I stoop through the opening of the doddering, rustic cabin and pigeons flutter out each of the elevated, small, window-less openings on opposite walls. The windows and front door are long gone and the opening where the front door used to be is nearly wide as it is high.  At 6’3 I’m tall but anyone over 5’8 needs to crouch down upon entering the tiny structure. The early pioneers were hearty, fearless, and strong-willed albeit vertically challenged according their door heights. Or they had very hard heads.

When my sister asked if I could watch her dogs, horses, and chickens on ten acres of open Montana grassland with the majestic Bridger Mountains rising in the distance of course I said “Hell yes.” I knew the opportunity came with certain chores but I had helped with those before without getting to play Land Baron/Ranch Overlord for a weekend. There wasn’t a specific aspect of the opportunity I look forward to more than others; dogsitting would be fun, having a large house with a backyard view of the Bridger Mts would be nice, doing my best John Muir and exploring the property would be an adventure, and so on but the whole experience of having it to myself was the icing on the cake. Did I mention a river runs along the property? My own river!

There’s a laundry list of fun things to do but first is checking out the 100 year old cabin on the property. Hiking a new area brings a sense of exploration or accomplishment but this feels closer to child-like discovery. I step into the cabin and the 40 x 15 room is divided into two small rooms by a wall not originally built with the cabin. Removing the wall with my mind I visualize a family dividing up the small space into the areas we take for granted today. Where was the bed? The cooking area? Did they have a gathering area for storytelling? How frickin cold was that winter 3 a.m. walk to the outhouse?

Immediately inside the door are large, indistinguishable pieces of rusted machinery taking up most of the room to the right. Thick four foot long strands of blue and black hose lie scattered on the floor. A rotted pile of hay disintegrates in the corner. An old, black Montana license plate is nailed to the wall. Two large logs with bark intact cross overhead to provide stability to the cabin. The decision to leave the bark remaining on the log fascinates me and I rub my hand along its natural exterior. It’s akin to sneaking part of the outdoors into the indoors.

The other room is smaller but without the machinery is easier to navigate. Tightly wound barbed wire coils take up one corner. Years of wood chips, hay, grass, and dirt lie on top of the wood floor. My exploration stops when I see multiple pieces of wood with exposed nails on the floor. There’s no treasure chest or “ooooh” moment here but the idea of people living in this space, probably built with their own hands, during a simpler yet more challenging time is treasure enough.

Out of the cabin I head towards the far eastern end of the land where the river first runs onto the property. My sister operates a horse boarding business here and I’m walking through the main pasture. Six to eight horses feed off the grass fifty yards away from me and when I bend down to take pictures, most of them head my way. This is a pivotal moment for me.

I have a tainted past involving horses. More specifically a singular incident with a pony. On family vacations it wasn’t rare for us to stop and ride ponies. It was never my thing but I didn’t dislike it. Growing up my sister loved horses and later my parents bought her a beautiful Tennessee Walker of her own. Horses were a part of our family. On one vacation around age eleven I was to ride an ex-circus pony named Popcorn. Popcorn was golden brown with near white, blonde mane and cute as his name. I saddled up like every time before when the operator told me some advice.

“Don’t pull hard on the reins. Popcorn used to be a circus horse and his specialty was rearing up at the end of the show. Pull them lightly,” she said handing me the reins. I didn’t give it a second thought.

After ten minutes of slowly circling the arena Popcorn snapped (or popped?) and went into full kamikaze mode galloping toward the arena wall. I grabbed the reins and tugged slightly. Nothing happened. I screamed like only a eleven year old can for Popcorn to stop. He didn’t. Impact was seconds away and I liked none of my options: pulling hard on the reins and having him rear up, crashing into the wall with Popcorn hara-kiri style, or getting off this runaway train. I chose the latter, pulled the ejection cord, and bailed off Popcorn. The fall to the ground was quick and the loosened dirt of the arena softened my landing. I stood up, brushed off, walked past the operator who was yelling at me, and back to the car, vowing never to ride a horse or variation thereof again. A promise I have kept, which is strange because I see myself as a “fall off, get right back on” kind of guy. Popcorn stopped before the wall and lived to torture pre-pubescent boys and girls for years to come.

As I make my way towards the small herd I spook a large, orange, white-tailed deer in the thick brush to my right and it bounds deeper into the brush. Later I see two more deer. I’m pretty sure bear have been seen on their land. It’s a different place, this Montana. As I get closer to the herd they begin to walk towards me. All of them.

