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SHARE THE DUST AND DANGER ON A REAL OLD WEST WILD HORSE

Squeezing my legs gently against the blue roan mare's sides, I guide her toward the center of the herd. Her young colt trots beside us, his scrubby paintbrush of a tail flipped over his back and his nostrils flaring. He whinnies as we plunge into the sea of 70 horses, his high tinny voice rising above the pounding hooves. Then we are enveloped by undulating waves of sorrel, black, blue roan, brown, pinto, bay, and white -and by the thunder of hoofbeats. Riding into the heart of the herd is like diving off a steep cliff into a river. There is no turning back. I am carried along by the current. The earth quakes beneath 280 powerful churning hooves. If my mare stumbles, if my cinch breaks, if I lose my balance, I could fall beneath those heavy pistonlike feet.

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Nothing would stop them. "Whoa!" I could yell at the top of my lungs, but they would not hear. Unfettered by iron and leather, their wild spirits would barely comprehend my futile command. They would continue onward in total compliance with a much more powerful order, the law of the herd. I would be trampled. My limp body would be hauled back to camp while my blue roan mare and her colt galloped onward with the herd. Determined to dispel this nightmare image from my mind, I focus on the lead horses. A big sorrel gelding and a fine-boned black mare pull against the cool autumn wind in tandem. That same wind brushes my cheeks and chills the knuckles of my gloveless hands. It rustles through the trees and carries the pungent flavor of juniper and ponderosa pine.

Burying my hands in the warm fur of the mare's neck, I release myself to the rhythm of the herd. I become mesmerized by the pounding of the hooves, by the ocean of horseflesh that surges around me, by the thick cloud of dust that envelops me. For a moment, it feels as if the horses and I are one. United by primal energy and instinct, we move onward through the surreal forest. The force of the herd rushes through me like blood from a pumping heart. "Yee-ha!" I scream, my voice like a whisper compared with the deafening roar of the herd. Realizing I startled the

colt, I reach down and allow him to touch the palm of my hand with his muzzle. "Easy girl," I tell his mother, allowing the words to roll slowly off my tongue, as I pat her softly on the withers. She cocks her right ear toward me.

I remember that, according to Navajo legend, all horses are part of one great equine soul. Regardless of a horse's lot in life, whether a great war steed or a lowly beast of burden, when a Navajo horse died, it was believed that his spirit continued to live as part of that universal soul. That same spirit coursed through the bodies of all horses past, present, and future, a singular heartbeat of the herd, galloping into eternity.

"Left flank!" someone riding to my right rear shouts, jolting me from my musing. I cannot see him, but understand what I need to do. I rein my horse outward and to the left, breaking through that side of the herd. Behind me, two young mares and a foal branch off into the woods. My job is keep-ing watch over the left flank. During my spontaneous ride into the midst of the herd, I had left this area unguarded. The three horses have already slowed to a trot and are picking their way through the pine trees to the left of the trail. Circling around behind them, I inch them back toward the herd. "Get up!" I holler. "Get outta here!"

Behind me, two young mares and a foal branch off into the woods. My job is keeping watch over the left flank. During my spontaneous ride into the midst of the herd, I had left this area unguarded. The three horses have already slowed to a trot and are picking their way through the pine trees to the left of the trail. Circling around behind them, I inch them back toward the herd. "Get up!" I holler. "Get outta here!"

The mare with the foal trots obediently toward the herd, but the other horse turns tail and heads for the deep forest. Pushing my mount into a gallop, I swing wide around her. "Go on! Get outta here!" I yell, approaching the pinto renegade at a slow trot. She wheels and kicks at my horse, missing my right leg by inches. I rein back and continue to scream. "Yeah, you outlaw! Get outta here!"

Reluctantly, the rebellious mare sets off in the right direction. I ride at a respectable distance behind her with the colt trailing. By now the herd has disappeared beyond a bend. The colt is beginning to tire and lags behind. Ahead of me, the rebel pricks her ears forward and, intent on rejoining the others, she breaks into a gallop.

the right direction. I ride at a respectable distance behind her with the colt trailing. By now the herd has disappeared beyond a bend. The colt is beginning to tire and lags behind. Ahead of me, the rebel pricks her ears forward and, intent on rejoining the others, she breaks into a gallop.

