The following afternoon
Gus arrived with Biffer for the first riding lesson. Biff was saddled,
but not bridled with reins because Gus was leading him with a rope and
halter. A tender breeze was gently escorting a handful of powder puff clouds
through the pale rose Sedona peaks as the session started.
With Gus's help Ream
found the stirrup with his left foot. Gus was holding Biff on a loose lead
while he coached Ream to mount in one easy motion. Biff stood steady as
Ream mounted.
"Put some weight in
both stirrups, and use your legs as shock absorbers when the horse moves,"
said Gus.
Gus told Ream to hold
on to the saddle horn and asked him if he was ready before he started leading
Biff in a large circle.
Gus led Biff in several
circles, then a figure eight, then more circles in the reverse direction.
Ream became more acclimated in each circle to the horse's sway. Soon he
was anticipating the motion. The trick was learning to ride with the horse,
not behind the motion or in front of it. Even Gus was a little surprised
at his progress.
After about half an
hour of circles, Gus asked if he wanted to venture a walk down the road
to the trail head. Ream smiled with excitement and nodded affirmatively.
With a loose lead,
Biff followed Gus who had worn walking shoes instead of his boots, anticipating
the walk. When they reached the trail head, Gus indicated there was a down
hill grade for a few yards. "Brace yourself with the horn to stay upright
and if you can lean back a little," he said.
Ream complied as they
entered the national forest. Even here at the edge of the wilderness, he
felt a difference in compression. He was picking up a reprieve from civilization
much clearer, he thought, than if he had eyesight.
Gus explained he had
created trail markers to show the way, especially when the trail crossed
flat tables of topaz sandstone. He had stacked three stones with the smallest
stone on top for each marker which stood about a foot tall. He said the
markers were reminiscent of luminarias set out on Christmas Eve in New
Mexico, where dozens of brown paper bags weighted with sand and containing
a glowing candle, mark almost every home.
As they entered the
sandstone forest, Gus's three stones stacked like candles marked the trail.
The trail turned gently, tilted slightly and unfolded faint doorways, ever
winding into the silence of a great cathedral of slanted stone. There,
red-golden-brown monuments slumbered skyward to become the clouds, while
the quiet floated down.
Photo
Copyright Bob Bradshaw
There was a meaning
hidden in the stillness so encrypted that only the soul could decipher.
Ream experienced this as Gus walked toward Court House Rock, hardly speaking.
Ream sensed it was not a time to talk.
Court House Rock stood
as a two thousand foot turret, cliffs etched with ancient stone faces.
As you approached, its presence was absolute even to Ream's blindness.
He sensed an acoustical quality like a great band shell used for outdoor
concerts. His gifted ear heard mighty echoes of silent cascading thunder.
Without words, the mountain expressed itself with a loving kindness which
stated simply, "I'm here."
Tourists from
a roadside viewpoint could never experience this presence. You have to
be up next to it, face to face with it, and looking up at Court House Rock,
to know the soul of it. 
They had arrived in a wild straw grass meadow populated with a row of yucca cactus in bloom, locally known as the "Lord's Candlestick".
Gus stopped. He took
off his hat and stood quietly.
Several moments passed
before Ream asked with a soft reverence, "Gus, where are we?"
"Court House Rock,
but you might say in God's church," Gus said. "There are places like this
on lots of trails. You can be riding along and there it is, you hit something
like a hollow place. It's very still and calm, like it's a sacred place.
Now I've been in a
church or two down in Mexico. In those old missions there are statues surrounded
by candles in an alcove. Each statue has its own station. Well, out here
there are stations too. You come to a bend in the trail, or under a tree,
and you feel it. You just recognize a holy place, then something
out there gives you back to yourself. You might say it's a golden moment."
"Gus, there's a lot
of poetry in you," said Ream.
"Maybe so," said Gus,
"which reminds me. I got an old cowboy friend who goes by the name of Bear.
He is on the committee for the Cowboy Poets' Gathering in a couple of weeks.
He has asked me to come and recite a poem. I may take him up on it."
"I think you should,"
said Ream. "Besides, I would like to come and hear you and I have a friend
who would be interested."
"OK," replied Gus as
he put on his hat.