Sun Gate of Inti Punku Cachiccata

We crossed the river on the old Inca Bridge and walked along a trail at the foot of a steep mountain slope. The trail, they say, is ancient and was used by the Inca to haul their quarried stone.

Just a few minutes into the hike we came across an old wall and structures. The rooms were made of gray rock and bushes grew within. The tops of the walls had collapsed. 

What a beautiful sight! To our right tumbled the Urubamba River, whose waters would eventually reach the Amazon. Humongous mountains towered all around. On the other side of the valley was the elusive Mount Veronica, whose snow-capped peak was now veiled behind a band of constant clouds. At times there were pockets when we could see a flank, or perhaps a quick glimpse of the summit. But in an instant it was veiled again. Mount Veronica towered at 19,334 feet. 

Urubamba River.

Village of Ollantaytambo.

In the beginning, the trail gained elevation slowly. Across the valley to our right we could see the town of Ollantaytambo and the massive ruins of the same name on the hillside. 

Our destination was the Sun Gate of Inti Punku Cachiccata, an Inca ruin near the crest of the mountain. We would be climbing over 4,000 feet to get there, and I prayed dearly that my body would allow me to do it. 

One of many old ruins on the trail to Inti Punku.

Trail to Inti Punku.

Village of Cachiquata in the Sacred Valley of Peru.

After the first resting point, which included a stone hut with shade, the trail took a sharp turn and began to climb even steeper. Here we could get see a shack where someone lived with a dog outside barking. It is mind-boggling to me that someone would live this far up. There were no roads anywhere near here! 

The foliage on these steep hillsides was not lush. From a distance they appeared bare, but walking through it was obvious that there was plenty of growth. Although we were above 10,000 feet, it reminded me much of what could be found in a desert: cactus, yucca-like plants the height of a human, and another plant similar to a manzanita tree. 

Ten minutes later we could hear the sound of flowing water. It was a rivulet shooting down the slope. It ran in a stone canal . . . one that had probably been in use for 800 years or longer. The Inca were masters of controlling water. 

Shaded rest-house along the trail.

The trail took a sharp turn and began to climb even steeper.

Shack located high on the mountain slope.

Here we could hear the sound of flowing water.

The Inca were masters at channeling water.

As we continued, the trail became steeper. We passed a team of Peruvian natives who were trotting down the hill with a group of pack horses. My guess is that they hauled them up for hikers. 

We passed the old quarry site where stones were hewn from the mountain and hauled down to the valley. The whole idea of the quarry being so far away blows my mind. Some of the rocks at Ollantaytambo are so big that they're considered megalithic. And how did they haul them down without pack animals like horses or oxen? 

We also saw a few thimble-shaped stone structures called chullpas. These were burial tombs used by a pre-Inca people. They are scattered around several places in Peru. Originally the corpses were buried in the fetal position along with some of their belongings, but nowadays the chullpas are empty. 

Chullpas.

Looking upward toward to old Inca quarry site.

Stone remains at the quarry site.

Around this point the slope of the trail really gave us a beating. I am no longer young, and health issues have taken a toll. We continued forward, albeit slowly. 

Much to our surprise we found cattle at this high elevation near 11,000 feet. The cows nibbled on grass and basked in the sun as if it were nothing. 

Beyond the cattle we came across another group of Inca houses. With the exception of the roof they were very well preserved. Each had a door and inside the room were several niches along the wall. 

We took a break here⸺on the front lawn of these old homes. And what a view! Mount Veronica rose even more majestically from this altitude, now clearing up from cloud cover. We sat on the fluffy green grass that felt as soft as any bed. We sipped Gatorade and ate a candy bar. 

From here we now had a good, albeit distant view of the sun gate. The stone edifice appeared as a tiny silhouette on the top of the mountain, with a piercing hole on its face.⸺We were getting closer! 

Much of the trail had stone steps built into it, probably ancient in origin.

High-elevation cow.

Old structure along the trail, perhaps homes for the quarry workers.

Jenna takes a break on the "front lawn."

Mount Veronica, elevation 19,334 feet.

Mount Veronica on right and sun gate on the left.

