Half Broke

by Ginger Gaffney

  FOLLOW ME

  May / 2014

  Tony swings up on Moo and leads Rootbeer along his side, asking her to follow. The lead line dangles from her chin as she stretches out alongside Moo’s big swinging trot. Clip, clop. Clip, clop. Their legs move along in a diagonal rhythm, cadenced and clear.

  There is something about Rootbeer we all love. We know she comes from neglect and starvation. We know she has a strong will to survive. Yet she trusts us. Everything we ask she takes to diligently. She never questions us. She puts her nose to the ground and sniffs, then steps her hooves across the blue plastic tarp without hesitation. She stands with her ears listening backward, as we take the saddle on and off. She humps up her backbone when we cinch her girth, but then walks off without a spook or buck. I wonder how she knows that we are good. That we will be kind. That we will be generous with her. I wonder how any of us ever know this about one another.

  I have started plenty of horses over the years. Most of them, at one time or another, will use their instincts to flee when the pressure gets too great. They will jerk against my rope, race about the round pen, leaping with all four legs above the ground, trying to figure out how to get rid of this thing tied to their back. But not Rootbeer.

  When Tony or Eliza swing on and off her back quickly, to get her accustomed to the weight of a human, she twists her nose around and puffs at their knees. She’s keeping track. She wants to know who is up there and what they are doing. When Eliza takes the lead rope and bends Rootbeer’s neck, her head swings around gently, like ribbon in the wind. She is full of curiosity. When Tony walks her across the ground poles, around the barrels, and through the semitruck tires, wrinkles fold and bevel above her eyes. She measures each footfall with determined concentration. For the first time in my career, I have met a horse who isn’t afraid of anything.

  Tony wants to be the first on her back. I ask him to wear the big blue riding helmet I brought over for his safety. He’s in the round pen, standing on Rootbeer’s left side, hopping up and down in the stirrup. She stands quiet and unconcerned. Tony swings up and rests down on her back, then reaches over to put his right foot into the stirrup.

  “You can release me,” he tells me. “I think she’ll be fine.”

  We both have a rope snapped to her halter. Tony has the lead line, which he’ll use to bend and steer her. I have a longer rope, which will act as a tether if Rootbeer gets nervous. This is the first unbroke horse Tony has ever started. I need to be close to him should Rootbeer get excited.

  I remind him, “I’m here, Tony, not going anywhere.” His neck and head tilt forward with disappointment.

  Rootbeer and Tony stand in front of me. Tony smooches a sound from his puckered lips to ask Rootbeer to move forward. He flutters his legs like flags flapping against her ribcage, asking her to move out. Rootbeer looks confused. She holds a wide stance, trying to balance the weight of Tony. Her ears rotate sideways, wondering what he wants her to do.

  I step a few strides away and gently toss the end of my rope in the direction of her hindquarters. By now she knows this means “go.” Yet still she remains uncertain and refuses to move ahead. Tony keeps making kissing noises and waves his legs out wider. I’m swinging the rope over and under, over and under, when, out of nowhere, Rootbeer begins to slide backward. She loads all her weight onto her hindquarters. Her front legs stiffen and push against her shoulders. We see her forehand rise, as her rear end disappears underneath.

  “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! What is she doing?” Tony shouts. Rootbeer continues to slide backward. She sits down on her haunch, like a dog begging for a biscuit, and Tony slides off her backside. The back pockets of his jeans land first into the sand. His legs splay out of the stirrups and rest on either side of her body. Tony is laughing, and I am, too. Rootbeer remains sitting in the dirt with the saddle still in position. Tony picks himself off the ground. He walks around to Rootbeer’s head and starts scratching her behind one ear.

  “What are you doing, little girl?” He smiles, then rubs behind the other ear.

  It is funny. It’s not something I’ve seen before. Rootbeer couldn’t figure out which way to move. She could have bolted, she could have reared. She could have rounded her back and bucked Tony right off. All of these would have been reasonable choices. Instead, she just sat down.

  “Come on, sweetie; let’s get up.” Tony takes the lead rope and gestures for her to stand. She shoves her butt off the ground, then takes a full body shake, sending the leather fenders and stirrups slapping against her sides.

