version of Roy Rogers! Yippee yi yah!
The day closes down and a full moon rises from behind the hill. It is a harvest moon, the first full moon after the autumnal equinox in September. It also our second full moon in the Sierra Tarahumara; we’ve been here over six weeks. It starts getting too chilly and damp to sit outside and we are invited into Santiago’s small house. In the kitchen over a woodstove, Clara, his wife, along with the two daughters, make tortillas from harina de trigo (wheat flour) and heat up beans. There is a block of cheese on the table and we cut off small slices with a kitchen knife that looks more like a Turkish scimitar and wrap them to eat with a hot tortilla. The beans taste good after a day in the open air. Bob emphasises that this is standard, three meals a day fare for cowboys in northern Mexico ranching areas. This is a favourite line of argument from Bob; it is met with wordless scepticism by the English-speakers in the house.
As more and more people crowd into the small kitchen - Bob and Cindy and the three children, Santiago his wife, two daughters and grandson, Dutch and then Raoul – the room becomes even smaller. There are only three chairs. Santiago leads Dutch and me over to the hacienda, the house belonging to the owner. It is one long, one-story building with a long covered porch running the length of it on the southwestern side. The house is comprised of a central kitchen, where Santiago sits us down around the formica kitchen table, and two shotgun rooms on either side of the kitchen. They have beds in them. There is sleeping for eight without using the crib or crowding people into the larger single beds. In a pinch you could sleep twelve or fourteen plus a baby and someone on the sofa in the farmhouse kitchen. The furnishings are simple and old and well-used. The walls, inside and out, are whitewashed. There is a refrigerator, a modern propane stove as well as a wood range. There is running spring water, strip lighting (solar panels) and a flush toilet. Too much! (Of course there is no toilet paper. There never is in Mexico! Don’t leave home without it! What do Mexicans do?)
Dutch and I sit there trying to make small talk with Santiago. We have no common language, Santiago seems puzzled by the concept of “Canada” and even more so by the notion of “The Netherlands”, I am tired and sore. Are we starting for home soon? Why we are still here? At one point Cindy says to me that it should be a wonderful ride back to el Nogal in the moonlight. I’d like to get started before the painkillers wear off.
Eventually Cindy comes in and says that, if we like, we can stay here in the hacienda and ride back to the ranch tomorrow morning. She and her family are going to stay in the hacienda too and will leave way before dawn for Chihuahua. Bob has a 1000 meeting with the Regional Presidente. After a few minutes I say that I either have to start for el Nogal soon or find a bed. “Pick a bed,” Cindy says, and I head immediately into the next room where there are twin beds. I leave my stinking socks and boots outside on the porch, in the dark I throw the rest of my horsy clothing on the floor next to the bed, pull back the covers sink into the over-soft bed and am asleep within a few minutes despite the pain in my shoulder and ribs.
The ride back to el Nogal
As I was a-walking one morning for pleasure
I spied a cowpuncher all riding along
His hat was throwed back and his spurs was a-junglin’
As he approached me me a-singin’ this song.
Whoopee ti yi yo, git along little doggies
It’s your misfortune and none of my own
Whoopee ti yi yo, git along, little doggies
For you know Wyoming will be your new home
I hear Bob come into the darkened bedroom in the hacienda that Dutch and I are sharing. He first flashes his miner’s lamp on me and then on Dutch to wake him up.
“Dutch, can you give me a hand getting the cattle loaded and the green ear tags placed?”
“Yupp! Coming!”
Dutch gets up and I can see him getting dressed by the light of the full moon outside. It is 0400. I try to go back to sleep but the pain in my shoulder and chest is keeping me awake. I hear the noise of the cattle being moved up the chute from the covered corral into the metal trailer, the hooves banging loudly, one of the animals mooing occasionally. I get up reluctantly and reach for my clothing from the pile on the floor.
Boots tied, I slip into my fleece jacket, plonk my straw hat on my head, and head outside. The white pickup is pulled up to the side of cattle trailer and Dutch is at work changing a tire that has gone flat in the night. The metal is cold and the tire is heavy. Everything is wet from the dew and Dutch is shivering in his shirtsleeves since he had not brought a jacket or sweatshirt with him. After all, he thought we’d be returning the same day. Simon helps him lift the heavy tire onto the bolts and they return the old tire to the Ford freight bed and lash it down.
During the loading one of the calves got away and Dutch and Simon have had to chase it. Now all the dozen head of cattle are in the trailer, which has two compartments. The idea was to put the calves in one and the cows with their very long horns into the other. But the mean old cow with the threatening horns is in the front with the calves. Bob calls to Dutch o get in with him. I open the forward metal door for them to slip inside with the ear tags and the ear punch and close it quickly before one of the calves can escape. There is a lot of scuffling around inside. Finally, they say they want out and then they move around to the rear door and get in with the horned cows. More scuffling. More grunting and kicking. They come out. Bob wipes some cowshit off his trousers.
Meanwhile, Simon has scrounged around and found some kindling and has started a fire to heat up the branding iron. The pony needs to be branded before they move her. T has been up all this time and has helped bring Ginger in from the meadow. T’s feet and legs are freezing and she has a pink fleece children’s blanket wrapped around her upper body. Her teeth are chattering. Bob tells her she has to do the branding but she refuses in case Ginger will hold it against her. It takes quite a while for the iron to get red hot and we stand around the fire trying to keep warm and wishing we had a coffee. Finally, after half an hour the iron is deemed hot enough and the pony is given a so-called “hair brand”, i.e. the hair on her left flank is singed but the skin is not burned.
Now comes the job of getting Ginger into the trailer. She is already upset by the branding and is definitely not thrilled about getting in a car with a lot of strange cows. An argument ensues about the wisdom of putting Ginger in the forward compartment with that one cow with the long horns. Finally, Bob and Dutch get the cow herded into the back compartment without having to unload and reload everything. The pony fights going in anyway and a wrestling match ensues with Ginger winding up lying on the floor of the trailer and the calves gaping down at her. The guys jump out, the pony jumps up, and the door is slammed shut. Cindy goes to get the boys up and into the car for the journey. I don’t see Eli but Levi is his usual good-natured and cheerful self even at 0530 in the morning and despite wet socks from the night before.