We spent the next half hour completing the final ascent. When we arrived, it was probably the grandest view I've ever seen. Not only did we have a front-row seat to view Mount Veronica, but we could also see the other side of the mountain, further into the Sacred Valley. Our panoramic view gave sight to several other snow-capped peaks, each with their own rugged destination. 

Inti Punku, literally translated from Quechua, means “sun door.” The stone building, which I believe is unfinished, has a set of stairs leading to an opening in a wall. Crossing the threshold through the door brings the visitor into an open-air room, with walls only a few feet high. Beyond this ancient temple stands Mount Veronica, which, from the right angle, can be framed through the door. 

The Sun Gate possibly worked as an astronomical observatory. It lines up perfectly with the constellation Pleiades and is closely associated with Winter Solstice and the Andean New Year. 

Sun Gate of Inti Punku Cachiccata.

Looking south from the sun gate.

It is interesting that Inti Punku served as an inter-dimensional bridge between the world of the living and dead. I have heard other Native American myths of there being a portal to the afterlife and I would love to find the origin of these beliefs. 

My altimeter measured our elevation at 12,820 feet. We were not, however, the tallest peak on our hillside. To our south stood a very rocky peak and I noticed a well-used trail leading to it up the backside. It would be at least a couple miles one-way if we were to go there, but we had neither the time nor energy for that. 

We spent an hour at the sun gate, taking pictures from every angle imaginable. We knew we had to relish every second. 

The Sun Gate of Inti Punku Cachiccata should not be confused with the sun gate at Machu Picchu.

Looking east into the Sacred Valley and Ollantaytambo. Other high peaks in the distance.

Sun Gate as seen from inside.

For our journey down, we chose to go a different route. Instead of the long drawn-out route to the Inca Bridge, we chose one that descended immediately and came out at the village of Cachiqata. 

This path was not as well maintained as the other. In some places it might have been considered a mule trail and there were times we had to make a decision between a right or left fork. 

As expected, there was a lot of zig-zagging. Down below the trail we could see a group of three horses playing around and running through the bushes. A small herd of cattle fed on a grassy slope. 

There weren't as many Inca ruins along this section, although we did find another chullpa. But this route was great for displaying Mount Veronica. By the time the clouds had cleared out, her beautiful white flanks radiated in splendor. 

Lone horse seen on the hike down.

Looking back up the steep slope.

Feeding cattle on the middle slopes.

The rugged slopes of Mount Veronica were very prominent on the hike down.

The view as we began to approach the village of Cachiquata.

At last we arrived on the outskirts of the village. I was a bit nervous here because I didn't know if the trail led through someone's backyard or across their property. But we traversed without incident. 

We walked through someone's farm. We saw no one, but passed pigs, ducks and different-looking cattle. Some of the modest dwellings were protected by stone walls. A couple of school boys strolled in front of us. 

Farm animals in Cachiquata.

Then Jenna noticed the cemetery. There was no sign and no gate, but a couple dozen obvious graves. Since I can't pass up a cemetery, we cautiously stepped inside the grounds and looked around. Most of the burials were marked with wooden crosses or an oval of rocks. Some had flowers growing inside the oval and others were decorated with figurines of Jesus or Mary. Wild grass grew all around and there was no attempt to have it manicured. I didn't know if we were allowed to be there, so we only stayed five minutes, then continued on our way. 

At this point it didn't take long until we were on the valley floor. This was the Sacred Valley, a long corridor that has been sacred to the Inca for hundreds of years. Once again we crossed the Urubamba River and took the only road available back to Ollantaytambo. By the time we arrived in the village the sun had set and darkness had begun to move in over the mountains. ♠

 

Cemetery on outskirts of Cachiquata.

 

Wind, Hell and Goats

It was a cold, windy day when we made it above the treeline. Large swaths of snow, some several feet deep, still draped the slopes of the peaks. We only had one direction to go, and that was up. 

This was Jenna's first time in this mountain range. I told her to dress in layers and plan for the worst. The wind always blew hard up here. 

We put one foot in front of the other, climbing a giant staircase of shale-rock and tundra. A marmot chirped a warning cry somewhere in the distance and we didn't hear or see of him again. 

The higher we climbed, the harder the wind blew⸺cold on the face and any other exposed skin. I pulled over my hood and gripped it firmly so it didn't blow off. 

