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Los Angeles Times
20 hours ago
- Los Angeles Times
3 days. 65 miles. Epic horseback ride honors legendary Mexican outlaw Joaquin Murrieta
CANTUA CREEK, Calif. — For three days and 65 miles, the riders will travel through the heat and dust of the Central Valley to honor a man from the Gold Rush era who, depending on the point of view, was either a freedom fighter or a ruthless criminal. Their journey begins in Cantua Creek, a rural community in Fresno County, where California Rangers claimed to have shot and killed Joaquin Murrieta in 1853. As proof, they cut off his head and pickled it in a jar. The nearby California Historical Landmark marker declares Murrieta 'a notorious bandit,' but a plaque at the local convenience store hails him as 'El Patrio,' the patriot. 'For us Mexican horsemen, he is like our hero,' explains Arturo Barajas, one of those assembling for the journey. 'We can't say he's a saint, but he's pretty close.' The journey is the 46th annual three-day cabalgata, or horse pilgrimage, named after the famous Mexican cowboy who once roamed these lands. Blasting mariachi music, Barajas pulls his truck into a field behind the convenience store, where a small group of riders will spend the night. It's July 24, the eve of the 172nd anniversary of Murrieta's death. Although Murrieta was a real person, the events of his life are wrapped in myth. Legend says he gave stolen gold to poor Latinos after the Mexican territory of Alta California became an American state in 1850, earning him the nickname 'the Robin Hood of El Dorado.' His exploits are believed to have inspired the dashing fictional character of Zorro. For the Joaquin Murrieta riders, he represents someone who stood up against U.S. oppression and demonstrates the long-standing history of Mexican people on this land. An RV carrying the Carranza family and friends pulls into the campground next. Julieana Carranza, 19, and her brother, Emilio Carranza III, 22, grew up on the ride. The cabalgata is the highlight of their summer. But this year a shadow looms over the celebration. 'I have multiple friends that don't want to come out and bring the horses due to their immigration status,' Emilio says. 'I talked to one this morning and he's like, 'I really want to go, but I'm just super scared.'' Barajas and the Carranzas are citizens but have still felt their lives shift as the Trump administration's immigration crackdown spreads fear through Latino communities. Julieana carries a 'know your rights' red card in the back of her phone. Barajas says bookings for his business as a mariachi guitarist and singer are at an all-time low. The sound of tires crunching across dry earth cuts through their conversation. 'La migra!' jokes Barajas as a truck's silver headlights illuminate the field where the riders are gathered. Julieana and Emilio's father, Emilio Carranza Jr., has arrived, bringing with him a trailer carrying the family's horses: Monchis, Muchacho, Pinto, Principe and Cash. 'The purpose of the cabalgata, for me, is to teach my children our Mexican traditions, nuestras raíces mexicanas,' says the elder Emilio, who serves as ride president. 'It's about our roots.' Later, the riders have the first of many Vicente Fernandez karaoke sessions by the campfire. They pass around a tequila bottle, toasting 'a mis ancestros' — 'to my ancestors' — as they drink, until 1 a.m. approaches and Emilio Jr. calls the party to a close. Four hours later, the Carranzas and company are up, the horses fed, watered, saddled up and exercised. Coffee is brewed and tortillas filled with sizzling chorizo and scrambled eggs as more people arrive. At 8 a.m. around two dozen participants circle up for the opening ceremony, where Julieana performs stirring renditions of the American and Mexican national anthems and Barajas delivers a passionate retelling of Murrieta's story. The group will strive to complete the 65-mile journey over the course of two 10-hour rides. Dozens more horsemen and -women will join for sections of the ride, which culminates in a rodeo. The clip-clop of hooves ricochets off the road as the group starts off, passing rows of almond trees lining State Route 33. The Central Valley is known as the breadbasket of America, producing around a quarter of the nation's food products thanks to a predominantly migrant labor workforce. Emilio Jr.'s parents spent summers following California's harvest across the Central Valley, periodically traveling back to Mexico, where their family owns land and horses. Now, Emilio Jr. owns a horse ranch in Lodi, Calif., Emilio III just graduated university with an economics degree, and Julieana is studying biochemistry at university. Cars honk and drivers whoop as they pass the cowboys and cowgirls wearing sombreros, boots and rodeo belts, playing ranchera music from speakers tied to their saddles. Many recognize the ride as an annual fixture here. Others are simply impressed by all the pretty horses. Emilio Jr. says he hopes the cabalgata sends a message: 'We are here, we have been here for years, we count, we pay taxes, we want freedom.' Freedom means offering legal pathways for migrant workers, he says. 'Those trees right there, they need to be harvested, they need workers.' Around midmorning the group passes the town of Three Rocks, where some 150 workers and their families used to live in trailers and manufactured homes. That was until the Fresno County Board of Supervisors declared the community a health hazard and an unwanted shantytown, shutting off the electricity to drive out residents in 1980. That same year the first Joaquin Murrieta ride was held, starting at Three Rocks and traveling to Cantua Creek, to draw attention to the community's battle, ultimately unsuccessful, to keep their homes. According to a 1994 pamphlet celebrating the 15th anniversary of the cabalgata, 'the spirited fight against the County to stay in Three Rocks' reminded the ride founders of 'Joaquin Murrieta when he took on the state of California to fight the injustices faced by his people.' Over the years, the event has evolved, adding more miles, riders and a healthy dose of merrymaking and drinking, but it still holds Murrieta's spirit of resistance at its core. At the