We saddle up and head into Washington country. The first stop is a barn two miles from the farmhouse to check on the cattle’s salt supply. The land is flanked by tree covered hills, Mt. Adams looms to the North and the horses move noiselessly across the dry ground. Suddenly, the dogs set off, on the trail of a coyote. We soon reach the screeching tumble of fur. There’s a moment of silence – the dogs back off, the coyote seems poised to attack – then, it sprints.
It’s shortly after this that I fall off my horse. Faced with an incoming cow she rears and completely knocks me off balance. Once I’m certain that the horse isn’t going to step on me, I become conscious of the fact that I can’t really move my legs. Thankfully, it’s only temporary. Within five minutes I’m back on the horse. It’s only when we reach the house that I discover that I can’t walk. Now, I would love to say that I was swept off my feet by a cowboy, but that might be misleading. I was however, scooped up and carried to the house by a cowboy. A minor difference.
“Walk it off”, I’m told. So we head into the Glenwood, drink huckleberry shakes and play with a calf. Dinner is wild salmon, biscuits and vegetables from the garden. I honestly don’t think I ever want to leave.
To The Table 