This Side of Sixty

We rode Brush Creek yesterday looking for strays. A stray is someone else’s cattle. We have them coming in on our fall grass from several different directions, in several different fields, which is not unusual for this time of year. It’s no one’s fault, for we share fence maintenance and work together to get things sorted out. The cattle are thinking of their own fall fields now, and the renegades are walking the fence lines looking for weaknesses. We knew the strays were there, but we rode the field without finding them until we climbed to a lookout point near Gremlin Ridge. Then we saw them, three cow-calf pairs far below us, lounging behind a cluster of willows along the creek.

Mark rode Pard and I rode Alice. I was thinking of describing them as “young,” but actually they’re 7 and 12 respectively - just a couple of horses that for one reason or another have matured without having been ridden much. It’s more correct to call them inexperienced. In any case, it was just what they needed, saddled and trailered to the mountains, ridden across a bridge, up a mountain and through soggy bottomlands. All under a golden Septemberesque sun.

At one point I asked Mark to hold my horse so I could check out a different species of willow, taller than the rest, growing in the thicket that crowds the creek. As I ducked under the canopy and came out the other side, I was delighted to see a sunny glen of marshy grass banked by a sea of cattails, which is not visible when you ride by. It is in such stark contrast to the dry sagebrush mountains that surround it, I wished I could plop down in the grass and memorize the view. That wouldn't work, of course, but for the guy on the opposite side of the willows accommodating my curiosity.

Days in the hills, after the weather has cooled and the flies have vanished, are precious. One day we repaired fence along a ridgeline, waist deep in serviceberry and snowberry bushes and bordered by quaking aspen. After we were almost done, we took a rare diversion and hiked to a lookout point just for the view. It was a respite we don’t usually take, but did because September allows it. The month offers an ever so slight slowdown, so welcome and so brief.

I wish I could bottle up September and dole it out in magical doses, careful to soak up every drop. I turned 60 this summer (wait, what?) and finally have to admit I’m in the September of my life. No wonder I’m looking at its beauties, its richness, and ignoring what lies ahead. 

resting on a cairn most likely built by a sheepherder