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I was lured to Uruguay for a horseback riding vacation promising long beach canters. the canters were delicious, but there was much more! Uruguay is a south american cipher. With the big boys of that continent - argentina, Brazil, and Chile, not to mention their sometimes-cantankerous kid brothers, venezuela, Columbia, and Bolivia - sucking the airtime of media coverage in america, little Uruguay is quite forgotten. that’s a shame...

ithout the bling-bling destinations of other South American countries - Macho Piccho, the Galapagos, Amazonia - Uruguay perks along under the radar of mainstream tourism. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. Snuggled beneath Brazil and a stone’s throw from Buenos Aires, Uruguay is a South American gem.

Background
With the Uruguayan economy based on agriculture, protective rules are strictly enforced up to and including a constitutional clause that controls the distance between fence posts, how many wires are strung between these posts, and the distance between those wires. It’s a very tidy country with a strong working-horse culture.

It is the estancia’s (large ranch) horse that keeps the agricultural economy humming enabling Uruguay to export its surplus beef, rice, milk products, wool, and sorghum. Much of the flat, palm-tree spiked land along the coast is at or below sea level so gauchos (cowboys) use horses to slog through the muddy terrain and irrigation ditches rounding up cattle, horses, sheep, and cows which far outnumber the three million citizens of predominantly European heritage. Even above the din and swirl of cosmopolitan Montevideo, the capital, you will hear the clip-clop of hooves pulling two-wheeled carts - the drivers standing chariot-style.

But it is the compact criollo-mix ranch horse of varying colors that I met. Their tails were usually cropped at their hocks and, once broken, their manes were sheared Mohawk style with a tuft of long hair left at the withers. This trim isn’t for style; it’s practical. With over 100 horses to care for, shorter hair cuts down on grooming time.

Uruguayan horse tack is another story. A flat, leather-covered saddle frame stitched together along the spine has a high pommel (great to grab when your horse bolts across the plains). Several blankets and pads go under the saddle and, for the riders’ comfort, a sheepskin is tied on top with a sixinch strap of smooth leather. Stirrups can be triangles resembling the musical instrument, rounded metal circles, or a smaller version of the American western stirrup. All of this is swiftly tied into a neat bundle for transporting in the van. Bits are usually rusty. Bridles, halters, and very long reins are often elaborately braided rawhide.

Gaucho gear remains uniquely colorful: a wide, silver studded leather belt holds a long silver-handled knife along the gaucho’s back. Baggy trousers (bombachas) are tucked into high, soft boots. The headgear of choice is either a beret or a black, flat topped, brimmed hat made wind-proof by double straps. Chaps, if worn, consist of a half skirt of leather over the left leg. Strapped to their right wrist is a long braided, rawhide whip, and sometimes a braided lasso is tied to the saddle. And, of course, in their pockets may be paper and tobacco for hand-rolled cigarettes and a cell phone.

A gaucho without a gourd of maté, a bitter tea-like drink sipped through a silver “bombilla” (straw with a strainer at the end), would be an anomaly. The maté ritual goes like this: first the gourd is stuffed with chopped yerba leaves and a little cool water; hot water is added from a thermos, the gourd is held in the right hand, and only lips touch the straw and you sip until you suck air; then it is refilled. If you share your gourd with someone you like, you pass it to him or her with your right hand and they accept it with their right hand. I found maté an acquired taste but my sample was sans sugar.

Riding Rocha
Rocha Province, about 4 hours north of Montevideo, borders Brazil. Zipping along the highway, the view is uniform -- miles of eucalyptus and palm trees towering over the champagne colored tufts of pampas grass wafting in the ocean breeze and flat green fields bumped with low termite mounds.

“To ride like a gaucho,” advises Sally Vergette, owner of Ride Andes and our guide, “ride sloppy. Sit back on your tailbone, and sit the trot. Don’t try to pet your horse’s head; they are not pets. You might want to keep your feet slightly forward and remember to neck rein.

Our eight days of riding followed a pattern: breakfast around 8:00 followed by three to four hours of riding. Then, a sumptuous picnic lunch and a siesta (nap) allowing time for reading, journal writing, wandering, or, if near the beach, body surfing and watching for sea turtles. Around 3:30 PM, we began three to four more hours of riding that often ended after dark. Dinner was around 8:30 or later.

Our first ride was a late afternoon introductionto our horse and our seat to the saddle. We came back to our hotel after dark with the Southern Cross over our shoulder and, to the delight of the five Brits, fireflies flashing in the enveloping darkness. There is virtually no ambient light in rural Uruguay, and even with a full moon, the intense darkness made it difficult to see the horse in front of you. Luckily the horses’ night vision was better than their riders’.

