Where Magic Happens

I know a place where the mountain peaks cradle the sapphire sky and time stands still. A place where history and tradition collide with family ties and laughter.  A place where everything changes and nothing changes. Every year, as the Eastern Sierra Nevada snow begins to melt and time glides ceaselessly to May, my thoughts feel the magnetic pull of Hunewill Ranch and I fall under its familiar spell.

“Ready, Dad?”

“Ready. Let’s go.”

Our horses, Marquita, the sorrel quarter horse mare, and Cochise, the paint gelding, stand restlessly side by side. I can feel Cochise’s muscles tense and twitch.  Cochise prances and sidesteps in his eagerness to join the two horses that loped away from the group. After a few more seconds, we tighten the stampede strings on our hats one last time and lean forward and urge our horses into a partner lope. Our goal is to keep our speed and position constant, like two horses pulling a chariot in Ben Hur. Along the way we have to dodge wild rose bushes, jump a ditch or two, and compensate for different stride lengths – all under the watchful eyes of the wranglers and other riders. The ultimate challenge is to join hands without breaking our stride as we approach the group, all lined up like Olympic judges.

Our horses gather themselves and settle into a steady pace. Cochise pulls ahead and I try to slow him down without dropping into a trot. I concentrate on keeping my weight back and settled down into the saddle. I’m conscious of everything assaulting my senses: the breeze coming off Buckeye Canyon threatening to kidnap my cowboy hat, the earthy scent of sage infusing the air as hooves crush the leaves, the meadowlark’s shrill cry, and the imposing snow-covered peaks of the Eastern Sierra in the distance.

“Dad, get a little closer so we can hold hands.” I switch the reins from my left hand to my right and reach for my father’s hand.

         “I’m trying,” he replies. Our fingers finally touch and we grab on.

“Hey, Raymond, are you watching?” I shout to the wrangler to make sure he sees our incredible feat. After a few more strides, we slow our horses down to a walk and join the rest of the group. I give Cochise a well-deserved pat on the neck.

“Good job, Dad. We did it.” My father gives me a smile and I savor the satisfaction from our small, but meaningful accomplishment. The other riders complete their partner lopes with varying degrees of success that elicits some eye rolling from Jay and good-natured laughter from the rest of us. I don’t know of anything more therapeutic and liberating than galloping through a meadow. Riding a horse feeds my soul and allows me to magically transcend ordinary existence to a place of contentment and sheer bliss.

We are riding through the expansive Bridgeport Valley that has been home to the Hunewill

Ranch since Napoleon Bonaparte Hunewill first supplied lumber and beef to the mining towns of Aurora, Bodie, and Lundy in the 1800s. The fourth, fifth and sixth generations of the Hunewill family still raise cattle and operate a guest ranch in this piece of paradise sheltered under the Sawtooth Range that forms the northeastern boundary of Yosemite National Park. My extended family has been coming to this ranch every year for fifteen years to be humbled by the majestic setting and pay homage to western traditions. Friendships forged 15 years ago are renewed each year in a landslide of smiles and laughter, and the days take on a reassuring rhythm of riding and camaraderie.

Horses are the heartbeat of the ranch – over 170 strong – mustangs, Morgans, quarter horses, appaloosas, paints, and two Percherons who pull the hay wagon. Over the years many have been patient teachers: Condo, Mulan, Chugwater, Festus, Emma, and Sho-Pai have taught my twins how to keep their seat in the saddle, hold the reins like an ice cream cone, and win a few rounds of “Cowboys and Indians” played on horseback. They have moved cattle just like buckaroos, mastered trotting and loping, and skillfully unbridled and unsaddled their horses after the last ride. I proudly watched their confidence rise and bubble over with each victory. Each day brought new challenges during the journey from greenhorn to pseudo-cowboy.

I can’t remember the names of all the guests, or even what I did last week, but I can recall each horse I’ve ridden in an instant. The first was a bay mare named Charisma whose lope was so smooth I felt like I was on a rocking horse. Then there was Sultan, the Anglo-Arab who jumped even the smallest of irrigation ditches with only the slightest encouragement. Goldie was a spirited palomino mare who had been trained to respond to subtle leg and neck rein cues and handled like a Ferrari. Last year was the first year I rode Cochise, a black and white paint gelding who is young and green and needs a calm hand. Together we are learning how to communicate and trust one another. Much of riding’s appeal for me is a dichotomy: the predictability and familiarity of the saddle and the terrain juxtaposed with an ounce of ever-present danger should the horse spook or bolt.

Why do I ride? Very simply, magic happens. It nourishes my soul and engages all of my senses. When I bury my nose into a horse’s neck and smell the warm aroma of horse hair, sweat, dirt, and manure, I can feel the tension in my shoulders drain away. My ears pick up the sound of teeth grinding a bit, a leather latigo slipping through a D ring on a cinch, a tail swishing at a fly, a hoof stomping the dirt, and an occasional whinny. The velvet smoothness of the nose and chin, the coarseness of the mane, the rough leather reins in my hands, and the sturdiness of the saddle horn all conspire to soothe my world-weary psyche.

