Cows and their consistently predictable erratic behavior pretty much rule my life and determine my moods full time. There are, however, certain periods when the intensity lessens just a bit and my angst levels simmer below the boiling point. The three-and-a-half-month period when the cows are on the mountain generally offers me a slight quasi-respite from my otherwise anxiety-filled existence. To be sure, I still expend plenty of time and effort on the bovines during the summer months, but I suppose the sun-induced endorphins, a byproduct of the long and beautiful summer days, help me to chill just a bit when the cows are not constantly within sight or earshot.
But alas, it was that time of the year again. There was a slight nip in the morning air. The leaves in the aspen groves of the high country let go of their summer hues and transformed into gorgeous sprays of bright yellow, enhancing the dull browns and dark greens of the otherwise dull fall mosaic of my south-central Idaho home. This year was kind of an anomaly. The fall colors graced us with their glory for more than just a few days, as the usual ever-present southern Idaho wind seemed to be preoccupied with business elsewhere, allowing the leaves to hang on to their treetop residence for quite a bit longer than normal. Despite the absence of the familiar howling winds, the cows were not fooled. They knew it was time to head off the mountain. And although a fair amount of riding would be required to get them all gathered and sorted, downhill is where their noses pointed.
Inevitably, a few of the beasts will wander off the east side of the mountain, down into the Elba and Almo country. And even though it’s sometimes a risky endeavor to venture into the enemy territory occupied by the Raft River Trojan faithful, longtime rivals of my hometown Oakley Hornets, I find it necessary to drag a trailer over Elba Pass or around through the Silent City of Rocks to retrieve a wayward cow or two. If the weather has messed with the, at best, rough dirt roads, I may be inclined to stay on the paved roads and drive around through Albion on paved roads, a longer, albeit safer route. During basketball season I may pretend otherwise, but in truth, some of my dearest friends reside on the wrong side of the mountain, and I can always be sure that they’ll round up any of my strays and inform me of their whereabouts.
Such was the case as I headed over the mountain one pleasant Saturday afternoon. Tom had called me to let me know I had a couple of pairs in Doug Ward’s corral, tucked in the juniper and pinion-covered hillside above Elba. It was a familiar run, so I wasn’t too concerned about the task as I made my way up over the hill. I arrived at the tidy pole corrals and, as expected, found the big green gate to be locked. I climbed over the fence and made my way to the big juniper tree standing next to the corral. I knew exactly where the key was hidden in the tree’s branches. Well, at least I thought I knew. I searched for 10 minutes, even climbing up into the tree to search the higher branches, thinking that since it’d been a couple of years since I’d retrieved cattle from this spot, maybe the hiding place had changed.
Before I allowed myself to become frantic, I climbed down from the tree and sorted my pairs from the other assorted strays and locked them in the alley, thinking that a few minutes away from the search would somehow enlighten me and help me find the key. But I was wrong. Another 10-minute search for the elusive key yielded only more frustration. I was in kind of a bind because I had little-to-no cellphone signal, so I couldn’t even call anyone who could unlock the secret of the key, so to speak. I climbed back over the fence and trudged a stretch up the hill to where I thought I might have a signal. I made several attempts to call Becky. No luck. I walked back down to the trailer and made one last try. The call went through, but nobody answered. Just as I was about to give into despair, my phone buzzed with a message from Becky. I dared not move from my spot, so I quickly texted back with details of my plight.
Immediately I received a reply: “There is no key. It’s a combination lock.” And, of course, she supplied me with the combination. I stuck my phone back into my pocket, unlocked the gate and in no time had my prey captured in the trailer. Mission accomplished.
Later that evening – and I mean much later, as in 11:30 – as I was plugging my phone into the charger, I noticed that I had an unread message. It was from Becky, and it had been sent only minutes after she had provided me with the combination to the lock. It read, “Did anybody tell you that you have a heifer locked in Richard’s corral?”
Richard’s corral was just the other side of Elba, a mere few miles from where I’d picked up the cows at Doug’s corral. I’d missed a golden opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. Another trip to the other side of the mountain was necessary.
The next day, I called Tom to see if he could slip up the road to Richard’s corral to verify the information, which he did with a picture of a black heifer, tag number 435, and a warning that I should probably bring some help to load her, as she appeared to be a bit on the waspy side. So I loaded up my 88-year-old dad to run the gates and, since it had rained all night and even laid down some snow on top, headed around the mountain through Albion – a 115-mile round trip – to retrieve the beast.
There’s a whole other story as to how I finally managed to get the devil’s-spawn-of-a-heifer loaded, but the first lesson here is something else. The lesson is this: Hey idiot, pay the “heck” attention to the details.
For me, in this case, it was just a different lock and an extra trip to Elba. But on life’s grander stage, it could be missing a daughter’s silent plea for help or missing a chance to tell your wife that she is loved and appreciated. So take it from someone who is serially unobservant. Pay attention to the details.
