Cliffside Herding

I slowly navigated my pickup across the narrow span of the Salmon River Bridge.  It’s a one-lane bridge, but what was mesmerizing about it was that the boiling river was approaching flood stage. The rapid rush of blue green waters festooned with logs and debris quietly surged underneath. I rolled to a stop in the middle of the crossing.

Caryl and I sat for a moment as we processed the scenery. The river, the snowcapped peaks, and the setting sun over it all gave us a lot to take in. The ochers and umbers of the rimrock and the contrasting paint of the skies halted our conversation. 

We had come here to find our cattle and crew–several of which were our adult daughters. They had trailed (walked) all of our cattle on horseback down the Pahsimeroi Valley and US Highway 93 to this bridge across the river. It’s where our summer grass grazing range begins, and for the first time in our lives, we were not part of the crew. 

It was a sort of milestone.

Caryl and I had a hunch where the riders and herd were; they had to be in the river breaks somewhere. The “breaks” were  those cliffs and headlands where the Salmon River Mountains finally bow down and pay homage to the meandering flow of a snowmelt-laden river.

We knew they crossed the bridge because of the abundant signature splotches of fresh green manure “paint” of the herd speckled the road surface of the bridge.

I rolled down the window. “What are we doing here?” Caryl asked.

“I want you to hear this. Let’s just listen for a second.” We sat in silence for about a minute, and then we both heard it.

Barely discernable over the roiling murmur of the river under us was a plaintive and mornful call that seemed to carry from the other side of the riverbank cottonwoods. At first it sounded like the call of a wolf, but the last note held pitch for an unexpected length of time.

We listened to a few of the ethereal vocalizations as the sun reached its horizon destination. The shadows deepened across the canyon, and the rosy light glimmered off the river.

“What was that?” Caryl inquired. She was used to the sounds of the range, but this one was a new one. 

I started the pickup, placing it in gear. “It was your daughter,” I said, smiling. “She’s got good pipes, that one.” It was a joke between us, recalling when a friend heard Annie singing a blues song in one of our band’s concerts this past year. Annie can put it out and sings with a lot of soul.

“That was Annie? She’s calling the cows?”

“Yep. They know her voice. My guess is she’s trying to talk them into skirting those cliffs and going up the steep trail along the river.”

We took a left turn on Highway 93 where we could get a view from a distance on the other side of the river of the trail across the breaks. As we passed the big cottonwoods that shielded most of the view from the highway a half mile distant, we spotted Annie, horseback, with the first cattle of the mob following her.

They were just the first part of the bigger mob. We could barely spot Melanie bringing up the rear of that pioneering bunch, convincing them to move forward. 

Our girls didn’t need us anymore. For this day that was good as some of our little leaguer grandkids had a game in a nearby town (they won).

Perhaps it makes me a little sad, but it really makes me proud. These young women are coming into their own, solving problems on the fly and creating a deep relationship with the land and their animals that only a few in agriculture have in this day and age.

I’m grateful because when I lay my gray head down, I’ll know that there is still a shred of hope for the right raising of food. 

Happy Trails