  “She’ll follow me.” Eliza jumps the round-pen rail and takes the long rope from my hand. I let her have it without hesitation. Watching Eliza and Tony working as a team over these past few weeks has been an unexpected pleasure. Something I’m beginning to crave more of in my own life.

  “Swing back up,” she tells Tony. Rootbeer rests her muzzle against Eliza’s forearm and starts nibbling at her long-sleeve T-shirt. Tony gets back in the saddle but hangs onto the horn, just in case of a repeat performance.

  Cluck. Cluck. Eliza sucks her tongue off the roof of her mouth and starts walking to her left. Rootbeer ambles along beside her, with Tony chuckling from above.

  “FEEL FOR THE MOMENT her hind leg swings underneath,” I tell Eliza. She and Tony have been riding Rootbeer for about a month, in and out of the round pen. It’s time to teach all three of them the nuance of signals that go into making a nice riding horse. Eliza and Rootbeer ride around me on a circle tracking left.

  “I’ll call it out,” I tell Eliza as she sways along in the saddle. “Your hips swing left, then they swing right. When they swing right, that means her hind leg is coming under. Tap her with your heel. Turn her to the left.”

  Nothing makes a horse happier than a rider who is thinking about the footfall of their hooves. It is the most intimate line of communication.

  “Now . . . Now . . . Now. Can you feel it?” I ask Eliza.

  Eliza has enough focus these days to run this ranch. When I first met her, she couldn’t look up, couldn’t meet my eye, couldn’t speak a sentence. Her growth has come on rapidly. Recently, Daniel and James have moved her into the business office. They want to teach her how to run the accounting system. They challenge her, they pressure her, they support her. Everyone has high hopes for Eliza. She told me a few days back that Daniel would like her off the horse program. He wants her to focus more on the needs of the ranch. She told him she couldn’t, that the horses are what keep her grounded.

  Eliza told me that when she first arrived, she didn’t listen to anyone. People would talk to her, but she couldn’t hear a word they said. The only thing she heard was the sound of her own voice bouncing off the inside of her head. Then, early one morning, before first light, she heard the horses muttering from the corrals. She sat up and wondered if someone had forgotten to feed them. That was the first time she thought about anybody besides herself in seven years.

  “I feel it,” she says, adjusting her posture in the saddle. She taps Rootbeer on the ribs with her left boot heel and turns.

  “Timing and cadence,” I tell her, “that’s what makes a good rider.” She turns and walks a circle to the right. She’s looking ahead, watching the cottonwood branches blow in the wind at the far end of the pasture. Her head oscillates side to side, moving in rhythm with Rootbeer’s feet.

  “Now . . . Now . . . Now?” she questions. She’s right on the mark. Tap. Tap. Her right boot knocks against Rootbeer’s side and they turn again.

  Tony stands next to me. His mouth is half-open as he pushes his breath in and out, in time with Rootbeer’s step. I look to the side and see him with his hands out in front, holding imaginary reins. His body wags along with Eliza’s hips.

  “Can I try it at the trot?” Eliza asks.

  “Yeah!” Tony yells. He can’t contain himself.

  “Not today,” I tell them both. “We have time. Lots of time.”

  One thing I have learned about recovering addicts—they alw
ays want more.

  TO THE RIVER

  June / 2014

  Tony and Eliza meet me at the gate and jump into the back seat of my truck.

  “They’re not going to let us ride in the competition,” Eliza rushes to tell me. “They say we can’t do a public event as long as we’re still serving our time.”

  “What?” I’m shocked. “No one can come? No one at all?”

  “They haven’t said that for certain.” I can see Tony in my rearview mirror. He’s leaning toward me with his shoulders gathered tightly around his neck. “They said maybe we can go. But only under supervision. And we definitely can’t ride.”

  Tony and Eliza are Rootbeer’s people. They are the only ones who have ridden her. I should have been told this sooner. This rule seems to have sprung out of nowhere. Changes like these are common here. The leadership likes to shake things up. They test the residents’ patience, their willingness to adapt, their ability to work things out—especially once they get frustrated. I’ve witnessed this kind of upheaval on the ranch. But this is the first time the test has been pointed at me. I feel my anger start to roil up my back.