The summit of 11,985 feet was a welcome sight. On the east side of a sign that marked the crest a rocky and precipitous drop led into a rough canyon, deep and heavily forested. We braced ourselves when gazing over the edge so as not to be blown over. 

Far away on the next hill we spotted a small herd of white fluffy mountain goats basking in the sun. We sat on the weather-beaten tundra and spied on them through the binoculars. They truly were far away and we made it our goal to get close enough for pictures. 

But by the time we left our perch on that big bulky mountain, the goats had left. Jenna thought they had walked behind the hill, but it was impossible to know for sure. They were gone. 

We moved down the north face of the mountain toward the saddle. The wind, which was already blowing hard, now moved in at a furious pace. The raging stream of air moved from the east side of the cliffs, up through the saddle and across the tundra plain of the west slope. 

Walking into the wind I leaned forward, lowered my head and pierced the way before me. I pulled my hood over my head and cupped around my eyes with my hands so my glasses wouldn't fly away. I couldn't breath. It felt as if I had jumped from a plane and had air pushing on my face and rushing up my nose. The flap on my jacket vibrated like a loose cord on the back of a truck. Each step was precarious and I wobbled as I walked like a drunken boxer. 

Jenna wasn't doing much better. She was shorter and lighter, so the wind had its way with her. She wore a black beanie over her head and one time when I glanced her way the beanie was flicked from her head and propelled over the east cliff like a clay pigeon. It was gone forever. Her long hair flayed in the wind like Madussa's. I smiled at her. As Patrick McManus would say, it was a fine and pleasant misery! 

At last we made it past the saddle, which was by far the worst of the wind. I found shelter against a small boulder where we laid low and took a drink of water. We didn't dare open our packs for fear that something would blow away. With extreme caution I pulled my camera from the bag and fastened it to a monopod. 

Then, with stealth, we moved up the slope toward the cliff where we hoped to spot the goats. Mountain goats are some of the craziest animals alive. They live their entire lives above treeline in some of the nastiest terrain God ever created. Their rubber-like hooves act as suction cups, allowing them to climb up and down cliffs like Spider-man. 

We came to the top of the slope and there they were . . . 150 yards away along the ridge. I don't know if they saw us, but we quickly ducked away. 

We advanced toward them, but stayed on the opposite side of the hill. When we closed the distance we moved back up over the hill, only to learn that they had left. They were gone again. We weren't giving up. 

We walked toward the ledge and then across a giant patch of snow. My leg fell through the crust and was completely submerged (at 2 ½ feet). By now we moved down the rocky cliff face, knowing we were in their territory. 

Then I spotted them over the hill. 

The closest was a nanny, fifty yards away. She sat on the shale rock, her thick white coat of fur keeping her warm from the wind. She glanced back over her shoulder and we made eye contact. 

Several of them were lounging around when we caught them off-guard. One by one they stood up, exchanged glances with us, then began walking in the opposite direction. They didn't run, nor did they wait around. They simply moved. I snapped whatever pictures I could manage. 

We knew we couldn't catch them, so we let them leave. Nearby we found a good spot partially blocked from the wind with a good view of the mountainside. We sat down to eat lunch and scoped their trajectory from a distance. 

It wasn't long into our meal when we saw a dozen little white objects climbing up the far mountainside. They moved like a pack of rats across the slopes of snow and onto seemingly vertical ledges. We watched in amazement. 

At one time we had lost them, but Jenna spotted them again. They were far away and we watched them ascend a strip of bare rock on the cliff face. Soon they disappeared and we didn't see them again. I suppose they had found a precarious perch on the southern face where they could bask in the sun, undisturbed and out of the way of any clumsy human who might pursue them. 

We finished our lunch, occasionally enduring gusts of wind pelting tiny rocks and balls of hail across our bare cheeks. We packed up and began our way off the mountain. We took the lazy human way down. ♠

 

 

Zeke Johnson and the Raising of the Bones

Zeke Johnson.

Zeke Johnson was named after his paternal grandfather, Ezekiel. His father, Joel Hills Johnson, was a prominent pioneer and hymnist for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. His mother, Margaret Threlkeld Johnson, supported herself and her sister on the plains by selling buffalo chips to the railroad. At age twenty she finally made it to Utah, encountering Indian threats, losing oxen and dealing with broken wagons along the way. Needless to say, Zeke had adventuring blood in his veins.

