Bill Discovers New Gualfin Property Limits

Week 22 of the Quarantine

SAN MARTIN, ARGENTINA – It’s been a busy week here in the Calchaquí Valley. Here with an update…

An Argentine saddle is not like the western, American version. It is not a simple, one-piece statement, but more like a compound sentence, with dependent clauses and several modifiers.

It begins with a cover of heavy cotton duck placed on the horse’s back. Then, there are two, or sometimes three, saddle blankets of heavy woolen weave. On top of them is placed the saddle cradle, made either of wood or a composite, and supported by a metal frame.

The saddle is then cinched up, but not with a buckle, as in the U.S. Instead, the leather strap is looped two or three times between the saddle and the girth and then tucked under the rider.

On top of the cradle are put one or two sheepskins to pad the hard saddle; these also are held in place by another, lighter cinch, similarly wrapped a couple of times and then placed, along with the girth strap, under the saddle pads.

Nothing is tied or buckled. This means you have to stop from time to time to tighten your cinches… or you and your saddle will fall off.

Nothing Broken

On Saturday, our old foreman, Jorge, had come to visit. He wanted to see the farm and the cattle. So we saddled up…

Jorge rode one of the farm horses, a stallion. Your editor was on another of them, a gelding. And Elizabeth was on her new yegua (mare).

Elizabeth and the yegua before the horse disgraced herself — *Elizabeth and the* yegua before the horse disgraced herself

Elizabeth had only ridden her mare – a “paint,” as they say in the West, white and brown, and formerly used as a polo pony – a couple of times. The two of them looked good, but they didn’t know each other very well. And the mare was acting funny. Frisky, or “hot.”

Jorge got down and adjusted the mare’s bridle, thinking that might be bothering her. Then, we continued. Typically, horses settle down when they are with a group.

But scarcely had we entered the pasture when we heard a commotion behind us. Turning around, we saw Elizabeth fly through the air over the mare’s head. She fell hard on her back as the mare took off as if she were crazy.

We jumped down and ran to Elizabeth. Her face was distorted… ashen. She had had the wind knocked out of her; she was gasping for breath.

We helped her to her knees so she could hunch over and breathe, hoping there were no bones broken.

Three years ago, she had a similar accident. She broke some little bones in her back and spent a month in bed.

Inez and Pablo, two of the ranch hands, must have seen the mare racing across the field. In a few minutes, they were on the scene, running towards us. Jorge caught the yegua and took charge of the horses.

By the time Inez got there, Elizabeth was beginning to recover. She was still gasping for air, but more calmly.

“Can you walk?” we asked.

“I don’t know.”

Then…

“You know… I’ve taken a lot of falls. But as I get older, the costs go up.”

We helped her to her feet. Inez took her arm and led her back to the house. Jorge and your editor got back on our horses and continued our tour.

Later, Elizabeth was sore… but mobile. Nothing was broken.

Breakdown

On Sunday, we took a drive to see an old winery (mentioned in these pages earlier this week). On the return journey, it was the truck that was acting up. It didn’t seem to want to go into 4 x 4, which was essential for crossing the river.

Fiddling with it, finally, the dashboard light told us that the 4-wheel drive had been activated… And so, we entered the water.

Right away, something didn’t seem right. The engine wasn’t revving up like it usually did. And then, midway across the river, the truck came to a halt and sank into the mud, its rear wheels spinning.

“Your front wheels aren’t turning,” Jorge noticed, his head leaning out the window.

That Toyota truck has been so reliable, we were surprised and disappointed. But there we were… stuck in the middle of the river.

We called back to the farm office. With any luck, someone who knew how to drive a tractor would be there. There are seven guys on the payroll. But most don’t drive.

Fortunately, Ojito came to the rescue. He is a heavy drinker. By Sunday afternoon, even at the wheel of a tractor, he could be a danger to himself and others.

After a while, we heard the big, red Massey Ferguson on the road behind us. Ojito was in the driver’s seat.

We took off our shoes and rolled up our pants. Water rushed in as we opened the door. Getting out quickly, we closed the door and hooked the chain to the steel ring at the front of the truck and then to the back of the tractor.

The tractor pulled the truck out easily. We thanked Ojito… and continued on our way.

Yesterday, the truck headed back to the dealer for repair.

Property Limits

“That’s not what you think it is.”

Our neighbor, Ramón, knows our property better than we do. He was born in the house we restored and now live in.