  “What are we going to do? Will I have to ride her?” I say in a panic, driving toward the corrals and parking under the old cottonwood tree.

  “Marcus will!” Tony launches. “He came to brunch on Sunday, and we asked him if he would ride Rootbeer. He said he’d love to ride a horse again.”

  “Marcus? He hasn’t ridden a horse since he’s been out.” I’m getting a knot in my gut. After all the effort we have put into Rootbeer, now it’s either Marcus or myself riding her in the competition? I would have never signed us up if I knew they weren’t going to let Tony or Eliza ride. I hate this feeling of not being in control.

  I jump down from my truck and walk toward Randy, who is grooming Hawk at the hitching rail. I remember when Randy had to excuse himself regularly to deal with his fits of anger. I turn away from Randy and walk over to Willie’s gate and grab a hold, pushing myself back and forth, like Randy used to, trying to keep his temper from flying out of control.

  “It’s not right. It’s not right,” I say as I shove myself off the gate.

  Randy walks over and pries my fingers from the metal, spreads his arms wide, and gives me a hug. “It’ll be alright, Ginger. Rootbeer will be alright.” Randy’s warm body wraps around me like a soft blanket. I feel my anger dissipate into the well of his chest. Not only can he control his own anger, he can now help me with my own. I feel as small as a pencil inside his wide, thick arms.

  Tony and Eliza have put in long hours with Rootbeer, and they deserve to ride her in the competition. They can walk, trot, and lope her all over this small ranch. She trots through every obstacle, and last week Eliza started jumping her over the two-foot-high crossbeams. This week she’s clearing a three-foot jump. I can’t imagine doing this without Eliza and Tony.

  “It’s okay,” Eliza comes up behind us. Randy releases me but keeps his arm wrapped around my shoulders. “Rootbeer’s gonna have to get off this ranch at some point. I think she’s ready. Maybe this is a good thing.”

  I have known that Rootbeer should get off the ranch. That she will need to travel on open land to see how she adapts. I have wondered how she will do in the mountains. If she’ll feel comfortable crossing water. We will need more than these seventeen acres to get her ready. Not just for the competition, but for her potential new owner.

  “If we can’t ride her,” Tony says as he walks up to the three of us, “then at least someone from the livestock team can.” Eliza and Tony have already made the adjustment. As usual, I’m the only one clinging to the past.

  I have run into Marcus many times down at the gas station in one of the nearby towns. He’s working two jobs. At night he works at a restaurant, and during the day he’s still working the first job he got when he left the ranch, driving trucks. Being able to hold down a job for a long period of time is one of the success signs of an addict in recovery. Marcus is holding down two jobs. Last time I saw him, he showed me his new used Chevy truck that he bought down in Albuquerque.

  “Call Marcus,” Tony tells me. “He’s waiting for you.”

  MARCUS AND I follow the arroyo east toward the mountains. I tie a pack behind Rootbeer’s saddle. It will carry our lunch, snacks, and enough bottled water to last all day. I pack the rain gear onto Moo’s saddle. We’ll start east toward Truchas for a few hours, then turn south on an old cattle trail, following the barrancas just north of Chimayó. From there we will head west and downhill toward the Rio Grande. It will take close to five hours to make the loop.

  Rootbeer leads the way, and Moo follows. Her steps are long and quick. I ask Moo to trot and catch up. The saddlebags bump against Rootbeer’s loins as she marches up the arroyo. Her tail floats side to side, not once noticing the water bottles jostling inside the bags. This is Marcus’s fourth ride on her. She made the change from Eliza and Tony without a hiccup. That’s a good sign. She’ll need to make the change again with her new owner.

  After an hour, deep into the desert, we arrive at Ojito, an isolated farm surrounded by wide open BLM land. Ojito is owned by a friend of mine. Way out here, in the middle of the desert, Ojito sits on spring-fed land. Cottonwood, russian olive, and elm trees rise above the piñon and juniper drylands. We walk toward the grove, looking for water and a cool place to rest. Rootbeer wades through the shallow spring that turns into a westward flowing creek. Marcus gives her the reins, and she stretches down to sip and suck the cold, clear water. She’s barely sweating. Today there are three clouds in the sky. It’s going to get hot. She leaves the creek and heads for the shade of a cottonwood, waiting for Moo to finish his drink.

