Con Cuidado, Senor. Con Cuidado.

Do you ever get caught up in the moment, decide to do something, and then almost immediately question your logic, or, more likely, your sanity? We all have, right? This is a bit overly melodramatic way of describing an outing we had recently in the Andean hills outside of Otavalo, Ecuador. Otavalo is a lovely town maybe two hours by car north of Quito and sits just above the equator at about 8500 feet. It is known for its markets and was a destination of our intrepid group, Jesse, Laura, Alex, Lily and myself. In anticipation of our visit, we agreed that we would indulge in a horse back riding outing at the hacienda where we were staying. Seemed innocent enough. After all, Lily is an experienced rider, and wouldn't it be nice to accompany her and share with her an impassioned pursuit she has and make this a family-filled, fun-filled activity. But, mind you, I am not an equestrian. I am about as close to having the requisite skills for such an undertaking as I do for performing brain surgery. Maybe less. The last time I was on a horse was nineteen years ago in New Zealand. Let's just say it was a bumpy ride which did not encourage me to pursue anything smacking of equestrianism bar the occasional carousel ride. (Interestingly, despite the passage of time, both Jesse and Alex remembered the names of their horses from that time long ago – Fat Boy and Tank – which should suggest to you that they were not exactly astride former Derby entrants.)

With helmets now giving us the illusion that we were well protected, we headed off with our guide. At first, the experience was actually rather bucolic. We slowly roamed through neighborhood streets, at first the cobblestoned variety with our horses clip clopping past small residences. The locals waved, the dogs barked. Cobblestones soon gave way to rocky roads and then rutted dirt roads as we headed further up into the highlands. Gazing at the humble, time worn communities and now dust-filled roadways, you almost expected Butch Cassidy or Wyatt Earp to appear, smilingly tipping their hats to us. The Andes were often shrouded in clouds; the sun was intense. Occasionally, when the clouds thinned, we could spot a volcano.

As we headed further uphill, the scenery became more wooded, more mysterious. The air felt cooler. My horse was named Ganador, which Jesse advised me meant “winner.” But, given the clouds we seemed to be entering and the steep rise of the mountains around us, I kept thinking Ganador sounded more like a name you might find in Lord of the Rings. You know, something Gandalf or Bilbo Baggins might have named their steeds. Anyway, let's just say that Ganador and I had some issues. He had his own notions of how and where he wanted to travel, and, perhaps sensing my utter lack of equine understanding, concluded he needed to be in control. He was right, of course, but that didn't prevent me from erratic stabs at “showing him who's boss” if you know what I mean. For example, Ganador would often turn 180 degrees from our intended path, apparently deciding he had a better idea of how to navigate our route. He'd wrench his head left or right and head in some odd direction or in the direction of a near-by field no doubt lured by the green “salad bar” that awaited him there. I would grab the reins and pull left or right trying to lurch him in the right direction. Sometimes we went in circles. Calls from the group would yell out, “you're holding the reins too tight,” or “you're not holding the reins tight enough.” While I would have been more than happy to get a tutorial in reins management, spinning in circles is not always the best time for that. Or, I'd hear helpful admonitions like “lean back” or “heels down” which I'm certain were the right things to say, but are hard to put into practice when one's head is spinning.

The coup de grace, however, were the body blows I endured when Ganador started feeling a little peppy. Sometimes, he decided he didn't want anyone passing him. Sometimes, when his road-side munchings would leave him behind, he would take off in spirited fashion to catch up with his buddies. In both cases, the toll one takes on one's lower torso makes waterboarding seem like a Disney funfest. Hurtling downhill in the last segment of our ride, one could hear the screeching voices and wails of the male members of our group as each endless set of bumps made us desperately wish there were several layers of tempurpedic mattresses beneath us. I was, in one spastic movement, trying to keep my sunglasses from stabbing me up my nose, trying to keep my helmet from dropping over my eyes, and trying to keep the lens cap from flying off my camera. As Alex would describe it at one point late in the ride, everything below his waist was dead. I would put it slightly differently. The only sensations emanating from any region below my belt were intense pain, numbness or paralysis. Why the folks at the hacienda did not issue steel jockstraps along with helmets is a mystery to me. I'm pretty sure I was speaking in a soprano voice as we arrived once again at the hacienda.

Despite the bumps and bruises and my brief experience as a soprano, seeing the Andean highlands through less than well traveled paths was worth every minute. It presented to us a world vastly different than the one we had left behind, one beautiful in its differences to ours. As Dorothy once alluded, we knew we weren't in Kansas anymore.

Adios Ganador!