Sheila shuddered slightly as she began to feel the worry set in. She hated that feeling, yet she knew
enough to recognize she had a problem.
She and her ten year old Arabian gelding Rojo were leading the Hot Times
100 mile ride- at least she thought she was. Here they were- riding all alone
out in the middle of absolutely nowhere, located in the high desert of Northern
New Mexico. Sheila and her horse
had left the lunch stop in first place, just about four hours ago. That puts us at somewhere near mile 80 or
so, Shelia thought to herself as her big gray mount trotted steadily along
up the jeep trail. Problem was-
Sheila had not seen a course marking for a long time. Too long, she decided. Being in first place, she did not have
the advantage of looking for hoof prints in the rich , brown high desert
soil.
It was not being lost that worried her. She was a veteran endurance rider, and
had completed almost two thousand miles on Rojo. The duo had spent more than one night
out in the boonies while competing in the long, tough rides. The rougher the ride, the better Rojo
likes it, she reminded
herself. Her worries stemmed from
those huge, dark, billowing clouds that were quickly approaching. It had rained off and on for the last
week, making the terrain absolutely perfect for an endurance ride. There was no dust, no mud- there was
perfect traction for the horses as far as the eye could see. The race had been flawless so far, no
problems, and here they were leading by almost an hour just after the two thirds
mark.
What should I do?, she kept asking
herself. It would have been hard to
turn around if she had been on the course, because she was leading! She liked to win, and Rojo was feeling
good. Old Doc Tom had given her
horse his blessing at lunch- just a nod.
What a funny old guy, she
thought. She always liked to think
to herself while she rode- the trotting seemed to put her into a relaxed state that she really liked
being in. She would just bop along
for miles, enjoying the scenery and Rojo's beautiful extended trot. That was what she liked best about
endurance riding- being one with her horse for so many miles.
Old Doc Thomas was the rides
head veterinarian. He really was a
strange old bird. No one really
knew where he came from, but he had always been the most knowledgeable equine
vet in these parts for as long as anyone could remember. He had a small practice: his truck was
his office. He dressed the part- no
one had ever seen him without his trademark red pendelton shirt, and an old,
tattered Stetson hat. He had a
gray-flecked beard and mustache combination that was hard to describe-you could
not tell where one began and the other ended. He had to be 70 years old, but he looked
like he was in excellent shape. His
skin was weather beaten- it was easy to tell this man had lived his life
outdoors. He looked a lot like the
Marlboro man.
He loved working endurance races.
No one really knew why, but he would be out at all the rides, as long as
they were in "his" country. Many
ride managers from around the West would try and coax him into being their head
vet, but he was never interested.
He even turned down an invitation to work the world championships in
Europe. He was a bit unorthodox in
his examination method- he would look the horse over quickly, but very
carefully. He would poke and prod
exactly where he needed, and when done, he knew the condition of the horse. When the horse was trotted out in hand,
he would simply stare without batting an eye. He would just nod his head
slightly if the horse was fine. If
the horse was off, he would turn his head and gaze at the rider. That horse was done- there was no need
to even question. Not many riders
argued about the condition of their horse with the Doc. On the other hand, every
rider really liked getting that nod.
It meant a lot more to the riders than anyone outside the area could ever
know.
Snap out of it, dummy!, Sheila
thought to herself. She asked Rojo
to come to a walk, which he did instantly.
He was such a good horse, she reminded herself every time she rode
him. She had owned him since he was
a three year old show horse. His
prior owner did not like the way he looked (his ears were not small enough), so
he sold him to a family who had no idea what a horse was. One day Sheila saw some people trying to
beat the horse into a trailer at a friend's stable. She immediately ran over and grabbed the
whip from the man's hands. The man
was so irritated, he shrieked at Sheila she could have him for a hundred
bucks. Sheila gave him the money,
and led the horse the ten miles back to her stable. She really could not afford another
horse, but she felt she had no option.
After seven years the horse and rider combination had won twenty races,
including a bunch of hundreds, and several multi-day events. Rojo liked them the
best.
