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Opinions: How not to relax on break


We left camp at a slow horse trot on the way out of our campgrounds, catching one last look at the enchanting waterfalls of the Havasupai Indian Reservation.

"You know how to ride a horse?" our guide had asked us just minutes earlier.

"Yeah," my friend had said. "Sure, we know how to ride a horse."

"These are my best broncos," the guide said, laughing.

He had a sunken left eye and wore a black bandana. He also wore blue jeans, a black 2Pac T-shirt and sturdy work boots. The horses looked old and decrepit.

My horse smelled as if baths had eluded it all of its life. It wasn't much of a horse at all; more of a half-breed, donkey-horse. My friend's horse smelled and looked worse.

We had arranged for the faux stallions to take us out of the Hualapai Canyon - a southwestern branch of the Grand Canyon - because our legs couldn't bear to make the 10-mile trek out of the switchbacks.

The hike into the canyon had left his muscles severely sore and my knee pained and swollen.

We spent three days swimming in the blue-green pools of the creek, exploring the rugged water wilderness and wearing our bodies out from activity.

"Do you actually know how to ride a horse?" my friend asked me as we started off on the trail without the guide, who stayed behind tying our camping gear to the pack mules.

"No," I said. "Do you?"

"Nope," he said, laughing, as we continued our trot toward the village.

We approached the feeble country homes of the Havasupai Tribe, most littered with junk and reservation canines, at almost too slow of a pace.

The slow bumps wore on my knee to the point I had to take my right foot out of the stirrup.

Then our guide caught up to us, and for better or worse, the ride picked up pace.

"Hey, hey, hey," our guide yelled from behind. He also clicked with his teeth, encouraging the horses and mules to gain speed.

Soon, we were traveling at a good speed, making quick time up the trail, away from the village, toward the hilltop.

But the discomfort of the ride settled in on my body. We moved from a trot to a slow gallop.

Besides my knee, my butt started to burn. All the bouncing on the saddle was grinding away at my skin like a cheese grater. I tried to ignore the pain.

"Opah, Opah," the guide yelled.

The horses obliged, now running up the trail.

My hands tightened and cramped from gripping so hard at the saddle horn. An indent in the middle of my palm marked cut skin, where a groove of the horn had worn at my hand.

"Get out of the way," our guide yelled. "Coming through."

We were now traveling with reckless abandon, my friend and I holding on and balancing to stay atop our horses.

Things started getting tricky. The trail narrowed, transitioned to switchback turns. The horses and mules bunched. My horse refused to give way to the lead, even as I pulled mightily at his lead.

We hit flat lands, and directed by the screams of our guide, the horses began running at full sprint.

I nearly lost grip a few times, narrowly escaping a dangerous fall.

My friend wasn't as lucky.

With the horses bunched, my friend's horse found itself cornered. The horse tried to loosen free and stumbled, throwing my friend from the horse's back. He crashed to the ground, dust all around.

I looked back only to discover my horse and the other mules had now been stirred to frenzy. We were running wild.

"Whoa," I yelled, pulling at the lead.

I wanted to stop to check on my friend, but the stampede was out of control. Finally, with the help of my guide from behind, my horse pulled up and we retreated to my friend.

My friend popped up without much injury, lucky not to have been trampled.

"That was crazier than any roller coaster I've ever been on," he said.

"Yeah, that was definitely worth the $75," I said.

We finished the ride up to the top where we tipped our guide for the Wild West ride.

Ty Thompson is a journalism senior whose trip to Havasupai has left his butt bruised and battered. He won't be found on bicycle this week, but he can be found at: tyler.w.thompson@asu.edu.


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