3 Oct (Tue) Wind blew hard, the whole night through. Finally calmed down around first light. Woke up stiff and feeling pretty beat from yesterday’s effort, as expected. Got a fire going then sat by the stove to read my book about planets, sip Postem, and pet Lucy. All at the same time. Took most of the day off—not only because I needed-slash-deserved one (just counted: only two real days-off in the last seventeen) but so’s to be rested and whole for packing out trailcrew tomorrow. ◦◦◦◦◦ Went out to check on the stock as soon as I got up. Not a one to be seen. After breakfast, took a little recon-walk with Shitbird to the top of the quarry [my name for a nearby vantage point—a rocky bluff—at the edge of the meadow] and spotted the whole crew way, way out back, on the farthest hillside meadow—a mile away southeast of here as the eagle flies. The place where last-best green grass grows. ◦◦◦◦◦ Later, took another stroll (this time with Lucy) down to the mouth of the gorge to admire those lovely polished rocks, newly exposed in gravel bars left high and dry by the river’s scouring out a new, deeper path through there in last spring’s big runoff—elegant water-worn hunks of stripy metamorphic rock. This brief excursion followed by reading, writing (no arithmetic) and a long mid-day snooze up in the loft flanked by two soft, furry critters…comfiness personified. ◦◦◦◦◦ Day’s last task: lure equines into the pasture to hasten tomorrow’s departure. They were still al-l-l-l the way back on that far hillside. No surprise…that’s where I’d be grazing if I ate grass. Kept a lookout for them off and on as the day wore down and waited ‘til the sun was low, then headed off with one halter and a nosebag with half a scoop of grain slung over my shoulder. Crossed on the fallen log at Vidal’s camp. Half a mile later, at the foot of the slope they were on, I did my here’s-the-grain-come-and-get-it whistle. Hidden behind willow thickets, they were still out of sight when I whistled. Almost immediately I heard a flurry of hooves slicing through grass—for some reason, a very pleasant sound—and felt a big smile spread across my face. Ha! Gotcha! Too easy! ◦◦◦◦◦ Timing is everything: they were all well-fed, satiated and satisfied…maybe even a little bored, and about to lose their sun. So I just turned around and walked home. The whole bunch fell in and followed me, in a single-file line, all the way back to the cabin. And the four most recalcitrant, knavish, hardest-to-catch, most-addicted-to-grain of the lot all walked straight into the corral. Locked ‘em up without ever having looked at or spoken to or touched any of them. It was a textbook catch, (partially) making up for some of my worst-ever catch-debacles earlier this season. Yes, timing is critical but there are also some fairly subtle psychological elements involved, all learned through experience. Horses and mules—especially mules—teach valuable life-lessons if you pay close attention to patterns and past experience and learn from your fiascos. Regardless, the penalty for doing things the wrong way is swift and sure. Boy oh boy, can I attest to that! Working with the equine-kind is definitely a Zen kinda thing. Which, I suppose, is partly why I both love and (sometimes) loathe the four-leggers. Because they make you look in the mirror, where you see some idiot staring back.
Copied on the first page of this volume of the Piute Log:
I find you, Lord, in all things and in all
my fellow creatures, pulsing with your life;
as a tiny seed you sleep in what is small
and in the vast you vastly yield yourself.
The wondrous game that power plays with things
is to move in such submission through the world:
groping in roots and growing thick in trunks
and in treetops like a rising from the dead.
—Rilke
And horseback, unlike any other area of his life, he never lost his temper, which, in horsemen, is the final mark of the amateur.
—Tom McGuane, Nobody’s Angel
©2020 Tim Forsell 6 Dec 2020
Glad to see your latest posts, been checking for awhlle and missing your writing.
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