Destructive storms of the past were a main topic of intent tales both before and after Hurricane Patricia’s arrival last Friday.
A close Mexican friend reminded me of the wind-whipped storm that had hit mountains overlooking his local fields and pastures. There I had kept a small herd of stock in exchange for helping him with planting and harvesting. Mexico was an agricultural economy then. Livestock possessed critical value.
After a taste of rough preliminary winds that long-past rainy season, Guicho Padilla helped me get ready to look for some missing animals. We hoped rainstorms wouldn’t block my search for run-away stock – some round-up steers, some dry milk cows, plus his dappled stallion. I was missing two geldings and a young bull.
Fences were down, the trail nearly washed away by heavy mountain run-off as Guicho wished me “buena suerte”. Tracks were barely discernible, but good enough. I was aboard a young gray gelding called Alacran Dos. He was still spooky. But like his mother, he was had stamina. No ride was too rough or too long. Yet much of the world still made him jumpy.
The soil up where my friends and I did much of our work was mostly clay, slippery as a ski slope in heavy storms. My mount was jumpy as we ran into a protril (colt pasture) that the early storm had worked over. It was partly a jungle of tall wild weeds and brush. The barbed wire fencing was sagging, the posts loose. Squinting at the sky, I said aloud, “The stock first, fixing this mess afterwards.”
I finally found some cattle. The dry cows, eager to move to better grazing, came along easily. They even paused readily as I repaired the fence where wind, termites, jungle-like weeds, weasels, squirrels and, of course, livestock, had worked on the combination of palo dulce posts and barbed wire interlaced with sharply spined huisache brush.
Then, just as I got the cattle moving, rain began. Along with a denim jacket, and rain slicker – a sheet of plastic with a hole cut in the middle – I had a big Tres-CH spade and a heavy pry-bar strapped to the back of my saddle. Careful not to scare the cattle, I moved gently as big drops banged my sombrero. Abruptly, lightening cracked. It stabbed directly into the ground. That was all the gelding needed. He jerked into a dead run downhill, tearing through low brush, leaping boulders. By the time I jerked him around, heading back uphill, a cloudburst swooped in from the other side of the mountain peak. I couldn’t see more than a foot in any direction. Going up-hill exhausted some of the gelding’s panic. But lightning popped again, spooking him with every strike.
Finally, I got out my rain slicker. As I checked for holes, a breeze lifted the crackling plastic in air - and dropped it across the bay’s face. Bam - he went straight up and sideways. I let go of the slicker which blew between the cattle’s legs. They and the bay skidded into a downhill-aimed ridge tracing a line of thick-flowing mud.
One of the cows went down. The gelding leaped over her. He landed, hooves fighting for solid footing, sliding through swales of belly high weeds. We picked up down-hill speed. Then hit the side of an intervening higher ridge. For a moment, I thought maybe we‘d sail over it. A simpleton’s dream. Rain water carried a forest of tall weeds, tangles of fencing and rocks. My feet got stuck in the stirrup leathers as we whirled downstream.
The problem with fallen horses is that they fight and kick wildly, trying to get up. As we hurtled downhill, I was eager to stay away from flailing hooves. Bellowing, eyes rolling, my mount was fighting not to drown in our mudslide when one of his twists popped a foot loose. Free, I grabbed at his head and found the reins. Ahead was a wide spot where the bank had fallen in. With me pulling and pushing, he got his feet on firm soil and lurched uphill.
The rain slowed. I tried to clean up, but my clothes were too plastered with clotted mud. I took them off to soak them in bank-side pool of rainwater. At another pool, I calmed and washed Alacran Dos. He deserved more than that just for surviving. Some cattle rested not far downhill. Plainly, we’d lost cattle. We? Alacran and I. I hadn’t seen Guicho’s stallion or my stock.
The bay’s head drooped. I scratched his neck, his ears. He raised his head and nickered. No snorting or spooking. Maybe he was over being scared of the world despite the wild ride it had just given him.
“You’re a good animal,” I said. “That’s more than can be said about a lot of humans.” I rubbed his nose. He nodded against my hand and I laughed. Maybe the storm had taught us both something.