“And the weather’s perfect,” she saidrnhappily.rnBeyond the forest edge was a burnrncaused by a Hghtning strike, where after arnfew years the pine and juniper trees wererngrowing back among the blackenedrnsnags, the grass, and the wildflowers.rnRiding across the openness that coveredrnthe ridgeline we viewed nearly the wholernof the southernmost country of the Gila,rnas far as the Black Range bordering thernRio Grande Trench. Clouds were makingrnup in the sky overhead, but they werernwhite friendly clouds, floating softlyrnabove the confusion of the near greenrnhills toward the blue distant ridges at thernhorizon.rn”So this is the Gila,” I said. “I’ve beenrnwanting to take a horse in here for eightrnyears.”rn”It’s all lava flow firom a volcano in thernBlack Range. I couldn’t understand howrnmolten lava could flow so far, but theyrndon’t mean that kind of flow. Theyrnmean ash and gas carried in the atmospherernand deposited miles away.”rnA two-track road ran on top of thernridge. We followed it out to a primitivernturnaround from which the countryrnsloped steeply down on three sides.rn”Is that the Gila River?” I pointed towardrna steep-walled canyon cut deeprnenough that the bottom could not bernseen from where we stood.rn”That’s Sapillo Greek. The Gila isrnover there.” Melody waved a hand at therndry wilderness of rock and trees.rnWe dropped off the shoulder of thernridge, following the trail as it switchbackedrnacross the pitched meadow thinlyrngrown with pine, juniper, and pricklyrnpear. The mountains lifted around as werndescended, and suddenly I glimpsed thernGila itself between the trees, 50 or 60rnmiles into its journey to Yuma, Arizona,rnand the Colorado River. It was a thrillingrnsight, the segment of shining water in itsrnred canyon, shaded by big trees, therngreen meadows filling in the bends. Werndropped lower and still lower, followingrnthe trail down, until we were lookingrnover the spreading crowns of giantrnsycamores, their branches and trunksrn1 – 800 – 877 – 5459rnstarkly white in the afternoon light.rnWhile locusts shrilled in the trees wernmade camp in the bottom above SapillornGreek, rebuilding the firepit left by elkrnhunters, dragging up wood from thernfloodplane, and raising the tent. Relievedrnof their loads the horses, still underrnsaddle, grazed the well-watered grass.rn”Let’s take a ride now,” I begged.rnAcross Sapillo Greek, past the remainsrnof mortared dwellings belonging to thernMogollon Culture set 50 feet up underrnan overhang of cliff, we came after arntenth of a mile to the confluence of thernSapillo and the Gila, at the place wherernthe river makes a hairpin bend from thernnorth around a lava wall before turningrnwest. The shallow water, sliding smoothlyrnover gravel between grassy banks overgrownrnwith tangled blackeyed daisies,rnmeandered in a floodplane spiked byrncrooked cholla and the headed stalks ofrnmullen. Riding upriver we crossed andrnrecrossed the channel, the horses splashingrnthe water happily while Tessa struggledrnagainst the current, between shadedrnpine and juniper cliffs on the west bankrnand the sunlit terraces of juniper,rnmesquite, and Spanish bayonet abovernthe east one.rn”Now this is something new,” I toldrnMelody.rn”It’s different, but also it’s another partrnof the same thing. When I saw it a weekrnago I decided yes, I can be happy downrnhere for a while, seeing what fliere is tornsee.”rn”It’s a paradise really.”rn”The river’s nice, but I miss being ablernto look out. Do you want to climb uprnand try going back along the top?”rnThe hillside was steep beneath thernwaxy brown pine needles. We dismountedrnto lead the horses, strugglingrnupward on game trails imprinted withrnthe track of elk toward the elusive skyrnendlessly receding beyond the highestrnline of the trees. Clambering over brokenrnrimrock we arrived finally, sweatsoakedrnand breathless, in an open parkrnwith a view of the high mountainsrnaround and the black canyon of the Gilarnin cross-section cutting west into therngolden track of the setting sun.rn”Does this make you happy now?”rn”Of course. Doesn’t it make you?”rnBut from here there was no way backrnto camp above the river, and Melody gotrna thorn embedded painfully in herrnthumb when she stopped to pick the ripernfruit of a prickly pear cactus to eat. Withrnless than an hour left of daylight, wernworked our way down to the Gila againrnby a steep draw, leading the tired horsesrnaround trees and over outcrops of lava.rnIn camp we built a fire and set two cansrnof chili con carne on the coals. Melodyrnwent off with her sleeping bag andrnspread it on the bank above SapillornCreek.rn”You’re going to sleep out? This isrnsnakey country if I ever saw it.”rn”I like to be able to see the stars.”rn”Well, if you aren’t snakebit by morningrnmaybe I’ll try it next time.”rnSitting with our backs against a log wernwatched the moon rise over the canyonrnwall through flashes of sheet lightningrnand talked of many things, among themrnhorses, men and women, God, and therninevitability of missing Mass the nextrnday. If any excuse exists for flirting withrnmortal sin, perhaps Sunday on the Gilarnis it.rnClimbing above the canyon the followingrnafternoon we heard thunder behindrnus and turned to look back at thernwilderness we were leaving. Blackrnclouds lay upon the Gila, drenching itrnwith a gray rain, and more storms wererngathering in other portions of the sky,rndrawing together over the mountains.rnWe rode on across the burn tiie lightningrnhad made, and I remembered the KneelingrnNun near Hurley, whom God (accordingrnto local legend) had transformedrnby a lightning bolt to a tower of rock forrnher adultery. The rain came just as wernreached the safety of the forest edge,rngreat round drops of warm water thatrnsoaked the horse and my pant legs belowrnthe oilskin jacket. Full of gratitude tornGod for not having turned me to a pillarrnof stone for missing Mass, I drove to LasrnCruces through the monsoon, droppedrnthe gelding off in Dona Ana, fixed a stiffrnwhiskey, and went to bed.rnIn the morning, surrounded by sweatedrnhorse blankets and other gear, Irnopened the Las Cruces Sun-News andrnread of fresh killings in Juarez. An hourrnafter 3,000 citizens of the city dispersedrnfrom a rally demanding an end to the violence,rnas the crowd was leaving thernPlaza Monumental, two men carryingrnAK-47s stepped from a car outsidernGeronimo’s Bar across the street fromrnMax-Fim’s and opened fire, kifling fourrnpeople. A university student from El Pasornwas among the dead. I closed the paperrnthinking how glad Jim Rauen was goingrnto be to have gone to Chicago, andrncarried the blankets outside in the sun torndry. crn50/CHRONICLESrnrnrn