In the Company of Others

It’s a hidden world. Almost. Deep within the forest among the conifers and cottonwoods, Montana's nocturnal hunters make their way home. Evidence of their nighttime prowls is left in the trace layer of snow.

Among these denizens is an owl. With deft movements, she negotiates the forest's obstacle course in her flight back to her shelter. Unlike most birds whose feathers make various chirring and swishing sounds in flight that betray their positions, her aerial activity is silent. Viewed from below, her phantom white body melts into an ethereal blur against the dark sky.

She is eager to return. She’s been watching the old man for several years and recognizes the signs. Today, she will not sleep.

Dawn

At first glance, Angus thinks it’s a piece of greasy paper, the kind he’d see clinging to the sidewalk and windows in town. And for a slivered moment, that’s where he believes he is. Fast food wrappers, tossed receipts, crumpled notes — the detritus and chaos of civilization swirling around, just outside the apartment’s thin front door and along the slushy street.

Morning twilight squeezes the stars from the night sky. While lying in bed, he recognizes not trash, but a wet birch leaf, the color of yellowed parchment sticking to the window. The comfort of reality settles around him. He is in his home, his ranch, held in the palm of a soft valley, nestled alongside a perky river whose banks clatter with ice and slender willows fuzzy with hoar frost.

Not today, Angus realizes with the levity of relief. Not today.

But he knows. The shards of cold air sneaking under the door penetrating the old ranch house, the iron sky, and the yellowing leaves all tell him that by the week’s end he must go.

Montana winters are not for the meek and certainly not for a solitary old man living in the wild country, even if that man is a resilient cowboy who grew up without the coddled luxuries of modern life. Within weeks the snow will be piling up, making transportation impossible. He has to pack up and spend winter at the rented apartment in town.

In Angus’s younger years he’d hunker down and wait for the snowplow to unbury his road between the storms. He’d shovel the path to the barn to make sure Brownie, his stocky gelding, had access to his stall. Every day he’d bring a hammer and break the ice from the trough, hauling out awkward, frozen slabs then filling it with fresh liquid so the gelding could drink.

But Angus is feeling the toll of having lived through eighty-seven winters. Years working with horses and then the foreign service made him a practical man. Despite the encroaching milkiness in his pale blue eyes, he sees life with clarity.

Today, he thinks. Today is a good day to ride. One last heave-ho before I leave.

Morning

Pulling himself out of bed, Angus shuffles to the kitchen, forcing stiff joints into motion. Breakfast is simple. Coffee, bacon, eggs, and potatoes — a hearty meal. Nourished, he prepares for a cold day in the saddle — woolen long johns under his jeans, flannel shirt, thick woolen socks, boots, and deerskin gloves. He grabs his Stetson (the one for work) and oilskin duster as he walks out the door.

Time to get Brownie.

Outside, the weight of the gray sky presses around him. Snowflakes, sharp with ice, flurry around the air, nibbling at his cheeks and nose. It’s an invigorating chill and Angus finds himself eager to get going. He isn’t sure where, he just knows he needs to be out there, somewhere, in this feral land he calls home.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Sensing his friend outside the barn, Brownie nickers a soft greeting. To Angus, few things are more intoxicating than the sound of his horse saying hello.

“It’s just you and me today ol’ man,” Angus says to the long, fuzzy face nuzzling him for breakfast. “Heh, heh, . . . as usual. Have you seen our friend?” he asks, scratching Brownie’s forehead.

Sensing a familiar presence from above, Angus looks up. Sure enough. The resident barn owl who lords over the world from the rafters returns the stare.

“Back from your hunting grounds, are you?”

Angus notices a new pellet of regurgitated bones, impossibly small, embedded into a package of compressed fur on the barn floor.

“Ahh, a successful night, I see. Heh, heh. Not for th’ mice, of course.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The owl watches her human below. For three years she’s lived in this barn, raised her owlets, and familiarized herself with this man. He’s kind and gentle. Unlike most, she senses from him a humble wisdom that connects to the world around him.

He’s worthy.

She thinks ahead to her task. But first, a quick doze. After all, hunting all night does make one sleepy.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

While Brownie eats, Angus grooms him, running his hands over the soft, dense fur, relishing the heat that moves into his rigid fingers. Hooves checked. Saddle on. Girth tightened. Bridle adjusted.

“C’mon my friend. Let’s go.”