Eventually the white pickup leaves driven by Cindy, and Bob follows somewhat later in the red Ford diesel and towing the cattle trailer. A panic had arisen at the last moment: although they had the brand registration papers for the cattle, they had forgotten to bring them for the pony. Since Cindy speaks good Spanish, she will have to stick close to Bob so she can sweet-talk the pony through the various animal checkpoints between Yepachic and Chihuahua.
Quiet now descends over the ranch again. Dutch and I head back to the kitchen of the hacienda. Dutch gets a blanket from the bed and wraps it around himself to try and get warm again. His boots and jeans are soaked from the dew. Simon has spent the night in Yepachic with his family and walked out in the middle of the night. We tell him to come in with us. After a while Santiago shows up. He talks to Simon in Spanish. But Santiago is a Mexican and Mexicans treat Indians like a lower caste. That’s why Simon went to his family last night. There is definite segregation around here even though Yepachic has a large Pima, Apache and Tarahumara population. After a few minutes Simon goes back outside though I not sure if of his own accord or because Santiago has told him to do so. Dutch and I go looking for him but he says he will stay by the fire outside. We decide to join him.
There is a woodpile nearby and we build up the fire to get a bit of warmth. Dutch of course is still without a jacket and stays close. When Santiago reappears, I ask him if there is any chance of a coffee. Even though there is a propane range in the hacienda kitchen and even though his own family are at present cooking breakfast over a woodstove at that very moment, he does not invite us in. We should make it over the campfire. He allows us to get a pot from the kitchen and I go with Santiago to his house to get cups and Nescafe. Bob and Cindy brought him a big bottle of instant coffee last night along with other food. But he puts a tiny amount in a separate jar, gives me it along with two cups and then another one when I remind him that we are three. I head back to the fire. We finally manage to make our little cowboy breakfast-coffee. Fortunately, we have sugar to take back to the ranch with us so we can sweeten our drink. Dutch wants a smoke badly but is out until we can get to the tiende later.
Daylight breaks and by 0645 it is light. The sun begins to shine over the mountains onto the hills to the west about 0730. We get our horses from the field and Dutch saddles Macho Grande for me but only after Simon has saddled Zebra and has had to fetch my mule from the river bottom whence he has escaped and stands laughing at me.
Our first goal is to the little mom-and-pop shop in Yepachic. We are there in twenty minutes, leaving our mounts tied to trees a little way off. We walk behind the scattered houses, skirting their outhouses and pigsties till we arrive at the orange-painted country store. Once inside it is dark. There is a 6-foot by 3-foot standing area as you come in, and counters in front and to the sides. Old-fashioned weigh scales sit atop one counter. Cans and bottles are neatly arranged on the shelves. An ancient lady, perhaps Indian, with glasses on her nose, her hair in a bun and a spotlessly white wool cardigan is the storekeeper. Except for the Indian part, she was for all the world like Mrs. Goggins from Postman Pat. A young woman of about eighteen or twenty comes out of the kitchen in the next room to help.
Bob and Cindy have given us some money to get some basics. They will do the major shopping in the city. For now we buy some emergency supplies and pack them either into the saddle bags I have on my mule or hang the plastic shopping bags from our saddle horns. With the bit of money left we buy a box of cookies for our breakfast on the trail. Dutch buys a pack of cigarettes and lights up immediately we are out of the store. He’s quitting.
Our route takes us first back to Rancho el Boscito. Just before we reach it, Simon leads us off the road and down a steep path to the Yepachic River so that we pass the rancho at a distance. The river is now down but one can see the debris left when the waters were six or seven feet higher during the rainy season. I wonder how Santiago and his family get across when it is in full flood.
With the sun on our backs it is beginning to feel warmer. The little valley narrows as we ride down river to the northwest. We cross it soon and ride for another half mile along the right bank. Eventually the river starts to narrow increasingly and we are forced first to wade through the river and then to climb up above the river. The narrow animal trail rises steadily higher as it parallels the river until we are in a very deep gorge. The river is a little silver ribbon a couple of hundred metres below us. On our side the ravine is very steep but wooded. On the opposite side we look up to sheer stone cliffs towering some four hundred metres high from wooded top to narrow bottom. The animals move sure-footedly long, the little feet of the mules picking their way carefully forward, Dutch’s horse clomping along just ahead of me and scattering loose rocks down into the ravine. Simon leads. He knows these paths well from his lifetime as a vaquero around here.
Although Macho Grande’s gait is slow, he is smooth and careful even on the steep ups and downs of the path. I am out of painkillers so am acutely sensitive to any jarring. But I am doing all right. Of course, we are all moving at the speed of Simon’s mule, Zebra. Even Snip with his big legs. A big horse is no advantage in these narrow and steep paths. Macho Grande has no trouble keeping up; mules like to work in groups anyway. But Snip is no ball of fire today either. He looks tired from yesterday and he is covered in dried white sweat and dirt from the trees he has brushed yesterday. That said, and despite the distance still to go, it seems to me that our horses and mules are a little faster today on their way home than they were on the way here yesterday.
The route is spectacular and it is worth being born just to be there on this beautiful morning. We are all tired and dirty from yesterday, Dutch and Simon especially. But what a sight! Eventually the river finishes its passage through the gorge and we begin to descend to water level again, the path zigzagging tightly on the way down and the riders being forced to lean way back in their saddles to keep from sliding over the heads of the animals. The animals’ hindquarters nearly touch the ground coming down because it is so steep. Never once on the trip does Macho Grande get too close to a tree or fence that might scrape me. Only once does he slip and that is on bare rock with no footing. He slides forward for a foot or two before he catches himself on some gravel. Even when he has to leap down twelve or eighteen inches there is no jarring.