end of the day's ride, the crew arrives at a campground in Firebaugh and beelines for the cool relief of the San Joaquin River, with several horses joining for a dip. A local group called La Banda Favorita has been hired to provide the evening's entertainment and its rousing beats draw the riders back to dry land. Martha Armas-Kelly, an environmental justice advocate from Merced, came to enjoy the music with her friend Isaura Perez but is shocked to discover that Perez doesn't know who Joaquin Murrieta is. It's because they don't teach us our history in school, Armas-Kelly says. A priest flings holy water at the horses, blessing the animals and their riders before they depart on the second leg of their journey. Saturday's heat is intense, but the riders are supported by a small army of volunteers, lugging out buckets of water for the horses and passing around chilled bottles of Gatorade at improvised rest stops. Outside the Bonita Market, on the outskirts of Madera, the riders halt and transform the street into a Mexican block party. Many locals gather, drawn by word of mouth and posters advertising the ride. La Banda Favorita is back, but it's the caballos bailadores, or dancing horses, who steal the show. The crowd cheers as the horses flaunt their intricately trained footwork — some trotting in place to the beat of the thumping music, others cross-stepping across the intersection with swagger. Al Lopez Jr., a teacher and wrestling coach at South Madera High School, brought some of his athletes to observe the spectacle. He is the grandson of Jesse Lopez, who founded the Joaquin Murrieta ride in 1980 alongside Sigurdur Christopherson, known as 'Mexican Sigui,' and Julian Orozco. Jesse Lopez was a respected advocate for migrant workers, who marched with Cesar Chavez and became the first Latino elected to the Madera County Board of Supervisors in 1982. He also cared deeply about keeping the culture of charros, Mexican horsemen, alive. Al Lopez had a tough time growing up and would count down the days until he could ride out on the cabalgata with his grandpa. 'As soon as I get in the saddle, I feel free,' he says. 'It's my therapy more than anything.' Lopez has seen the ride's attendance fluctuate over the years. Some families had to sell their horses after the 2008 recession. Then in 2010, a disagreement among organizers resulted in the ride splitting in two. (This crew rides from Cantua Creek to Madera, while a group led by the Orozco family runs in the opposite direction.) But both rides still carry the name of Joaquin Murrieta. According to legend, Murrieta came to the Central Valley from Sonora, Mexico, seeking his fortune in the mining business, but was met with racism and cruelty. It's said that his brother was killed and his wife raped, fueling his transformation into an outlaw who robbed mines and stole horses. His exploits were immortalized in a corrido, a Mexican ballad, with lines such as 'A los ricos avarientos, Yo los quite su dinero' — 'From the greedy rich, I take their money' — and 'Ay, que leyes tan injustas, Por llamarme bandolero' — 'Oh, what unjust laws, to call me a bandit.' Murrieta was reportedly shot by California Rangers Capt. Harry Love, and his severed head, preserved in a jar, was toured around the state as proof. Some question whether the head was really Murrieta's, believing that he either fled to Mexico or continued living in California under a fake name. As the day wanes, the cue is given to pack up the party and finish the final miles of the trail. Tonight's campsite is extra special for Lopez; it's the rodeo grounds he helped his late grandfather build. The rodeo kicks offs with Julieana singing the Murrieta corrido, relishing the lyric, 'En este suelo que piso, De México es California' — 'On this ground that I walk, from Mexico is California.' It's one of her favorite lines, acknowledging that California was once Mexican land. Cowboys then take turns attempting to rope a bull from horseback, but only the bravest, or craziest, among them dare participate in the next event: bull riding. 'You're literally making a life-or-death situation a choice before you get on, and it feels that way,' explains Lopez, whose bull-riding days are behind him. 'It's an adrenaline rush that can't be compared to any kind of drug.' The first handful of bull rides speed by, with no one withstanding the bucking for more than 4.5 seconds. Then comes Javonte Williams. A self-professed lover of bull riding from Fresno, he is determined to outlast the earlier riders. From the second the whistle blows, it's clear his bull means business. It charges out of the pen kicking its hind legs in a feral frenzy. The beast rears its haunches so high it is practically doing a handstand on its front hooves and sends Williams flying several feet before he smashes into the ground. The crowd sucks in a gasp as he emerges from the dust gripping a shoulder that sticks out at an unnatural angle. He wails as he staggers out of the ring and immediately starts knocking back tequila to numb the pain. Five minutes later he announces that he has broken his collarbone, but has no regrets. 'I live for this s—.' On a scale of zero to 10, Williams rates the pain a zero. 'I can't really feel it,' he says, as his 3-year-old daughter wraps her arms around his legs. No one else rides a bull this day. As the events wind down, the core group of Carranzas settle in camp chairs outside their RV and Barajas strums his trusty guitar. A cowboy rides up and belts out Antonio Aguilar's 'Mi Ranchito,' then trots away without a further word. Barajas takes in the scene with a wide smile. 'I think that the heat, the dust, the manure, the sun and the stars came all together perfectly to commemorate the legend of Joaquin Murrieta,' Barajas says with satisfaction. 'And this was his playground.' Lopez says he's proud that so many people came out to celebrate Murrieta's memory and his grandfather's legacy, despite the fears community members feel about attending large gatherings during these fraught times. 'To be honest to God, the ride is important every year,' he says. 'Whether it's this year, next year, or the next president. It's our tradition, it's our culture.' Times staff writer Ruben Vives contributed to this report.