I bend down for a better photo angle and my focus on the photo keeps my anxiety at bay. I’ve been around horses since but there’s usually a fence or my sister (an expert on horses) is nearby. Today I am alone and it’s not one horse, it’s many. A few of the herd break to my left while three, a white, a brown, and a black one head in my direction. I start to video as the brown one approaches and on the screen see him pass to my left only for him to swing his head towards me and knock me over. My sunglasses fall from my head, never to be seen again. He nudges me with his brown head while the two other horses approach. Sitting on the ground feels vulnerable so I rise slowly trying not to spook them.

The brown horse continues to violate my personal space with his snout while the black horse begins to nibble on my shirt. The white horse tries to get into the fray and sticks her nose wherever space is available. The old Bucklin would have had to change his shorts at this but I’m surprisingly calm given my previous apprehension towards these large but beautiful animals. The brown horse moves on and after moving my hand along the strong back of the tall black horse, I head to the river, enormous smile grazing my face. The thought comes to me that this is why we adore animals. Their affection, playfulness, and ability to bring us joy. Then I think about my quest to see a grizzly and add “eat us” to the list.

My plan is to float the river from where it first enters the property to the bend next to the house. A distance of a half of a mile but the oxbowing nature of the river doubles the distance. I find a place to launch and head back to get the tube and the dogs. Before I grab the tube I conclude it might be a good idea to walk part of the river to get accustomed to the chill of the water. I climb down the rock embankment to the shallow, cool waters of the east fork of the Gallatin River and shout “Let’s go boys, woohoo!” knowing the dogs are hot on my heels. They jump in the water on their own every day. Usually right before you want to bring them into the house. The water is chilly but refreshing and after settling my feet on the uneven bottom I bend down in the river to bring my neck to water’s level. It’s amazing but something is missing…..

The missing piece is the sound of dogs splashing in the river. I turn 180 degrees to face the embankment to see Bohdi and Buster watching from above. Bohdi looks apprehensive while Buster acts disinterested. Shouts of encouragement change neither dog’s disposition and I walk the river alone. Fine. See if I care.

Later as I float the river both dogs tag along. Buster more in the river, Bohdi more on shore. The river fluctuates between chest to ankle high depth and meandering to small rapids. The float takes forty-five minutes and at the end both dogs collapse in the grass. I throw the tube up the embankment and enjoy the river a little longer. I love the feeling of water. The ocean is the best; that feeling of every ounce of stress, worry, and negativity washed away and replenished with the good and positive. I miss the cold, healing waters of the Pacific but for now the flowing water of the Gallatin will suffice.

As the afternoon gives way to early evening it’s time for chores and my mom arrives to help out. First we feed the chickens and check for eggs. Call me weird but there is something unsettling about throwing food on the ground to feed something. Here. Splat. Eat. The chickens don’t mind and peck at the food while we check for eggs. The chickens my sister raise lay either tan, dark brown, or green eggs. There’s one of each in the coop and we collect the bounty.

Next up is feeding the horses. Each horse gets one or two cubes of hay and the process goes smoothly until I give two to a horse that gets one. I reach in to grab the cube and get mean-mugged by the large, chestnut colored creature. My apology goes unaccepted and I move on.

Last is cleaning the horse manure from the pens. Trust me, you don’t need a detailed explanation. It involves a wheelbarrow, rake, and a shitload of horse crap. Pun intended. My mom takes her time and gets chatty like she’s at the senior center playing cards with the ladies while I just want to get it done. The sun creeps down a little further as I empty the wheelbarrow into the manure pile.

The rest of the evening I play with the dogs in the back yard as the sun sets to the west. I throw the tennis ball, Bohdi gets to it first, and Buster steals it from him. Rinse. Repeat. The haze in the air suspends the usual breathtaking view but I’m fine with watching the river and horses in the pasture. I drink my evening coffee on the wood deck of the house and think about my choices of the last few months. I don’t regret turning down a great job to give a writing career everything I’ve got. I don’t regret leaving the city I call home to come here to follow that dream. I know success is in my future. The cool waters of the Gallatin haven’t cleansed all the tough times and hard memories of the past two years but it’s close. So close.

Writer’s note: My sister was quick to inform me the land is 23 acres. There you go sis.