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Show XfiT by Nan Chalat Cowboys and cattle are on the move For the last few weeks, the cattle in our valley have been in bovine heaven. They have spent the lengthening days grazing in green pastures and peacefully switching their tails at the horseflies. They seem content to be contained Ly a barbed wire fence acting as though it is less a barrier than a convenient backscratcher. Their only discernable activities activi-ties have been chewing and watching us work in the yard. But the honeymoon is over. Last week, the yearlings were herded into the corral and branded in preparation for the cattle drive into the mountains. They moaned and complained all day, leaned belligerently against the fenceposts until they almost snapped and eyed us suspiciously. I knew that their days in the valley were numbered. Two days later at dawn I could hear the cattle drive beginning in the north. It sounded like a freeway full of irate motorists leaning on their horns. And it was moving our way. In the corral our landlord's steers pricked up their ears and bellowed in response while a group of cowhands were busy cinching down girth straps and checking their lariats. By the time the first part of the herd passed our house it was raining and most of the cowboys looked grim. They were wearing long yellow raincoats familiar from the Marlboro commercials and well-weathered stetsons as they rode back and forth flanking a column of slow-moving cattle. Up ahead, our neighbors rushed outside to close their garden gates and to stand guard over their lawns with an assortment of weapons including brooms and baseball bats. But the cowboys seemed to have the situation under control as each consecutive rancher integrated his herd into the growing mass of cattle. A calf dove into the irrigation ditch and was immediately rescued by two experienced hands. A small band of rebellious holsteins made a daring break for the road leading back to their warm bam but they were headed off at the pass. Otherwise, the herd moved obediently toward tis summer range in the Uintas. There they will spend the summer in sparser territory while the alfalfa grows in the valley. When the last cutting has been harvested and the first snows fall in the mountains, the cattle will return home. Some will mosey into town on their own, while others will wait for the official roundup in September. Both the drive and the roundup are summer rituals, and while I try to thread my car through the slow-moving herds on the way to work I try to remember that the cattle were here long before I was. I try not to honk or split the herd by rushing forward. (I did once and a wise old bull kicked my front grill and broke it. ) I've watched summer visitors fume in the midst of 2.000 sheep, and have seen an impatient trucker mow down a confused lamb. I've watched Basque herders and Indian cowboys patiently coax their charges down the highway on hot summer afternoons while I sit in my car surrounded, knowing that I'll be late. B ut still, I'll take an occasional sheep jam over five o'clock rush hour any day. |