#19 Everyone Loves A Parade...

The months following our autumn flood were perfect... 

...yet perfectly awful.

The sun shone. The skies were blue. The air soft and warm. It was perfect. Yet for a small tourist business, it couldn't be worse.

Access to our business had been cut off with the flood. Far to the south a bridge remained and directing visitors to us was difficult and complicated. Yet we did... slowly at first and with more and more regularity.

We had to be clever, offering incentives to travel the extra distance. We had to be better because we were hard to find. We had to make ourselves known and make people want to come to us.

In February, Tucson celebrates it's western heritage... it celebrates with a rodeo!

Beautiful Arizona spring weather draws many cowboy's and vaquero's to test their skills in old time ranch activities. For ten days, the city celebrates it's western roots.

Tucsonans threw themselves into this annual event. Dressing the part in cowboy garb... hats, shirts and boots! Pretend lawmen would round up tourists to lock in mock western jails and everyone would have a good laugh at the practice. Tourists and locals alike, loved it all. Yet for most, the big event was not the rodeo... it was the parade.

Billed the "oldest, non mechanized parade in the USA!" it was a big thing. This was the "big time" at the time, long before baseball and golf took away the title. It was a place where horses reigned supreme and it was a terrific way to promote ourselves.

Teams of horses pulled big wagons, single horses pulled buggies, donkeys, mules, ponies, goats, dogs and even oxen, provided the muscle behind the transportation. Hundreds of animals paraded through the streets.

Schools closed. Shops did too. Everyone wanted to watch the parade. Everyone wanted to be in it.

My Cowboy was still working for another guest ranch and that ranch had a float. He was obligated to represent them and drove their team of horses. Our stable closed for the day and a small group of ladies, all regular riders with us, became our official contingent.

We left the stable at 4 am... loading horses in the dark. A local TV station, KGUN Channel 9, had booked several horses for their on air news staff to ride and with our ladies group, we left with ten horses.

The ladies all wore similar clothes... blue jeans, blue shirts and big bandanna's.  Tall, thin, short, plump and in between, we were a sight to see. The final touch... matching blue and white straw hats with perky feathers stuck in the band. It was simple western bling!

One crafty lady sewed matching saddle cloths for each horse. We were a sight to see.

The parade wound through the city streets, crowds lined the way cheering and shouting their approval. At the official grandstand, a deep voiced announcer described our group over a loudspeaker. We heard our stable business named and described. We were in horse heaven!

That was the one and only time our little stable was in the parade... 

...as ourselves. 

The years which followed were filled with requests for our horses and wagons. Soon every horse, every wagon, every driver... was booked a year in advance by groups wanting their moment of glory in the parade. 

It was a hectic time but we were part of the city's western tradition. It was exciting and fun but times have changed. The luster has dimmed. Tucson is now a modern city and the old western ways have been slipping away. Yet the crowds, although smaller, still cheer as horses prance by. 

For those few days each spring, Tucson remembers...

...and so do I.

     The ladies in the rodeo parade

 

Honda and P.

      KGUN 9 TV News Anchor checking with the ladies.

 

Samson & Delilah with the guys

 

Wagon HO!!!!!

 

Hi There!!!

 

         

#18 The Face...

In the days following the big flood... no one came to our little stable.

No one could.

Our only easy access to the city was now gone. The bridge which connected us to town, had been severely damaged by the storm and floods which followed. The bridge which was our life line to the city was gone.

Yet we were comfortable and many were not. A deep well supplied fresh clean water and we had twenty tons of hay.  My fridge was stocked and cupboards too. My Cowboy had a beer supply... in every physical way we were OK. 

But our business had no business and it would stay that way for some time.

I took the free moments to explore, to keep connecting with this strange land, and to become one with it.

Mounting a favorite horse, I'd ride off into the desert and mountains. A water bottle in my saddle bags and snack should I need it. My Cowboy never rode for pleasure. He'd done it all his life, for him it was work. I always rode alone.

I was born with a sense of direction, my own personal GPS, but should that ever fail, I had a secret weapon. My horse.

The horses all knew every inch of the desert and they all had an unfailing direction finder... especially at feed time. They knew the way home from any direction and every shortcut along the way.

I rode deep into the mountains. There was much damage from the storms. Downed trees, broken limbs... tall saguaro cactus felled. I explored looking at everything, thinking of new trails and checking old ones for accessibility. I rode high onto ridges and down, deep into narrow canyons. I found secret places for Javelina and desert Mule deer. I saw bobcat tracks and listened to coyote calls. Soaring hawks cried while riding thermal winds above. Cottontail rabbits and quail scattered at our feet.

The skies were still filled with clouds, often scudding across like driven ships in a sea of blue. It was cool and the wet ground kept the trails dust free.

The horse enjoyed these times. Just the two of us... alone in the desert. It was a time of deep relaxation. It was a time of deep inner peace.

Sometimes a stable dog would come too. Usually our little greyhound mix, who needed lots of running time. It was in her blood and confinement was torture. She ran alongside, darting now and again to chase a rabbit but always quickly returning.

One afternoon the wind was fierce and cold. I cut down into a large arroyo for shelter. The rain soaked sand was firm giving solid footing to horse and dog alike. A smaller arroyo cut off from the larger and I turned to follow. It wound back and forth in a parrallel track to the mother wash but always heading down the mountain.

On one switchback I rounded a bend. A large ironwood tree had limbs down, almost blocking the way. In order to pass I had to ride close to the tree, ducking under low branches. 

I saw a face watching me.

I pulled my horse up sharply.

My little mare hadn't reacted. Nor the dog. A stranger this close would have evoked some response, I thought.

The face in the branches continued to stare.

I realized that the face wasn't real. I rode closer.

In the bark of the tree, a face was carved. The tree was an Ironwood... noted for its dense and very hard wood, noted too for its long life. Whoever carved this face had worked hard to do so.

A figure in a head dress... Spanish or maybe, Native people. I didn't know whom it might be. It was surrounded by swelling bark... growing up and around the face.

This figure was old.

I'd ridden this little arroyo many times. I'd ridden by and never seen. The storm and resulting wind damage had finally reveled this hidden desert treasure. I studied the face for several moments and then I rode on. The face was a secret I was loath to share.

Over the years, others found the remarkable face and others were not as content to let it be. Vandals painted it garish colors several times, not happy to leave it as it was created. Still others hacked the branches away to expose it to the elements and in so doing letting the elements have their way. Many tried to protect it but the figure was on private land and in others hands.

I wondered how many years the face had been hidden, how many years had it been safe beneath the shadows. And now in the full view of the sun... how many years would it last?

The face in the tree after being painted several times.