"Come on, little guy," I call to the colt as I urge my mare forward. "You can make it."

Choking and barely able to see, I follow the renegade toward the yellow cloud that billows behind the herd. The colt is having trouble keeping up. The mare nickers to him. "It's okay, little buddy," I tell him. "We'll wait for you."

Satisfied that the rebel is once more of one mind with the herd, I fall back to allow the colt to catch up. Cantering toward his mother on wobbly legs, he stumbles over a rock and goes down.

My mare's nickers turn into panicked neighs. I give her her head and allow her to go back to the foal. When we reach him, she nuzzles him gently and encourages him to stand up. When he doesn't, she shoves the exhausted colt with her nose until he struggles to his feet.

The colt's sides heave from exertion. Sweat trickles in crusty streams down his narrow chest and shoulders, across his ribs and flanks. I decide we should slowly walk back toward the herd, allowing the colt time to cool and catch his breath. From the looks of his spindly body, he is less than

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five months old, not quite old enough to be weaned. This is his first trip down from the northeast Arizona highlands to more hospitable winter pastures. I do not want to risk losing him.

My longtime friend and faithful riding companion Jayne Mitchell has trotted back toward me. With her straw hat cocked jauntily over her forehead and the dirtsmudged collar of her duster pulled up around her neck, she looks every bit the Arizona rancher she is.

As the founder and owner of a well-known Scottsdale horse farm, Jayne has specialized in breeding mares and delivering foals for more than 20 years. Horses she raised and trained have won numerous regional and national championships. She also is concerned about the colt.

"Don't worry," she says. "I'll stay with you. My horse is getting a little 'ouchy,' and I think we'd better walk, too." Sure enough, Jayne's horse walks with a noticeable limp. Unshod, she may have bruised her right front foot or worn the hoof wall down into the quick. Jayne's horse is a blue roan mare who could easily pass as my mare's double. Later we learn that the two horses are half-sisters. As we approach the herd, the dust begins to settle. The others have stopped to wait for us. Patty Skidmore approaches aboard a lanky bay gelding named Gabriel. "Everything all right?" she asks. "Yes," I answer sheepishly. "I'm sorry to hold you up." Patty has traveled from Long Beach to be part of the three-day semiannual Beaver Creek Ranch horse roundup in the White The river spray sparkled like diamonds in the early morning sun and beaded on our well-oiled chaps and waterproof boots.

(BELOW) After leaving Big Lake, the herd passes through sagebrush plains and wooded hills on the way to Crescent Lake. (OPPOSITE PAGE) Patty Skidmore brings in one of the colts, wobbly from exertion.

you. My horse is getting a little 'ouchy,' and I think we'd better walk, too." Sure enough, Jayne's horse walks with a noticeable limp. Unshod, she may have bruised her right front foot or worn the hoof wall down into the quick. Jayne's horse is a blue roan mare who could easily pass as my mare's double. Later we learn that the two horses are half-sisters. As we approach the herd, the dust begins to settle. The others have stopped to wait for us. Patty Skidmore approaches aboard a lanky bay gelding named Gabriel. "Everything all right?" she asks. "Yes," I answer sheepishly. "I'm sorry to hold you up." Patty has traveled from Long Beach to be part of the three-day semiannual Beaver Creek Ranch horse roundup in the White Mountains area of east-central Arizona. An accomplished horsewoman who customarily rides hunters and jumpers, she enjoys the role of a wrangler. Her cheeks are flushed, and she smiles easily. "That's all right," she says. "We needed a break anyway." Of the 19 riders participating in the roundup, seven are from Arizona. Eleven came from California and one from Florida. More than half of the group have made the trek with the Beaver Creek horses before. For many of the participants, a week-long stay at Beaver Creek Ranch or assisting with the roundup is a yearly tradition. "There's no other place like this in the world," says Tom Cunningham, who is riding with his son John. Both are from San Diego, and both donned authentic old-time cowboy

Even as their massive muscles ache from the exhaustion of the long drive, the untamed spirit of the herd will be coursing vibrantly through their veins.

