Dude, Where's My Horse?
A weekend getaway for city slickers in Baja, Mexico, gets one flyboy back on a horse for some cattle-wrestling adventures.

By Ralph Wetterhahn

Nearly 30 years ago, I slid my fanny over a swayback’s saddle and sauntered out of the stables at Kaneohe Marine Corps Air Station, Hawaii. As horse and I approached a bus crammed with recruits, the animal came to an unrequested full stop.

“Git-up,” I ordered, to no avail. In fact, with each urging the horse edged farther back toward a sheer drop-off that descended to rock-strewn furious surf. To say I “froze” would be an accurate way of putting it.

Moments later, the stable hand, a slight girl of 18 in a ponytail and jeans, appeared. She grabbed the reins and barked at me, “Git off.” I did. Into the saddle she slid and gave the nag her boot heels and a whack. The horse took off like a Saturn rocket. As for me, I stood in a swirl of dust as the bus shook from leatherneck laughter.

Since that humiliation, my skin had never once been in contact with a horse. But when a free weekend, which included visiting the museums and naval aviation mecca in San Diego, led me to an outpost where horses rule, I was forced to face my demons.

Our tryst began at the end of a quoted hour-and-a-half bus ride that turned into a four-hour odyssey. We parked our car in a secure lot before boarding a Baja California Tour chartered bus, destination La Mentada Rancho, 75 miles deep in the outback of Baja, Mexico. The bus made a number of unexpected side trips before crossing the border, then wound its way through Tijuana to a 40-minute shopping pause at Rosarito Beach before heading south again to a roadside drop, where our hosts from La Mentada took over. We spent another hour aboard their van, which took us down a rutted, dirt byway where we encountered neither road sign nor vehicle.

Topping a rise, we saw La Mentada sitting in the center of a cozy valley surrounded by sun-baked but surprisingly green hills. Except for the single road in and the rancho itself, not another mark of human presence appeared. Nice.

The 13,000-acre spread is owned by third-generation Basque shepherds turned vaqueros, who emigrated from Spain to the United States 90 years ago and eventually wound up in Mexico. The family prospered and has gone to great effort to create an authentic, old-ranch ambience. La Mentada’s nine cabins are made of hand-crafted adobe bricks and handle up to 18 guests. Single and bunk beds are the norm, and although there is no electricity (a generator can provide power if a guest is allergic to oil lamp fumes or just has to use the hair dryer), cabins have inside toilets, baths with hot water, and wood stoves for heating. Oil lanterns provide night-lighting inside and out, and there is a pool of sorts, which feels wonderful after a long day in the saddle.

A lunch of tacos, sopes (flat tortillas with pie-crust edge), chili rellenos, and cerveza awaited us upon arrival. The food at the ranch was exceptional, from the barbecue steak dinner that night to the trail-ride burritos. After our first meal, Uncle Kiki, cousins Enrique Loperena and Raul Aquiar, and Raul’s wife, Caroline, issued us chaps and introduced us to our horses. Enter Paco, your basic brown horse who looked me over with a wary eye, then finished his appraisal with a snort, which I took to mean, “Take your best shot, ace.”

“Nice horsey,” I managed, visions of my last encounter with the species still stinging in my memory.

I slid my left boot into the stirrup. Up I went, wondering what this animal sensed with his cagey appraisal. Most trail horses I’ve met recognize a tenderfoot instantly. But Paco is not a trail horse — these animals are working horses. A slight touch of heels to flank and Paco began to move — straight toward the tree trunk looming dead ahead. A pull with the reins, and Paco started to turn. A more pronounced pull, and he swung around. A haul back on both reins plus a “whoa,” and he came to a stop. Talk about power steering.

Uncle Kiki gave us a primer on how to deal with horses, the lecture boiling down to “be the boss,” and off we headed in a loose gaggle out on the trail. Just as imagined notes of Gene Autry singing “I’m Back in the Saddle Again” wafted through my noggin, I heard some real noise. Looking back, I saw one of our number galloping at high speed, with no apparent destination in mind either on the part of passenger or horse. The passenger, who definitely was not the boss in this case, and the horse were in a screaming contest, and the rider was winning that handily.

Uncle Kiki put his horse in overdrive and in seconds was abreast the runaway, doing as good an imitation of a Roy Rogers rescue (or would Zorro be more appropriate?) as one could imagine. At its conclusion, my steed gave the affair his opinion: another brief snort. “All you have to do is pull back on the reins to make ’em stop, ma’am,” was Uncle Kiki’s advice once the dust cleared. Yet another snort from Paco punctuated the point.

We rode for an hour on and off trails without incident while the ranch hands observed our skills with the animals. I learned Paco had four forward speeds, each requiring but one prod at the flanks, and he would stop on a dime if so commanded.

After dinner, our group of 13, consisting of adults whose ages ranged from mid-30s to 75, eschewed the saloon with its pool table and gathered at the campfire. Two of our number had brought their guitars and our throng meshed like a tub full of bull frogs. The tour advertisement indicates no liquor is available at the ranch, but beer and soft drinks were provided readily at no cost.

The following morning, we gathered for tortillas, peppers, chilis, and “huevos Mexicana” — eggs any way you like ’em. A number of us wished we had not taken advantage of the cerveza and BYOB hard stuff the night before.

The main event of the day was a two-hour ride to the Kumiai reservation, billed as a place where the natives offer their handmade crafts. The ride was a joy, with canyon and mountain views and more riding instruction, but the reservation was a disappointment, consisting of a stop at a one-story house surrounded by rusting hulks of derelict automobiles and occupied by Kumiai whose “native” attire consisted of jeans and T-shirts. The crafts were willow baskets, which were nice, but the selection was limited. We had lunch on the trail, including coffee, sodas, and shredded pork and bean burritos heated over a small fire Uncle Kiki had made. The food was plentiful and really hit the spot.

A van arrived before we started back, giving each of us an opportunity to return to La Mentada by that means if desired. Back at the corral, I unsaddled Paco and gave him a drink, a brushing, and a hose down. Paco’s opinion? Snort.

The second evening was spent in another round of campfire songs and stories, but the party-hardies from the previous night, me included, throttled back a bit.

Beef prices were up, and the amount of rain was down, so Uncle Kiki had decided to sell some cattle. The next morning everyone saddled up and rode in search of the herd. It took about 45 minutes for Uncle Kiki to locate enough steers. Then he and Enrique turned the animals toward the corral, and we ranch guests joined the cattle drive. Kiki and Raul had been watching our progress and allowed into the roundup only those they felt were capable of handling the melee. I got the nod.

I dug in my heels, and Paco took off. I spotted a group of 30 head separating from the main herd. A pull to the left and Paco responded, but I could sense something new in the horse. Paco was loving this. He gave me a head bob as though to say, “Hey, I know what you want. Let’s go!” We did. Within seconds we had outflanked the wayward gaggle and with hooves pounding out a cloud of dust, wheeled them back toward the main group. Yee-haw!

An hour later, we had maneuvered 175 head into the corral where Kiki and champion roper Enrique began a demonstration of roping and riding techniques, far more advanced than we were ready for but clearly showing the degree of skill that horse and rider can achieve.

They’ve shortened the chartered bus ride into Mexico — it’s a direct shot to the ranch at our suggestion — and the Kumiai women now come to La Mentada to teach basket making, so this adventure now gets an all-around thumbs up.

Cost for transportation from San Diego, two nights/three days, and all meals is $285 a person double occupancy ($385 single), a bargain at about a third of what you’d expect on this side of the border. They call it “The Weekend Getaway for the City Slicker,” and it is a snorter!