A
golden sun edges over the
mountain’s ridge and puffy
clouds begin to dot a
creamsicle colored sky. They
create shadows and add
depth to the thousands of prickly
pear and saguaro cactus around me.
I ‘m on my way to breakfast, albeit
sitting a bit catawampus in the
saddle, as my mount and I climb a
precarious rocky limestone hill. After
three days at Tanque Verde Ranch,
I feel accustomed to straddling
a horse and almost like a real rider
in the Old American West.
indin a riend
Uno, my trusted steed, takes the
downhill with meticulous care, as if
his life depends on it; and it does.
One slip on this treacherous terrain
and he could break a leg and I could
o yin o r th
oon
again ascend the steep stony rise.
We crest the prominence and I see
what looks like a movie set; horses
tethered to a rail beside a
windowless old homestead. Across
the way, picnic tables covered in red
and white plaid scatter the summit.
Ranch hands work behind a wood
burning outdoor grill, cookin’ up a
cowboy grub. I’ve earned my plate of
sweet smelling blueberry pancakes,
otato an off that ra
the menu at this panoramic tableau.
A Boomer, I grew up in the East.
As a child, I watched lots of Western
On the rail at
an ue erde an h
television shows: Bonanza, Maverick
an Ra hi
o
th om y m
ity i
r
ittin mi
a
urban men against the odds of a
cattle drive, but I’d never been to
a dude ranch. Nowadays, I live in
ori a an
hi no o th rn
belle, I’ve no background in riding
a tho h i mana a
train
mule around the rim of the Grand
Canyon). To me, horses are very large
animals with big teeth. They look
ea
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ennin