I used to enjoy a good hike, usually a five-mile stroll under a canopy of trees, beside a body of flowing water.  My husband, Grant, and I would pack a few nuts and a bottle of water and spend a couple of hours in the great outdoors.  Every once in a while, we would spot a deer or a copperhead.  One time, we ran into a goat in the middle of the Appalachian Trail.  Maybe it was a satyr.

By and large, the hikes were pleasant affairs.  We always got back to our car in one piece and typically followed it up with dinner and a movie.  That was in Georgia where the biggest threat was possibly running into a couple of guys with banjos. Then, we moved to New Mexico.

You would think that New Mexico would be a great place to hike – and I’m sure it must be.  Unfortunately, my maiden voyage was a rather turbulent one, and I don’t think I will ever get over it. 

It was a crisp winter day.  We barely knew our neighbors across the street, but they invited us to join them on a hike on what they called Wild Horse Mesa.  It wasn’t actually called Wild Horse Mesa – it was a piece of desert out in the middle of the Caja del Rio Plateau – but they called it Wild Horse Mesa because they had seen wild horses there once and were determined to find them again.  They said the hike would be around fifteen miles.

I said to Grant, “A fifteen-mile hike – what are they, crazy?”

“It’s par for the course around here,” he said. 

What do you take on a fifteen-mile hike – I mean, aside from an oxygen tank and flares?  Who wants to take a fifteen-mile walk to see anything?

“Well, it sounds like a bit much for me,” I said.  “Besides,” I added, “I need to prepare to leave town tomorrow.”  I was flying back to Atlanta in the morning.  “See if they would be willing to cut the hike in half – that’s the only way I can go,” I said.

The neighbors, Randy and Maxine, were willing.  I told them I needed to get back before dark – which sounded reasonable under any circumstance. 

We headed out in the morning, taking Randy’s broken-down truck, which he rode like a bucking bronco.  He was, in fact, a former rodeo bull rider.  We fishtailed along for about an hour on really bumpy dirt roads, with Maxine and I bouncing around in the back seat.  Maxine was popping ginger mints to keep from puking on Randy’s neck.  There was a German shepherd, named Hercules, on a short tether in the back of the truck – and, by German shepherd I don’t mean a sheepherder in lederhosen.  The dog probably should’ve been secured under a tarp. I thought for sure we were going to hang the poor thing.

At any rate, we made it to our destination and parked the car under a tree.  Trees on the Caja are all roughly five feet high and there aren’t many of them.  Nobody thought to bring a GPS – but Grant brought two sets of walkie-talkies.   We all peed under a bush, to mark the territory, I guess, and off we went.  

It was a gloriously beautiful day, full of huge blue skies and little white puffball clouds.  We seemed to be the only people in the world, but there were plenty of other creatures around.  We knew that because all along the way Maxine was identifying droppings of various wild animals. 

“That’s coyote!” she exclaimed.  “That’s mountain lion!”  “That’s bear!” “That’s cow!”

The only thing we didn’t find was horseshit – and that’s what we were really after.  Because, where there’s horseshit, there’s usually a horse in the vicinity.  And, Randy was determined to locate a herd of wild horses – if it killed us.  Hey – I’d walk a mile for a Camel, but for a horse – maybe fifteen.

A mountain loomed in front of us, all covered in snow.

“Let’s climb it and have lunch,” said Randy.

I didn’t want to rain on everybody’s parade, but I didn’t see how we could climb a mountain, have lunch, search for horseshit and still get back home in time for me to pack.  I protested, but you know we ended up half-killing ourselves getting up that mountain anyway.  Speak of horseshit.

The view was great, though.  I think we were able to see four states and maybe a few foreign countries from up there.  And then, lo and behold, we actually saw one little brown horse, all by itself in the distance, through a pair of huge binoculars.  That got us all very excited.  So, instead of climbing down the way we climbed up, we decided to go down another way, in pursuit of more horse sightings. 

Once again, we damn near got killed slithering our way down the freaking mountain, but we made it to the bottom and proceeded to walk and walk and walk and walk and walk until we all admitted that nothing looked familiar.  In fact, we could’ve been in Mexico.  And, there weren’t any horses there, either.  However, we did stumble into a couple of really large cows with horns.  They stared at us and wouldn’t budge.  Grant immediately began to walk in the opposite direction.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

Turns out, Grant’s afraid of cows – especially big ones with horns.  And, they didn’t look like they were going to let us pass.  I prepared to dive into a juniper tree, even though I’m terribly allergic to juniper berries.

