3 May 1983

A little way up Hunt Mountain, through the trees, and over a rise is a strange little cove.  Here is one of the few spots in the Willow Creek drainage that has a hill with a southern exposure.  The mostly treeless, semicircular hill is not more than an acre in area.  It has a microclimate all its own.  The snow melts sooner.  The flowers bloom earlier.  May 2nd, and the wild strawberries are in full blossom.  An Oregon Grape has sent out two fully-developed spikes just ready to turn yellow.  The short bushes are leafed out.  The grass, though sparse, is tall and green.

Such must have been the scene many years ago as a long-forgotten cow made her way through the woods to this secluded spot.  Perhaps snow still lay in patches along the trails leading her to where experience said new spring grass would be found.  She was the family milk cow of some early-day pioneer.  The wide world was her pasture.  Fences then were few, designed to keep animals out—not in.  That she might be easily located come milking time, she was belled.  She might wander far in her search for the choicest grass; but as evening approached, the boy in the family could find her by listening for the clanging of her bell.

How tiresome that bell must have been!  Rarely was it silent.  It clanged as she grazed.  It clanged as she walked.  It clanged as she placidly chewed her cud lying in the shade.

This early spring day so long ago the cow worked her way across the hill, biting off the tufts of succulent green grass.  How good it tasted after months of dry hay!  She stopped beside a now long-gone tree.  Winter had given her thousands of itchy lice and a coat of warm hair which must now be shed.  Placing her neck firmly against the rough bark she rubbed vigorously, her head tossing up and down.  Just as vigorously the bell clanged, telling the mountain and the trees for a mile around that the cow was here.  Any listener could identify her activity without seeing her at it.

Suddenly a final clatter sounded at the cow's feet.  She jumped back, startled.  She sniffed suspiciously at the bell and broken strap lying at the foot of the tree.  The hill was strangely silent.  The bell had clanged for the last time, and would lie there silently for decades to come.

How dramatically the cow's world must have changed from that moment.  Suddenly it was peaceful.  The farmer's boy was puzzled that evening as he went to look for the cow.  Where could she be?  No bell could be heard.  Unless someone saw the direction in which she was heading that morning, she may have even gone unmilked that night.

So it remained for me many years later returning across the hill from fixing a fence to notice a brittle, weathered leather strap and a bit of rusted metal sticking up from the earth.  I kicked it idly.  As recognition dawned I picked it up, shook the dirt and a centipede from it—and the mountain's memory stirred as it heard again the clang of the bell the cow wore so long ago.