Zeke was born in 1869 in Bellview, Utah (now Pintura). His life's journeys took him to Johnson Canyon and Kanab, Utah, then to Tuba City, Arizona. Eventually he returned to Utah, this time in Bluff, then in 1908 to the newly settled town of Grayson, which would later become Blanding. 

This new settlement was twenty miles north of Bluff on White Mesa. In addition to the Navajo and Ute Indians that lived in the area, the land was scattered with ruins and remains of the Anasazi, an ancient tribe that once flourished, but for reasons not entirely understood, decided to leave. 

Zeke had a working knowledge of both the Ute and Navajo languages and he was a friend to many. He gave the Indians produce from his garden and his wife, Annetta, would bake them bread. 

Over the years he spent considerable time on the land. In the area around Blanding he raised cattle and farmed, and had an orchard, vineyard and garden. Many places in the area are named after him including Zeke's Hole, Johnson Creek, Zeke's Bathtub, and Shirttail Corner. 

Ruins like these lay scattered all across San Juan County.

In 1908 or 1909, Zeke had an experience “on the mesa” that would stay with him the rest of his life. The land was covered in sage brush and pinyon trees and he worked hard to clear a few acres where he could plant some corn. He would plow a stretch of dirt, after-which his son, Roy, would plant the seeds in the furrow. He would then cover them up. As he worked he noticed remnants of ancient houses beneath the ground. 

What happened next I will leave in his own words: 

“As I was plowing around I noticed that my plow had turned out the skeleton of a small child. The skull and the backbone, most of the bones of course were decayed and gone. Part of the skeleton was there, so I stopped immediately as my plow had passed it a little and I turned and looked back against the bar of the plow between the handles and was looking at that little skeleton that I had plowed out and wondering. All of a sudden to my surprise I saw the bones begin to wiggle and they began to change position and to take on different color and within a minute there lay a beautiful little skeleton. It was a perfect little skeleton. 

“Then I saw the inner parts of the natural body coming in--the entrails, etc. I saw the flesh coming on and I saw the skin come on the body when the inner parts of the body was complete. A beautiful head of hair adorned the top of the head and in about a half a minute after the hair was on the head, it had a beautiful crystal decoration in the hair. It was combed beautifully and parted on one side. In about a half a minute after the hair was on the head, the child raised up on her feet. She was lying a little on her right side with her back toward me. Because of this I wasn't able to discern the sex of the child, but as she raised up, a beautiful robe came down over her left shoulder and I saw it must be a girl. She looked at me and I looked at her and for a quarter of a minute. We just looked at each other smiling. Then my ambition was to get hold of her, I said 'Oh you beautiful child,' and I reached as if I would embrace her and she disappeared. That was all I saw and I stood there and I wondered and I thought for a few minutes. My little boy was wondering why I was there because he was down at the other end of the row anxious to come and plant the corn.” 

Old homestead on the mesa east of Blanding.

This miraculous experience left Zeke speechless. For years he was unable to recount it to anyone because it was so mysterious to him. Why should he, an uneducated and common man, be allowed to witness a resurrection? 

One day on the streets of Blanding he ran into Wayne Redd, a dear friend and Stake Patriarch. Wayne stopped him and said, “Zeke, you have had an experience on this mesa you won't tell. I want you to tell me.” 

Well, he told him, and since that time Zeke has recounted his story to thousands of people in meeting houses, temples and socials. But the question that still weighed on his mind was why he was allowed to witness such a miraculous manifestation of God's power. 

Again in his own words, Zeke recalls how he received an answer to his question: “One day as I was walking alone with my hoe on my shoulder going to hoe some corn, something said, 'stop under the shade of that tree for a few minutes and rest.' This just came to me and I thought I would, so I stopped there and this was given to me. 

