Years of cattle encounters serve as a reminder to find joy in the ordinary - Anchorage Daily News

Hugo, An English setter, looks on while we wait for free range cows to clear the road. Taken in Idaho in October of 2016. (Photo by Steve Meyer)

Great, I thought, as I recovered from tripping in a hole that some well-meaning and industrious badger had dug since last I crossed the pasture. So much for my "good" pants that were torn and grass-stained from the fall. Knowing my mother would have a fit didn't have the meaning it might have if the Hereford bull across the pasture wasn't hell-bent on stomping me into the equivalent of a raspberry sundae.

The day had dragged on, it seemed forever, from my desk inside the fifth grade classroom. Indian summer we called those beautiful September days when the sun seemed warmer than it should have been on the North Dakota prairie. Cooped up in a stuffy room after a vacation of running the countryside left me wanting.

Over the weekend my dad had driven over by the pasture in question, and pointed out another adjacent field overrun with gophers. There were no cattle, and the landowner would be grateful if someone would shoot the pests.

The local farmer's co-op had been paying a nickel apiece for gopher tails that summer, and the program was about to end. I figured on getting as many tails as possible to finance a few more shotgun shells for the coming pheasant and duck seasons.

Dad had pointed out the bull in the other pasture and knew that coming from our farm to shoot the gophers, I would cut across to save time. He advised against it, saying he knew the bull to be ornery and given to chase anyone that dared come in "his" pasture.

He grinned when he told me, and I grinned back when I nodded my head, both of us knowing I would test those waters soon enough.

By that time in my young life, I had plenty of experience with recalcitrant bovines. Practically everywhere I went on foot involved some negotiation with the local cattle. It's where one learns the real meaning of being "cow licked."

Early in my youthful wandering, I had Sandy, the family golden retriever, a smart hunting dog quick to spot trouble from a cow that woke up in a bad mood. She would distract the offensive critter while I ran across the property.

Sandy passed, like they all do, too soon, and Duke, our next hunting dog, was a black Lab that lacked Sandy's protective instincts. Duke thought everything was a game and would lead an angry, slobbering bull right to me. Like some dogs will do with a bear.

Free-range cows giving hunters the eye. Taken in Idaho October 2016. (Photo by Steve Meyer)

Some things of value don't reveal their value until absent, like cows. Upon moving to Alaska, it became evident rather quickly that cows weren't going to play much of a role in my adventures. I missed the spice they added to simply going for a walk. Bears, which I had envisioned to be lurking behind every tree, ready to pounce, must not have gotten the word as they seemed unwilling to provide much excitement.

Then in the late 1970s, or early 1980s, if memory serves correct, cattle on a couple of the islands on the Aleutian chain had gone feral. They were destroying the habitat, and the Alaska Department of Fish and Game or the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service — I can't remember for sure — called for hunters to go thin them out. Initial thoughts were that it would be a snap. Get on the island, kill a bunch of cows, load them up, and have first-rate eating for a couple of years.

[Curious Alaska: What's up with Alaska's remote island cattle herds?]

Having had some experience with feral cattle, I knew it wouldn't be that easy. A feral cow is a formidable game animal. This sounds ridiculous if your experience is limited to pastured animals with constant human contact. Unfettered by human influence, the typical bovine will learn to survive in the wild rather quickly, and they are anything but easy to hunt.

Early reports from those first hunts told the story. Folks weren't having much luck. Never mind that the logistics of getting there and bringing back a load of meat without spoilage, was a challenge and an expensive one.

Neither I nor any of my hunting buddies could afford to make the attempt at the time.

When Christine and I started hunting together, she may have thought I was kidding when I talked of cattle being part of the hunting landscape while I was growing up.

It wouldn't be until Christine booked a hunt for a wild pig on the Parker Ranch in Hawaii that she would experience the sort of thing that had endeared me to cattle in my youth.

Christine Cunningham hangs out with some bulls, just because they are fun. Taken in Hawaii, January 2019. (Photo by Steve Meyer)

Christine took a pig early the first morning, and Leon, the ranch cowboy who served as a guide, offered to show us around the ranch. At the time part of the ranch had been sold off, but at some 175,000 acres, it remained an enormous chunk of real estate and we were eager to see some of it.

Leon pointed the utility side-by-side vehicle, which had neither doors nor windows toward a ridgeline that promised a magnificent view. At the crest, some 6,000 feet high, we parked and stood outside the vehicle, not quite able to grasp the stunning view rolling out in front of us.

From the vantage turkeys, francolin fowl, chukar partridge, mouflon sheep, Spanish goats and wild boars could be seen. Every direction one looked. there was wildlife, and, with one noteworthy exception, it could have been a western version of the Serengeti.

Among the wildlife were many, and mostly black, cows. A splendid variety of shapes and sizes of cow dotted the landscape.

"See that young steer alongside the trail?" Leon said, as he pointed down the valley.

"Yep," we see him.

"He thinks he owns the place," Leon said. "Load up and I'll show you."

When the big side-by-side got within a hundred yards, the recalcitrant beast bucked a couple of times and charged. Almost slamming into the front of the vehicle, the little angry cow slammed to a stop, snorting and wild-eyed.

"Oh my gosh," Christine exclaimed, "he is adorable."

Ever since, when we leave Alaska to hunt other places we've run into cows, in various degrees of humorous misbehavior. Every time we find them, they brighten our day. Sometimes you have to know where to look to find a bit of joy in the ordinary, I hope you will.

Steve Meyer of Kenai is longtime Alaskan and an avid shooter. He writes every other week about guns and Alaska hunting.