Dutch’s horse, Snip, is missing the two shoes on his forefeet. After heavy cattle days in the hills, the work horses often need to be re-shod every second day. Unfortunately, the ranch was out of No. 1-size horseshoes and Snip’s unshod hooves were only noticed at the last minute before we left yesterday. In the course of the gorge traverse, I also notice that one of Zebra’s hind shoes has been thrown too.
We left the tiende about 0915. About 1030 we decide it is time to stop for desayunos (breakfast). Cookies! We leave the horses in the road in front of us with their reins on the ground and collapse on the grass nearby. We eat half of the large box of mixed cookies, reckoning ourselves lucky that they don’t make cookies from frijoles.
Another open and grassy field opens up in front of us. Song birds fly singing from the trees up the hill, woodpeckers in profusions scold us from worm-ridden stumps and trees, and occasionally we hear but do not see horses in the woods nearby. Other than that the silence is golden and infinite. The sun begins to feel hot on our backs.
At the end of the valley we come to an abandoned rancho near the river. We ford the river and climb to a low shelf that might even be covered by water when the river is up. Simon stops and points out petroglyphs carved into the flat surface. There is a grid pattern with carved horses and other hoof marks clearly carved into the squares. There is also huge spread-feathered looking symbol, a bird of some sort.
“Muy viejo,” Simon says. “Muy viejo.”
“Apache o Tarahumara?” I ask.
“Apache!” he says definitively.
We push on. Soon we start climbing back out of the river bed, through a fence gate and over another mountain to another arroyo. It’s the usual steep climb and descent. At no point in this three and one-half hours of riding do we encounter a single other person. We are getting back into home territory and soon we run across the main road from the ranch and begin to follow it. It has rather lost its novelty for me because I am aching and wishing it was now all over.
Once we pass the gate to the Rancho el Nogal with still one hour to go, the animals sense that we are in the home stretch and begin to pick up the pace. For a while Dutch is leading and Simon is bringing up the rear. Dutch’s larger beast sets a faster pace for a while but is tired and cannot keep it up. Macho Grande marches right along and even at times trots smartly through the arroyos and part way up the other side. I am of mixed opinion about this: I want to get home but anything but a walk hurts. But I decide to go with the flow. After a while, even the mules run out of steam and we plod the last mile or two back to the river in front of the ranchhouse without any bursts of speed.
When the ranchhouse comes into sight, I yodel once or twice to attract Kathleen’s attention. But it is not until we are across and up the hill by the corral that the Chihuahuas start a hullabaloo and Kathleen comes out to greet us. Our three dogs, which have probably covered three times the distance that the horse and mules covered on the way back, head immediately for the water barrel and then flop panting down in the shade next to the smithy. I can hardly climb down from Macho Grande. The mule is thoroughly sweated and tired. He lets Dutch unsaddle and unbridle him and the animals are all turned out into the pasture to graze, rest and recover for a couple of days. It is 1315 and we have ridden back in about three hours.
Kathleen warms up the meal she originally prepared for us last night and makes fresh coffee. She tells us about how spooky it was alone at the ranch. The battery-powered lights went out and she stayed here by candlelight with the cats and dogs for company. We tell her about the cattle drive and the trip back. It all seems like a great adventure but I am glad to be off the horse and I swallow a handful of aspirin to subdue the aches and pains. A shower under the water tank spigot and a nap is all I need now.
Where the air is so pure and the zephyrs so free
And the breezes so balmy and light
That I would not exchange my dear home on the range
For all of the cities so bright
Tuesday, 18 October 2005
I ride an old paint, I lead an old Dan
I’m goin’ to Montan for to throw the hoolihan
They feed in the coolies, they water in the draw
Their tails are matted, their backs are all raw
Ride around, little doggies, ride around them slow
For the fiery and snuffy are rarin’ to go
I’ve worked in the town and I’ve worked on the farm
And all I got is this muscle in my arm
Got a blister on my foot and a callus in my hand
But I’ll be a cowpuncher as long as I can
Ride around, little doggies, ride around them slow
For the fiery and snuffy are rarin’ to go
Around the corral there is apparent confusion. Who exactly is riding and who is driving in the trucks? What mounts are needed? Do we have enough saddles and bridles? After milking the cow, Simon and Dutch head out in different directions to bring in horses and mules. The cows are bawling and milling around.
The final “cattle-drive party” includes Simon on Zebra, a dun-coloured mule, Dutch on his now-standard mount Snip (that very same beast that threw me last week), Tanner (10) on her little pony, Ginger, and me on Macho Grande, a big black mule. Macho Grande means big male. But, though he is big, he is very tranquilo. Bob, the ranchero, will also ride with us for a couple of miles on Gus, his big bay horse. The boys are starting to wail because they are going to town in the trucks; they thought they were going to be riding horses or ponies. It’s a huge drama that seems never to end; when we follow the cows later down the ravine, across the river and up the other side, I can still hear Eli keening up at the house. Tanner is riding her pony because it going to the fair in Chihuahua next weekend and the only way to get Ginger there is to take her in the trailer from Yepachic with the cattle.
Confusion is added when Cindy, the ranchera, walks behind Zebra, who kicks her in the ribs with his hind leg. Even though I happen to be watching at the very moment it occurs, the mule is so fast that I barely see it. Cindy is livid with anger and starts smacking the mule around the face. Bob tells her to give it a good kick in the belly to let it know who is boss. We all stare.
The plan was to start driving the cattle towards the river at 0900. Someone has helpfully saddled Macho Grande for me. Now the horses and mules are tethered to the corral or standing patiently with their reins on the ground like good cattle horses. They shift their body weight from one leg to the other in the warmth of the sun. Except for the ongoing crying from the boys, quiet settles over the corral while we wait to get started. Nobody knows why we are waiting and we wonder if we will be back as advertised by dark tonight. Dutch lights another cigarette while he talks about giving up smoking. Simon as usual is still.
