"Vamos Conde," (lets go Count) I whisper to my horse as he stops again as a result of his timidity to steep rocky declines. From where I´m sitting, on the back of a horse with heavy donkey ancestry, and on the edge of one of the cliffs surrounding the city of Banos that sits clasped in a valleyed embrace some 800 feet below me, I do not wish to push Conde any further than he is comfortable. Needless to say, I understand his timidity.

When Michelle and I had signed up for the four hour horseback ride along the ridges of the cliffs that encircled Banos, we had been concerned it would be a typical nose to ass walk that would take us on a sleepy merry-go-round like route around the city.

Soon after mounting our horses our concerns were dashed under the quick clip-clop of galloping horseshoes on cobblestone.

A young boy, wearing a bright yellow Ecuadorian national soccer team shirt (the team had played and beaten Venezuela 2-0 the day before), met us at the travel store, Adventure Equatorland, and took us through the city to where our horses waited patiently for us. As we walked we became aware of how popular the horse riding business was in Banos. We passed three other groups of horses waiting to be unteathered in order schlep pseudo-cowboy tourists up and down the hills. I never saw much of a corral for any of the horses, something I was not overly surprised was missing. In my travels in Ecuador I have found it common to see farm animals tied up in random places around cities and towns. Many neighbors allow farm animal owning families to graze their animals on their grass saturated front yards and road sides. It is very common to be waiting for a bus as you battle for grass to stand on with a hungry heifer.

On the way to our awaiting animals, we passed mules passing as horses, and held our breath as we neared them for fear we would ride those. I envisioned the feet of my six foot figure dragging along the ground and acting as rudders for the half-pint horse.

After a ten minute walk from where we started our trek to the horses, the city began to disappear into the hills. I don´t mean the city climbed up the cliffs, but instead it became increasingly less obvious where the town ended and the mountains rose upwards. A bleeding of grass and hills into gridded neighborhoods reminded us the city grew and shaped itself in relation to its valleyed geography.

The mountians ran the length of the horizon like marathon runners on a circle track. They circled the town in a green jagged embrace.

Everywhere we went, the serrated edges of the Andes followed us. The earth ran so high around us it was no wonder these mountains had such an impact on the first people who settled in their valleys and peaks. Gods were not only devoted to them, they were the gods themselves.

A woman nodded to the boy who had taken us this far and separated herself from the group that surrounded her. We exchanged pleasantries and she began to assign us horses. With us was a Canadian couple we had met at the tour company, and who had also decided to take the ride. They were the first to be mounted and have their stirrups adjusted to their heights. The Canadian woman was mounted on a typical looking light coffee horse with a mane cropped short as if it were a grunt in the military. Her partner was saddled on a portly horse of the same color that the guide affectionately and appropriately called ¨Gordito,¨Little Fatty. Pictures were taken of the riding duo, and funny faces were made, then it was our turn to "saddle up." Michelle was given next priority as she was perched atop the largest horse. Her horse, being white, was aptly name Nieve (Snow). I took a few pictures of her best cowgirl impression, then heeded the motioning of the guide to the last horse - the sorriest looking horse in the bunch. I heard a member of the group remark to her in Spanish, "you want to put him on the smallest horse?" Being the tallest in the group, I wondered about that myself. Never-the-less I found myself being fitted for he stirrup size as the saddle was tightened beneath me on the donkey look a like I was sure would soon belt out a lazy "hee'haw," as donkeys are apt to do. With a nod of her head, our guide mounted her horse, no different it seemed from ours, except maybe mine, and slapped each of our horses on their rumps as we headed down the street and out of town. We trotted along the cobblestones leaving the city and following the flow of increasingly rising hills into the surrounding peaks.

With a sharp whistle our horses began to speed up. A merry-go-round this wasn´t. I held on tight to the reigns and saddle horn, and squeezed tight with my knees against my graying short horse as he took off down the road, keeping in step with those he was running. I looked quickly to the faces of our group, trying to keep myself on. We were all being tousled around our saddles, some more gracefully than others, and we each were grinning in excitement as we let out uncontrollable grunts of laughter as the air was bounced out of us. After a few seconds, that seemed like a few minutes, our guide let out a hiss of air that made a "cho-cho" sound and the horses slowed to a walk. "Les gusta el gallop?" (Do you like the gallop?). Each of us blurted out "Si!" through grand smiles and with sore butts. "Bueno," she replied, and with another quick whistle we were again holding on tightly as our horses took off. Our heads whipped back from the suddenness of it and, with thanks from our backsides, our bodies eventually fell into the rhythm of a running horse. We did this often, hearing a whistle at times when the trail would flatten and straighten out, and a air losing "cho-cho" when it appeared the horses would do better with a rest.

The trail itself was actually an intermitant dirt, paved, and gravel road that ascended to the top of one of the ridges, skirted the tops for a while, then descended into the outskirts of the opposite side of town we started on. We passed what seemed like jungle growth as we meandered through the back roads. We came across a few cars, loaded with people who waved as we went by. We waved back, and I felt, just for a brief moment, like I belonged on a horse.

On the ride down I found myself at the back of the pack, followed closely by our guide, Rene. While ascending the slopes of the cliffs required the following of an obvious road, our decent required us to follow narrow declines that I myself may have had trouble decending. Mud mixed with embeded rock proved to test the timidity of our horses. I quickly found out that Conde was aprehensive when it came to climbing down the steep rocky slopes. He would gingerly pick his way through the rocks, testing a foot hold before commiting to it, since he had four legs this took twice as long as it would a human. Not wanting to hurry an acrophobic horse any more than I neded to, I let Conde do the navigating and just held on. I was careful not to slide off forward over his downturned neck that strained to scout his next step. To compensate for his timidity in regards to the narrow uneasiness of the trail, Conde found it more comfortable to walk along its edge, where ruts had not yet been worn in. Fine logic, except that put us at least three inches from the edge of the cliff that beckoned us to mis'step into the quicker way down. I gently reigned Conde over to the center of the trail, and hoped he understood that he would just have to deal with the posibility of slipping and falling four feet onto the uneven trail, instead of the 800 feet that threatened us from the edge.

The other three horses quickly seperated themselves from poor Conde and myself. Wanting to take my mind off of Conde´s second thoughts about being a steep trail horse, and wanting to learn more about our extremely open and knowledgable guide, Rene, I struck up a conversation with her. We talked about the history of Banos and the politics of both Ecuador and the United States, and about her family and their connection to the horse industry.

(For our conversation see the Profiles Category Lessons on Horseback: A Real Vaquera)

After four hours of magnificent Andean vistas, a number of waterfalls, and enlightening conversation, the lush hills again bled into the town. The horses hooves again echoed a "clip-clop" of metal on cobblestone, and Rene let out a final wistle as the horses galloped down the street in a race home. Savoring our last gallop, and feeling like a posse riding into town to settle an old score, we leaned into the horses, smiled as the wind pushed into our mouths, and our bodies jerked and bounced to the rhythm of the bodies in motion below us.

At a playground in town we dismounted, and the horses, uncaring if we were still on them or not, walked themselves back to where they belonged. We watched the riderless horses, with stirrups swinging and saddles empty, trot through town and round a corner out of view. Goodbye Conde, thanks for the ride.