The Bull Chase

Back in the 1960’s my dad, two of my uncles, a couple of my siblings and myself rounded up our cattle out of the bush in the Battle River hills in the fall to trail home for winter feeding. Those were the days my friends. The smell of fall rode in the air with us; dust rising in soft clouds, horse sweat sharp and salty, leather warming under the sun. Saddles creaked with every shift and step, and cattle bawled for their calves. It was like heaven on earth. In those years, Dad and I got called several times to saddle up and help a neighbor bring in a critter.

Fast forward to the 1980’s. Our neighbor’s red bull had crossed the river. He would not be chased or lured home; the rattle of a chop pail would not bribe him. This contrary bull just lifted his head, snorted, and melted back into the thick willows and brush like a ghost. Day after day, he won. Our neighbor called me after these attempts and asked if I could bring my horse and maybe together, we could chase him back across the river. So, I saddled up my bay gelding, Prince, and away we went. I crossed the river into the brush which hid the rugged terrain. The landscape on the far side of the river was wild and rough. If this turned into a chase, and I had a feeling it would, my horse and I needed to know what we were getting into. His ears swivelled at every snapping twig. He knew something was out there too.

Then I saw him; a large dark shape standing still in the bushes, trying hard not to be found. He believed that if he didn’t twitch a muscle, a ton of beef would simply blend into the scenery. I circled behind the thicket intending to direct him toward the river. The brush exploded. The bull burst out, head down, tail up crashing through the willows like a runaway freight train! The chase was on.

That year the Poplar deadfall lay everywhere inside the bush. Toppled trees were stacked exactly where they fell criss-crossed, reaching out to trip a bull or horse. Even though his legs were much shorter and thicker than my horse, the bull plowed straight through like a bulldozer! I didn’t take any chances and tried to keep up around the outside reading his moves. I lost him a couple of times but wasn’t giving up. At this point I secretly named him “Houdini”. No fence, gate, or river had held him for long, and he seemed to think he could do disappearing tricks too. A few sharp whistles, slapping my saddle with my reins, and “hey, hey’s” kept him moving. Down the river hill we went. Finally, Houdini was heading right where I wanted him. He barrelled into a stand of young willows. The Battle River winds back and forth, so I figured the water had to be close, but I couldn’t see a blessed thing through all those branches.

Young willows are awesome because they bend easily and you can actually gallop right through them. Unfortunately, so could the bull! Branches slapped at my face and knees, but I was glued to his tail, and I was not losing him this time. Suddenly, the willows parted like stage curtains, and there we were, right on the riverbank. Bull leaped. Horse leaped. It was a shallow bank and a short leap, but it could unseat a rider quite easily. Thank goodness it did not, it would have been a cold ride home.

The river was shallow that time of year too, so onward we plunged in a great spray of water and scrambled out the other side, the red Houdini still in the lead and showing no signs of slowing down.

My neighbor had gone ahead and opened the gate on his side of the river. Finally, Houdini, the great escape artist, caught sight of the opening. Away we went! We pushed him straight through and into the corrals. He turned around and snorted at us; telling us he still won! We chuckled! We all got home safe! It was a great day!