Hereford Bull in Winter Mist

            Amanda and Juniper were seven and nine that winter. They and Laura and I took the big green tractor and the wagon and fed the cattle on the ranch we took care of in the Blue Mountains of northeastern Oregon. We finished before lunch. After lunch, everyone settled around the kitchen table with lessons and projects for the rest of the day, except for me.

            I said, “It wouldn’t hurt to have more wood to sell through the winter, so I’m going to try to get more out before the snow gets too deep to make it over to the timber.” I hooked the wagon to the small, red tractor, crossed the river and the meadow, dropped beetle-killed trees into about a foot of snow, cut the limbs off the fallen trees, piled the limbs and tops, and cut the logs into firewood lengths.

            The sun set behind ridges above the meadow and took what little warmth the day had with it. I set several piles of limbs and tops on fire to leave the forest clear of slash. I loaded wood onto the wagon and fed more limbs to the fires. Elk whistled in the timber on the ridge above me. Crackling sounds of my fires, the elk whistling, coyotes howling up the valley from me, two great horned owls calling back and forth across the meadow were the only sounds.

            Cold mist spread along the edge of the timber and wrapped in close to my fires as the last of the day’s light faded to winter night. Out of the mist, across the biggest fire from me, a hereford bull stepped into firelight. Where nothing had been when I bent down to pick up a branch, when I stood up, I faced a massive bull.

            Without meaning to, I yelled, “Hey” and threw the branch into the air. The bull stood quietly and looked at me. “Make a noise or something when you walk out of the fog. Bout jumped out of my boots. What are you doing way down here when all the other cattle are up by the barn, hanging around the feed ground?”

            I kept a fire between him and me as I loaded wood, and I kept an eye on him. As my boss, John, who’s been working with herefords for more than sixty years said one summer day, “Yes, herefords are usually gentle. All the same, don’t forget, a bull is a bull.” The bull got bored with my company, turned, and disappeared into the fog.

            The moon rose above the mountain, giant, yellow-red, then whiter as it left the horizon haze.

            I threw burned-off branch ends into the fires with a pitchfork, loaded my tools onto the wagon, and drove the tractor up the meadow. I didn’t have lights on the tractor, but I didn’t need them, with moonlight reflecting bright from the snow. Head-high cold mist stayed behind me and conspired coldly with trees at the edge of the meadow.

            About thirty elk trotted from low ground by the river across the meadow, toward the timber. I didn’t see the hereford bull. He might be in dark shadows in the timber, or maybe he decided to join the rest of the cattle up on the feed ground.

            A barred owl stood on the sandbank above the river ford. We’d met several times before. “How’s the hunting, owl?” We looked at each other for a moment. Then the owl flew up the river, out of sight. I crossed the river. Running water between ice reaching out from both banks looked black in the moonlight shadows of willows.

            My hands and feet felt cold despite double mittens, wool socks, and insulated boots. I left the tractor and wagon, still loaded with wood, in the barn. I trotted to the house, shed my boots and insulated coveralls, warmed up by the stove and told Laura, Juniper and Amanda about my adventures in the winter world of the meadow and forest. I acted out my reaction when the bull suddenly appeared out of the cold mist, and we all laughed. Laura and Juniper and Amanda told me about their day of projects and schooling in our warm house.

            We blew the lamps out. Bright moonlight flooded in the south windows and lit up the house. Smoke rose from our chimney and cast a dancing shadow on the snow. All four of us sat together and looked out the big south windows at the white meadow and the snow-covered mountains. We soaked up brilliant moonlight reflecting from snow, and we soaked up the immense quiet of the winter night. We stored memories of these very quiet times for all the seasons ahead of us.

            A great horned owl called from out on the meadow, and another answered from somewhere over by the barn. Coyotes sang from across the meadow. We all climbed into our beds in our small, electricityless house. Elk, owls, and coyotes sang the only sounds on the mountain meadows. Their singing in the cold night became our winter bedtime song as we drifted into sleep, content with our winter day.