Once outside, Angus steps onto the mounting block, heaves himself up and settles into the saddle. The gelding gives a long look at the barn, its cozy interior peeking through the door. The scent of hay, rich with summer’s fragrance wafts out and disappears in the snowflakes, but not before Brownie catches the sweet aroma. He sighs, then grunts as he follows Angus’s directions, clopping towards the trail. He doesn’t mind, the air is fresh and it feels good to be moving. His rider is not a burden.

Neither Brownie nor his master notice the swooping, languid flight of the barn owl behind them. She moves from tree to tree keeping them in sight, creamy white feathers against a creamy white sky.

Mid-Day

Following the trail up out of the shallow valley, Angus finds himself in a meadow. He knows it well. It’s a place of comfort for him and his forest-dwelling neighbors. His daughter got married here. Elk come to graze, bears to snooze and find berries, and foxes to play and pounce on unsuspecting prey.

Today, honey-colored grasses with feathered heads shiver in the breeze against the snow. They hide a narrow stream that, in warmer weather, ambles across the graceful field. In one corner, a teepee stands tall with two wide ochre stripes and a large butterfly on the canvas for ornamentation. The doors are threaded with wooden pegs and folded over to keep the interior snug.

The teepee was a gift from the Blackfeet Nation, which Angus holds in deep respect and with whom he has cultivated his closest companions. Its sight fills him with equal parts gratitude and longing. His friends, elderly like him, have all passed. Feeling an aching jab for what is gone, Angus presses on into the woods. He finds comfort in Brownie’s familiar, rhythmic sway.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The trail pops him out of the forest close to the base of Elk Peak. From here, Angus gets a wider view of the land. A pewter sky intensifies the cottonwoods’ autumn ribbons of buttery leaves. Glowing like oversized candle flames, they sweep across the mountain’s lower slopes where they mix with the ponderosa pines and release a faint perfume of spice and earth.

“We’ll turn ‘round at the cabin,” he tells Brownie, partly to reassure himself. “Then head back. By my reckoning, we’ll be buttoned back up at home before dusk.”

By now the chill is seeping into his coat. Ever dutiful, Brownie carries him forward. Further behind, the owl alights on a tree snag, debating her next move.

While following the old man, she’s reminded of why she sleeps during the day. She’s accustomed to delicate night sounds. What her human perceives as silence, to her, is rife with noise. There is the scratching of a vole tunneling just under the snow, the shooshing of grassy seedheads rubbing against one another in the breeze, and the squeak of snow pressing out from under the horse’s hooves.

Her ears pick up a new sound; ragged, arrhythmic human breath and sniffling. The old man is crying.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Angus knew the trail to the cabin took him by the painful place. It’s a stretch of trail where his wife, in a freak accident, was dragged to her death by a horse.

Nora had won the horse in a rodeo contest. The next day she and Angus spent the afternoon riding around Elk Peak before breaking for lunch. When she remounted, the horse spooked and bolted causing her to fall backward with her foot stuck in the stirrup. Five seconds and fifty rocky yards later, the love of his life and mother of his only child was gone.

For Angus, her spirit still lingers on this part of the path. Sometimes he has the strength for it. Other times it fills him with a sense of peace. Today, however, the sorrow is overwhelming. Sensing weakness from his rider, Brownie steps with care.

Late Afternoon

The barn owl, by nature, is a solitary creature. Company from others is by her choosing. But she has gifts to share for those open to receiving them. Exceptional visual acuity coupled with a sense of hearing that borders on preternatural allows her to find elusive paths; the kind she knows her human needs today and it’s her intent to lead him there.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Angus pulls a kerchief from his pocket, blows his nose, then reaches out to stroke the gelding’s neck.

“You’re a good boy. Maybe we oughta head back. I’m feelin’ so tired . . . more than usual. Like a threadbare coat,” he confides. “Heh, heh. Besides, bet some hay sounds mighty good to you ‘bout now.”

Angus massages his heel into Brownie’s left side while simultaneously moving the reins, asking him to turn around. Recognizing her opportunity, the owl coordinates her flight to intersect his arc. Angus’s vision is filled with a swooping figure of tawny and beige. He hears nothing but feels the softest breath of an eddy, created in the wake of the wings, against his face. His cheek feels kissed with warmth.

In languid flight the owl circles horse and rider and lands on a low branch not ten feet away.