Cripes, you’re doing it
again! she barked at herself
once more. She was no longer
wondering- they were off course.
They had crossed a couple of smaller dirt roads and trails, and there was
no sign of a course. Besides, they
were heading up what seemed like a dead end valley. While she was day dreaming, the clouds
had gotten darker, and the wind was coming up. She was thankful she packed her Gore-tex
jacket as she slipped it on. She
unrolled Rojo’s rump rug at the same time.
There was no choice now- they had to turn around. Just as she picked up her reins, she
noticed a dirt road up ahead. There
was a set of hoof prints going that way, but they did not seem to come from
either direction. Oh well, she thought. At least I won't be alone out
there. She clucked twice and
Rojo immediately stepped up into his quicker trot. She noticed he seemed to be acting a
little funny. Sometimes she
believed Rojo could tell when things were wrong, but she was snapped back into
her senses as the wall of water started falling. It began raining so hard she could not
believe it.
They had to walk, since trotting was blinding her from the rain
splattering in her eyes. The wind
was right in their faces, and it was really howling now. She dipped her head to let her extended
visor deflect the streams of water from her face. Next time she would remember to pack
those clear lenses! She giggled at
Rojo- his ears were turned around backwards to avoid filling up with rain. They slogged along the road slowly- the
nice clay was already turning into slippery mud. This was not so bad, she thought. It was not yet dusk, she was sort of
dry, and she was sure she would find someone soon. She continued up the road for another
half an hour until she found another road intersecting with the one she was
on. It had a sign on it-
Wildwood, five miles, Santa Fe
eighty miles. Yikes! They really
were out in the sticks. She thought
heading for the town might be a good move, since there might be some shelter
there. She hung her bandanna from
the sign post and turned left.
It did not take long for matters to turn worse. The rain was coming down in sheets- the
wind was making wailing sounds which sent shivers down Sheila’s spine. The clouds turned jet black, and it was
suddenly as dark as night. They
stopped for a moment while Sheila snapped on a pair of glow sticks and clipped
them to Rojo's breast collar. They
continued up the road, which was quickly becoming a sand wash. They were definitely proceeding up a
canyon, and she became concerned when she saw a small stream winding its way
down the wash. The trail became
more rough, and Rojo had a hard time keeping his footing on the slippery
clay. The rocks were getting worse,
and there seemed to be less and less trail as they went up. They were now in a genuine ravine, and
at this point she decided she was turning around again. She began to backtrack, but just after
she turned around she froze in sheer terror as the reality of what she was
listening to crashed into her mind.
There was a low roaring sound over the wind, getting closer and very
loud! It was a flash flood! And it was coming down the ravine
fast! She kicked Rojo into a dead
run, but unbelievably around the first turn was a little trail that headed up
the side. Rojo leaped up the trail
as the rushing water crashed down the ravine behind them. They scrambled up the little embankment
to a little mound of rock that was impervious to the flood. Rojo was panicking as the water touched
his legs, but he felt the familiar calming from Sheila's voice that he so
trusted. They stood on the ledge,
with a ten foot deep river madly crashing just feet below them. Sheila's heart was pounding a lot faster
than Rojo's.
That's when Sheila saw him.
Up on the top of the ravine was a man on a horse! All Sheila could think was thank God. She thought is was another endurance
rider at first, but she noticed the horse was kind of large for long distance
riding. The man was wearing a
black, weather-beaten old drover coat that was folded up past his neck. He was wearing beat-up old chaps, and a
ratty old cowboy hat. His horse was
a big light colored Appaloosa, with a bunch of black leopard spots covering his
body. The poor horse was so wet she
could really not tell much about him, except for his size, and that his eyes
seemed to be shining in the dark.
"Can you help us?" Sheila cried up to the man. He shouted back - "turn your horse
around and climb up the rocks - there is a little trail behind you!” Sheila did not see any trail, but she
gently pressed her leg against poor Rojo's side. He gingerly performed a 180 degree pivot
without moving forward or backward an inch. Rojo was nervous, but he responded to
her cues. Thank God for those dressage lessons,
she thought. The river was still
crashing beneath them, and it was rising.