We were telling him about our visit to the far end of the farm. Or what we took for the far end.

To the south of the house, there are four large fields… and then a few small fields, about 10 acres or less. It takes about 45 minutes on a horse to get to the end of it… which we took to be the limit of the property.

“There’s a whole ‘nuther area,” explained Ramon. “Probably a few thousand acres of wasteland… with maybe 30 acres that used to be irrigated. There’s a whole separate canal.”

Property lines are not always well defined here. An old title may say, “to the watershed”… or to “where [another property] begins.” Or nothing at all. We’ve never understood, for example, how far our property ran along the bank of the river. Or how far it goes out in the desert to the east.

So, yesterday, we went to find out.

Unlikely and Alone

We rode out to the edge of the part we knew, what we took to be the border with an adjoining property. Then, following Ramón’s instructions, we just kept going… beyond the abandoned fields, up and over the arroyos (dry creeks) and rainy-season washes. It almost never rains here, but when it does, the water can flush down hard, leaving deep gullies.

We were riding parallel to the river, about half a mile up from the riverbed itself. We went through three deep arroyos and then, after about another half-hour, came to an abandoned goat pen… and a broken-down house.

From there, the trees and bushes became strangely dense. We had just crossed miles of desert. How come there were so many trees? Where did the water come from? The underbrush was so thick, we could scarcely get through.

And when we finally pushed our way into a clearing, we were surprised to find it green… and lush with grass. There was a spring, and water pooled up in several places.

It seemed implausible; on this side of the river, there is almost 100 miles of nothing but dry sand and barren rock. But there it was, like an honest man running for Congress, pure and clean, unlikely and alone.

Our horse moved closer to have a drink and was suddenly sinking into the soft ground. He panicked and jumped back.

Then, we made our way along the edge of the swampy ground down to the river. From there, we were able to circle back up to an open field.

Abandoned Fields

There, on the edge of the river, was a corral, which seemed to be still in use. Squatters must be crossing the river to graze their animals on our land. And up in the field were five rangy cows, lying under a tree.

We continued our expedition by following the old irrigation canal (the property has not been used for at least 30 years) down to another arroyo.

These dry river beds are a problem for irrigation systems. The canals often need to cross the arroyos. But most often, they wash away or fill up with sand as soon as it rains, so it must be re-dug after each rainy system.

On the other side of the arroyo, the canal had been mostly obliterated by rain or wind. Still, we could see where it used to be… a line of tough algarrobo trees, some of them now dead, marked a now-faint ditch. Not far away was another abandoned house.

There were once many more people living in the valley than there are now. They were subsistence farmers, living on goats, corn, onions, wheat, potatoes, and not much more.

While there are still a few of them left, most have moved to the towns… or at least to the other side of the river, where there is electricity… and where they have access to schools, shops, and clinics, even when the river is high.

The field on this side of the arroyo was about the same size – about 10 or 15 acres – but it seemed to have been abandoned for a longer time. The trees along the old irrigation canal were in worse shape… and there were more tumbleweeds and other bushes growing in the middle of the field itself.

We continued to the end. There, we discovered a strange, round building, like an igloo made of adobe bricks. Maybe it had been a storage shed.

It was built into a hill that also seemed to mark the end of our property. Beyond it, the sharp rocks of the Apacheta mountain chain came right down to the river. It would be impossible to go much further.

But it was now about 5 in the evening. It was time to turn back. We had just enough time to get back before dark.

Wildfire

Riding back, as the sun dipped behind the mountain, we noticed an orange light on the opposite river bank.

The blaze, even from our vantage point on this side, was impressive.

This time of year, when it hasn’t rained for six months, wildfires are a big danger.

Typically, the locals are burning trash or clearing brush when the wind comes up… and the fire gets away from them. It then burns until it burns itself out.

There is no way to “fight” a fire and nothing to fight it with. And with the wind blowing in strong gusts, it would be suicide to try.

We called over to the other side of the river.

“What’s going on?”

“Oh… it’s nothing,” came the nonchalant voice of our foreman. “They were burning out the canal to clean it. It looks like it’s out of control.”

“Aren’t you worried that it will burn over to the cornfield and get to our barn?”

“No… there’s a big field between them… We just cleared it because we’re going to plant oats. The fire won’t get across.”

We went to bed at about 11. The flames were still lighting up the night sky.

This morning, the area is still smoking. But the wildfire has not gone far from where it began.

Regards,

Bill