waded across the creek. Fording creeks was a routine part of our trail rides back in the coastal hills. This was a good ford, shallow and not too rocky. No problem.
One more ridge, and then through a shadowy pine forest. A sudden dazzle of light and openness ahead, and we emerged from the trees into Wheat's Meadow, as from dark to daylight-the wide, sunny grassland was so vastly and dramatically different from the dim, shady silence under the pines.
Wheat's was a green jewel of a meadow in a setting of silver granite. There was an old cow camp at the north end-a log cabin and a barn-which was deserted. The uneven chiming of bells marked the presence of Ted's cattle in the trees behind the barn.
We reined our horses to a stop, standing in the bright, breezy openness of the meadow. Lonny smiled at me and I smiled back. "It's great, isn't it?" I said.
"It sure is."
Ted said nothing, just gazed out over the grassland. After a minute, he reined Hank toward the barn. "Let's go have a look at those cattle."
The cattle were in a little grove of willows on the other side of Wheat's Meadow Creek. We rode around and through them, while Ted counted heads and checked to make sure all were healthy. They looked good, their red and black backs sleek and shiny, and we could all see that there was plenty of feed left in the meadow. A Brahma cross heifer stepped toward Plumber and sniffed noses with him curiously. Plumber snorted and pinned his ears. I laughed.
"I love the bells," I told Lonny.
He nodded, a brief downward motion of his chin, his eyes on the cattle. The cowbells were hung around the necks of the older cows with leather straps like collars. They clanked and chimed with every step, helping the cowboys to locate strays that were holed up in the brush. Up close as we were, the noise could be cacophonous when the whole herd was moving, but from a distance it made a strange music, half-harmonious, half-discordant, almost eerie. Fairy music.
"Ready for lunch?" Ted asked.
"Sure," Lonny answered for both of us.
We tied the horses to some pine trees by the old barn and sat down by the banks of the creek to eat. Ted had packed us each a sandwich as well as a beer apiece, wrapped in a plastic garbage bag full of ice. The beers were icy cold and perfect. We ate and drank contentedly and watched the creek. When we were done, Lonny broke down his case and put two fishing poles together.
Ted declined fishing in favor of napping, so Lonny and I creek-stomped together for an hour. Wheat's Meadow Creek was full of trout, and they were quick and eager. I got at least one hit at every hole. Ten inches was a big fish, but they fought hard and were fun to catch. We hooked a dozen or so apiece, on lures, turned them all loose, and went back to the horses and Ted.
The ride out was pleasant and uneventful; I slouched a little on Gunner's back as we worked our way down Camelback Ridge, feeling confident in him. Plumber, too, looked sure and poised as he picked his way over the rock. It was all going to be fine, I told myself.
This trip, the trip of my dreams, was coming off just as I'd planned. Everything would be great.
In retrospect, I can't remember when I've ever been so spectacularly wrong.
SEVEN
Once we were back at the lodge and the horses were unsaddled, turned out, and fed, Lonny was keen to go to the bar and have a drink. I acquiesced, not altogether enthusiastically. I enjoy a cocktail in the evening as much as anyone, and mostly, I find bars pleasant. But the Crazy Horse Creek Bar on Saturday night was often a madhouse, and I wasn't sure I was up for it.
Stopping to put the dog in the camper and give her food and water, I arrived at the bar a few minutes after Lonny to find my fears confirmed. The place was a zoo-the tourists three-deep at the bar itself, the few tables full. Several couples were dancing-well, frugging in place-to Johnny Cash on the juke-box. I scanned the crowd for Lonny.
He was in the comer, talking
One more ridge, and then through a shadowy pine forest. A sudden dazzle of light and openness ahead, and we emerged from the trees into Wheat's Meadow, as from dark to daylight-the wide, sunny grassland was so vastly and dramatically different from the dim, shady silence under the pines.
Wheat's was a green jewel of a meadow in a setting of silver granite. There was an old cow camp at the north end-a log cabin and a barn-which was deserted. The uneven chiming of bells marked the presence of Ted's cattle in the trees behind the barn.
We reined our horses to a stop, standing in the bright, breezy openness of the meadow. Lonny smiled at me and I smiled back. "It's great, isn't it?" I said.
"It sure is."
Ted said nothing, just gazed out over the grassland. After a minute, he reined Hank toward the barn. "Let's go have a look at those cattle."
The cattle were in a little grove of willows on the other side of Wheat's Meadow Creek. We rode around and through them, while Ted counted heads and checked to make sure all were healthy. They looked good, their red and black backs sleek and shiny, and we could all see that there was plenty of feed left in the meadow. A Brahma cross heifer stepped toward Plumber and sniffed noses with him curiously. Plumber snorted and pinned his ears. I laughed.
"I love the bells," I told Lonny.
He nodded, a brief downward motion of his chin, his eyes on the cattle. The cowbells were hung around the necks of the older cows with leather straps like collars. They clanked and chimed with every step, helping the cowboys to locate strays that were holed up in the brush. Up close as we were, the noise could be cacophonous when the whole herd was moving, but from a distance it made a strange music, half-harmonious, half-discordant, almost eerie. Fairy music.
"Ready for lunch?" Ted asked.
"Sure," Lonny answered for both of us.
We tied the horses to some pine trees by the old barn and sat down by the banks of the creek to eat. Ted had packed us each a sandwich as well as a beer apiece, wrapped in a plastic garbage bag full of ice. The beers were icy cold and perfect. We ate and drank contentedly and watched the creek. When we were done, Lonny broke down his case and put two fishing poles together.
Ted declined fishing in favor of napping, so Lonny and I creek-stomped together for an hour. Wheat's Meadow Creek was full of trout, and they were quick and eager. I got at least one hit at every hole. Ten inches was a big fish, but they fought hard and were fun to catch. We hooked a dozen or so apiece, on lures, turned them all loose, and went back to the horses and Ted.
The ride out was pleasant and uneventful; I slouched a little on Gunner's back as we worked our way down Camelback Ridge, feeling confident in him. Plumber, too, looked sure and poised as he picked his way over the rock. It was all going to be fine, I told myself.
This trip, the trip of my dreams, was coming off just as I'd planned. Everything would be great.
In retrospect, I can't remember when I've ever been so spectacularly wrong.
SEVEN
Once we were back at the lodge and the horses were unsaddled, turned out, and fed, Lonny was keen to go to the bar and have a drink. I acquiesced, not altogether enthusiastically. I enjoy a cocktail in the evening as much as anyone, and mostly, I find bars pleasant. But the Crazy Horse Creek Bar on Saturday night was often a madhouse, and I wasn't sure I was up for it.
Stopping to put the dog in the camper and give her food and water, I arrived at the bar a few minutes after Lonny to find my fears confirmed. The place was a zoo-the tourists three-deep at the bar itself, the few tables full. Several couples were dancing-well, frugging in place-to Johnny Cash on the juke-box. I scanned the crowd for Lonny.
He was in the comer, talking
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