Chasing Cows

When you get out of bed in the morning, it is impossible to predict what the most memorable event of the day will be. Take for instance the fifth of September, the day we walked into Oroville, WA. On this drizzly, chilly Saturday we hiked over seventeen miles, dropped a couple thousand feet in elevation, and we went from quasi-wilderness into a developed agricultural valley. We traversed abandoned logging roads and state highways. We spotted big horn sheep for the first time on this trip and watched a black bear on a ridge overlooking town. We ate prime rib for dinner and showered before going to bed. But none of these ranked as the most memorable event of the day.

Okanogan River valley south of Oroville, Washington

Bighorn Sheep above Whistler's Canyon

Black bear overlooking Oroville, Washington

The day's most memorable event centers on a small part of a cow that few of us choose to eat - the brain. Most animals, when surprised in the wild, flee from your presence. This is true not only of wildlife such as deer, elk, bears and even squirrels, but also the feral cow. So when faced with the negligible threat of two ambling hikers so loaded down with packs they are unable to give chase even if desired, cows flee. And using their domesticated brains, they flee in the path of least resistance. Ironically, this is the only path through the forest and therefore the one that we too will take down the hillside.

On this day we saw many cows. Black ones, brown ones, big ones, little ones, young and old. All branded and ear-tagged. Many curious from a distance, but ultimately skittish. We were about halfway down Whistler's Canyon when we came upon a cow and her calf innocently grazing by the side of the trail. As we neared, they fled. We followed their obvious tracks down the rain-dampened path, guessing how long it would be before they veered into the brush. To our amusement we regularly caught up to the wary cud-chewers, stopped in the middle of the trail. Using their highly developed bovine brains they undoubtedly thought they'd given us the slip only to see us walking down the trail behind them. Again, they'd be off. This time with poo plopping audibly behind the young calf. Poo, the color of fresh ground peanut butter, quite unlike the darker weathered patties we'd been stepping around for weeks. Poo, that assured us even a mile later we were still hot on the cows' trail.

Several poo-splatters later, the first two cows picked up reinforcements. Their collective gray matter examined the situation and all concurred; the established trail was their best escape route. By mile three there were too many tracks to determine the exact number of cows we were chasing down the hill at the breathtaking pace of two miles an hour. We followed those cows for over five miles. Neither our tired feet nor the perpetual rain could dampen our spirits given the entertainment provided by a handful of feral cows. Cows too stupid to step off the established trail. Cows that skirted downed trees across their path only to immediately return to ours. Cows who evacuated their bowels again and again and again. Cows that were undoubtedly related to, maybe even knew, our dinner that night. Cows that became the most memorable event of the day.

Wary cud-chewer, preparing to flee.