Riding the Ledge
We climbed to about 7,000 feet to a switchback that took us around to the north side of the mountain. Now, the mountainside was straight up and down, and the trail was a stony ledge about 28 inches wide. Tess shifted her weight to the mountainside of the trail, putting my stirrup within an inch of brushing the granite face of the mountain.
"I believe this is called 'Kelly's Lament,'" Wayne said in reference to a mutual friend who rode the loop once and has vowed to never ride it again. I twisted around in my saddle to face Wayne. He looked like a sage cowboy. I told him that I must've been an outlaw in a former life, because I didn't have enough sense to be scared.
"Horses! Horses on the trail!" a panicked hiker said in a shrill, erratic voice. "What do I do? What do I do?" Her eyes were opened so wide they looked like over-easy eggs. She had a calm Golden Retriever on a leash; in her panic, she began to spin around, entangling her legs in the leash. Chris reassured the woman that she was safe and convinced her to step off the trail to a rock and stay put while we rode past. We thanked her for yielding the trail to us. She stared at us in disbelief.
Heading Down
We passed several hikers before we came to the three-way intersection of La Luz and Tram Trail. We could've turned right and gone up La Luz, but the upper part of La Luz isn't safe for horses, so we turned left and went down La Luz. Down we went. Down two-foot ledges of rock staircases so steep it felt as though Tess had uncoupled her shoulders as she'd drop down a step, then drop down with the other shoulder. I gave her a loose rein and tried to stay in sync with her.
We rode along the edge of the Juan Tabo parking lot. It was busy with city slickers. We ducked between rocks and drifted off onto the cross-country trail that quickly brought us back to Forest Rd. 333.
We crossed into the foothills. Up and down and in and out of the gullies, we rode, until we reached the dirt road that took us back to the top of the same arroyo we'd ridden up. We cut across the arroyo to the small path that followed the ridge of the foothills and trotted down to our trailers.
It was non. Chris was right. We'd ridden from the city limits of Albuquerque into the Sandia Mountain Wilderness and back in less than three hours. The day still had plenty of time left in it for civilized tasks, such as shopping or taking in a movie. But, for a little while, we were pioneers or cowboys or outlaws crossing a mountain to a new life.
