The ranchero, on a mare, and his young son on a burro, study the scene far below them in the canyon. All morning they had been mending fences and rounding up stray cattle which they had left at the small dam with the rest of their herd. The man rides with a confident air; pistol tucked into his belt under his shirt, machete ready for trail clearing.
They ride trails carved by myriads of hooves and feet over hundreds of years which interlace the mountains. Some are etched in bedrock inches deep, others follow streams or snake through brushy country to remote ranches.
Now, the father and son are heading home, down to the village by way of the barranca trail, looking forward to a hearty comida.
As they regard the stream below, the little boy exclaims, “Oh, no, Papa, that river looks angry, just like the lake on a stormy day.”
“Mi hijito, don’t be afraid. Two years ago it was much worse. Look, the sun is smiling down on us. You’re almost a grown ranchero—already you can lasso a steer better than I can.” The boy grins.
“Come on Papa, I’m not that good yet.”
The man says, “the stream is like your brother when he teases you. He would never hurt you real bad. Come on now, we know how to take care of ourselves.”
With those words, the father nudges the flank of his mare and they move forward and down, the boy following on his burro. The animals slip and slide on the wet ground. The smell of earth and leaves accompanies their descent into the cool of the gorge.
Ahead they can see the gray-green lichen-encrusted rock wall that keeps the cattle from wandering down onto the highway. Water, finding the least resistant path, is funneling noisily over the planked gate where its scouring force has gouged a sheer two-foot drop-off into the water. The father says the animals must jump. The boy looks doubtful. “They can and will,” the father assures his son as he dismounts and wades into the stream, lead-line in hand.
He talks to and tugs at his mare, urging her to jump. Her eyes roll and her ears lay back and then with quivering decision, she drops her front legs, then her rump into the churning water. The burro is lured to follow and splashes into the running stream as the boy imitates his father’s technique.
The once-familiar trail is now a turbulent stream fed by innumerable run-offs that have flushed large rocks from above. Although now much abated, the water still courses swiftly and widely. Mudslides hinder their progress. Very carefully, the horse and burro, each step tentative, pick their way homeward. The boy’s small hands grip the pommel tightly.
A wretched burro lays half in the water, leg broken and bleeding midst fragments of sharp, shattered bone. Voiceless in pain, a misstep has sealed its fate. “It is God’s will, son. He’ll never be of use to anyone with that leg,” the father says, as he reaches inside his shirt. The single shot reverberates harshly through the barranca. The boy brushes away his tears; his grip on the pommel eases, and he adjusts his sombrero.
The beauty and roar of the gorge pulse with naked energy, infusing both father and son, surrounded by the incredible colour of wild flowers. Silk paper trees gleam, their curling strips of golden bark spiraling in the sun. Trees with long skinny, straight-as-arrow branches reach for the sky. Smooth, thick crevice invading roots look like slumped frosting.
The canyon v-frames the lake as high corn fields on both sides of the trail whisper a welcome. The going becomes summer normal. The man begins to sing, the boy hums along.
The swift, reckless stream veers down a gully and under the highway to feed the huge expanse of placid water. The animals quicken their pace with the scent of home.
As the boy unsaddles his brave burro, the father steps behind him and thoughtfully puts his hands on the boy’s thin shoulders.
“Bien hecho, mi hijito, well done. 
