I’m La Roja, a red-brown mule with a knack for spotting nonsense a mile off. My owner, Monte, is a sixty-something expat from the States, a city boy who thinks he’s Grizzly Adams because he bought a coffee finca in the mountains near Medellín, Colombia. Picture a guy in a pristine flannel shirt, boots shinier than a politician’s smile, swearing he’s “one with the land.” One with the land? You’re one with the Wi-Fi back in the Valley of the Sun, pal. Still, I haul his coffee beans, his tools, his dreams, whatever he straps on my back, while he learns the mountains don’t give a damn about his can-do attitude.
Monte’s got this idea he’s a rugged pioneer, but the man’s out here tripping over coffee roots and yelping when a snake flicks its tongue. City slicker, you’re gonna get eaten alive, I think, plodding along the muddy trails. He’s always muttering about “self-sufficiency” or “living the dream.” Dream? More like a midlife crisis with a side of altitude sickness. I keep my head down, hooves steady, because Monte needs me. Without La Roja, he’d be crying into his fancy espresso machine by noon.
Then there was the refrigerator fiasco. Madre de Dios, what a day. Monte decided his finca needed a fridge, some hulking, shiny monster he bought in Medellín. For what, Monte? To chill your ego? He tied that beast to my back, straps creaking like they were begging for mercy. It weighed more than a wet harvest and half my dignity. “Roja, this is progress!” he said, grinning like a kid with a new toy. Progress? I’m a mule, not a forklift.
Up the mountain we went, me grinding my teeth as the fridge shifted with every step. Monte was behind me, panting like he’d run a marathon, shouting, “You’re a champ, Roja!” Champ? I’m a pack animal contemplating mutiny. The trail was steep, rocks sliding under my hooves, and that fridge was swaying like it had a vendetta. I swear I heard it whisper, “Fall, mule, fall.” I dug in, snorting, because if I went down, Monte was eating dirt too.
Three hours of sweat and swearing later, mostly Monte’s swearing, we reached the finca. My legs were shaking, my back screaming. Monte unstrapped the fridge, chest puffed like he’d summited Kilimanjaro. He plugged it in, waiting for that satisfying hum. Nothing. Not a flicker. He jiggled the cord and, surprise, the mountain was having an electrical blackout. Are you kidding me? I thought, chewing a clump of grass. I hauled your shiny icebox up a damn mountain for it to sit there like a lawn ornament?
Monte slumped against the fridge, muttering about “lousy timing.” Lousy timing? Try lousy life choices. I gave him a hard nudge, not out of affection but because I deserved my damn oats. He chuckled, scratching my ears. “Roja, you’re the only one who gets me,” he said. Gets you? I’m just here wondering how you’ve survived this long. The mountains are teaching Monte what I already know: you don’t tame this place. You beg its forgiveness and keep moving. Me? I’ll keep hauling his ridiculous ideas, one hoof-dragging, eye-rolling step at a time. Why not? He clearly loves me more than the horse.
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