Ken Akers on Ringo with his custom-made saddlebags designed to carry up to 500 pounds of cameras and gear. Finally, Billy swung up into his saddle, and we were ready. "These horses have been penned up all night, and they're a little fresh," he told us. "They'll move out of here in a hurry, but they'll settle down fast." Billy signaled to his father, Emer, who stood beside the corral. With one quick motion, he opened the gate. Like champagne flowing swiftly through the neck of an uncorked bottle, the horses rushed

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through the narrow opening. We cut them off to the left, along a broad trail that would lead us to the Black River.

The first leg of the trip follows the river to Buffalo Crossing. There the horses waded shoulder-deep through the stream, splashing and nudging along the young foals on their first deep-water swim. The river spray sparkled like diamonds in the early morning sun and beaded on our welloiled chaps and waterproof boots. From there, we headed toward Camino Bell and a brief lunch stop beneath the trees on the mesalike open space. Caren had packed roast beef sandwiches on fresh-baked bread, hearty fare that would fortify us for the long, dusty drive down the old forest road to Big Lake.

It was during this part of the journey that I cut off the trail to bring in the renegade. Now, as we approach a fenced pasture near Big Lake, the colt walks comfortably at my mare's side. This first day, we traveled only 15 miles, slowed by the river crossing. We corral the horses near the lake and pile into vans and pickup trucks for the ride back to Beaver Creek Ranch, where a scrumptious meal awaits us, along with the comfort of a warm bath and soft quilted beds.

The next morning, my friend Jayne and I awake before sunrise. We must head back to my farm at Cave Creek, while the others begin the second leg of the horse drive. After a hot breakfast, we part ways, and the riders set out for Big Lake. From there they will move the horses along the shores of crystal-clear Crescent Lake, through Seven Springs Draw, and on to Dead Horse Flats, where they will graze while the wranglers enjoy lunch. In the afternoon, they will move on past Mexican Hay Lake and down Grapevine Canyon to the camp at Brown's Sawmill.

At that point, the horses will be tired. They will rest near the border of the 26 Bar Ranch, munching grass and rolling in the sandy soil to scratch their backs. The riders will spend the night under the stars at Sawmill Springs with the drumlike beat of horse hooves still pounding in their heads. They will have traveled more than 20 miles on the second day.

The final leg of the drive will skirt the town of Springerville and take the horses across a high plateau to rangeland near Lyman Lake. There the herd will spend the winter. It will be another grueling 20mile trek, but I wish I were going with them. I would like to see the horses as they approach their destination, heads raised, nostrils flaring, and ears pointed forward. I picture them breaking into a trot, flagging their tails and fanning out across the windswept high desert. Even as their massive muscles ache from the exhaustion of the long drive, the untamed spirit of the herd will be coursing vibrantly through their veins.

As I drive down the bladed dirt road leading from Beaver Creek Ranch to the mayhem of modern civilization, I envision the horses moving contentedly through the knee-high grass as if they were part of one great soul. I carry the peace of the Wiltbanks' valley with me, till I return.

East-central Arizona. The ranch's guest season begins in late May and ends in midOctober. To make arrangements to stay at the ranch or participate in the horse drive, call (520) 339-1913 or write to P.O. Box 576, Alpine, AZ 85920. Weekly rates per person are $325 for adults, $250 for children six to 12, and $230 for children two to six. There is no charge for children under two years of age. Base price includes cabin, meals, and activities. There is an additional charge of $15 per person for horseback rides. The cost of participating in the spring horse drive is $575 per person; $495 per person for the fall drive. The ranch also holds an annual Wild Horse Hunt in June, during which riders search for horses and gather them off the Lower Black River winter range. The charge for this ride is $475 per person. Participants in the three horse drives need to bring sleeping bags, coats, gloves, hats, scarves, riding boots, rain gear, sunscreen, lip balm, and personal gear.