Before we arrived at the beach the next day, Sally stopped to give us specific instructions:

“The ocean will be very loud and horses see waves as solid walls heading toward them and may shy. Don’t point them directly into the water; follow the wave’s retreat and angle them in. Don’t look down at the moving water; you might lose your balance. Watch the horse in front of you or the horizon.”

With smiles smeared across every face, the roar of waves in our ears, we raced on miles of hard sand below with a blue sky above. The only mishap was when Diane’s horse, which had been pinning her ears repeatedly, kicked out and connected with Aíne’s lower leg. Nothing broken, Aíne, from Ireland, soldiered on for another long canter before we relinquished horses to Luis and Alexandra, the gaucho/grooms, and we showered for a late dinner.

Cultural points of interest were part of the itinerary. One day we passed St. Teresa Fort that withstood Spanish, Portuguese, and Argentinean invasions. A visit to an Arbortorium provided a closer glimpse of some of the many bird species (southern screamer, Jacana, roseate spoonbills, Maguari stork - the world’s largest, mocking birds, herons, humming birds and flocks of green parrots) found in Uruguay and a Cabybara, the Laguna Negra (Black Lagoon), the largest body of fresh water in Uruguay but darkened by silt, was the goal another day.

We cantered across vast fields studded with the tall UNESCO-protected and indigenous Batia Palm trees. We tasted its orange, ping-pong ball sized thirst-quenching, sweet-sour fruit, which is distilled into a potent local “hooch” and sold in roadside shacks. Served cold, it tastes like a sweet sherry - with more kick. Once at Laguna Negra we unsaddled all but one of the horses and rode them bareback into the water to frolic and wash their backs before turning them loose in a field.

In the cool shade of beach trees, the barbeque of grilled meat was so tempting that Diane, a vegetarian for 15 years, succumbed to sample some. After a siesta the horses were gathered by means of the “forma.” A gaucho mounted the one saddled horse and with verbal commands, quickly got all the other horses to stand in a line waiting their turn to be saddled. It was an impressive bit of horse training.

The afternoon ride took us through an enchanted (or creepy, depending on your point-of-view) dark forest of strangler figs and up a rocky hill where dozens of buzzards circled overhead. Our destination was the gracious home of Juan and Noel Ferreira - El Sauce (willow) Estancia - where we would spend two nights. While they keep 100 horses and 1,000 sheep and dairy cows on their 60,000 acres, their main source of income is from exported rice.

Another day had us climbing high dunes before reaching the ocean and heading to Cabo Polonia for lunch. Cabo Polonia, once a sleepy fishing village, is now a hippy haven complete with tie-dye shirts, squatter shacks, and a laid-back vibe that can only be reached by four-wheel drive vehicles or horseback.

Getting there, however, was not pretty - the horses were unnerved by the ocean, the sand was too deep to do any gait but a walk, and the beach was littered with summer debris and decomposing sea lions. Our departure, however, was visually more pleasing as long as you didn’t step on the platter-sized jellyfish that had washed ashore.

At dusk, we unsaddled our horses and gave them a last pat, said good-by to the grooms, and headed inland by van to the El Charabon Estancia, a country inn set on a hill. Fernando would be our guide and groom for the last two days. In addition, he was the chef who grilled the lamb, sausage, and fish for our first dinner at this estancia - and it was his birthday! Yes, ladies - gauchos cook - or at least grill.

My new horse, Sophia, seemed quite reasonable until during one long canter, she suddenly shied and picked up speed. I thought it was a bee bite, but my saddlebag had slipped. Sophia stepped on it, spooked, and galloped away, ripping the saddlebag from its ties. It was a minor mishap that Fernando soon remedied with extra string.

Our last ride was a work session: herding and counting cattle. We split into small groups to scour large fields flushing out cows and calves and ultimately gathered them into a herd along with two bulls who promptly went into mounting mode. Two other bellowing bulls began pawing the ground and butting heads.

Sally yelled a caution, “Never turn your back on a bull,” and we gave them lots of room. Ultimately, four fearless Border Collies encircled the sparring pair, nipped at their hooves, and barked them back into the herd.

As we squeezed the herd along the fence line, Julie and Kim counted 167 cows. We regrouped the herd and oozed them through the gate while Rachel and Diane recounted and came up with the same number. Our work was done, and it was time to play a gaucho game, reminiscent of pole bending.

Over the week, we covered 125 miles on horseback through sand, forest, and plain. The last lunch was noticeably quiet with the sad realization that an extraordinary horse experience was drawing to a close. Horses, bulls, birds, and beaches were soon to become photo memories. To quote Charles Kuralt, an intrepid journalist and traveler, “Every trip has to end.” And sadly, ours did also...

In order to select which forage is best for your horse, you need to look at his age, activity level, health history, and other factors associated with the data listed above and then consider the following:

Sally Vergette at Ride Andes can be reached at: www.rideandes.com or sally@rideandes.com