ESPINOSA, Juan

Juan "Cuate" Espinosa in
the Main Ranch barnyard.

ESPINOSA, Juan (1861-?) “Cuate” [Sp., twin], old California vaquero and younger brother of José (El Viejo), who spent a large part of his life on Santa Cruz Island. According to Company records, Cuate worked on the island as early as 1884. He rode the island with Clifford McElrath to acquaint him with the country when McElrath was hired as assistant superintendent in 1919.

The 1920 census lists John 'Quati' Espinosa, 60, single, hired man, living on Santa Cruz Island with:

• Clifford McElrath, 28
• Hercules Picos, 47
• Charles A. Valdez, 50
• John Leon, 41
• Alesandro Delloca, 55
• Giacomo Bortolazzo, 43
• Abelino Lugo, 65
• Francisco Pogliasotti, 72
• Henrique Lopez, 47
• Giovanni Dianez, 53
• Walter Maglio, 15
• Giovanni Cognazzi, 43
• Petro Olivari, 33
• Angelo Traina, 64
• Angelo Larenzetti, 23
• Thomas Lewelling, 20
• Louis Pasquotto, 26

In 1920, a group of hunters staying at Eaton’s Pelican Bay camp used Cuate as their guide in pig hunting. Cuate was often times sent along to ride with the Caire girls who said he was a great story teller, and “only needed an audience to get started.” Clifford McElrath wrote: “Cuate Espinosa was a great lover of dogs. He treated his dogs as though they were children. He supported a crippled brother in Santa Barbara on the meager pay of a vaquero and would give you the shirt off his back if he liked you.”

Helen Caire wrote of Cuate:

Cuate was rather old when we came to know him, but he seemed older than he was. His name was Juan Espinosa, but he was always called Cuate, "twin", though his birth mate had died as a baby. Though he would arrive at the island with a haircut and mustache, he apparently considered the services of the compadre who acted as barber unnecessary. I remember him, short and slight, with a shock of coarse gray hair, soup-strainer mustache, and grizzled whiskers which made his lingo almost incomprehensible at times. His appearance gave an ambivalent impression of a somewhat blear-eyed paisano and a statue of St. Joseph.

For a number of years Cuate owned a dog called Tiempo because he was quick as a flash, and Cuate loved almost as a child. Where you saw Cuate riding, there was little brindle Tiempo trotting behind the horse or as often held up on the saddle. That dog was spoilt. When he died, Cuate wrapped him up in a brand new sweater and dug a grave for him on a knoll behind the kitchen and mess hall at the Main Ranch. My father gave Cuate a young pepper tree to plant on Tiempo's grave. When Cuate told us about it later, tears filled his sad, faded eyes.

In his youth, my father and the young vaquero had often gone hunting together and practiced roping. Cuate told us of these past experiences. Never a top-notch vaquero, he was a great storyteller, relating his tales in a thin, rather hoarse voice. We heard of the races he had miraculously won as a jockey, of hunting adventures, of horse 'gen'ling,' of experiences on corridas, and often of olden days at the island.

When we were youngsters my fther sometimes sent Cuate to guide us on long rides over the steep, often chaparral-flanked trails. Cuate only needed an audience to get started.

At the time my grandfather Justinian Caire acquired the island, several mules were used as pack animals. They were useful then, since probably only the road in the Cañada del Puerto from Prisoners' Harbor to the Main Ranch was good. At that time from the Main Ranch it took a four-horse team witha very skillful driver all day on the old Camino del Carro to Christy, for much of the road followed the ridgepole of the Colorados westward.

"They wuz one mule that usta open gates." Cuate began one day in his thin, low voice as we sat around a barbecue fire in the Cañada Laguna. "No madda w'ere they put 'im, he can always open that gate an' get out. He wuz a good mule, but you never kow w'ere you gonna find him."

Our driftwood fire, crackling and tangy, was in the creek bed near sally trees, not far from the lagoon which gives the canyon and cove their name, and the fresh water sustained grassy stretches around it. We could not see the sandy beach where wicked breakers foamed, but beyond, we caught blue-glimpses where the great Pacific rolls.

