I was trying to shout, but it kept turning into a pant. “Horse,” I  CaballoBlanco’s ear just before he vanished around an uphill bend. We had set out in the hills behindCreel, on a rocky, pine-needled trail climbing through the woods. We’d been running for less thanten minutes and already I was dying for air. It’s not that Caballo is so fast; it’s just that he seems solight, as though he wills himself uphill by mind power instead of muscle.

He turned and trotted back down. “Okay, man, lesson one. Get right behind me.” He started to jog,more slowly this time, and I tried to copy everything he did. My arms floated until my hands wererib-high; my stride chopped down to pitty-pat steps; my back straightened so much I could almosthear the vertebrae creaking.

“Don’t fight the trail,” Caballo called back over his shoulder. “Take what it gives you. If you havea choice between one step or two between rocks, take three.” Caballo has spent so many yearsnavigating the trails, he’s even nicknamed the stones beneath his feet: some are ayudantes, thehelpers which let you spring forward with power; others are “tricksters,” which look like ayudantesbut roll treacherously at takeoff; and some are chingoncitos, little bastards just dying to lay youout a police shieldcould hold me upside
down and drainmy gutschange your mind
.