“What do you suppose we should do?” I asked Randy.  Grant, in the meantime, had wandered into a different time zone.

Randy scampered around and found a nice, big rock.  There’s no shortage of rocks on the Caja.

“What are you going to do, try to brain the cows?” I asked.

“Those are steers,” Randy said. 

“Whatever,” I said.  “Are you going to antagonize them by hurling rocks?

“No,” said Randy.  “I’m just going to try to drive the bigger one off.  If he goes, the smaller one will probably follow.”  He hurled the rock and it bounced off the steer.  The steer didn’t budge. 

“Nice shot,” I said, eying the tree.

Randy hurled another rock and the two bovines continued to watch us as they finally moseyed along, placid as could be.  Grant came back when the cows were at a safe distance.  He said, “I think we’re lost.”

Randy said, “I think you’re right.”

I pulled Grant aside and said, ”You know all those droppings Maxine was pointing out earlier?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Well, tonight, all the animals that left those droppings are going to come out to hunt and WE are going to be those droppings tomorrow.”

“Holy shit,” said Grant.

“Well, I’m not religious – but yeah.”

“Not to mention, I’m not going to make it to Atlanta, which is where I’m moving back to if I ever make it out of here alive.  To tell you the truth, I think we’re in a life-threatening situation, and I’m not happy about it.”

“You actually think we’re in a life-threatening situation?”

“Well, let’s see – we’re out in the middle of the desert in February with night approaching.  We’re out of water, we have no food, our cell phones don’t work, we don’t know where we are and we’re in a place with a whole shit-load of wild animal droppings.  Plus, I’m really getting pissed off because we’ve actually walked around twenty miles today instead of eight – or even fifteen – and my feet are starting to hurt.  You do the math.”

We trudged along.  Randy suggested that we split up, but I nixed that idea completely.  We each took a walkie-talkie – in case we accidentally got separated – and walked in circles until a mountain range suddenly looked familiar.  By this time, the sun had set and it was getting quite nippy out.

Randy gave Maxine a handgun and said, “I think we’re within a couple of miles of the truck.  Why don’t you girls sit behind a tree with Hercules and wait for us.”

I asked, “What’s the gun for?”

Randy said, “There could be some mean cowboys out here.”

Ah – that’s just what was missing from the picture – mean cowboys out on the Caja in the dark.  This was getting better and better.

I gave Grant a look and told him to keep in touch on the walkie-talkie.  Maxine bravely assured me that if worse came to worse, we could huddle together for warmth and barbecue the dog.   Oh really?  Did somebody have a match or were we going to have to rub two sticks together?

“So,” I said to Hercules, “I guess this isn’t going to work out too well for you.”  Hercules panted at me with a big smile on his face – like he was thinking that maybe he would eat ME.

Time crawled – and we still hadn’t heard from the boys.  After about a half-hour had passed, I finally buzzed Grant on the walkie-talkie and, much to my delight, he actually answered.  He sounded a bit glum.

“Hi, sweetie,” I said with hysterical cheer.  “Did you find the truck?”

After a thirty-second lapse, Grant said, “Yeah.”  After another thirty-second lapse, I said, “Truck doesn’t work, does it?”

“No.”

And, there you go.  Or not.  I mean, Jesus H.  I shut my squawky walkie-talkie off and prepared to eat dog.

Maxine, of course, heard the entire conversation – not that it was very long. 

“What I wouldn’t give for a mean cowboy right now,” I said. 

Suddenly, we heard the sound of a rasping motor. 

“That’s the truck,” we said in unison. 

We were thrilled, of course – but probably no more so than Hercules. 

As the truck came bouncing down the road with the rear door open, Randy yelled, “Jump in.”  I think he was afraid the motor would stall if he stopped.  So, Maxine and I and the dog all hurled ourselves across the back seat and off we sped.

“You’re not going to believe this, Randy,” I said after I got out from underneath Maxine and Hercules, “but minutes after you guys walked off, a massive herd of wild horses ran within twenty feet of us.  There must’ve been five hundred of them.  What a shame that you missed them.” 

I don’t think I ever told Randy I was just screwing with him.  And, since Maxine had to suck down an entire container of ginger mints on the way home, I don’t think she ever told him either.

And, yes, I did make it to Atlanta the next day.  And, yes, we have taken many other hikes with our dear friends, Randy and Maxine and their now-departed dog, Hercules, who died of natural causes.