The sun trembled on the cusp of rising as we reached the mouth of the canyon, trickling a watery, lemon-yellow radiance into a late September morning laced with a hint of chill.
The subdued call of the ever-present mourning dove reached me from their nests in the sparse mesquite and cottonwoods as they woke to the new day and began foraging for seeds and berries. Too early for people talk, theirs was the only conversation mingling with the clop of hooves on the desert sand as we entered the opening.
I straightened in the saddle, feeling energy awake in my body as the day grew in vigor. Leaning forward, I patted my horse, a good-tempered Appaloosa named Sandia, and she tossed her head, sending the plumes of her mane tumbling against her spotted neck. Sage and horse dung scented the air
