A Black Mountain Ride

Memories Refreshed

A Black Mountain Ride

A Horse Story

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

 

            The view from the top was exhilarating.

            Mogollon Baldy finally emerged over the Thompson to Clark’s Peak ridgeline. To the west the familiar, square top of Sacaton had been seen for the better part of a half hour. The other sentinels at lower elevations weren’t visible, but they were there. They would have been visible if we had any more mountain climb, but we were out of mountain.

            The ride around the crest had been akin to picking our way through a battlefield of malpais, layered rocks and jumble. Quiet was a contradiction. If there was a deer within a mile he was going to hear our approach. When we hit the pasture fence coming across the crest, our only assessment had been we were glad we hadn’t had to build it or pack the materials.

            I dismounted and led the little yellow horse off one place that had no options to pick. Other than that, he never wavered. He was solid and protected himself and me.

            At a point along the south ridge, we dismounted and peaked over. Wow! From Mt. Graham on the west, down through the Peloncillos and Chiricahuas, on to Animas and Big Hatchet to the south, and around to the Burros to the east, the vista was spectacular. The river cut a green swath through the box under us. Walt and JaNeil’s house could be seen upriver where the valley widened. It didn’t look far, but it would take hours to get there.

            We just sat and looked. It was just us, the horses, and the mountain.

            Memories Refreshed

            The previous day’s ride had begun the process.

            We had been in Walt’s northern country. We had saddled before daylight and were in the river bottom as the sun was trying to break over the eastern ridges.

            I had heard enough about the yellow horse and his fear of the boggy bottoms that I was sitting in the middle of him as we crossed the river. He did just fine, and all my senses returned to enjoying the ride and the feel of the cool morning. We held up briefly to discuss a plan for our ride out of the valley. Being on the left, I took the ridgeline to our west and Walt took the one to the east. From time to time over the next hour and a half, we would see each other on overlooks and saddles.

            I love to hunt like that.

            The horse was really stout. He attacked the climbs as we worked our way to the trail along the ridge crest. He told me when he needed to blow and that became our contract. As we climbed the first inclines, we rode through remnants of Walt’s cattle. He had weaned his calves on the south end, but pairs here were still together. They displayed the fact he rides in them. They studied me as I studied them.

            From a point not far from there, the horse and I saw first one coyote, then two, and then five. I wanted to pull the rifle from the boot, but reluctantly hesitated. I saw one doe on the remainder of the ride up the ridge before we reconnoitered. I told Walt I should have shot coyotes rather than hunt deer.

He agreed.

At 10:00 we found ourselves at a gate on the western perimeter fence. In the bright sun and across the deep canyon, lay the mountain. If there was ever a big buck mountain that one surely fit the image. If we were going to make that big ride, we were at a jumping off place. We conferred and agreed tomorrow morning would be a better plan. We rode off the long ridgeline to the river. I enjoyed watching the horse make decisions.

He was a joy to be with.

            A Horse Story

            For three days we hunted.

            Both of us had too many things to tend to rather than hunt a deer, but we have grown to need this. It included tea in the morning. At the days’ end we found ourselves sitting on the porch until it got too cool.

We were up and ready to go by 5:00.  Just like our grandfathers, we had our hands on the horses and slipping a bit into their mouths while it was still dark.

            The rides out of the corral were in silence. The only thing you could hear was the footfall of the horses, the breaking of brush, and the predawn morning.

            When we finally made our way off the mountain where we started this, we likely jumped a lion. The brush was thick and the yellow horse panicked. I told Walt that at the same time he said, “Look at that lion track!”

            Quickly, it was corrupted by horses dancing around in the tight confines.

            Soon, we saw another, larger track. This has become a dreaded feature of ranching on the river. It is a growing nightmare. As we rode, there were a dozen places where calves had been killed, bears or lions encountered, and events of some degree of human tragedy had taken place.

We saw deer including a buck we could have taken, but didn’t. We heard and saw turkeys. We saw javelinas and a coatimundi. We crossed the river multiple times without issue. When we got to the house we had a picture taken.

Few will find interest, but we did. We made a big ride neither of us had done before, and it was ours to remember. There would be another day with a bear issue in big country, but whether we killed a deer or not doesn’t matter. Hunting has become too much about stuff rather than living.

A horse will remind you of that, and … this one did.

Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “I told Walt I will buy the horse when he is ready.”