"He wuz smart, that mule," Cuate continued. "One time we wuz at Christy brandin' cattle. an' that wuz in a corral with a good lock onna gate." Cuate's deep set eyes almost disappeared as the wrinkles increased when he chuckled. He turned his barbecue so that the meat might roast on the other side. "Well, we got done an' wuz gettin' ready to go back to the Main Ranch, but—w'ere's that mule? Preddy soon Don Justinian—your grandfather—he phones from the Main Ranch—The mule's there! He open' that gate that night and walked all a way back, an' he goes inna stable, inna stall an' he's munchin' hay! So your grandfather says, 'Can you manage?' Sure we can. They wuz other pack mules, an' all of us can take blankets onna back of the saddle—That mule—he's smarder en a lodda people." The old vaquero shook his head laughing softly.

One day Cuate was with us on the long ride to Cueva Valdez Cove on the northern coast. When we reached the high mesa overlooking the channel, we dismounted near an enormous round cactus patch.

"I'm gonna show you somethin'." Bearded Cuate was pulling his knife out of its leather sheath as he walked toward the cactus. "These are the best tunas on the island." Skillfully he cut off and pierced with the point of his knife a very large, light yellow prickly pear. He let it drop, and with the top of his knife rolled it in the pale gold grass to rub off the tiny spines. Then carefully handling it, he peeled off the thick outer coating to leave the light green seedy tuna ready to eat. Each of us had one; and after our long ride we were grateful that the golden, lotus-like blossoms had ripened to this slightly sweet, thirst-quenching fruit. This particular patch, always thereafter referred to as "Cuate's cactus," produces the largest and juiciest fruit of any Opuntia cactus on the Island. Other patches of the same variety bear fruit of average size, as do those of the red-flowering Opuntia which give us red tunas.

Cuate's cactus grows in a vast Indian mound. As we started on the trail to the beach of Cueva Valdez to visit again Tres Bocas, our boots were powdered with fine ranchería dust, glistening with bits of shell. Long before, the Chumash Indians must have cherished this cactus patch. Did they love the view from the mesa whose base is lapped by the channel waters?

Another time when we were riding along the ridge pole of the Colorados, Cuate reined in. "Wait! I'm gonna show you somethin'." We all stopped and Cuate dismounted and walked toward a low round bush in the chaparral. He cut off some berries and gave us each some. When one bit through the prickly skin, the liquid inside was refreshing on a hot summer day. After that, whenever we rode past that bush, we had to have some of Cuate's gooseberries.

Besides being a vaquero, Cuate was also a horse-breaker. His method was "gen'ling" rather than breaking a horse. Once he did this too thoroughly. Manzanita was a big sorrel mare. When he had her 'gen'led', he used to let her plod along at a snail's pace and occasionally crop a tempting bunch of alfalfa or grass wherever she pleased. The result — she grew to be the size of a cow.

Manzanita became sick, so sick, in fact, it was thought that she would die—but not Manzanita. She got well and even larger. Cuate's version of the story was this: "Manzanita, she got sick, yes, ma'am, some of her insides busted; an' that's what makes her so fat. An' then she got well. Yes, ma'am, she's never sick no more."

Be that as it may, when he began riding her again, she was so fat he held the saddle badly. He used to call her "Bah-loon." We would meet him coming around a bend in the road, talking in a soothing, low monotone: "Bah-loon, some day, I'm gon' keel you." But he never even made her walk any faster.

One summer Cuate was gentling a bay mare with good gaits; she was quick and light, and Didi very much wanted to ride her. My sister wheedled beguilingly, but my father still shook his head. "When Cuate has finished breaking her, you can ride her." And he cautioned the vaquero that she was not to ride Campana till "you say she is safe." Cuate promised. Didi's plea's, "Cuate, you know I can ride her!", brought only an apologetic smile and gentle shaking of his head.

A short time later, a guest riding a horse's length ahead of Didi lost her hat in a gust of wind. Didi spurred her horse and, at a lope, picked up the hat Cuate, on his way to or from some errand such as checking a water hole, looking over cattle or the fencing of a pasture, saw her from a distance. His face crinkled up into a smile when he went to my father. "Señor, the señorita Delfina can ride Campana."

Always gentle-hearted and soft-spoken when sober, Cuate became ugly and took knives and quarrels when "drink and the devil" had done for him. A strong, firm arm was the only thing that could drag this wisp of a deamon off to his bunk. But this was a stranger, not the real Cuate. The scapular he always wore was more than a token of evidence of the real faith in his heart. Vaya con Dios, Cuate.

» Hogg, J. E. Boar Hunting on Santa Cruz in Outer’s Recreation 63: 194-196, 238-240, 1920

» Caire, Helen The Last Vaqueros in Santa Cruz Island Foundation Occasional Paper #1:1994, 107-120.