The late-afternoon shadows of early fall cast by the sinking sun in the west were growing longer as I at last urged the final stragglers of the 50 or so cows out of the bottom of the draw and up the narrow dusty cow trail that meandered up the hillside and through the tall, dry native grasses that covered the steep mountain slope. Though the diminishing daylight hours had encouraged the green of the leaves of the aspen trees and the odd serviceberry, chokecherry and elderberry bushes to give way to vibrant shades of yellow, red and orange, I was mildly surprised to see remnants of green grass still hanging on amid the dull dryness of the high-desert autumn. I urged my three dogs to give the tailenders and dog fighters one last nip of encouragement before I called them back down to the bottom of the draw where a tiny trickle from a mountain spring seeped out of the hillside and offered my worn-out canine companions welcome relief from their day’s labor and the unusually warm temperatures of a southern Idaho harvest season.
As my dogs lay happily panting in the cool mud of the seep, they looked up at me with weary yet willing eyes and grins as if to plead with me to turn my exhausted mare’s nose downhill and head for the trailer. I was more than ready to oblige their request. It was nearing the end of a long and frustrating day that was just one in a string of long and frustrating days. It wasn’t really unusual or unexpected, but it was certainly unwelcomed. It was just the current year’s iteration of the fortnight leading up to the fall gather.
Every year, regardless of the weather patterns, there are cows who, apparently guided by their internal clocks, bovine intuition and the shorter days of the season, become hell-bent on returning home two weeks before I want them there. And every year, as I fight with them nearly every day for an eternally long 10- to 14-day stretch, I swear to each cow personally that she will most definitely not have the opportunity to cause me such grief next year, regardless of whether or not she’s pregnant or if she weaned the biggest calf in the herd.
My warnings, of course, are mostly threats of the empty variety. Any steward of the herd who’s ever recited a Baxter Black quote or stood chuteside manning the cull/keep gate knows the folly in ever making a promise to a cow. And so, it continues on, year after year. And frankly, as well as I purport to know my cows, I’m not even sure if it’s the same cows wreaking the same havoc every fall – except for the one old Shorthorn marker cow, but I can’t get rid of her because, well, she’s a chromed-up marker cow. I think it’s quite possible they hold a cow council right before spring turnout and pass out assignments as to which ones will call my bluff and destroy the serenity of my early autumn peace.
As I made my way back down the canyon toward the trailer that evening, I conversed with my horse and my dogs about the state of things and my frustration with it all. For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine why those idiotic cows would travel for miles through relatively good feed and past several good water sources to stand at the bottom fence in the heat and dust only to be pushed up the mountain again where they’d remain only long enough to let me get home, at which time, they’d head back down the mountain, and we’d do it all over again. My equine and canine partners mostly listened but offered little advice. I would have hoped they’d be more helpful, since it caused a lot of extra work for them as well, but I guess they saw it as job security.
After decades of the same annual dance, I have yet to come up with a satisfactory answer. I have decided, however, that the cows’ behavior is not unlike that of a good portion of their human counterparts – myself, often regrettably, included. Whether it’s blindly following the crowd or tradition or seeking the greener grass of change simply for the sake of change, we all too often, it seems, ignore the goodness of the bounty that’s right at our feet. When we discount the priceless worth of home’s warm fires or the love of family and the honest caring of dear friends, we rob ourselves of life’s dearest treasures. To be sure, positive restlessness coupled with honest self-awareness can yield rewards, but sincere gratitude and appreciation for the simple, unspectacular everyday blessings can beget some of life’s most precious bounty.