Los Angeles Times
29-05-2025
- Los Angeles Times
The legend of rural California's ancient buttonwillow tree
BUTTONWILLOW, Calif. — Honestly, I stopped for the dateline. In newspaper and wire service parlance, a dateline is the name of a place, typically written in capital letters and followed by an em dash, at the beginning of an article. It signifies a journalist's physical location while reporting or writing a story. As a state reporter who often writes about rural communities, I pride myself on getting obscure datelines from far-flung towns and census-designated places here in the Golden State. Until this week, I had never been to Buttonwillow, an unincorporated farm town of about 1,200 people in Kern County. While plotting a drive north on the 5 Freeway for another story — I can't give that one away just yet — I was drawn to a location marker on Google Maps that read: 'Buttonwillow Tree-Kern CHL #492.' It stands for California Historical Landmark 492: An ancient buttonwillow tree for which the town is named. I pulled off the freeway early Tuesday morning and onto a small, dusty clearing in front of the bushlike tree, which is surrounded by a short concrete wall. The buttonwillow grows next to a drainage ditch. In front of it is an unadorned rock bench, a utility pole, and, on this morning, a discarded plastic jug on the ground. It might not look like much. But the tree has a fascinating history. According to the bronze historical marker placed in front of the tree by the Kern County Historical Society in February 1952, the tree was an 'ancient Yokuts Indian meeting place' along a trail that cut across the Central Valley. 'The tree stood all alone and clearly visible for many miles almost in the center of a vast plain,' the Reedley Exponent newspaper reported in October 1952, noting that Indigenous people in the region met at the buttonwillow for 'every social or tribal event of importance,' including dances. Later, the newspaper reported, white cattle drivers turned the tree into a makeshift post office, affixing letters to it for those who followed. They also held rodeos at the site. It was hard to believe this tree — currently boasting ball-shaped white flowers that look like little pincushions — has survived so much: drought, extensive groundwater pumping, the transformation of the arid plain around it into farmland. I was glad I made the stop. Here are a few of my other favorite datelines from across this endlessly fascinating state. — Volcano: A town of about 100 people in Amador County that sits in a bowl-shaped valley Gold Rush miners thought might be the crater of a dormant volcano. It is home to a thriving, all-volunteer theater company. — Weedpatch: In Kern County, this was home to the former Weedpatch Camp, the federally run camp for migrant laborers — many of them Okies — immortalized in John Steinbeck's 'The Grapes of Wrath.' — Blackwell's Corner: James Dean made his last stop at this gas station — and census-designated place, hence the dateline — in rural Kern County. The convenience store has become a roadside shrine to the 'Rebel Without a Cause' actor, who died in a car crash 26 miles west of there. — Cool: In early 2020, I reported from this tiny town in El Dorado County where residents tried to fight a planned Dollar General store, fearing it would gentrify the place. That was just before pandemic lockdowns began. The store eventually was built. — Peanut: This speck on a map in Trinity County is said to have been named by a postmaster who was snacking on a bag of goobers when he proposed the moniker for the Peanut post office, which became the town name. Cynthia says: 'Pismo Beach.'Terri says: 'Morro Bay.' Email us at essentialcalifornia@ and your response might appear in the newsletter this week. On May 29, 1973, Tom Bradley became the first Black mayor of Los Angeles as well as the first Black mayor of a major U.S. city. He went on to serve an unprecedented five terms from 1973 to 1993. Hailey Branson-Potts, staff reporterKevinisha Walker, multiplatform editorAndrew Campa, Sunday writerKarim Doumar, head of newsletters How can we make this newsletter more useful? Send comments to essentialcalifornia@ Check our top stories, topics and the latest articles on
