Fortunately, I found a more pleasant subject to dwell on, Ben Mendoza. According to Marianne, he was a descendant of the Esselen tribe and would therefore be familiar with its history—a history of even more interest to me now that I knew they were possibly my ancestors, too.
Time to give him a call.
The man who answered hesitated on hearing my voice. “Who’s speaking, please?”
I told him my name and how I’d gotten his number.
At the mention of Marianne, his tone changed from a clipped pulling back to clipped politeness. “Sorry. You sounded familiar. What can I do for you?”
“I’d be interested in anything you can tell me about the Esselen and Rumsen Costanoan, especially a Rumsen Costanoan mission Indian named Margarita Maria Butron.”
“Why the interest in Margarita?”
“I bought a mirror at an antique shop in the Village. Supposedly, it’s over 200 years old and was a wedding gift to Margarita, which got me curious about her and her tribe.”
“I know a bit of Margarita’s history,” Ben said, “but the person in charge of the Ohlone/Costanoan Esselen Nation’s genealogy would be a better source. I’ll look up her number and get back to you.”
“That would be great, thanks.”
I was about to hang up when he asked, “Can you ride?”
“A horse? Umm, yes, I did enough riding as a teen to stay on a horse’s back without falling off.”
“Then how about an equestrian intro to the Ventana Wilderness, homeland to the Esselen tribe?”
Marianne had told me that Ben provided guided trail rides when he wasn’t busy on his family’s cattle ranch, so I jumped at the chance. “When?”
“Today at noon.”
“Where?”
“At the Ventana Ranch. The turn off is about seven miles down Tassajara Road. You can’t miss the sign.”
No problem; I’d passed Tassajara Road on the way back to the Inn, using Marianne’s new and much improved directions. “How will I recognize you?”
“I drive a silver Dodge pickup.”
“And I’ll be in a green Jeep.”
🗲🗲🗲
Ben Mendoza was a big man. “Gentle Bear,” I said to myself. The name fit. His black hair was long and straight and held back by a navy, bandana headband. He wore the practical trappings of this untamed country, jeans and well-worn cowboy boots; except in place of a denim shirt, he wore a black tee.
His rugged face was set in a smile. That is, until he neared my Jeep and got a good look at me. He halted and shook his head. “Is this your idea of a joke?”
Before I could do more than drop my jaw at his question, he said. “What’d you do to your hair?”
“Excuse me?”
He glanced heavenward and blew out his breath. “Might as well get out of the car, Veronica, and give your legs a stretch.”
Veronica?
I gave him my brightest smile. “I’m Marjorie Veil. We talked on the phone.”
His eyes widened.
“Veronica’s my sister.”
His expression settled somewhere between disbelief and guarded curiosity.
“We met for the first time yesterday, at the gym of all things,” I said. “She doesn’t like me much.”
“Oh, I can imagine,” Ben said, the corners of his lips edging up a bit.
“I assume you know her.”
He said nothing, though his focused stare suggested unvoiced questions.
“I just found out we’re twins and were separated at birth, which came as quite a shock, if you know what I mean.” Emptiness ballooned in my chest, leaving little room for air. “I’d like to learn more about her . . .”
“Not from me, I’m afraid,” Ben said. His chest expanded like Paul Bunyan as depicted in exaggerated cartoons, minus the blue ox and MacGregor tartan, of course. “Let’s start over, so I get it right this time. Hello, I’m Ben Mendoza. People around here call me Gentle Bear. Nice to meet you . . . Marjorie.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” I said, all for second chances.
We headed for an old barn with tie stalls where two saddled horses stood waiting. Ben gathered up the reins of his mount and swung into the saddle. I approached the remaining horse with caution. It had been years since I’d ridden. No use in rushing things.
“She’s a great trail horse,” Ben said. “Calm and not easily spooked.”
I ran my hand along the mare’s golden neck and scratched beneath her white mane. “I’ve admired palominos since watching Roy Rogers and Trigger,” I said.
The horse snorted and shook her head, then stretched her neck around and nuzzled my shoulder. “What’s her name?”
“Blondie.”
Of course.
I grabbed the saddle horn, put my foot into the stirrup, and pulled myself onboard, feeling the years slip away and my old confidence in the saddle return.
Ben’s mount was more spirited. He tossed his head, signaling his eagerness to be off. His coat was predominantly white with a variety of chestnut colored patterns, his legs dark, and his head—also dark—splashed with bold, white markings. “What kind of horse is he?”
“An American Paint,” Ben said, “descended from the horses brought here by the Spanish conquistadors. Native Americans revere this breed.”
We rode from the yard in silence; and soon the silence turned into peace, as if we were on the edge of a new world, a world of ancient lands and untamed wilderness. As I took in the unfolding meadows and valleys of pine, I experienced a renewed appreciation for the sun, the wind, and the texture of the earth. Questions that had seemed so important to me only moments before dissolved like unremembered dreams.
