Creek Running North

Plans to climb Mount Diablo evaporated with the early morning, so it was back to Briones with a slightly longer and hillier route. Ten and a half miles, 2341 feet climbed, 84.4 miles and 15,758 feet for the year.

Three miles in and 1100 feet up I sat near Briones Peak. I pulled a crust of bread from my pack, drank some water. Red-tails spiraled overhead. I lay on my back mid-trail for a better view. The clouds were cirrus, long white hair combed eastward, and I closed my eyes for just a moment. Then a sound, a staccato whoosh as if someone had set off a bottle rocket ten feet from my head. Eyes suddenly open, I watched the falcon fly away from me, gaining back altitude. I started laughing. Sweat dripped into my left eye as I lay there, and it would for the rest of my walk, stinging a bit. I spent the hike winking at no one there.

Seven miles in a herd of cows and calves stood astride the trail. There were three dozen of them, and the hill too steep for me or them to go offtrail.

Since I am quoting Ed Abbey this week, let me read to you from his lyrical tribute, his heartfelt paean to this most noble of beasts, the Western range bovid:

Most of the public lands in the West are what you might call ‘cowburnt.’ Almost anywhere and everywhere you go in the American West you find hordes of these ugly, clumsy, stupid, bawling, stinking, fly-covered, shit-smeared, disease-spreading brutes. They are a pest and a plague.

The thing you do not want to do with Briones cattle is startle them when they have nowhere to go. I did this not long ago, and had to duck behind a middle-aged oak as a steer gave itself a sudden migraine on the other side. The trail ducked into a side canyon before it got to the cows: in a few feet, they would not be able to see me until I was on top of them. I decided to let them know I was there, in my usual fashion.

“Carne asada!”

One steer looked up.

“Tri-tip!”

That got a calf’s attention. They stared stupidly at me until I vanished behind the hill.

I decided I’d better keep them from forgetting I was there, so I started singing, as loud as I could, a traditional California cow-startling folk song that I made up on the spot.

“I been hiking in my sleep
cows are trouble, and cows are sheep
where their brains went I can’t say
I just come around and they run away
And I been eating lots of steers
chewing steaks and drinking beers
I hope that they’re still round this curve
cause I’ve got hungry friends to serve”

But no! When I rounded the curve the herd had moved. Twenty feet. Just beyond, the canyon opened up into a plain with delicious tall grass. They started walking again, hesitantly, looking back at me a bit nervously. But instead of moseying off into the salad, they stuck to the damn trail. I summoned up my best peremptory baritone drawl. “Git on! Git! Move it, ya stupid spongiform-brained heart attacks!” and they moved, but they kept to the trail. I kept up the patter. “Gwan! Big Monkey coming through! You know the drill! Grow some brains! Aurochs weeps at what her grandchildren have become! Get on witchyiz! Move it! This is my trail! I pay my taxes! Move it! I give the orders around here! Yes, this does make me feel like a big man!”

Et cetera.

At long last, at the other end of the plain, the cows jumped off the trail. They started trotting off to the west. Grateful, I offered them the traditional cowboy expression of thanks: “YEE-HAW!” and they broke into a joyous gallop. All was right with the world.

Until 200 yards later when I ran into a larger, less cooperative herd. They had plenty of room, level ground and luscious endangered native plants in profusion, but they were staying put. Nothing worked. Hollering, hollering again, scratching my head, then hollering still again had no effect. I moved to the side of the trail, stood on the berm. “See? I’m taller now! Fear me!”

They didn’t.

I ululated. I took off my hat and waved it over my head and yelped.  I winked at them incessantly. I threatened to sing “Abracadabra” by the Steve Miller Band. They stood their ground. Desperate, I opted for my last resort. The spell never fails, but must be used sparingly. I found a stick, picked it up, pointed it at the nearest steer, and yelled, with every bit of strength I could muster:

“Vaca… vaporiza!”

Stupid stick.

I went around.