“It was in answer to my prayer. I prayed incessantly for an answer as to why I was privileged to see that resurrection. I was told why. When the child was buried there it was either in time of war with the different tribes or it was winter time when the ground was frozen and they had no tools to dig deep graves. If it were during time of war they couldn't possibly take time to dig a deep grave. They just planted that little body as deep as they could under the circumstances. When it was done the sorrowing mother knew that it was such a little shallow grave, that in her sorrow she cried out to the little group that was present, 'That little shallow grave, the first beast that comes along will smell her body and will dig her up and scatter her to the four winds. Her bones will be scattered all over these flats.' There just happened to be a man present holding the priesthood (a Nephite or a Jaredite, I don't know which because they had both been in this country.  I've been in their houses and know it.) This man said, 'Sister, calm your sorrows. Whenever that little body is disturbed or uncovered, the Lord will call her up and she will live.' Since that time, I have taken great comfort, great cheer and consolation and satisfaction with praise in my heart and soul, until I haven't the words to express it, that it was I that uncovered that little body. Thank you for listening to me. I just can't tell this without crying.” 

Looking toward Sleeping Ute Mountain from Mustang Mesa.

For me, another fascinating aspect of this story is the parallel it has with a more ancient narrative from the Bible. From time to time as I have read accounts of our faithful pioneers, I have come across stories that seem to closely resemble those that have been recorded in scripture. It is as if the Lord is duplicating the story to reaffirm the authenticity of the scriptures and also to manifest His power. 

The story I refer to is in the Old Testament in thirty-seventh chapter of Ezekiel⸺and I do not believe it was mere coincidence that the experience on White Mesa happened to a man named Ezekiel. I believe it was intended. 

I refer to Ezekiel's vision of the valley of bones: 

1 The hand of the Lord was upon me, and carried me out in the spirit of the Lord, and set me down in the midst of the valley which was full of bones, 

2 And caused me to pass by them round about: and, behold, there were very many in the open valley; and, lo, they were very dry. 

3 And he said unto me, Son of man, can these bones live? And I answered, O Lord God, thou knowest.

4 Again he said unto me, Prophesy upon these bones, and say unto them, O ye dry bones, hear the word of the Lord. 

5 Thus saith the Lord God unto these bones; Behold, I will cause breath to enter into you, and ye shall live: 

6 And I will lay sinews upon you, and will bring up flesh upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath in you, and ye shall live; and ye shall know that I am the Lord. 

7 So I prophesied as I was commanded: and as I prophesied, there was a noise, and behold a shaking, and the bones came together, bone to his bone. 

8 And when I beheld, lo, the sinews and the flesh came up upon them, and the skin covered them above: but there was no breath in them. 

9 Then said he unto me, Prophesy unto the wind, prophesy, son of man, and say to the wind, Thus saith the Lord God; Come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe upon these slain, that they may live.

10 So I prophesied as he commanded me, and the breath came into them, and they lived, and stood up upon their feet, an exceeding great army. (Ezekiel 37: 1-10)

This vision most likely has a dual interpretation, not only foreshadowing the physical resurrection that would come after the death of Jesus Christ, but also as a prophecy to the restoration of the House of Israel. But I can't help but to see the striking similarities between this vision and the miraculous experience of Zeke Johnson. ♠

 

Empty field with Blue Mountain in distance.

 

A Day at the Races . . . Finally!

The room, built into the stable, wasn't much. It contained a mattress, an old electric heater and papers scattered across the cement floor. 

Like a giant domino falling backwards, my tired body plunged to rest on the cold mattress. I closed my eyes, but couldn't get Arden Black out of my mind. His face was old, beat up with more than its share of wrinkles and cracks. His hair was gray and voice chewed up. His clothes smelled of smoke.

“Hmmm, “I thought, “what is in this room that could possibly pass the time?” I turned on the electric heater and pulled it towards me. The filament wires glowed with orange and brought a comfortable wave of heat. I looked at the scattered papers across the cement floor. I picked up one that looked like a newspaper. “The Daily Racing Form,” was printed in large black ink across the front. I opened it. The inside pages were full of racing statistics which looked as boggling as the investment page of the Wall Street Journal.

My eyes glanced through the pages while my mind absorbed none of it. Fifteen minutes passed until I saw Arden's aged face again. “Kid, I've got a job for you.” He pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket. “Have you ever cleaned stalls?” 

“Never,” I responded. 

