The Gaucho

Often I see things while traveling that are amazingly beautiful but only last a second. What is written below is one of those flashes of beauty, as best as I can capture it.



THE GAUCHO

It's that time of evening I like, when the earth remembers the heat of mid day but begins to breath the coolness of evening. The sun still holds a position high in the sky but is beginning to retire, packing up his things before the walk home where he'll rest for the night. The Patagonian pampa is dry, unfriendly perhaps, but more likely lost in introspection. It unfolds past the limits of the horizon, to the end of the world. In one of its small pockets, land forgotten, dust is kicked up. A faint deep sound is heard, growing. Thunder? No. The sky is clear save a few giant cotton balls pouring through blue. The sound grows louder. It's the sound of boulders rolling down mountain sides, of racing heartbeats screamed through loudspeakers. Galloping hooves.

"Hep!"

Flashing out of the dust comes a man on his horse, flying. The thunder rolls under the horse's hooves. Its muscles are taut. Its head is forward. The wind is whipping across its face. Bound to the beast a gaucho rides. His muscles are taut. His head is forward. The wind is whipping across his face. They seem to be chasing after the sun rays that are breaking through clouds and settling on the pampa impossibly far away.

"Hep!"

Each beat of hoof to earth reverberates deep, bass like vibration into the dirt. Brush disintegrates into powder. A trail is left scribbled behind the darting horse. A few seconds pass and a quarter mile is covered. This is haste as only Patagonian wind can teach. The gaucho and horse move like a gust that bends trees. The thunder rolls. Black eyes squint keenly into the distance. His features are dark, his nose sharp. The gaucho wears a red scarf around his neck, a black, wool beret on his head. The rest of him is a blur.

"Hep!"

Up ahead a fleet of horses gallop, pounding down the pampa. Twelve of them, all colored hues of the desert. They run with fury, wild, crazed. The gaucho is in hot pursuit.