Finally, at around 1100, we mount. The pain in my ribs and shoulder is excruciating when I have to pull myself up into the saddle. The corral gate down to the river is opened and the first cattle start to move.
When all the sorting and culling is done, we are now driving fourteen head of cattle to Yepachic, four cows and eight calves. Most of the calves are Corrientes roping calves that will go to a dealer in Chihuahua. The cows will go to auction, some of them to be made into hamburger, some for breeding. The beef calves will be bought at auction by feed-lot owners, cattle dealers or other ranchers. In addition to raising cash for el Nogal ranch operations, Bob and Cindy are selectively culling their herds to conform to their ideal mix of cattle. Rancho el Nogal is a leading supplier of roping calves to the U.S. rodeo market.
Both Bob and Cindy say that the first mile or two is the worst until the cattle get the idea that they should just follow the road. The older cattle usually will take the path of least resistance; the calves tend to be all over the shop. The job of the cowpunchers is to keep the cattle moving, don’t lose any of them in the underbrush. This is a mountain ranch and the whole way to Yepachic is through very rugged terrain. The roads can be very steep, the hills off the road even steeper. Sometimes the arroyos are hundreds of metres deep. Once a cow gets out of sight you can lose him easily.
T. on her pony and I on Macho Grande follow the herd with their three drovers and the three ranch dogs down the steep path to the river. We push into the water, now fairly low since it has not rained for a couple of weeks, and up the road on the other side feeling that we have really started now at last. As we cross the river I can still hear Eli wailing up on the hill. “He’ll get over it,” T. says.
Somehow Levi, 4, has talked Bob into taking him with him on Gus but, once across the river, Bob sets Levi down to walk until Bob can come back for him. He trails us crying and whining. I am not sure what to do about Levi, to send him back to wait for Cindy to come along in the white pickup, which is going to Chihuahua for repairs, or to let him follow us. I decide to let him come on.
Fortunately for Levi, T’s pony is very slow. I do not like to leave her or Levi following alone a long way behind. If the herd gets too far ahead, I will be faced with constant painful dismounting and remounting to open and close barbed-wire gates (there are four of them between the river and town). This and straining to get the gates actually opened and closed is not something I look forward to. I urge them along.
All the more reason to stay closer to the cows. Their forward movement is so far not very rapid although they are covering a lot of ground, zigzagging back and forth like bird dogs trying to flush pheasants. Up ahead I can hear Dutch yipping and hooting at the cows to keep them moving, calling to Cody, the herd dog, to get after some animal that has strayed from the road. I see Bob and Simon up in the brush above the road. We catch up with them at the first gate at the top of the river hill opposite the ranchhouse.
At every opportunity the cattle attempt to evade the cowpunchers who are then forced to crash down into a ravine or up a steep hill to get them back on the road. The horses are covered in sweat already and we have not yet done one mile. The cattle, normally of the bovine ilk, are excited now. They are not used to being pressured. One old cow with big curved horns is being taken to market because she is mean and has a bad habit of goring other animals, horses or people. “Stay away from her,” Cindy told me, “if you can.” Hm!
We are through the first gate. This is still familiar ranch road to me. The cattle and the cowboys are 100 yards ahead of T, Levi and me. We stop occasionally to stay out of their way and allow the cowboys to get the cattle back on the road. At some point Bob returns and loads Levi up on Gus behind him where the 4-year-old hangs on to the saddle or Bob’s belt. But in the underbrush Bob is at a big disadvantage because he has to be so careful with his passenger when in fact he needs to be aggressive to get at the calves. He rides back to me and asks if I can take Levi behind me on Macho Grande. Levi cheerfully comes aboard, scrambling up like a little monkey, chatting amiably and authoritatively about this and that aspect of cattle ranching, cattle drives, Mexican marijuana growers, snakes, Yepachic, private family matters, and a myriad of other topics in an uninterrupted flow. Ah, to be four years old and still know everything!
Macho Grande turns out to be Mucho Lento. This is just fine with me since he is a smooth ride and I cannot leave T and Ginger behind. In fact we have to stop sometimes while Bob, Dutch and Simon bring the cattle back to the road and for Ginger and T to catch up. After a couple of miles, Bob asks Simon if he and Dutch will be all right without him. He needs to go back to the ranch and sort out the brand mark-registration papers and the ear tags and to get the big red Ford diesel, which will be towing the cattle trailer tonight or tomorrow to Chihuahua.
Levi switches horses once again and leaves seated behind Bob on Gus. T and I plod on behind the cattle and cowboys. Sometimes, the cattle will stream down the road at quite a good pace. Then suddenly, they will head down the ravine or into the woods. A curve in the road – and there are lots of them in these mountains – is an open invitation to abandon the beaten track for the wilds. Somewhere early on we have lost two calves, one of them a prime roping calf, I think. They have escaped but at least are still on el Nogal property. We are now down to four cows and eight calves.
On we go past the site of the dozer crash, climbing a steep hill where the road is badly washed out and down the other side. The road is in really bad shape and I wonder how Bob will get the bigger Ford truck out. The three or four spots where Simon and Dutch have spent a day repairing are still ahead of us. Since I am only tagging along I feel rather like a gentleman rancher, the mule perhaps not the most elegant of steeds but equal to the task of bearing me gently to Yepachic, fifteen miles away.
And so it goes. Up. Down. Yipping and yaying. Crashing in the underbrush. The cows on upper or lower pathways rather on than the road. We stop at the next two gates to allow everyone to catch up. T is a long way behind on her short-legged little mini-horse. She says it is a little lonely and boring back there alone. I resolve to stay with her even though it will mean slow going.