  We cross the creek and head up the driveway onto the farm. It’s mid-June, and the flowers and vegetable gardens are beginning to peak. My friend Sam comes out from his adobe home, looking surprised but happy to have company. I don’t see him much, maybe once or twice a year, but when I do it’s always on horseback. He is a bit of a hermit, living out here. His face shows three-week stubble, almost a beard. He’s barefoot. When he looks up at me, he gives a wide grin. I can see something green stuck to his upper teeth. I wonder if Sam owns a mirror.

  “Hey, Sam, this is Marcus and Rootbeer, new friends of mine.” Sam walks over and shakes Marcus’s hand. Marcus looks around the property. The carcasses of rusted-out cars lie in a tangle of weeds. Two ancient homesteads are melting back into the earth. An old cat is licking rainwater from a broken toilet thrown into Sam’s front yard.

  “How long have you lived out here?” Marcus asks Sam.

  “You want some zucchinis?” Sam asks, looking up at Marcus, ignoring the question. “They just started coming in.” Sam doesn’t get many visitors out here. I don’t know how often he goes to town.

  “Sure,” I say to Sam.

  Marcus is tongue-tied.

  Sam starts scratching Rootbeer’s chest. “Now this is the kind of horse I need around here. Don’t you think?” Sam’s still staring up at Marcus.

  “Yes, sir, that’s right,” Marcus says with a newfound confidence. “A horse like Rootbeer can take you anywhere you need to go out here.”

  Sam leads us on a path that winds through his vegetable gardens. The raised beds are full of horse manure, which Sam comes and gets from me in the fall. The spinach and lettuce leaves are just about to bolt. His squash, zucchini, peppers, and tomatoes have healthy dark-green leaves with flowers ripening underneath. Rootbeer walks through the garden slowly, looking at every little thing. She’s at home in this world of natural wonder, occasionally stretching her neck down to smell the plants. The trail takes us back to Sam’s house.

  “We’re heading to Chimayo, then back to the river,” I tell Sam. “I’m glad you were home; it’s so good to see you.”

  “Wait. Wait just a minute.” Sam runs inside and comes out with a beautiful tie-dyed bandana wrapped around four perfectly grown zucchinis. He unzips the flap on my saddle bag and lays them
across our raincoats.

  “Thank you, dear Sam.” I reach over Moo’s neck and give Sam a big hug. He smells like he hasn’t showered in days. “Just knowing you are here, under this great big sky, growing food, and living just how you want to, always makes me feel better.”

  “You be safe,” he tells me and holds onto my hand a little longer. There are only a few men—I can count them all on one hand—who make me feel equal. Sam is one of them.

  We rein the horses around, and head back into the arroyo, heading east.

  For the next hour we trot and lope, climbing increasingly taller hills until we hit the edge of the national forest. Small pines and large junipers mark the change in elevation. Rootbeer switches her lead at every curve in the arroyo. She flattens her neck and catches the rhythm of a rocking-chair canter. Marcus barely moves on top of her.

  Up ahead I see the bloated body of a dead animal. The stench is thick and fresh, three days old at the most. A committee of vultures views us coming and land atop a large pine.

  “Let’s track to the right of that,” I try to tell Marcus, but he’s too far ahead and doesn’t hear me. He heads straight for it. Moo shies to the right, side passing around thickets of cholla, trying to avoid the swelling stink. We catch up to Rootbeer on the other side.

  “Looked like an old dog,” Marcus tells me as I run up behind him and Rootbeer. “Someone must have driven it all the way out here to put him out of his misery.” Food for the wildlife. Many locals think this way. “Rootbeer took one look at it and kept going.” Marcus is proud of her.

  Back at a trot, we follow another curve of the arroyo. The landscape is getting rocky and is studded with small trees.

  Midday we turn right onto the cattle trail, heading south. We pass a group of dirt bikers, the only other people we see all day. Their bikes are screaming through the hills around us. The high-pitched squeal of their engines startles Moo. He jumps forward, then sideways. The whirling engines echo off every hill. Moo takes off ahead of Rootbeer, snorting three times, letting her know there’s trouble all around.