The Ride

“This is how people go crazy or come sane, either one feels the same at first,” I think. I’m riding a buckskin horse whose name I don’t know along a dirt path in the middle of Reserve, New Mexico. Reserve, a town of nearly 300, is in the Gila National Forest on the Arizona/New Mexico border. I’m on a student archaeology dig with the University of New Mexico, and I’ve been camping in a tent near an arroyo for over 2 weeks. One other detail: I have 2 ½ months clean and sober and have never felt weirder in my life.

A skinny brown dog barks at us and lunges towards the horse’s front legs. The horse pins his ears, lowers his head, and steps over a roll of barbed wire fencing into the dog’s backyard. The barking dog trails us for a few steps beyond the house but finally stops following us. Though the dog continues barking, no one comes outside. If I see someone, I’ll ask them where the hell I am. The horse plods on through the scrub grass across the front yard and onto another road.

How did I get here? It’s a question that has too many answers and who knows which ones are true. The answer to the immediate question of this “here” is that I had been at an AA meeting earlier. Naturally, AA meetings are where a lot of weird stories end up, and this one begins there.

Having less than 90 days sober, I was eager to find a meeting. I had attended one last Saturday night just over the border in Arizona at a Catholic church, but this is another story. One that involves the oddness of an hour time zone change in a 15 minute drive and an alcoholic priest who relapses weekly on the communion wine. Hitching rides across state lines to get to an AA meeting may indicate dedication, but I hoped to find a closer meeting.

As is often true with serendipity, today at the Laundromat, I had found a hand-written flyer advertising a Monday night AA/Al-Anon meeting at the town hall next to the only bar in town. Certainly, a few well-intentioned drunks had decided to brave the public branding of alcoholic only to find themselves at the bar instead. We are even more so creatures of habit than the average person. Also, this being a small town, no one wants to be known as the town drunk. The irony is lost on us drunks who forget that everyone already knows who the town drunks are. We’re a bit obvious.

I caught a ride into town with several of my dig mates who were headed to the bar. Pick-axing through red clay all day brings on a fierce thirst. I was still unconvinced that soda could quench as well as beer, but I’d give it a try. My plan was to join them after the meeting. I stepped inside the hall, hoping for a few other drunks, and saw only scattered empty tables and chairs. I felt like I’d missed the bingo game.

Because it was not yet meeting time, I sat at a table that had a stack of Grapevines, AA’s monthly magazine. “Must be in the right place,” I thought to myself as I leafed through last year’s December issue. When I heard someone open the front door, I turned to see a tall brunette about my mother’s age, waving to someone outside. She looked at me, seemed startled for a moment, and then smiled.

“Hi. I’m Ernestina. Are you here for AA or Al-Anon?” she asked.

“AA. Though I probably qualify for a few other 12 step programs,” I replied. “Please don’t let her be a finger-waving Al-Anon.” I thought, hoping for another drunk to show up late.

“It’ll probably just be us. You’re the first other person ever to show up. Are you with the dig?” she asked. This being a small town, she already knew the answer.

Ernestina told me about starting the meeting a few months ago in the hopes of bringing recovery to her town and really to her own home. Her husband being one of the aforementioned town drunks that everyone knows about. As she spoke, she re-organized the Grapevines by months.

She had nearly two years of experience in the program and much more in life. I liked that she wasn’t a slogan slinger and enjoyed listening to her tell her story. She had a skillful way of asking me questions, and I had what I thought was an equally skillful way of dodging them.

To her last question, I replied, “Hey, Ernestina, what’s the difference

between an alcoholic and an addict?”

“Is there a difference?” she asked, rubbing a patch of dirt off her jeans.

“Sure. An alcoholic will steal your money, and an addict will steal your money and help you look for it.”

“That’s just wrong. Funny, but wrong. You can get away with saying that one, but what if I said it?”

“True enough. Here’s another one. What flashes before the eyes of the Al-Anon before he or she dies?” I asked.

She looked at me, and I briefly thought about skipping the punch line. “The life of the alcoholic and what he should have done with it.”

She laughed and then went quiet. “Ouch.” She looked at her watch. “Will you come next week? We’ve gone overtime, and I have to go. Why don’t you borrow a few of these magazines? It’ll be like having a meeting in print.”

“Sure, I’ll see you next week. Thanks.”

When we walked outside, she frowned and shook her head. She was looking at a horse tied to the side view mirror on a dented green pickup truck. The window was open and a pair of dirty cowboy boots jutted out.

“Is that your truck?” I asked as we walked closer. “Who’s that?” The horse waited patiently, as if this was routine.

“My husband,” she replied. Picking up his hand and then letting his arm drop like a heavy branch, she said, “He’s alive.”

“Don’t you mean dead drunk?” I thought. He smelled like puke, piss, and tequila. “I’m sorry, Ernestina.”

“He can’t ride the horse home. Do you ride?” she asked and untied the reins.

“Sure. I can ride. I mean I used to a long time ago.” When she handed the reins to me and stepped inside the truck, I said quickly, “Wait. Where do I go? Where do you live?”

“The horse knows the way home,” she said and backed out onto Main Street.

This is the how of how I got here. The horse hasn’t hesitated and has simply moved on as if, with or without me, he would march on, as if the horse is Time itself. I don’t even have a watch on.

The inner dialogue I’m having goes something like this:

Me: Let’s sing that song “Horse with No Name.” I've been through the desert on a horse with no name…

Me: What the hell’s wrong with you? Why did you say yes? You have no idea where you are or where the hell you’re going!

Me: There’s a lot wrong with me. Where do I start? Of course I don’t know where I am because I’ve never been here before.

Me: Jump off the horse. You can make it back to town, and the horse can plod its ass back home alone. Let’s get a beer.

Me: The horse could step on his reins and get hurt. I don’t want a drink. Great, now that song’s stuck in my head. In the desert you can remember your name…

Me: Stop singing. The sun’s setting, and you’re on a horse lost in the middle of nowhere. You shouldn’t be here.

Me: Where should I be?

“The horse knows where it’s going,” I say out loud and suddenly laugh. Hell, I’ve trusted worse than a horse in the middle of nowhere.

This moment, is it really that bad?

Above me, a single red-tailed hawk wheels in the blue sky, which is streaked pink with a few wisps of clouds. The foothills and then the Mongollon Mountains and then this endless sky make me feel small.

Maybe I need to be lost. Maybe we all need to be thrown out of our usual thoughts and patterns every now and then. That part of me that fears anything and everything and that runs a near constant commentary on the state of things in my life goes silent. The dialogue becomes a monologue.

Maybe my place in this world is simply wherever I am. I feel smaller than I ever have in my life, like the tiny glow worm I saw last night along the path down to my tent. At the same time, I feel large, expansive as if I am the sky falling into itself. I am aware of breathing and that the air smells like cedar and juniper. All around me cacti bloom bright with yellow flowers.

I trust this horse. I trust my ability to ride. I trust this moment to deliver me exactly where I’m supposed to be. I relax the reins and lean back on the horse, watching the endless sky and the lone hawk.

The horse turns uphill onto a worn path. He stops at a small wooden gate and nudges it open. Stopping at the front porch, the horse waits patiently for me to dismount. The pick up truck is parked nearby.

Ernestina comes out the front door and asks, “How was your ride?”.

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