At one point the cattle take off up the hill and I lose sight of Dutch and Simon in the woods. I decide that T and I might just as well go on ahead. I know the road and there is not much chance of getting lost if we stick to it. Eventually we will wind up in Yepachic. We plod along in the midday sun, the woods around us now quiet. Even at his slow pace Macho Grande is faster than Ginger. So I stop when I get to the top of a hill or in an arroyo where the road crosses a stream and wait for T to catch up. I hear her coming because she is singing, her small silvery voice clear in the silence. She is working through all her nursery rhymes and has made it to “Mary had a little lamb”. Later I hear her singing “The Old Chisholm Trail”. When she catches up she is still cheerful but her bottom is beginning to hurt. Mine too. But I try not to think about it since we have a long way to go.
We do not hear either the cattle or the cowboys any more and I think we have got a long way ahead. T thinks they have somehow got past us. Certainly there are signs of cattle and horses on the road; hoof marks and fairly fresh scat. But I cannot believe they could have got ahead of us without us noting it. We reach a stream and decide we will stop for a rest. T. has made two tortillas with peanut butter and honey and she now offers me one. It was supposed to have been for Eli but he is riding in the truck. I have a couple of apples. So we stretch out on the grass, the mule and the pony standing by the trees in the shade. I have tied them each to a tree; a well-trained cow pony won’t run off when they have the reins simply hanging to the ground. But I don’t want to risk being left without a ride this far out in the bush.
After twenty minutes we decide to continue along the Yepachic road. We’ll catch up with the cattle, we will get to town before them, or they will catch up with us. At the worst, Bob and Cindy will be coming along this road in their vehicles. We cross a river and climb out the other side over an acre of smooth white rock and on up the steep gravely road. Macho Grande has got the drill now; his normal walking pace is faster than the pony’s and when we reach a convenient spot, he stops and turns to see if Ginger is catching up. I immediately say “whoa” so I can stay nominally in charge. When T gets up to us, Macho Grande turns and walks on while T and I chat for a moment or two before the distance increases. Then I hear her singing again.
Since crossing the last river we have started a very long climb over a mountain. I estimate that the road zigzags some 500 metres higher. The ranchhouse is at about 2,000 metres (over 6,000 feet) above sea level. I think we must be at 2,500 metres now and we are in fragrant piny forest rather than oaks and cactus. It is cool and the wind makes a sighing sound through the needles. We have occasional glimpses from near the top out across the valleys to blue mountain peaks.
At some point we come out into a broad valley of pastures. At the far end is a ranchhouse off to the left in the valley and on the left, near the road, is a wayside chapel. The dirt road carves gentle S’s across into the woods way up ahead and starts to climb once more. Halfway along the valley we are overtaken first by Cindy and Levi in the white pickup and then by Bob and Eli in the red Ford.
“Lose your herd?” Cindy asks with a grin.
“Nope! Just checkin’ out this road,” I lie. We both grin.
“It’s about three miles ahead to the turnoff to Santiago’s place. I’ll wait for you there so you don’t miss it. I don’t want to spoil your wilderness ride by trailing you in the truck.”
“Who’s Santiago?” I ask, thinking she means the elderly retired Pima cowhand who visits the ranch from time to time.
“Santiago has a ranch near Yepachic. That’s where we are bringing the cattle to load them.”
“Oh!” Good thing she came by. First I’d heard of it. I thought we were heading directly into town. Of course, I guess we would not want actually to drive a herd of cows down the highway.
Bob pulls up ten minutes later.
“Too bad you missed the turn-off to the short cut. It’s really a lot farther this way.” My heart sinks. Glad T hasn’t heard it.
“How much farther?” I ask, suddenly noticing the pain in my bottom more intensely.
“Oh, another three miles or so. Continue along this road over this hill and cross the river. Then go on up over the next mountain for about two miles or more. I’ll mark the turnoff. Of course, you could drive the truck and I could ride Macho Grande and lead the pony?”
“Oh, no. I’m fine,” I lie again. I am really all right. My arse hurts, is all. “You need to be there to supervise the loading.”
Off he goes. T catches up and we plod on for what seems a very steep four hundred miles with T asking whenever Macho Grande allows her to catch up,
“How much longer?”
“Media hora,” I say each time, which is what Simon always says no matter how far it is yet.
T is tired and sore but she is plucky and never gives in to whining or complaining. We sing The Old Chisholm Trail together for a bit but my throat is dry and ti yi yippee kind of sticks in my throat. I’ll be glad when we get there. I think of a cool beer. I thought that, having become separated from the cattle, at least we would not have to ride fifteen miles staring all the while at cow bums. But it is getting a little tedious now. My shoulder is throbbing a bit and I need to take some more pain-killer. My pelvis hurts from sitting so long in the saddle. It is also getting late in the afternoon and I wonder about getting back to el Nogal tonight. T will go in the truck with her parents to Chihuahua. But Simon, Dutch and I will be heading back to the ranch. At least there is a full moon tonight, I think to console myself.
I realise once again that being a cowboy requires a huge amount of physical endurance. It’s dangerous work being around big animals all the time. You are outside nearly one-hundred percent of the time. This is likely to give you arthritis and small injuries and make you old before your time. In the old days the cowpunchers were ill-paid rural farm workers who often sustained injuries and endured sickness without medical treatment. They were poor and stayed poor and died young. The romance was all in the cheap novels and movies. There are probably lots of guns around out here. But I have so far not seen one. There is of course some cattle rustling by full moon, which is why the cowboys stay out on the ranges then. Marijuana growing is popular around here but Bob tells me it’s not a high-violence business at this end of the drug chain; the gun fights are in the cities for control of delivery.
But unless you are a rancher yourself, you won’t make much money as a cowpuncher even today. A Mexican vaquero gets paid the equivalent of US$ 200 or less plus a log cabin to sleep in or to share with others. No medical bennies, of course, and a seven-day work week of heavy physical work all on a diet of frijoles, maize tortillas and Nescafe. He can’t afford a family and he has no amenities. If he’s lucky the ranchero will finance him a few cows for a herd of his own that he can eventually sell.
