Climb

My big strawberry roan horse picked his way between the cactus. Some spots were a little tight for his drafty body and my draped legs to fit through. I kicked out of my stirrups and swung my legs up on his shoulders to avoid the needles.

“We are going up there” the cowboy said as he pointed to the ridge above us. I looked up at the steep rocky cliffs and checked my cinch. No time to question the route, only time to trust the horse, trust the cowboy. 

We start the steep ascent, the cowboy’s horse kicking rocks down the trail at mine who finally was focused on where he stepped rather than what sparse desert foliage he could eat. I leaned forward onto the horse’s neck, the saddle horn stuck into my belly. 

We climbed in silence. The only sound was hooves striking the rocks and leather squeaking under the weight of our bodies. No doubt the resident mountain lion was watching us from his shaded perch purring out silent judgements. 

The top of the ridge was narrow, one step up and over and you were on the down side. The horses picked their way down the slope, hopping over rocks and letting their feet slide down the vague suggestion of a trail. 

Eventually the mountain rolled into the valley floor. We dropped into the flat land and into a herd of longhorn cattle. A calf, too young for horns, ran out from behind a cactus. He watched us with a cautious gaze and let us pass. 

Dust from the ground rose up with each hoof strike and stuck to the horses’ sweaty necks. The cowboy whistled some campfire tune and twirled his reins in his hands. To him, the world hardly existed outside of his saddle.