“Well, I'll teach you. I'll make it simple. First of all use that pitch fork over there and scoop the manure off the ground and toss it into the wheelbarrow. Then grab the . . .” he paused in his sentence to light his cigarette. He held it in his lips and lit the end with a lighter while using his hand to cup the flame. He took a puff and then continued his talk. “Rake the hay into a pile in the corner, then use it to level out the dirt. When you're all done, make sure each stall has three cans of oats and plenty of water. I'll feed them fresh hay later. Got it kid?” 

I nodded. 

He took another puff and walked away. 

Stable area at Santa Anita Park in Arcadia, California.

I found the empty stalls and began cleaning. The labor wasn't too hard although my muscles weren't used to working so early in the morning. 

The stalls smelled exactly like horse stalls should. Like dirt and manure. I shoveled the horse chips over and over. It seemed endless. They were all over the place. Just when I thought I had them all I would find more beneath some hay. Despite the mess, I worked until every stall was nearly fit for a human to sleep in. Because I had no idea how clean Arden wanted it, I went the extra mile to ensure his satisfaction. 

While I was busy shoveling manure, my best friend Tony was out on the track running the horses. I didn't see him much that morning, but he was the reason I was there. 

Tony left home at age 15 ½ to become a jockey. He weighed well under a 100 pounds and was tough as nails. For the last six months he had been an apprentice and now his time had come for his first official race. 

Tony's dad invited me to come. On a Saturday morning he picked me up and we made the two-and-a-half hour drive to Farmington, New Mexico where he would be racing at San Juan Downs. We found Tony at his apartment where he was excessively nervous. This would be his first real race. We drove to the track in Tony's mustang with another jockey. 

I was memorized from the beginning. 

"And they're off!"

Tony was in the first race and I watched intently as the bugler made his call and the jockeys mounted on their horses rode onto the track, trotting around to the back side to warm up. Then the announcer said: “They're getting into the gates, they're in the gates . . . they're off!!!” 

Tony took dead last in that race. For three more races he did slightly better, but overall it was a dismal day. 

I was invited to stay another day. I stayed at Tony's apartment and we woke at six the next morning and with no breakfast drove to the track. This is when Arden, the trainer, put me to work in the stable.

Later that day was another round of racing. Tony did much better this time, taking a second and third place. He would have taken first on another race but he accidentally bumped a horse and got disqualified. 

"And down the stretch they come!"

Tony went on to do great things in the world of horse racing. After Farmington he raced in California at great parks such as Santa Anita, Del Mar and Hollywood. Then he went to New York and competed at the infamous Belmont Park. Later he proved his skills at Wyoming Downs in Evanston and Ruidoso Downs in New Mexico. 

Although I had only been to the races a handful of times, the whole environment of the the horse races became magical to me. Over thirty years had passed since I had been to a race. I longed to hear the bugler play his trumpet and call the players to the track. I dreamed of hearing the announcer in the heat of the race yell out, “And down the stretch they come!” I wanted desperately to bring my wife and kids to the track and show them what all the hype was about. 

Well, I finally got my chance. 

This spring all the stars aligned and we secured a day when we could go to the races at Santa Anita Park in Arcadia, California. To prep my family we watched Seabiscuit, which was partially filmed here. 

Seabiscuit was a thoroughbred race horse who became a legend when he beat the Triple Crown winner, War Admiral, in 1938 in a one-on-one race. His career began on shaky ground as he raced on the East Coast, but when jockey Red Pollard took over he gradually began to win. He was then brought to California where his fortune continued. He won many races at Santa Anita, including the Santa Anita Handicap in 1940. 

During the 1938 season Red Pollard fell during a race that injured him so severely he couldn't continue. The reins were handed to George Woolf, a Canadian jockey, who rode Seabiscuit in the legendary race with War Admiral. Ironically, less than a decade later George Woolf would also fall off a horse, this time during a race at Santa Anita. Unfortunately, he would die from his injuries a day later. 

Santa Anita Park.

We arrived at the parking lot of Santa Anita Park an hour before the first post time. I was super excited to show my kids what a day at the races was really like. 

The outside grounds were filled with manicured trees, beds of bright yellow flowers and a handful of life-size statues of both horse and human. I was pleasantly surprised to find a sculpture of George Woolf. 

