Honorary Cowgirl

What I remember most about Montana are the cliffs. I haven’t been back in almost twelve years, but there’s still a particular photograph I look at every now and then, when I long for that big, blue sky country. In this picture I stand in front of my mother and sister, who each have a hand placed on one of my shoulders. My head is tilted forward, my dark fringe almost hiding my eyes, while my mother and sister smile softly in the direction of the photographer: my father. In the distance, amongst the crisp, yellow grass, lies a small, blue body of water. But the thing that strikes me most about the photograph is the cliffside we stand on. Steep and rocky--a natural border to our home-away-from-home where I spent so many of my childhood summers.

To my small, nine year-old self, the Montanan cliffs were tall, monstrous giants with gnashing teeth, as well as an opportunity to prove to myself that I was--and always had been--brave and adventurous. I took timid steps to the ledge, peaking at the sharp rocks below. I never got far without hearing stern warnings from my parents and--if I didn’t move away soon enough--feeling a hearty tug from my older sister.

My father told me once about the local Native American tribes and how they used the height of the cliffs as a weapon to kill buffalo, as opposed to hide-piercing arrows. The arrows, he said, caused damage to the buffalo’s pelts, which in turn made them untradeable and therefore useless to the Sioux tribes living in the area. Instead, the Native Americans chased the buffalo, shouting and waving spears so as to move them in the direction of the cliffsides, and drove them off the ledge. The buffalo’s necks would snap on impact, and the hunters were rewarded with unpierced meat and hides.

I remember him telling me this piece of history when we were fishing at a local lake called Dead Man’s Basin. Dead Man’s Basin resided right underneath these buffalo jumps, so my father used the scenery as a way to give me a history lesson. I was pre-occupied with trying to catch a catfish, but I still listened attentively to his words. When he finished, I asked, “Do they feel it?”

My father looked away from the setting sun. “Which ones? The buffalo or the catfish?”

“Both.”

“No, honey. They don’t.”

The answer satisfied me, so I nodded and turned my attention back to my fishing rod.

---

I spent almost all of my time in Montana following my father around like a lamb. Everywhere he went, I went, too. We were inseparable. A weathered cowboy and his honorary cowgirl. I traipsed through the woods around our cabin with him, tugging on his flannel when we passed a porcupine hiding inside the hollow of a rotting tree, its beady eyes shining in the darkness. I remember running back to our cabin to tell my mother and sister about our discovery,  only to slip and fall on a small cactus. I remember crying, then reaching out for my father.

I also remember eating cold turkey sandwiches with dripping bread and butter pickles as the sun rose over the horizon. I remember sitting in the warm, dry grass, moving my toy horses in such a way that mimicked the movements of the wild horses my mother often called to, sweet apple slices in her open hand. I remember her lifting me up to the level of the horses’ eyes, giving me the opportunity to raise my hand and offer them the same apple slices that had been warmed by her palm.

---

We had a friend named Mike Smith whose ranch was about a fifteen minute drive from our cabin. He had two sons who were closer to my sister’s age than mine, but who still spent time with me and gave me tours around their farm, despite being a few years older. One particular day we bottled-fed their five baby lambs.

“Last night we had six,” Austin told me, warm milk dripping from the bottle onto his hands. The lambs would suck at the bottles, burp, then continue. I liked the feel of their wiry fur between my fingers. It reminded me of the sweaters my mother wore during the winter. Mike’s other son--whose name I’ve since forgotten--flicked a warning glance to his brother. After that, I had to ask.

“What happened?”

Austin kept his gaze focused on the lamb he was feeding. “Coyote,” he said.

Later, when we were walking the length of their dirt road, we found the lamb. It’d been rotting in the afternoon sun, dark and gray and shriveled; I noticed it was missing an eye, and the skin on its ribcage had been torn off.

I cried then, and Austin took my hand in his as we walked past the remains.

“Aren’t you going to bury it?”

Austin’s brother answered me this time. “We don’t have time to bury animals that die. It’d take too long, and they’re just animals, at the end of the day.”

We were silent for a while, continuing down the long, winding path, when Austin stopped and said to his brother, “We probably shouldn’t take her down this way.”

---

That evening after dinner, when we were sitting around the table and the adults were sipping coffee, my father asked Mike where his dog Baxter was.

Mike put his mug down and rubbed a liver-spotted hand over his eyes. “He fell off our pick-up about a week ago when we were leaving here to go to town. Snapped his neck.”

My father, always knowing what to say, said: “I’m sorry to hear that. He was a good dog.”

I noticed Austin and his brother tense at their places beside me. My sister and I shared a glance.

Mike’s wife, Colleen, addressed her sons: “Clean up these dishes, you two. There’s work to be done.”

After they got up and left, Colleen said to my father, “We never got around to burying him. There’s just too much work to be done here. We’d be overwhelmed if we had to bury every animal we’ve lost.”

I looked across the two empty seats at my father, who seemed to know what I was about to say before I even said it.

“It was instant, Hallye. He didn’t feel a thing.”

“Like the buffalo?”

“Like the buffalo.”

---

That was the last summer I spent in Montana. My parents still visit once or twice a year, but I’ve yet to return. Though I spent many of my childhood summers there, I have never considered the Montana cabin to be anything more than a vacation home of my parents’. A distant memory on the shores of a childhood I’ve sailed far away from. When people ask, I tell them I’ve lived in the same house my entire life: sitting at the foot of a North Georgian mountain, a few miles away from the Native American burial ground where the remains of two lovers lay, my home remains more or less unchanged from how I remember it when I was younger. There’s a fresh coat of stain on the wood, and some lattice work has been done on the porch. My old swing-set was hauled off, though I can’t remember when. The ground holds more dog bones than it did before, but clusters of flowers that my mother planted grow from their graves.

Reviews

[Kerra]

Oh My Goodness, this is amazing, I don't read too many stories cause' they don't hold my attention span too long, but this was good, really good. I love the detail and imagery you wrote with. Awesome write.