| Sunny Side Up Oct 15, 2003 �2003, Kathleen Gibson Limpin' along on the range I never owned a horse as a kid, but chose friends who did. And I haunted my country cousins, who had two of them. I rode poorly, but as often as I could. Until a few weeks ago I hadn't ridden-really ridden-for over thirty years. Our friends Merv and Judy manage the local community pasture. I spent the day with them during fall roundup. They put me on a horse named Brownie, trained to wheel and spin and rope and round up cattle. Black, gentle, and very tall. I bumped along beside Judy, observing mostly, though I did head off one non-conformist cow-calf pair. They came toward me. Brownie and I went toward them. We faced off, neither pair sure what to do. Then I whooped, just like Judy does. And whooped again when the pair turned and skittered to catch up with the rest of the herd. There's a rhythm to riding a trotting horse, and it took me a while to remember. I bounced around on the saddle like a popcorn kernel at first, my vertebrae clattering, the saddle spanking me repeatedly. "Wear two pairs of underwear," Judy had instructed. I wished for five. I don't know what changed, but it happened in an instant, like shifting gears. Suddenly I rode as smoothly as though I'd never been out of the saddle-or at least no more poorly than I had as a teen. I nearly flung my hat and yelled "Yee, haw!" But I was wearing a toque, so I just laughed. Long and loud. Poplars, yellow as sunflowers, stood like pillars of flame against the bluest sky. Cattle seeped across the prairie, a tide of bawling flesh. Riders zipped too and fro, tidying up the fraying edges of the herd. There were six riders, including me. I don't know how many cattle we brought in that day. Many hundreds. We drove them five miles to the corral where their owners would later pick them up. When they shut the gate behind the last cow, I wanted to bawl too. "We rode ten miles altogether. You'll be sore tomorrow," Merv said. It wasn't bad. My rear took a while to forgive me for not wearing more padding, but I'd do it again. One image will stick with me forever. One of the cows-black, smallish-kept falling behind, limping badly, bellowing for her calf to wait up. "We may just have to leave her behind, and come back for her later," someone said. But she kept three legs moving. Stoic. I ached for her. During the last mile a rider with a leathery face came to her and rode just behind. Bringing up the rear of that section of the herd, I was just ahead. Till they fell too far behind me, I could hear him. Coaxing, encouraging. "Come on, honey; come on honey�not too far now. Almost home." If the road of life ever finds me limping, I pray for a caregiver like him. You may respond to this column at [email protected] |
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