Exploring the Desert on Horseback in Los Cabos

Chacho, black and lustrous and every inch the bull, notices us as we approach the Cuadra San Francisco ranch and rises from his resting place under a tree next to the corral to meander over in very un-bull-like fashion to be petted.

“What is he here for?” I ask one of the ranch hands as I run my hand up and down along the sleek path between Chacho’s eyes and mouth.

“He’s our dog,” the ranch hand tells me with a little smile, and indeed, despite the two very visible, very sharp horns between Chacho’s ears, his big, long-lashed, bovine eyes communicate nothing but gentleness and a doglike craving for affection.

“We also use him to train horses for bullfighting.”

My mind immediately shuts down on that idea before the full implications of it can take hold; it is, however, pretty clear that Chacho won’t meet the same fate as many of his bull brethren. In a bullring, he’d pose about as much of a threat as Ferdinand, the flower-picking bull of the children’s book.

Twelve hours earlier, I was leaving my house in the cold blackness of a February morning in New Jersey. I’m a little disoriented as a result of now finding my very travel-weary self on the opposite corner of the continent, between the Sea of Cortez and the desert and mountains of Los Cabos, surrounded by free-roaming, shiny roosters, all manner of horses, and a pacifistic bull named Chacho.

A few minutes later, I’m being carried across the desert among cacti and canyons of granite by a 9-year-old white Arabian mare named Paloma, who, having assessed my riding skill or lack thereof right off the bat, picks her way over the sand and stones of the Baja peninsula desert with as much delicacy as if she were treading on broken glass. She’s the equine equivalent of a Segway, responding to my intention to ask something of her before I actually have to ask.

Valente Barrena, in what appear to be brand-new jeans, an immaculate blue-checked shirt, and a straw cowboy hat, rides alongside of our little group of city slickers on his muscular quarter horse, swinging a lasso which, I presume, would be used in the unlikely event that one of our horses spooks and makes a run for it. Enrique, a ranch hand who speaks no English, leads our little procession, turning every so often to lean his hand on his horse’s rump and make sure that all is well with us.

Valente is the son of the ranch’s owner, Francisco Barrena. Francisco spent much of his life in San Diego, training horses and riders for dressage, polo, jumping, and the like. When he was ready to retire, he returned to San Jose del Cabo to relax with eight horses, the desert, and the sea. It didn’t quite work out that way. There are now about 50 horses on the ranch, where the animals are trained and bred, and where human animals who want a break from the party culture of Cabo San Lucas and poolside margaritas at the resort can come to ride along the beach or a canyon trail, or take riding lessons.

“The difference is we love horses,” Valente tells us, comparing Cuadra San Francisco to other equestrian outfits. It shows—all of the horses on the ranch are sleek, spirited, and well fed.

I’ve been told that there are coyotes, rattlesnakes, bobcats, and roadrunners in this desert, but, to both my relief and disappointment (it hasn’t taken me long to come to trust Paloma’s discretion in unexpected circumstances), we don’t see them. There are only doves saying goodnight to one another up in the hills.

By the time we reach the end of the trail and are ready to turn back toward the ranch, my fatigue and disorientation have been transformed into a serene bliss that mere landscapes don’t often inspire in me. The light has gone soft and pink, the sea is on the horizon, and the only sounds are the calls of the doves and our horses’ hoofsteps in the sand.

Paloma, hungry and tired from being ridden badly for the past two hours, wants to go home. Her slow, patient gait occasionally breaks into a trot. My legs are aching from being in one position for so long.

“Yo no se si yo puedo caminar despues de este,” I tell Valente and Enrique in terrible Spanish as we approach the ranch. And I’m right—for the first few minutes after I dismount and turn Paloma over to the care of Enrique, my knees are locked into semi-bowlegged position. It seems a small price to pay. I stroke Paloma’s neck and thank her for her patience and forbearing; she responds with a shudder that is the equine equivalent of, “Whatever.” The ranch is settling down for the night. Even Chacho doesn’t rise again to say goodbye as we leave.

Valente has told us that they are thinking about doing full-moon night rides through the desert in the future. In the moonlight, these canyons, hills, and dry riverbeds must look like some starkly beautiful ghost-ridden planet. Put me back up on Paloma, and I’ll be up for anything.

(c) Nancy Bevilaqua 2008