Hoofbeats in the Estepa

by Jessica Howard (United States of America)

A leap into the unknown Argentina

The Argentinian air hit the back of my throat like ice that morning as I peddled away from the slowly rising sun and sharp edged summits of Bariloche. Between chilled breaths I practiced saying a few phrases in Spanish like, “What do I need to know about this horse?” and “What can I do to help?”. My two years of high school Spanish had not adequately prepared me for a day galloping atop half-trained horses with a local Patagonian gaucho. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if my lifetime of riding horses had either. I was meant to meet Ricardo that morning to ride across the desertlike estepa, above a neighboring village called Llanquin, to drop off a horse. I was told the ride there and back would be a little over sixty kilometers. I reached the end of the dusty driveway and dismounted my ancient two wheeled steed. A wooden door swung open, screeching as it slid heavy against the gravel beneath it. The horses raised their heads and turned their ears to the doorway. “Buen dia”, Ricardo smiled, revealing deep set wrinkles along the sides of his eyes. He had a warm and unruffled manner about him, one that I felt came from the serenity and solitude of his time spent with the fiery spirits of the horses he tamed. In his left hand he was holding a dark smoke-stained tea kettle and in his right hand, matte. He slurped through the silver straw and poured another spurt of water into his matte, then passed the gourd-shaped object to me. “Listo?” he asked. I stared back wide-eyed accepting the matte and let out a grin. I could still see my breath. I really wasn’t sure how to answer that question, not just because of the language barrier. A horse’s hoof stomped impatiently in the dirt. Before I could answer I was grasping my reins and gathering a tuft full of white mane, hoisting myself atop a sheepskin covered saddle. It felt a bit awkward at first, like trying on a pair of shoes someone had just run a marathon in. Ricardo passed me the leadrope of a second horse. I kicked up my little mare like I had done since childhood, and we were off. We traversed briskly through the chaos that was Dina Huapi. Luz Maria, my mare, watched wearily as a few loose strays snarled and stalked behind us. Cars honked. I could see the eyes of the drivers lingering in my direction from mirrors as they passed. Girls with blonde hair and blue eyes don’t ride colts in this part of Argentina. If they do- they definitely aren’t towing a second one behind them. The crunch of an empty bottle under foot made Luz Maria jump sideways, but I managed to stay centered in the saddle. I let out a deep breath and pushed my feet deeper into my stirrups. My mare lowered her head and continued onward, confident and unwavered. We reached the cluster of alamos a little past noon. A splash of green in a vast palette of umber and bronze. I peeked over my shoulder and gazed across the expansive coiron covered valley. I let loose my grip of the leadrope, color came back to my knuckles, and passed it to Ricardo. Our horses were drenched in an odor of sweet perspiration, it dripped off their hawks and watered the ash covered earth beneath them. It was then I realized I hadn’t really been lacking language after all. Ricardo and I shared a common lifelong thread. The familiarity of a young horse finding the rhythm in its breath as it let out hot air. A comfortability of traveling atop four stout legs. The serendipitous feeling of finding your balance as your horse started to gallop. Ricardo had also been gazing out at the vista. He turned to meet my eyes and nodded his head, as if in approval. I fell asleep that night reminiscing of the golden light that set as we galloped back towards the barn. Our horses in a perfect collected pace. There were no words, only the sound of hoofbeats in the estepa.