'Til The Cows Come Home

                As we all hustled down the mountainside, Franz leading with seemingly effortless strides, I had to wonder: Why are we going to a bovine homecoming?

         Shawn, at least, would see the irony in this. After all, she’s a former rancher, a cowgirl in her own right.  She knows that cows come down from the mountains every fall.  

         Hell, I know they come down from the mountains in the fall.  Been there.  Those fucking cows were all over the hillside when I camped at Priord Lake in Utah two weeks ago.

         But this was different.  These were Austrian cows. And Austrian cowpokes.  

         “And besides,” Shawn said, “people used to take pictures of us.”  She was referring to her wrangler days.  “It was like we were real cowboys. Y’know?  In the west.  It was exotic for them.”

         Maybe.  I just keep thinking that these cows are no different from the ones that crap all over the Uintas.  

          Still, I had to admit the costumes were memorable.  Some  had the goofy hats festooned with shaving brushes and assorted merit badges. They even wore the over-the-knee britches held firmly in place with suspenders. (These guys are called “Leader-Hosers,” a concatenation of the English “leader” and the Canadian slang “hoser”). Most impressively, the Leader-Hosers have to smoke dope from these gigantic pipes.  Now, that was pretty cool.

        All in all, I had a pretty good time.  I bought a Tirolean hat and a scarf.  Rocco said I looked like a native, but I don’t know.  I just didn’t quite have that local attitude—that “the-world-is our-cow-shed” bravado. And besides, Rocco has a vested interest in encouraging me to look as silly as possible.  The shit.