single person. That is, once my daily chores were done.
Each evening before sundown, I would drive a herd of about two dozen horses from the ranch to a meadow on the other side of the lake. There I would leave them to graze, drink from a cool mountain stream, and sleep peacefully among the willows and meadow grasses.
Then every morning I had to go get the horses and take them back to the corral. This wasn’t a job for anyone who liked to sleep in. I would rise from my bunk bed well before dawn and dress quickly—not only because I wanted to hit the trail but also to stay warm. At this high elevation, the early morning air was cold, and usually I wore two pairs of jeans, a long-sleeve shirt, and a jacket. My leather gloves and cowboy hat also provided some warmth.
I really didn’t mind the cold weather, though. In fact, for a kid who grew up in subtropical Florida, these cool summers were welcome, even exhilarating.
So, looking every bit the part of a movie cowboy, I’d ride Glendora back to the meadow just as the faintest glimmer of light began to tinge the dark eastern sky and the jagged peaks of the Pinnacle Buttes. The well-rested horses would usually be on their feet by the time we arrived, finishing a breakfast of soft, dew-covered grass.
I’d circle around to the far side of the herd and push them together in the direction of the ranch. I didn’t literally push the horses. Instead, I’d come up from behind and call out “Hee-yah!” Off they’d gallop. I would feel the rumble through my body as their hooves pounded the ground.
Sometimes the horses would spook and bolt in another direction. Glendora would take off after them with little coaxing from me. It’s a good thing she knew her job so well, because during these hard gallops I could do little more than hang on for dear life.
Eventually we’d round up the herd. Then I’d ride behind or alongside the horses to guide them the two miles (3 km) back to the corral for the day.
That was the general idea, anyway. When you’re dealing with animals, things don’t always go according to plan.
Often, I’d discover that other large animals, hidden from view, had visited the herd during the night—and they were sticking around for breakfast.
You might not think a meadow could provide much cover for anything larger than a ground squirrel or a mouse. But the willows were a bit taller than me and grew in tangled bunches, like dense bushes. Even sitting high in the saddle, it was difficult to see more than just the backs of the horses grazing in between the willows. It wasn’t until I started flushing the horses out that I noticed some of them didn’t look like the others. Some had antlers! To my surprise, I realized that I was rounding up not only horses but also a few very confused moose.
I felt sorry for them. The moose must’ve been completely bewildered, wondering why their breakfast had been disturbed by a stampede—and why they were in the middle of it! Sorry or not, I had to separate these wild animals from the herd.
Easier said than done.
Moose aren’t usually aggressive, but if they feel harassed or threatened, watch out! They can kick their sharp, pointed hooves forward, backward, and sideways. I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of one of those powerful thrusts. And I sure didn’t want to mess with those antlers. They were wider than my arm span. One quick move of the moose’s neck and his massive bony headgear could crush my leg or Glendora’s skull. I didn’t dare get too close.
So instead of separating the moose from the herd, I separated the herd from the moose, pushing the horses away as I normally did. Now and then, the moose followed or ran with the herd for a while. Maybe they didn’t want to leave their new companions. Or maybe they just wanted to see where everyone was going. Whatever the reason, their stomachs usually won out, and they’d trot back to the meadow for breakfast.
Dealing with moose tested my horse-riding skills and helped keep the job from ever becoming boring. Not that there was much chance of that happening. Something was always keeping me on my toes.
If moose weren’t visiting the meadow, strays were leaving it.
Strays were horses that wandered off early in the morning, before I got to the herd. I knew each of the 28 steeds in my charge and could tell quickly when one or more were missing. It always seemed to be the same restless few that wandered, so I had tied bells around their necks earlier in the summer for easy tracking.
One day, several horses had wandered off into the forested hills on the other side of the meadow. After driving the rest of the herd back to the ranch, I returned to collect the strays.
It was so quiet. Away from the herd, the ranch, and anything with a motor, I could hear the slightest sounds—the shriek of a hawk high above or the trickling of a winding brook. So it was no surprise that I picked up the faint tinkling of bells coming from the forest across the meadow. Glendora and I followed the distant ding, ding, ding up into the foothills.
These were my favorite times. Tracking strays gave me a chance to explore the countryside. The cool air, the wilderness, and the freedom were all so new to me, and thrilling. I was living my dream of roaming the Great American West.
That morning we searched more than usual as we followed the bells farther and farther into the Wyoming backcountry. It was slow going. We blazed our own trails as we picked our way through forests, creeks, and clearings. Wooded ravines were the toughest to navigate. I leaned back in the saddle to make the downslope easier on Glendora. Then she quickly scooted up the other side. On hard ground, I stopped every few minutes so that the clip-clop of horseshoes didn’t drown out the distant sound of bells.
We were an hour or so into our journey. The sun had climbed higher in the sky and I welcomed the growing warmth. I pushed aside a low-hanging branch as we stepped out of the forest into a large clearing. Suddenly we stopped in our tracks.
Beyond the clearing, groves of dark green lodgepole pines gave way to a steep grassy slope strewn with boulders from the rock formation that towered high above: Brooks Mountain. Its majestic cliffs rise 1,300 feet (396 m) straight up. This mass of rock stretches for more than a mile and is part of the Continental Divide—the long line of high elevations that zigzags its way north and south across the continent and separates river systems that flow to the Pacific from those that flow to the Atlantic.
I had seen Brooks Mountain many times, and it always struck me as magnificent, but at that moment, something else caught my attention.
Across the clearing stood a coyote.
It’s not that the sight of a coyote was a heart-stopping shock. It wasn’t. All sorts of animals big and small roamed the countryside. I had seen eagles soaring above the cliffs, black bears nibbling berries, herds of elk grazing in open meadows, and more.
Coyotes were common, too, but they were skittish. Ranchers hunted them, afraid that the carnivores would harm their livestock. Consequently, coyotes had learned to quickly run away when they saw or smelled a human approaching.
Not this coyote. He and I were having a staring contest.
He didn’t seem the least bit afraid, just curious about this two-legged creature sitting atop a four-legged creature across the meadow. Something else was different about him. Even from a distance I could tell that he was larger than any coyote I had ever seen. His legs were longer and his face broader.
Then it hit me. This wasn’t a coyote at all. It was a wolf!
Glendora became restless. She snorted and neighed, shook her head several times, and stepped in place nervously. “Easy, girl,” I said as I gently patted her neck. Glendora calmed down, but I wanted a closer look, so I coaxed her to slowly follow the edge of the clearing and head toward the wolf.
I learned two things about wolves that day—they’re smart and they’re curious. While we circled the edge of the clearing, the wolf did, too, in the same direction so as to keep the same