Rojo was unsure as Sheila pressed him upward. It was only when the big Appy bellowed
out an incredible call that Rojo knew what to do. As Sheila closed her eyes, she heard the
echo of that Appy's call rumble down the canyon. Boy, that was loud!, she thought as Rojo scrambled up the
cliff- straight up! What in the
world was holding his hoofs? They
got to the top where they found the wind was blowing so violently she could
barely stay on the horse. It was a
good thing too, since the little rock ledge they were standing on seconds before
broke away, falling into the rushing rapids below. The old man said simply "come on, follow
me.” She tried to talk, but the
wind was to strong. The Appy
wheeled around and started down the ridge at a trot! Cripes, what is he doing? Sheila
thought. They were moving along the
top of the ridge at a good clip when the Appy suddenly turned left into the
canyon! "This is it, good by my
friend!" Sheila cried to Rojo as they followed the huge horse down into the
crevasse.
When Sheila opened her eyes, she was trotting after that big Appy again
down a small but definite single-track trail that ran just above the raging
torrent below. There were logs and
bushes flowing down the river, and every now and then big mud slides would break
loose and crash down into the ravine below them. The old rider was actually cantering
now, and Rojo was not going to be left behind. Sheila kept her mount in his high-speed
trot, keeping enough distance from the Appy to see where she was going. That's a laugh, she thought. She could not see much of anything. They wound down this trail, over rises and around turns, always just
above the rising river. The Appy's
shoes would spark when they clipped the rocks, and Rojo would flinch as the
sparks sped past his head and bounced off of his chest. Sheila was tired of wondering where they
were. This had to be a second
canyon, but she saw no other way up here when she made the wrong choice hours
ago. What she could not believe was
the pace they were going. Rojo had
to break into a fast canter to keep up!
They rode on down this exciting trail for almost an hour. Sheila began to enjoy it- they were
really flying! Trails like this are
one of the reasons she liked endurance riding. She found herself comfortable with the
pace, and began thinking to herself again. How can he go so fast, how come Rojo's shoes
aren't sparking like that, and why can I see the trail when it is so darn
dark? This is fun, and I
thin... SPLASH! She was shocked back into reality as
they rode right through a small waterfall that was cascading down the cliff
above her. "Man, wake up!", she blurted out loud, as she spit the muddy water
out of her mouth. She rode on a
little less relaxed, but she was paying close attention to the ground and
water. Rojo was moving as well as
he ever had, especially given this horrible terrain. My horse knows something, thought
Sheila. There was no way Rojo was
going to lose site of that huge spotted horse ahead of him. As they rounded a corner, Sheila
saw the glimmer of light over the shoulder of the mysterious rider in front of
her. As they got closer, the trail
bent around to the right, and she looked over to see what looked like a gas
lantern! She felt relief and
elation and excitement all at the same time. She turned to her right to talk to her
friend- "Thank you so mu..." He was
gone. Just like that. What in the world?, she thought, where did he go? That’s a fast horse, but he can’t be
that fast! She and Rojo trotted
out between two huge pine trees that marked the beginning of the canyon. She could hear voices as she rode up to
the camp.
"Thank God, where have you
been? What happened? How did...?" There were so many questions. The camp consisted of the ride manager,
two P&R people, one truck
driver, and Old Doc Tom. Sheila
hopped of Rojo and led him to the nice, dry hay piled under a tarp while she
started to explain her story. She
told them in detail about getting lost, turning towards the town, and then the
flash flood. She told them she
thought it was all over when she was saved by the old rider.
When Old Doc Tom heard this, he looked up away from the fire. He walked over to Sheila and asked her
what the man looked like. Wow, thought Sheila. She had never heard him speak. She explained in detail the man, his
Appy, their unbelievable ride down the canyon, and how he vanished. When she was through, he just sat and
stared into the crackling fire.
