What makes a cowgirl? The hat? The boots? The horse pushing and spinning until the herd has settled and all are found?
No.
Cowgirl is a spirit. A spirit of adventure. Of resourcefulness. Of grit. Cowgirl is a twisted vein connecting the dense forests, the desert peaks, the grassy plains within us. An essence crafted through time and hardship, whispering - until it cannot whisper any more.
These things make a cowgirl.
Along the eastern edge of the Colorado Plateau the earth transforms from chalk to rust and I bask in the rich, iron fed ground as if turning to face the sun on the first day of spring. The Rio Chama flows to my left, moving through this land, owning it, crafting canyons as she goes, lifting the adjacent lands skyward – and the world is better because of it.
At Ed-Sargent WMA north of Chama, New Mexico, you can take the back road to Colorado (6 miles or so I’d guess) and we do. Thousands of elk can’t be wrong, migrating from their summer range in the north to a winter wonderland near the river.
Two young bucks stand watching as I ride from camp, a magpie takes flight and I can just make out a helicopter to the west, swooping and counting elk. The rolling foothills of the mountains to the north are covered in aspen and low-growing pine. Autumn colors twist and float on the air like the savory smell of a tempting meal. It’s a landscape that makes one want to paint.
Further along the trail I stop to let the horse graze for a moment and sit watching a kaleidoscope of small Sulphur butterflies flitter around like drops of sunshine, bouncing from purple to white then purple flowers again. Behind me, the breeze rises. I hear it before I see it moving through the meadow, and like magic, seeds of thistle and dandelion fill the air. We are riding through the Sound of Music it seems.
There are places in this world impossible to photograph. Places impossible to represent - they are simply too vast. Mountains become hills, foothills roll from one into another, perspective wanes. This is one of those places.
So I stare hard, trying to imprint the landscape on my mind. To remember its swales and ridges, the wafting of green, the fluttering light - a mastery on canvas I can only hope to recreate later.
I hope we never lose this.
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