A Gentle Gag

     The green field reaches for the horizon stretching tautly across gently undulating hills. Golden bales of hay glow in the late afternoon sun as they cure in near patterns that hint of a larger order to the world. Off to the west the newly painted roof of my barn gleams as it glances over the hill. Cattle

gaze contentedly as they ruminate bovine thoughts unseen behind large, liquid blinking eyes. Some cluster under a copse of Live-Oak trees while others dip into the tank raising dripping wet noses when slaked. Two white caliche ruts follow the neat ordered fence as it marches between field and pasture to the field-stone farmhouse. Pale and tender prim-roses cluster pastel pinks and yellows, nodding in the gentle afternoon breeze. Resting on a small hill its broad porches reach out in welcome, embracing the coming eve. A larger knoll lifts its bulk showing off rippling rolls of tawny wheat waving in the breeze sweeping up its flanks. A clear rill meanders down the shallow valley between hills over and between ancient rocks discarded by a slowly retreating glacier. In shallow pools languid fish troll for nymphs hoping to reach the ecstasy of a twenty-four hour maturity.

     All is well ordered in my spread. Visiting neighbors nod their approval when strolling my fields on occasional business. They appreciate the disciplined effort to bring order from disorder. Ours is a community which values restrained order. Building success season by season we carefully develop and execute a plan based on long-term experience. Departure from established norms raises eyebrows and concerns in an interlinked community such as ours. What happens on one place often oozes under fences and down streams so we keep a watchful on each other. I bask in the glow of quiet approval as we lean on a fence gazing out over relaxed cattle. Community binds us together. But I never share the real beauty of my land.

     Follow the track past the barn and around this knoll behind the house and you find another fence bordering the edge of the field with its full heads of grain. Just past the fence a dark forest stands, silent sentinels guarding the wild country. Wear sturdy clothes and tough boots. Tough clothes fit for pushing past and through tangled woods and clambering over fallen timber.

Once through the dark woods you enter a rugged domain. Here among steep defiles and churning streams real beauty flourishes. Here true wild-flowers grapple for preeminence. Strew about in reckless profusion they flourish amid the mossy boulders. This land, raw and rugged climbs up toward distant mountains. Streams plunge down steep defiles pounding themselves into mist amid jumbled dark wet basalt slabs. In this country, dangerous and primitive, I find vistas that satisfy a deep primal urge to explore and see. Standing on the edge of precipice looking into the roiling vapors I loose myself fighting an urge to lean over and descend, pin wheeling into the deep unknown. Despite the dangers I find my boots, muddy and scarred perched on the edge while I look deep into the mists hopeful of what I might find.

     It is here that I occasionally meet the old shepherd. He shows up unexpectedly, staff in hand wrapped in a worn red blanket with his sheep scattered behind him. Ancient and ageless, he wanders among the familiar hills as if they were one. I don’t fully understand him. He never says much; often staring deep into the mists in long silence. When he does speak it is frequently in short, cryptic messages that often do not make sense until much later. Of all the wild things, he’s the most wild of all, yet in many ways the most gentle. At once familiar with and at home in these rugged wild reaches

he clambers easily from rocky prominence to steep trail. Despite his craggy appearance and demeanor his hands deliver tender ministrations to his often confused and hurting charges. Somehow he and these most weak animals survive and thrive in this desolate, unhospitable, place. I’ve grown to cherish our time together, wandering the bleak regions to which I’m drawn.

     My neighbors would not approve of wandering in such dangerous places. Yet, despite the peril, I’m drawn to the vistas and the company. Here amid the deserted, untamed hills I find great beauty and in the company of the old shepherd safety, as he knows the dreadful dangers. I know my community eschews such explorations. They view such forays into the uncharted expanses unproductive at best and perilous in general. And while there is peril, with a steady guide such explorations open breathtaking outlooks which astonish and reward.