O it’s bacon and beans ‘most every day
I’d as soon be a-eatin’ prairie hay
It’s rainin’ like hell and it’s getting mighty cold
And those long-horned sons-o’guns are getting’ hard to hold
Eventually we come to a log placed partly in the road pointing off to the left along a barbed-wire fence. There is also a rock cairn and, tied to a pine tree, a page out of a kid colouring book with English text. T recognises it as one of theirs and takes it along with her. We push down the narrow path until we come out onto one of those delightful hill or mountain-ringed river valleys. This one is beautiful with lush pastures and, at the far end, whitewashed ranch buildings. We hear cattle lowing and I even hear Dutch’s loud bass voice laughing in the distance. Along the river bank and then across the ford, along the opposite bank for a while and then up the little road to the ranchhouse and we are there.
Simon, Dutch, Eli and Levi are eating a snack off the tailgate of a pickup. The cattle are out of sight in a covered corral and awaiting loading in the trailer, which is parked near the river gate. There is a beautiful chestnut horse standing perfectly still, saddled and bridled, in the yard. A man in a white Stetson and cowboy jeans and a really cute little five-year-old Mexican boy with dimples complete the picture. The man, probably the boy’s grandfather is in his late-fifties or early-sixties and fairly drunk. This is Santiago.
Rancho el Boscito, some 3,000 hectares in size, belongs to a businessman in Chihuahua. Santiago and his family (two nice-looking but well-protected teenage daughters, 14 and 16) and Santiago’s married sun, Raoul all live there as caretakers. Raoul, 26, has a wife and three children and lives in a separate adobe house across the river. Dutch ogles the girls not very surreptitiously.
The cattle arrived at Santiago’s place about 1600, Bob and Cindy about 1700 and T and I about 1800. Someone sticks a can of beer in my hand and unsaddles my mule for me. Thank goodness! The pony and the mule are turned out into a pasture. My saddle is set up on a rail fence and T’s pony saddle goes into the back of the white pickup. The el Nogal boys are roughhousing with Santiago’s grandson.
Santiago trains trick horses for rodeo performances. The chestnut in the yard can shake your hand and go up on his hind legs. Maybe it can even surf the net. My Spanish is not good enough to ask. Santiago offers me the horse to ride but I cannot get up without a lot of pain so I decline. Dutch gets aboard and has the horse rearing up on its hind legs several times while he whoops and waves his hat. Altogether like a European version of Roy Rogers! Yippee yi yah!
The day closes down and a full moon rises from behind the hill. It is a harvest moon, the first full moon after the autumnal equinox in September. It also our second full moon in the Sierra Tarahumara; we’ve been here over six weeks. It starts getting too chilly and damp to sit outside and we are invited into Santiago’s small house. In the kitchen over a woodstove, Clara, his wife, along with the two daughters, make tortillas from harina de trigo (wheat flour) and heat up beans. There is a block of cheese on the table and we cut off small slices with a kitchen knife that looks more like a Turkish scimitar and wrap them to eat with a hot tortilla. The beans taste good after a day in the open air. Bob emphasises that this is standard, three meals a day fare for cowboys in northern Mexico ranching areas. This is a favourite line of argument from Bob; it is met with wordless scepticism by the English-speakers in the house.
As more and more people crowd into the small kitchen - Bob and Cindy and the three children, Santiago his wife, two daughters and grandson, Dutch and then Raoul – the room becomes even smaller. There are only three chairs. Santiago leads Dutch and me over to the hacienda, the house belonging to the owner. It is one long, one-story building with a long covered porch running the length of it on the southwestern side. The house is comprised of a central kitchen, where Santiago sits us down around the formica kitchen table, and two shotgun rooms on either side of the kitchen. They have beds in them. There is sleeping for eight without using the crib or crowding people into the larger single beds. In a pinch you could sleep twelve or fourteen plus a baby and someone on the sofa in the farmhouse kitchen. The furnishings are simple and old and well-used. The walls, inside and out, are whitewashed. There is a refrigerator, a modern propane stove as well as a wood range. There is running spring water, strip lighting (solar panels) and a flush toilet. Too much! (Of course there is no toilet paper. There never is in Mexico! Don’t leave home without it! What do Mexicans do?)
Dutch and I sit there trying to make small talk with Santiago. We have no common language, Santiago seems puzzled by the concept of “Canada” and even more so by the notion of “The Netherlands”, I am tired and sore. Are we starting for home soon? Why we are still here? At one point Cindy says to me that it should be a wonderful ride back to el Nogal in the moonlight. I’d like to get started before the painkillers wear off.
Eventually Cindy comes in and says that, if we like, we can stay here in the hacienda and ride back to the ranch tomorrow morning. She and her family are going to stay in the hacienda too and will leave way before dawn for Chihuahua. Bob has a 1000 meeting with the Regional Presidente. After a few minutes I say that I either have to start for el Nogal soon or find a bed. “Pick a bed,” Cindy says, and I head immediately into the next room where there are twin beds. I leave my stinking socks and boots outside on the porch, in the dark I throw the rest of my horsy clothing on the floor next to the bed, pull back the covers sink into the over-soft bed and am asleep within a few minutes despite the pain in my shoulder and ribs.
The ride back to el Nogal
As I was a-walking one morning for pleasure
I spied a cowpuncher all riding along
His hat was throwed back and his spurs was a-junglin’
As he approached me me a-singin’ this song.
Whoopee ti yi yo, git along little doggies
It’s your misfortune and none of my own
Whoopee ti yi yo, git along, little doggies
For you know Wyoming will be your new home
I hear Bob come into the darkened bedroom in the hacienda that Dutch and I are sharing. He first flashes his miner’s lamp on me and then on Dutch to wake him up.
“Dutch, can you give me a hand getting the cattle loaded and the green ear tags placed?”
“Yupp! Coming!”