To the right of the trail, I spotted a red-tailed hawk perched on a tree stump. Instead of taking off in flight as we drew nearer, the stocky bird remained still and perfect as a decoy.
“Why doesn’t it fly off?” I asked.
“It knows we mean it no harm.”
The hawk opened its hooked beak but made no sound. I reined in my horse and stared, never having been this close to a bird the size of a small dog.
Ben rode on, and I urged my mount forward but not before taking a quick backwards glance. The hawk flew up and kited into the wind, wings spanning at least two feet on either side. Within seconds, it was flying overhead and circling back.
“I think the hawk’s following us,” I said.
“Possibly, but it’s not the wildlife that should concern you as much as the smallest change in the landscape and weather, which can turn ugly in the blink of an eye.”
The hawk flew in close with a raspy, steam-whistle scream, Kree-eee-ar. The rush of air created by its massive wings caused goose bumps to rise over my skin. I ducked out of instinct rather than fear, though a scene of attacking birds from a Hitchcock film did flash through my mind.
“When a hawk appears in your life and communicates with you, it may signify a warning,” Ben said.
“Are you trying to scare me?”
“The hawk’s warning shouldn’t be taken as a negative sign, but as an opportunity to keep your eyes open and be aware.”
“Be aware rather than beware. Okay, I get it.”
In time, Ben halted, and when I reined my horse at his side, I saw something I’d never expected to see on this earth. Towering rocks plunged into a crater-like valley, and far below ran a river, only to end in a waterfall that, even at this distance, conveyed nature’s power when allowed to follow its own true course. To further spotlight an already over-the-top display of nature’s ability to impress, rays of light shimmered through blinding white clouds. And we were all alone to capture this miracle, two travelers on the planet peace.
“This is where the story begins,” Ben said. Then he proceeded to tell me about the Esselen, the first inhabitants of the Santa Lucia Mountains, of their close ties to nature and their reverence for the spirit of this land. “They thrived in this rugged environment and were content.”
Ben squinted at the sky. “I brought bottled water. Want some?”
“Yes, please.” I tried to imagine my ancestors clustered near the doors of dome-shaped, thatched houses, arranged in wagon train fashion, around plaza-like clearings.
We dismounted, leaving the horses to feast on the grasses growing lush at our feet. Ben chose a smooth boulder as seating and continued his lesson. “The Esselen were healthy and free, rich in all that mattered. They didn’t need to farm or labor ten hours a day. The women gathered food, cooked, and wove baskets, which sometimes took a year to create. The men hunted with bows and arrows they’d made themselves. All in all, they lived off the land and their simple system worked.”
Until the missionaries came along, I said to myself, not wanting to destroy the moment or interrupt Ben’s story. I took in my surroundings and realized that what I was seeing and touching had been seen and touched by the Esselen. Some may have sat on this very rock, which felt warm, as if alive. I imagined men talking and laughing while repairing their fishing nets, women grinding acorns, children playing hide-and-seek, and elders napping in the sun.
Ben went on to talk about the tribe’s customs, their play, and their way of life. Occasionally, I’d ask a question, but mostly I listened, enjoying the sound of his voice and the stories he told. He talked about the Esselen ceremonies and about their creation story. He talked about the coyote, the hummingbird, the hawk, and the mouse. He talked about the earth, the sacred path, and the four directions, and how the Esselen had a profound understanding of the mysteries of life, the purpose of existence, and the forces of nature.
“If you want to visit some of their ancient ceremonial sites or check out their pictographs on boulders and in caves, there are tours available,” he said. “Guides share tribal tales and songs and play drums around the campfire while you camp beneath the moon and the stars.”
“That sounded like poetry, Ben.”
“I’ve heard the tour promotions so many times, I’ve got them memorized. Let me know if you’re interested and, even though it’s the off season, I can arrange one for you.”
I thought of Joshua. Camping beneath the moon and the stars would probably be right up his alley. “Could I bring a young friend?”
“Depends on your friend’s age.”
“Seven.”
“Tour rule is seven or older. Is your friend from around here?”
“Yes, his name is Joshua Alameda.”
“Alameda?” A smile crossed Ben’s face. “Last I saw Joshua he was five years old and a regular chatterbox. It was tough him losing his parents the way he did. How’s he doing?”
Just thinking about Joshua alone in his silent world curtailed my pleasure in our surroundings as effectively a velvet curtain drawn between my overly stimulated senses and an earth-shattering Broadway show. “He’s under a doctor’s care, but his progress has been slow.”
“Poor kid,” Ben said. “He’s more than welcome to join the tour, but you might want to clear it with his doctor first. He was found wandering alone not far from here after the death of his parents, and he’s bound to experience some traumatic memories.”
“It’s a miracle he survived,” I said. “He experienced something beyond terrible.”
Ben’s eyes appeared suddenly moist. “Let’s head back,” he said. “I’m hungry.”
“Me, too.”
I was hungry, all right, but for something food wasn’t about to satisfy.