Cresting the hill on a typically winding Hudson Valley road, the brakes of my car were tested when I was suddenly faced with a cow and her calf in the middle of the road. I slowed to let them pass and noticed the rest of the herd waiting to cross as well. I flashed my lights to oncoming cars and called 911 since I had no idea whose cattle they were and I was already late for a piano lesson. But after I hung up, knowing I couldn’t just leave them there, pulled into a driveway and invited the cows to enter an adjacent pasture with plenty of grass where I thought they might be happy until the sheriff arrived. When nobody came after ten minutes, I drove down the dirt lane where I was met by a panicked driver who had just realized the cows were out. The cows belonged to a friend and the woman I met had no idea how to get the herd back where they belonged. I told her I had some experience and would help. When we arrived back on the county road, the cows had released themselves from their temporary pasture and were headed across the road and up a neighbor’s field.
Going through my mind was both the start of a plan and a short prayer. My herding record was filled with enough mishaps, I knew there was a good chance these cows might be in Albany, 30 miles away, by dinner time. In my brief Idaho “training” plenty of calves broke from the herd, fences were torn to shreds and herds were cleanly cut in two, sending the professional cowpokes racing across the valley to gather them. After many apologies, I learned to stay far behind and out of the way, enjoying the ride and the view. But today, I was it, the whole posse, with not even my innately talented cow pony asking me to try to stay in the saddle while she went to work. I tried to channel her any way.
Driving up the neighbor’s lane, I got ahead of the herd, ran across the field and stopped the lead cow, the instigator, and to my surprise, she turned back. Using a hedge row to ride herd, I slowly walked the cattle toward the road, waving back a policeman because his lights were frightening them, and instructing another driver to block the road in the other direction so the cows didn’t go to town, assuring her she wouldn’t be trampled (hopefully). With the cows headed home, the landowner thanked me and asked if I were “like a cowgirl.” “Yes Ma’am,” I offered, and headed back to my car.
Being a cowgirl was a childhood fantasy. How lucky are we who get to grow up and actually live those dreams? My time in Idaho, spent on the back of my horse was just that and I don’t take a second of that for granted. I don’t get to herd much in the Hudson Valley, but this was a beautiful reminder where a big part of my heart lives. The only thing missing was my mare who makes it look so easy.