Between Grass And Sky: Where I Live And Work

The Owl on the Fence

T H E O W L O N T H E F E N C E 4 4 I was probably eleven years old when I first saw a great horned owl. On my mare Rebel, I was learning how my father gathered cattle to move them into another pasture. While I rode around clusters of cows and calves, urging them down off sunny hillsides, my father drove his pickup to their favorite hiding places, parked the pickup, and walked among them waving his whip— but never hitting them—to start them moving toward the others. I’d already learned not to rush while gathering. The cows stood and stretched when they saw me. Then they’d belch, a growl that brought cud up from their stomachs. Chewing slowly, they’d watch my horse walk up the slope until I yelled at them or got too close. Then they’d swallow, bawl to their calves, and begin pacing downhill. I’d ride back and forth above each bunch, whistling and hollering. Every few minutes, two or three pairs would emerge from a hidden glen, or pop out of a pocket in a limestone outcrop, and I might glimpse my father waving his whip behind them. When the cattle were bunched in the bottom of the gully, he’d count to be sure we had them all. Then he’d drive the pickup ahead of them, to keep them pointed the right direction and moving slowly, and I’d follow on my horse. My jobs were to keep the calves close to the cows, so they wouldn’t panic and run back to the last place they’d sucked, and to stop any cow who decided to run another direction. ••• Hasselstrom/25-66 6/13/02 10:47 AM Page 44 That day we were headed for the pasture we leased from “the government ” a mile east of the land we called “the Lester pasture” for its first homesteader . The Bureau of Land Management specified the day in mid-July we could turn cattle into the adjacent grass, as well as the day we had to remove them. Once, when some emergency kept us from getting to the pasture and the cows stayed in an extra day, we got a nasty note from officials. After that, my father always grumbled that “they spend my tax money to fly over and count the cows.” We were always anxious to move the cows into the pasture as soon as possible. When the government repossessed the land from failed homesteaders during the Dirty Thirties, agricultural experts dictated the bare ground be seeded to crested wheat grass, an introduced crop that grows fast and greens up early. The experts didn’t know until much later that the grass forms huge clumps of soil around the roots, allowing all the soil between plants to blow away, resulting in erosion. And the seed heads are bristly and tough; in dry weather cows may not eat the grass at all, or if they do it may lodge in the linings of their throats and form a mass that can choke them. We wanted to make what use we could of the grass, before the seed heads grew so dry they were a danger. I was recalling all my father had told me about crested wheat grass when I rode under a big cottonwood and felt the back of my neck prickle as if someone was watching me from the branches. I stared up into the thick leaves, trying to see through the shimmering patterns. An owl dropped straight out of sunlight and shadow into open air, great wings snapping open a few inches above my face, wingspan greater than my outflung arms could reach. The owl glided down the draw and floated into the next cottonwood. Rebel snorted at the flying shadow in front of her hooves and reared. I grabbed the saddle horn and hung on. When I looked again, the owl was gone. By nearly flying down my throat, the great horned owl became one of the first wild creatures I studied. I reacted like the writer I wanted to be: I described the incident in my journal while we ate lunch. Later I looked in my parents’ books for more information on owls. I felt I had discovered a secret, as if I’d learned the Lone Ranger was my big brother, and I wanted to share my excitement. Shy and nocturnal...