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14 Tamale Ridge by: Chuck Cusimano

and all news that you could share with them. I met some good, friendly people along the way.

I had chosen to ride from the ranch using the trail that led through Dillon Canyon and

through a handful of mining camps and on into Raton. I could have even saved quite a little

time if I would have gone on over toward Taos and into Santa Fe but I needed to do some

business in Raton so that is the way I chose to ride. I stayed pretty much to the road through

Springer, Wagon Mound, Fort Union, Las Vegas, Santa Fe, Albuquerque, Las Cruses, into El

Paso and finally into Mexico.

That first time I went, I crossed at the border town of Juarez. I made up my mind

right then that the next time, I’d choose a different crossing. I felt all eyes were on me and my

horses and it gave me an uneasy feeling. Compared to what they were used to seeing, this was

like waving money in their faces.

The further I rode into Mexico, the better I felt. The Mexican people were friendly enough and

invited me to stop. I stayed with and shared meals with a lot of folks that were sure interested

in the horses that I was riding. I asked a lot of questions and found the right trail. My Spanish

was pretty good because I had grown up around the language and it improved even more

during the time I spent in Vera Cruz in the Marines.

Mother raised me with little help from her brother Robert, who was cranky and always acted

like I was in the way whenever I was around him. He taught me a lot though about being a man.

He worked me pretty hard but I never felt abused for it. He took the place of the father I never

knew. I always wished that our relationship could have been better because I felt a debt of

genuine gratitude toward him. Tough as he was, he was the closest thing I had for a father.

My father was killed in Alaska in an avalanche in the Gold Rush of 1897, the same

year I was born. My mother told me that Uncle Trent was right there with my dad when he died.

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