Oregon150

One fall (it must have been in the early ‘50’s), we were bringing the cows home from summer range: it was unseasonably hot for November. As we neared the eastern outskirts of Madras, my father cautioned us drovers about keeping the herd especially tight, because of the new houses and yards on our route around town. In particular, he said, watch out for open gates and doors. I was riding a rear point when suddenly I saw a heifer break off from the main herd, followed by a couple of steers, heading for the open back door of a new bungalow. I spurred to catch up and yelled—which only served to speed up the action. As if running on rails, the heifer galloped up to the house and right through it, with the steers close behind.

Uncertain what to do now, I went around to the front door and waited discreetly. After what seemed like an eternity, I heard terrible noises from inside, and then the heifer exploded through the screen door, something lacy caught on her horns. She was closely followed, in eerie silence, by the lady of the house, with the steers right at her heels. The critters headed back toward the herd; I thought it impolitic to wait around for further developments, and got the hell out of there myself. I don’t think my father ever knew what happened, but that was the last of our old-style Wild West cattle drives through Madras. I reckon there’s an ordinance against such things now.

–excerpt from New Era: Reflections on the Human and Natural History of Central Oregon (Oregon State University Press, 2003).