Albóndiga and I left for Verano fortified by Ramona’s parting gift of a bundle of oven-fresh bread. To avoid fording the river I took a roundabout route through Chinacate. The trail passed an isolated cornfield where I was hailed by a man named Juan, who asked me to stop at his home in Güillapa to see a sick daughter. His seven year old son, who had brought Juan breakfast, led me to the house. Ironically, when we arrived I found that Juan’s wife had left with the sick child for Ajoya that same morning, to take her to me for treatment. She had taken a shorter trail (which I had not heard of) and so we missed each other. However, I gained a traveling companion: Juan’s brother, Toño, was leaving for Jocuixtita the next day.

We set out a little after dawn, I on Albóndiga, Toño on foot. Toño said that the first two fords of the flooding river were still shallow enough to pass easily, and after that we would have to take to “los altos”—the ridge trails. I arrived at the water’s edge with Albóndiga, but she refused to pass. I coaxed her, yelled at her, beat her on the backside, but she kept twisting and bucking, refusing to enter the water. Finally, with Toño taking the halter and leading the way, while I swatted her rump, she stepped gingerly into the fast current. Once in, she crossed in good order. On the other side, however, we had to pass a drainage ditch with a little water in the bottom of it. Albóndiga balked, bucked, backed into the fence, and even with Toño hauling on the halter, she stubbornly refused to step down into the ditch. At last—deciding she had no alternative–she made a sudden leap, which took me by such a surprise that I nearly fell off backwards into the ditch.

“¡Mañosa, la mula!” said Toño. (Ornery, the mule!)

After yet another battle we crossed the river again and ascended the trail for “los altos”. It was here that I learned that Albóndiga was also afraid of heights. Not that I blame her much, for at points the steep trail was no more than six inches wide, overlooking a straight drop of ragged rock to the churning river 200 feet below. At such spots I had to beat the mule to get her to budge. Thus we struggled along, crossing several high passes and the deep arroyos between.

In Bordontita, where we spent the night, I described my exasperating experiences with Albóndiga to Victoriano Murillo. Victoriano said that he himself had a mule that was “muy mancita” (very tame) and good for the water and for rough country, but was useless for plowing because it kicked the other mule in the yoke with it. He offered to trade his mule for mine. I, however, have learned my lesson in mule trading. I offered to accept Victoriano’s mule on a two-week trial, he doing the same with mine. And so it was that I left Albóndiga with Victoriano and continued my journey mounted upon “Hormiga”, which means “ant.”

Victoriano explained to me that he named his mule “Ant” because of its reddish color, but now, having covered many tedious miles with her, I think he named her that because she is so slow. On an uphill grade she heats up and stops like an old car. And that is just her problem: age. Victoriano assured me that Hormiga was no more than twelve years old, while Albóndiga, instead of being seven, was at least ten. Yet whomever I have asked has assured me that Hormiga is as old as she acts, namely twenty or more. Nor is she quite as “mancita” as Victoriano claimed. In any case, he was right that she is “muy bueno por el agua to feo,” and she is a gem going downhill. Unfortunately the trail to Jocuixtita was uphill all the way ….