The

Long

Trail

For Pop.

By Christopher Bowman

Growing up I lived in the Judith Basin of Montana.  I lived and worked on my grandfathers small ranch, the “B bar R”.  My grandfather, Lester, was 62 when I was born, so I never knew him as a young man.  But, then again he never seemed to age, and never seemed old either.  He still sat tall in the saddle and never seemed any older to me, than everyone else’s dad. 

We worked hard, pushed around a few cows, raised horses, along with a menagerie of pigs, chickens, a rooster named Ol’Red, a few sheep and all together, to me at least they all amounted to a lot of stalls to muck.

It was not like Roy Rogers on the TV, but it was pretty special and I knew it even then.

One day in early winter, the operator rang through on our party line, and it turned out to be from a local ranger to let us know he had spotted our brand on a few stray cattle that had wandered out onto the BLM (Bureau of Land Management) property that bordered ours.  We knew that this meant we had a break in the fence line and would need to do something about it before we lost too many more cattle. 

It was not the best time of year to be doing this, but it had to be done.  So we put on as many layers as we could and still stay upright on our horses and set off to see what we could find.  Neither of us looked forward to the task at hand.  The weather was cold and the wind was picking up.  Plus the days had grown increasingly short and shadows took possession of the valley quickly that time of year.

Yet in spite of a late start we saddled up a pair of horses, took what tools we would need for the repair and headed up to where we thought the break might be. 

As we had done many times before we rode out together side by side.

We were quite the pair; he was a big man who towered over most people, but especially his skinny 11-year-old grandson.  He sat a huge black stallion he had caught wild and broken many years before and the big black was as trail smart as any horse I have ever seen.  I rode a small chestnut mare that probably looked more pony than horse in comparison. 

I often felt like I was equal parts trouble and help to him, but always felt welcome and wanted if only as a companion who appreciated the value of silence as much as he did.

As we had many times before we ambled along almost side by side for a long time in silence.  We had a special relationship, he and I, and words were often just that.  Words.  He valued deeds and appreciate effort even when unsuccessful.  He had told me more than once that behind every success were many failures.   This was usually as he was picking me up and dusting me off, bandaging my wounded body or spirit, or fixing what I had made worse trying to fix it to beguine with. But I came to understand what he meant.  Failure only came from the lack of trying, not from the lack of success.

It was probably why I decided that this was a good time to make a stand on my own.  So in my most confident and what I thought was a very manly voice I announced to Pop that we should split up when we hit the fence line and ride opposite sections looking for the break.

You could see right away that he was not keen on the idea.  I can only imagine now how small and silly I must have looked all bundled up and not yet half the size of the man I road with, trying to sit tall and sound confident in my idea.

But I was not going to give up without a fight, so as he sat in stoic silence, I continued my case and after much protesting, assurances on my part, and many miles I finally talked Pop into giving it a try. 

He reluctantly agreed, as I was being insistent that we could cover more ground this way, and after all I was old enough and experienced enough to ride some of the fence line on my own. And after all if I didn’t try how would I ever succeed.

He would ride the fence up the ridgeline West, and I would ride the fence line down taking the easier sections to the East.  We agreed that we would then meet half way back toward the house in four hours at an old pine that had been struck by lightning long before I was born, and now jutted up at a crazy angel from the wash. It was a kind of landmark that we both knew well. 

We made the fence line by early afternoon, and after a few words of caution while we let the mounts rest a bit,  Pop and I set out in opposite directions looking for the break.  I remember turning around only once long enough to see him atop his great black vanish into a stand of trees, head down checking each post. 

Well the time passed quickly for me.  I found no break in the fence, but I did find I grew more and more apprehensive.  The farther I rode the more afraid I became.  The weather was closing faster than I would have thought, and the day was growing long in shadows and short in sunshine.  Soon I turned toward home figuring better safe than sorry.  I knew the four hours was not near up yet, but figured I would just get to the old pine and wait for Pop there.

The problem was it was getting dark to fast with the storm rolling over me, and the rain, which had started as feminine drizzle was now fully male and stung in cold slashes across my face. 

Between the late time of day and the dark clouds I knew I would soon be riding in almost total blackness.  My fear was growing as I rode, now not so sure I knew where the old pine was.

A long time past for me, and my fear and stubbornness grew in equal parts.  I knew something would start to look failure if I just kept heading southwest.  But the fear inside was growing as darkness closed around me. And by the flashes of lightning I could see by my pocket watch that I was now very late to meet Pop.

Suddenly I realized I wasn’t alone.  First by the sound and then by the approaching figure of my grandfather hunched against the rain.  He was just a big silhouette at first but soon over took me and took up the lead. 

What a relief.  I was so glad to see him. Not that I would ever let him know. I figured I must have ridden right past the old pine and he was just catching up.

We rode in silence for a long time, covering many wet miles now in what felt like total darkness. Two riders hunched over our saddles with rain driving at us.  Him slightly in the lead and me and my chestnut mare taking some shelter from the driving rain next to him and his big black. 

As we walked slowly around a bend I saw a familiar site.  The old pine jutting up from a now surging creek feed from the run-off.

Pop never said a word. We just kept going until later we made home.

While we were putting the horses up I thanked him. 

“Why?” He asked

“Well,” I said tentatively, “for coming so far out of your way. We were going to meet half way.”

“We did” he said without cracking a smile, “I just had to go a bit farther to show you the way there.”

I learned that night, halfway is always a measure of the heart.  Sometimes, meeting halfway is only possible if someone is willing to go along way beyond the middle ground and lead the way home.