After almost three minutes of silence, he began to speak in a low, slow,
and very calm voice:
"Forty years ago an old rancher named Cliff White was out working the
annual round up out here. He was a
friend of mine- I used to treat his animals. This used to be a big cattle ranch with
a herd of ten thousand." Doc Tom
turned, gazed out over the valley, and slowly pointed towards the horizon. "He was out trying to get the last
steers down to this plateau here, before a big storm was about to hit. He didn’t make it".
All eyes were fixed right on Doc Tom's dark, wrinkled face. The sounds of the storm seemed to be
gone. There was an eerie quiet
around the camp fire. No-one said a
word, waiting for him to continue.
The old Doctor pulled out a crumpled cigarette and lit it with a deft
flick of his diamond match. He
looked at the match until the flame disappeared. "A flash flood came right down this wash
and killed him, his horse, and every one of the beefs. That's why they call this wash Dead Mans
Wash. Ain't no man or horse ever
been able to ride it. It's all
rocks, cliffs, and sharp stone. He
was a good man".
That's all Old Tom said.
There was total silence in the camp- the wind was gone. Doc Tom took a long drag, and slowly
blew the smoke into the cold air.
The only sound was the unnatural hissing of the propane lanterns. They cast an Erie glow over the camp,
projecting craggy shadows of the people.
Even Rojo had stopped eating, and was looking at Sheila. The ride manager's face was white as a
sheet. Neither of the P&R
people moved. The truck driver was
holding his breath. Sheila waited a
minute, and said very quietly "I
just rode down that canyon, on a nice trail, just above the water with an old
rider. He led me down the entire
way. He saved our lives". Old Doc Tom asked "Was he wearing an old drover coat,
chaps, and a hat like this?" He
pointed to his soaked Stetson.
That's where she had seen that hat before. "Was the horse a giant Appy, tan in
color with black leopard spots?"
Sheila had to close her mouth with her hand. She could not speak. The ride manager shifted nervously from
one foot to another, his face way beyond ghostly white. After another two minutes of silence,
Old Tom continued: "The horses name
was Nez Chief, and he was the toughest horse in the land until he was
killed. We buried him along with
Cliff down yonder. It was a big
grave."
Sheila stood still for a moment, and then realized she had to
disagree. She told the men that was
not possible, she had just seen the man.
To prove it, she suggested they walk back a couple hundred yards to the
ravine, and she would show them the trail.
The water was actually down a bit, but it was still gushing past them in
the wash below. They grabbed the
gas lanterns and walked in the dark to the two trees where Sheila had come
through. "See, I told you"! Sheila said excitedly as she pointed down. There in the sand were Rojo's hoof
prints, made just a few minutes before.
But Sheila suddenly felt faint as the Doc pointed his index finger slowly
into the air as he said quietly
“one horse.” There were only
four hoof prints, not eight. There
was a raging torrent of water pouring out of the ravine, but there was no
trail. No where, no how, no
way. Nothing but a sheer cliff on
both sides. The water was obviously
at least ten to fifteen feet deep, and still crashing down the wash around the
boulders with a violent swirling motion.
She stood there in the dark, rain pouring off the visor on her helmet,
looking at the old doctor. He
glanced over and gave her that same nod that said “it's OK.”
Sheila and Rojo got a ride out of the mountains in a nice warm
trailer. They got back to base camp
the next morning, and slept for six hours.
The rain had stopped a few hours before- the sun was beginning to peek out from
the once dark clouds. It was one of
those unbelievable New Mexico sun rises that cannot be described. The first thing Sheila did after waking
up was to go over and see her horse.
He was fine- eating as usual.
The ride manager walked over, trying to think of something to say. Just then, Old Doc Tom walked over and
said good morning. Sheila offered
him a cup of steaming coffee, which he gladly accepted. The Doc took a look at Rojo, and his
eyes opened up wide when he looked at the front of the horse. There seemed to be little singe marks on
Rojos chest. Sheila looked at the
marks, remembered the sparks from the giant Appy’s shoes bouncing off Rojo, and
then looked at the doctor. He
smiled as he asked her in a very low voice- “See ya'll next year?” "I wouldn't miss it for the world," she
replied as she stroked Rojo’s neck.