Dutch gets up and I can see him getting dressed by the light of the full moon outside. It is 0400. I try to go back to sleep but the pain in my shoulder and chest is keeping me awake. I hear the noise of the cattle being moved up the chute from the covered corral into the metal trailer, the hooves banging loudly, one of the animals mooing occasionally. I get up reluctantly and reach for my clothing from the pile on the floor.
Boots tied, I slip into my fleece jacket, plonk my straw hat on my head, and head outside. The white pickup is pulled up to the side of cattle trailer and Dutch is at work changing a tire that has gone flat in the night. The metal is cold and the tire is heavy. Everything is wet from the dew and Dutch is shivering in his shirtsleeves since he had not brought a jacket or sweatshirt with him. After all, he thought we’d be returning the same day. Simon helps him lift the heavy tire onto the bolts and they return the old tire to the Ford freight bed and lash it down.
During the loading one of the calves got away and Dutch and Simon have had to chase it. Now all the dozen head of cattle are in the trailer, which has two compartments. The idea was to put the calves in one and the cows with their very long horns into the other. But the mean old cow with the threatening horns is in the front with the calves. Bob calls to Dutch o get in with him. I open the forward metal door for them to slip inside with the ear tags and the ear punch and close it quickly before one of the calves can escape. There is a lot of scuffling around inside. Finally, they say they want out and then they move around to the rear door and get in with the horned cows. More scuffling. More grunting and kicking. They come out. Bob wipes some cowshit off his trousers.
Meanwhile, Simon has scrounged around and found some kindling and has started a fire to heat up the branding iron. The pony needs to be branded before they move her. T has been up all this time and has helped bring Ginger in from the meadow. T’s feet and legs are freezing and she has a pink fleece children’s blanket wrapped around her upper body. Her teeth are chattering. Bob tells her she has to do the branding but she refuses in case Ginger will hold it against her. It takes quite a while for the iron to get red hot and we stand around the fire trying to keep warm and wishing we had a coffee. Finally, after half an hour the iron is deemed hot enough and the pony is given a so-called “hair brand”, i.e. the hair on her left flank is singed but the skin is not burned.
Now comes the job of getting Ginger into the trailer. She is already upset by the branding and is definitely not thrilled about getting in a car with a lot of strange cows. An argument ensues about the wisdom of putting Ginger in the forward compartment with that one cow with the long horns. Finally, Bob and Dutch get the cow herded into the back compartment without having to unload and reload everything. The pony fights going in anyway and a wrestling match ensues with Ginger winding up lying on the floor of the trailer and the calves gaping down at her. The guys jump out, the pony jumps up, and the door is slammed shut. Cindy goes to get the boys up and into the car for the journey. I don’t see Eli but Levi is his usual good-natured and cheerful self even at 0530 in the morning and despite wet socks from the night before.
Eventually the white pickup leaves driven by Cindy, and Bob follows somewhat later in the red Ford diesel and towing the cattle trailer. A panic had arisen at the last moment: although they had the brand registration papers for the cattle, they had forgotten to bring them for the pony. Since Cindy speaks good Spanish, she will have to stick close to Bob so she can sweet-talk the pony through the various animal checkpoints between Yepachic and Chihuahua.
Quiet now descends over the ranch again. Dutch and I head back to the kitchen of the hacienda. Dutch gets a blanket from the bed and wraps it around himself to try and get warm again. His boots and jeans are soaked from the dew. Simon has spent the night in Yepachic with his family and walked out in the middle of the night. We tell him to come in with us. After a while Santiago shows up. He talks to Simon in Spanish. But Santiago is a Mexican and Mexicans treat Indians like a lower caste. That’s why Simon went to his family last night. There is definite segregation around here even though Yepachic has a large Pima, Apache and Tarahumara population. After a few minutes Simon goes back outside though I not sure if of his own accord or because Santiago has told him to do so. Dutch and I go looking for him but he says he will stay by the fire outside. We decide to join him.
There is a woodpile nearby and we build up the fire to get a bit of warmth. Dutch of course is still without a jacket and stays close. When Santiago reappears, I ask him if there is any chance of a coffee. Even though there is a propane range in the hacienda kitchen and even though his own family are at present cooking breakfast over a woodstove at that very moment, he does not invite us in. We should make it over the campfire. He allows us to get a pot from the kitchen and I go with Santiago to his house to get cups and Nescafe. Bob and Cindy brought him a big bottle of instant coffee last night along with other food. But he puts a tiny amount in a separate jar, gives me it along with two cups and then another one when I remind him that we are three. I head back to the fire. We finally manage to make our little cowboy breakfast-coffee. Fortunately, we have sugar to take back to the ranch with us so we can sweeten our drink. Dutch wants a smoke badly but is out until we can get to the tiende later.
Daylight breaks and by 0645 it is light. The sun begins to shine over the mountains onto the hills to the west about 0730. We get our horses from the field and Dutch saddles Macho Grande for me but only after Simon has saddled Zebra and has had to fetch my mule from the river bottom whence he has escaped and stands laughing at me.
Our first goal is to the little mom-and-pop shop in Yepachic. We are there in twenty minutes, leaving our mounts tied to trees a little way off. We walk behind the scattered houses, skirting their outhouses and pigsties till we arrive at the orange-painted country store. Once inside it is dark. There is a 6-foot by 3-foot standing area as you come in, and counters in front and to the sides. Old-fashioned weigh scales sit atop one counter. Cans and bottles are neatly arranged on the shelves. An ancient lady, perhaps Indian, with glasses on her nose, her hair in a bun and a spotlessly white wool cardigan is the storekeeper. Except for the Indian part, she was for all the world like Mrs. Goggins from Postman Pat. A young woman of about eighteen or twenty comes out of the kitchen in the next room to help.
Bob and Cindy have given us some money to get some basics. They will do the major shopping in the city. For now we buy some emergency supplies and pack them either into the saddle bags I have on my mule or hang the plastic shopping bags from our saddle horns. With the bit of money left we buy a box of cookies for our breakfast on the trail. Dutch buys a pack of cigarettes and lights up immediately we are out of the store. He’s quitting.