I squeeze the reins, slide the scuffed toe of my boot into the stirrup, grab the horn and the cantle and swing my leg over the saddle. Once I am horseback, two things happen immediately: I have a new vantage point for observing everything around me and I am forced to sit still. Since I no longer have to think about where to place my feet, I can concentrate on watching, listening, and sensing the animal beneath me. For someone who spends her life constantly in motion, the constraint is welcome.

The rides take us through meadows nourished by snow melt running through a complex network of irrigation ditches. The water keeps the pastures green for grazing cattle and provides a seemingly endless supply of jumping opportunities. Raymond tells us to drop our reins, keep our weight centered, look through the horse’s ears, and grab the horn if we need to. Sacrificing a little pride and style points are preferable to landing in a soggy patch of meadow, or worse yet, a cow pie.

One of my favorite rides is to Robinson Creek for a cookout. We take a wide loop through the valley and skirt along the hills at the northern edge. We lope through bunch grass and wild iris while I work on keeping Cochise in a steady, collected pace without yielding to the temptation to bolt to the front of the pack. I also practice using leg pressure to direct her to the left or right. Lucy Rees sums it up best: “Riding is a partnership. The horse lends you his strength, speed and grace, which are greater than yours. For your part, you give him guidance, intelligence and understanding which are greater than his. Together you can achieve a richness that neither can alone.”

The final meadow we cross is aptly named “Camelot” due to its resemblance to the Salisbury Plains. Several large boulders stand like sentinels and beg comparison to Stonehenge. We line up side by side to prepare for the final lope. All that’s missing from this Arthurian tableau are some medieval knights and royal banners flapping in the breeze. Jay leads the charge toward imaginary foes and I am suddenly Guinevere caught up in the exhilaration of the chase. We soar over two ditches with hooves pounding and mud flying. My father is just to my right, and my daughter is on Emma the appaloosa off to my left. Just as quickly we rein in and let our horses blow and snort as we approach the cookout area by the creek. The daydream fades away as I tie Cochise to a tree and join the group for lunch.

On the way back to the ranch, we look for a splash pond. A broad, shallow pond is all we need for a cavalry charge. One by one we gallop through sending water flying in all directions. I’m laughing at the sheer exhilaration and silliness, and turn my horse around to take another run. I’m soaked to the skin as if someone turned the garden hose on me full blast. Water is dripping down inside my boots, and my Wranglers and shirt are sticking to my skin. My sunglasses and face are spotted with mud and it’s the most liberating fun I can ever imagine having. We compare notes and vote on who got the wettest – certainly a dubious honor.

On the final stretch to the barn, I think about a poem I read in the summer house. The Hunewill family has a long tradition of writing and reciting cowboy poetry, and family members often recite poems during rides or other ranch activities. The poet, Leslie Fredell, captures the magical experience of riding:

There’s a stillness in the valley

As the cold air settles down.

The lush green summer meadows

Have turned a golden brown.

The air is cold and clear

In the early morning light

The softly colored clouds

Mark the passing of the night.

The craggy peaks are dusted

With an early autumn snow.

The cattle are shifting slowly,

They know it’s time to go.

The days stretch out for miles

Winding through the dusty hills,

It’s time for riding slowly –

A time for being still.

The light is ever-changing,

Like a river running free

Creating golden moments

As a gift for all to see.

Riders side by side

Trading laughs and cowboy lore –

Leaning close with passing glances

And sharing something more.

The beauty of riding is that it can be solitary or social, gentle or challenging, and everything in between. It’s one of the few activities that three generations of my family can do equally. Every horse has something to teach us. As Winston Churchill said, “There is something about the outside of a horse that is good for the inside of a man.” I am forced to put aside my fears and troubles when I sit in the saddle because I know my horse is counting on me to guide it with a calm and knowing hand.

It’s hard for me to fully describe that “something more” in the poem. It’s mostly a feeling I get when I have the privilege of riding a horse. It’s a deep-rooted contentment that I don’t get from anything else. I’ve promised myself that I will own a horse someday. I’m not sure how, when, or where, but I am determined to make that happen.

Next month my family will head to Hunewill Ranch and slip into our cowboy and cowgirl alter egos for four days. The transformation starts as soon as the car rolls down Hunewill Lane under the watchful gaze of the Sierras. My twins are now 18 and have graduated to the advanced ride. They often help with the Memorial Day branding like old pros. The experience is comfortable and familiar, and also fresh and new.

I know a place where I find salvation, humility and joy on horseback. I know a place where magic happens.

May 2012