Sitting in the grandstand.

Our $10 tickets allowed us sit wherever we pleased in the long grandstand. We chose seats as close to the finish line as possible, with a great view of the final stretch. 

The track had an old feel to it, perhaps from the 1960's. The seats were old, as well as the wagering windows. When I used the men's restroom I felt as if I had entered another era. Above a floor with bluish-green tiles sat a long line of toilet stalls. In another nook was a row of urinals—trough style. I had to get a picture. 

Grand view of the racetrack and San Gabriel Mountains.

Men's restroom at Santa Anita . . . a walk back in time.

The view from the grandstand was epic. Not only was the racetrack lovely with its evenly raked dirt, fully manicured turf and tall, skinny palm trees, but the San Gabriel Mountains in the background drew the eye. 

Before we knew it we were standing for the National Anthem and then the bugler sounded the horn. The horses with mounted jockeys entered the track and paraded themselves to the crowd before trotting toward the starting gate. There would be eight races today. 

For the first race we sat as a family in the grandstand and enjoyed the moment. The race was six furlongs and started at the far corner of the track. When the horses left the gate there was an excitement that filled the stands. People clapped and cheered. My wife and girls felt that excitement and without realizing were on the edge of their seats. The horses came down the final stretch, sprinting so fast that their galloping strides could be heard from the stands. I knew my family was hooked and would enjoy the rest of the day. 

I was surprised at how little I sat still. None of us could stay put. Our seats in the grandstand sat empty for most of the races. Why? We kept moving around. We watched from different locations, including up close near the track. 

My favorite place to go was down at the paddock between races. This is where the horses and jockeys come out to parade themselves before entering the arena. It was a chance to see the two up close. It was a place to see how sculpted and stout the horses were and how short, but strong the jockeys were. 

The Jockeys' Room.

Walking from the Jockeys' Room to the paddock.

3-time Kentucky Derby winner and Hall of Famer, John Velazquez.

The paddock is a great place to see horse and jockey close up. Tyler Baze atop Divine Feminine.

It was here, in the center of the paddock, that I noticed a life-sized statue of Seabiscuit. In front of the statue was a popular place for pictures, especially among family members of those who owned horses, or had an interest in the race that day. 

It was near here that I talked with one of the workers on the grounds. He wore gray scraggly hair with sunglasses that had a nose-cover. He told us that he often waked the grounds at night and that this place was definitely haunted. He said there were ghosts of both men and horses that wandered the grounds. Then he pointed to the statue of George Woolf and said there are times when the head will turn and look at him. 

The Seabiscuit statue is a popular place for photos.

Seabiscuit.

Does the ghost of George Woolf haunt Santa Anita?

Among the many questions from my kids had to do with the betting aspect of the sport. I had to explain win, place, show, exacta, trifecta and whatever other terms I could remember. I also explained how odds work. 

A couple of my daughters were already making verbal bets on which horse they thought would win, stating that they were betting on #3, or the green horse, for example. But Kaitlyn, who is twenty one, wanted to try the real thing. 

So twenty minutes before race #7, she and I went to the wagering window. (We decided that we would just use my cash and I would do the talking—but she would choose the horse!) I had never done this before either, so it was a learning experience for both of us. 

The sweet lady at the window made it easy. When I stated, “I would like to bet $5 to win on #7,” she responded: “That's all you're going to bet?”—I knew she was teasing and we both had a laugh. 

When the race began, Kaitlyn had a fun time cheering on her horse. But in the end, Funkenstein came in fifth place and we were out five bucks. 

We're almost on T.V.!

For the final race of the day I decided to just sit back and take no more pictures. I would just enjoy the race. It was another 6-furlong contest, but this time on turf. 

This final race was a maiden special. The gates opened and eight mares and fillies, all four-years old and upward sprinted around the track. While they were on the backstretch I appreciated the view of the distant animals with the majestic mountain behind them. As they came around the final bend and into full view I admired the strength of their bodies and the sheer speed at which they moved. I don't even know who won, but they all had won my respect. 

We left that day fully satisfied. I had spent many years dreaming of this day and it did not disappoint. I have a feeling that we will return again. If not here, then at some other track. ♠

On the back-stretch.

 

Racing the turf course.