Our route takes us first back to Rancho el Boscito. Just before we reach it, Simon leads us off the road and down a steep path to the Yepachic River so that we pass the rancho at a distance. The river is now down but one can see the debris left when the waters were six or seven feet higher during the rainy season. I wonder how Santiago and his family get across when it is in full flood.
With the sun on our backs it is beginning to feel warmer. The little valley narrows as we ride down river to the northwest. We cross it soon and ride for another half mile along the right bank. Eventually the river starts to narrow increasingly and we are forced first to wade through the river and then to climb up above the river. The narrow animal trail rises steadily higher as it parallels the river until we are in a very deep gorge. The river is a little silver ribbon a couple of hundred metres below us. On our side the ravine is very steep but wooded. On the opposite side we look up to sheer stone cliffs towering some four hundred metres high from wooded top to narrow bottom. The animals move sure-footedly long, the little feet of the mules picking their way carefully forward, Dutch’s horse clomping along just ahead of me and scattering loose rocks down into the ravine. Simon leads. He knows these paths well from his lifetime as a vaquero around here.
Although Macho Grande’s gait is slow, he is smooth and careful even on the steep ups and downs of the path. I am out of painkillers so am acutely sensitive to any jarring. But I am doing all right. Of course, we are all moving at the speed of Simon’s mule, Zebra. Even Snip with his big legs. A big horse is no advantage in these narrow and steep paths. Macho Grande has no trouble keeping up; mules like to work in groups anyway. But Snip is no ball of fire today either. He looks tired from yesterday and he is covered in dried white sweat and dirt from the trees he has brushed yesterday. That said, and despite the distance still to go, it seems to me that our horses and mules are a little faster today on their way home than they were on the way here yesterday.
The route is spectacular and it is worth being born just to be there on this beautiful morning. We are all tired and dirty from yesterday, Dutch and Simon especially. But what a sight! Eventually the river finishes its passage through the gorge and we begin to descend to water level again, the path zigzagging tightly on the way down and the riders being forced to lean way back in their saddles to keep from sliding over the heads of the animals. The animals’ hindquarters nearly touch the ground coming down because it is so steep. Never once on the trip does Macho Grande get too close to a tree or fence that might scrape me. Only once does he slip and that is on bare rock with no footing. He slides forward for a foot or two before he catches himself on some gravel. Even when he has to leap down twelve or eighteen inches there is no jarring.
Dutch’s horse, Snip, is missing the two shoes on his forefeet. After heavy cattle days in the hills, the work horses often need to be re-shod every second day. Unfortunately, the ranch was out of No. 1-size horseshoes and Snip’s unshod hooves were only noticed at the last minute before we left yesterday. In the course of the gorge traverse, I also notice that one of Zebra’s hind shoes has been thrown too.
We left the tiende about 0915. About 1030 we decide it is time to stop for desayunos (breakfast). Cookies! We leave the horses in the road in front of us with their reins on the ground and collapse on the grass nearby. We eat half of the large box of mixed cookies, reckoning ourselves lucky that they don’t make cookies from frijoles.
Another open and grassy field opens up in front of us. Song birds fly singing from the trees up the hill, woodpeckers in profusions scold us from worm-ridden stumps and trees, and occasionally we hear but do not see horses in the woods nearby. Other than that the silence is golden and infinite. The sun begins to feel hot on our backs.
At the end of the valley we come to an abandoned rancho near the river. We ford the river and climb to a low shelf that might even be covered by water when the river is up. Simon stops and points out petroglyphs carved into the flat surface. There is a grid pattern with carved horses and other hoof marks clearly carved into the squares. There is also huge spread-feathered looking symbol, a bird of some sort.
“Muy viejo,” Simon says. “Muy viejo.”
“Apache o Tarahumara?” I ask.
“Apache!” he says definitively.
We push on. Soon we start climbing back out of the river bed, through a fence gate and over another mountain to another arroyo. It’s the usual steep climb and descent. At no point in this three and one-half hours of riding do we encounter a single other person. We are getting back into home territory and soon we run across the main road from the ranch and begin to follow it. It has rather lost its novelty for me because I am aching and wishing it was now all over.
Once we pass the gate to the Rancho el Nogal with still one hour to go, the animals sense that we are in the home stretch and begin to pick up the pace. For a while Dutch is leading and Simon is bringing up the rear. Dutch’s larger beast sets a faster pace for a while but is tired and cannot keep it up. Macho Grande marches right along and even at times trots smartly through the arroyos and part way up the other side. I am of mixed opinion about this: I want to get home but anything but a walk hurts. But I decide to go with the flow. After a while, even the mules run out of steam and we plod the last mile or two back to the river in front of the ranchhouse without any bursts of speed.
When the ranchhouse comes into sight, I yodel once or twice to attract Kathleen’s attention. But it is not until we are across and up the hill by the corral that the Chihuahuas start a hullabaloo and Kathleen comes out to greet us. Our three dogs, which have probably covered three times the distance that the horse and mules covered on the way back, head immediately for the water barrel and then flop panting down in the shade next to the smithy. I can hardly climb down from Macho Grande. The mule is thoroughly sweated and tired. He lets Dutch unsaddle and unbridle him and the animals are all turned out into the pasture to graze, rest and recover for a couple of days. It is 1315 and we have ridden back in about three hours.
Kathleen warms up the meal she originally prepared for us last night and makes fresh coffee. She tells us about how spooky it was alone at the ranch. The battery-powered lights went out and she stayed here by candlelight with the cats and dogs for company. We tell her about the cattle drive and the trip back. It all seems like a great adventure but I am glad to be off the horse and I swallow a handful of aspirin to subdue the aches and pains. A shower under the water tank spigot and a nap is all I need now.
Where the air is so pure and the zephyrs so free
And the breezes so balmy and light
That I would not exchange my dear home on the range
For all of the cities so bright
posted by rjb @ Tuesday, October 18, 2005
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