Sowing on the Mountain

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She camped on the same rock balcony above the river and took a day hike up the East Fork Valley, which was grander than it looked from a distance. Sheer silvery walls on both sides swept down to deep, dark lakes, named only by elevation. There was old sheep sign, beaten paths and bleached dung, but none from this season: a shame to run sheep in a place like this, she thought. She had lunch above Lake 10,566, which had a flotilla of odd-looking ducks, another species she'd never seen. She'd have to get a bird book.

Turning back with regret, she resolved to have a pow-wow with Sooz, whose territory this was, and see if they could swap for a hitch or two. She wanted to camp up here and explore. Maybe Slim would come up. He enjoyed hiking, but he'd only been backpacking a couple times, with the Boy Scouts, and said it wasn't really his idea of fun.

She followed the Lowline trail back this time. The last hitch she'd gotten on a trail that she thought was the Lowline, but was actually between Low and High: call it the Waistline. The real Lowline Trail was poorly marked and obscured in places by braided sheep tracks. She waded through two bands, the first with red splotches of paint on their backs: Echeverry. She put Gris on the leash and kept him close— he was getting used to sheep. One of the herders yelled at her to go around, but she ignored him, since around meant wading a boggy meadow. She went carefully and didn't split the herd or even disturb the sheep very much. He rode up to her and cussed her out in Spanish. He looked a bit like Pablo, the sweet old man, but was a lot younger and a lot redder in the face. He had a .30-.30 in a scabbard on his saddle. God there were a lot of guns up here. She listened 'til he was done, getting maybe every fourth or fifth word, then turned her palms up resignedly and walked off, with an itch between her shoulderblades from his glare. She wondered if he was one of the guys who pushed his herd through Bertolli's band.

The second band of sheep had green paint brands. The herders waved to her and one rode over and asked in English if she wanted to have tea with them. He was nice-looking, probably one of the Basques that Jet had mentioned. Bertolli's guys. She declined as politely as she knew how and he seemed disappointed. He asked if she was from California.

"No, sorry. Rock Springs."

He said that he wished to meet the girls of California and sang a couple lines of the Beach Boys song: "I weesh dey all coo be Cawliforniah gurl."

She said she'd keep an eye out and he laughed: "Sí, sí, claro" he said, with a twinkle. He had a rifle in a scabbard, too, but she was getting used to lonely boys with guns. The other herder, an older guy with a scowl, watched but didn't come over. Instead, he started riding around the herd.

After she crossed Willow Creek, she started contouring the toe of a rocky ridge, heading east and a bit north to miss Johnson Lake, where the Lowline Trail met a two-track road. If she went that way, she'd end up at the tail of the Opening, and have to trudge two miles up to the shack. Plus, that's where she'd seen Trapper in his Suburban. From the woods she saw a horse picking its way around the bouldery fringe of the lake– the rider looked familiar.

"Ray. Hey!" She waved. He kept on around the lake so she walked out of the pines to intercept him. "Echeverry!"

"What are you doing down here?" He kept glancing at the white sacks tied behind the cantle of his saddle.

"Followed the Lowline Trail from the East Fork— just getting to know the area."

"Did you see our Boundary Creek herd? Red brand?"

"They were south of Beaver Lake. You should tell the herder to mellow out."

"Yeah. I'll do that. Gotta go." He spurred the horse to a trot and it stumbled in the slick rocks. "Shit! Goddammit!"

The white sacks bounced and he reached back to make sure they were still in place, then continued at a walk, not looking back.

That was pretty rude, she thought. We were buds at Rocket City Junior and I don't recall doing anything, ever, to piss him off. Maybe it's the uniform. Jet says his dad hates the Forest Service worse than the devil.

She popped in at the Lodge, briefly, and told Arlene what she'd heard from Harv. "He came by," she said. "He's a bit strange, isn't he?"