Angus had seen many extraordinary sights in his years. But this? An active barn owl during the day? It was astonishing.

She is so close. He marvels at the brushstrokes of buckskin against white feathers, her fringed wings, and the stout little feathers outlining the heart around her dished face.

Confident she has the old man’s attention the owl circles him again. This time landing just a little farther into the woods. Again, she stares straight at him.

Angus peeks through the trees to see the owl. He’s struck by how the late afternoon light is filtering through the amber leaves causing them to glow. And look at this! In all these years of riding these trails, how did he not notice this hint of a path? The overhead trees have sheltered the ground from most of the snow. It smells of moss and loam. Intrigued, he urges Brownie onto the path towards the owl.

“Don’t worry buddy, we’ll just go a bit.”

Seeing the horse and her human moving towards her, albeit with some trepidation, she glides down, swirls around them and moves further down the path. She is careful to remain in sight. Again, Angus follows. There is something about the air that feels a touch sweeter and more verdant. It summons him forward.

The owl repeats her pattern. Swoop. Swirl. Fly. Land.

Angus continues to follow, knowing he can turn back any time. The leaves appear greener, and the path underfoot has turned to patchy grass with a sprinkling of buttercups. Its apricity is alluring.

“Woah, Brownie. I think I need to remove my coat. Seems we found Montana’s last pocket of late summer.”

Sunset

Angus continues.

I should turn back. It’s getting late. I have chores to do. Gotta pack up for town.

But he also feels the magnetic pull of nature. He’s never felt comfortable sitting in man-made sanctuaries and long ago he discovered he could find whatever answers he needed by entering the wild lands, laying down and watching the stars spin overhead.

He sways along atop Brownie’s reliable stride, feeling as if the trees themselves are his old friends, reassuring him that he’s going the right way. The owl maintains her slow, silent flight just ahead.

The forest thins to reveal the rolling fabric of the land. Overhead, Montana’s immense sky holds clouds that are no longer bruised with a cargo of snow, but lit from within in the colors of tropical fruits; mango, banana, and tangerine.

Brownie finds the grass irresistible and reaches down to grab a few mouthfuls. In that halted moment, Angus takes stock of his situation. He’s at the edge of two worlds, the transition of forest to prairie.

Then he hears it. It’s quite faint, yet crystal clear. A feminine voice in harmony with the psithurism of the leaves behind him and rustling grasses undulating beneath and ahead of him.

He listens with care. It grows stronger. He knows that voice. It’s one he’s not heard for a long, long time.

“Heh, heh,” he says aloud, smiling. “Nora.”

He directs Brownie forward, into the hills and towards that beautiful, welcoming sound. Soon, he realizes, he’ll be in the company of others.

The owl, unnoticed, banks a turn and retraces her flight back to her barn.

Twilight

“Angus! Open up! My wife made ye somethin’. Angus!

Balancing a homemade pie in one hand, Theo raps on Angus’s front door. Where could he be? Truck’s here.

A sharp whinny cuts through the air. He sees Brownie pacing the fence line inside the pasture, barely outlined in the gloaming. Being a horseman himself, Theo recognizes when one wants dinner.

“Hey pal, what’s got ye so agitated? Angus in th’ barn?

He pushes the barn door open, expecting to find Angus’s crop of white hair moving hay. The only thing white he sees is the breast of the old barn owl who lives in the rafters. She ruffles her soft feathers, annoyed at the disturbance, and goes back to sleep.

By now Brownie is in his stall, pawing the ground.

“Ok, calm down. I’ll get ye some flakes of hay. Angus, y’in here?”

Theo returns to the house, grabs the pie by the front door where he left it, and enters. He’s known Angus long enough to treat the house as his own. Everything is in its usual spot.

Going down the short hall to Angus’s bedroom, Theo taps the door with his fingertips.

“Angus?”

He eases the door open, fearing what he’ll find.

To Theo, Angus is built with a wiry frame, strong and steeled. The corporeal form he sees in bed is frail and void.

“Oh, Angus.”

With love, he looks at the body and that face with whom he’s shared countless laughs and conversations. Sadness envelopes him. Then he sees it. The hint of a smile, frozen in time.

Placing a hand on the body’s chest, Theo whispers, “Enjoy yer ride, ol’ cowboy. Enjoy yer ride.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Author's Notes:

This story is historical fiction of sorts. Many elements are based on the life of my great, great Uncle Alex (people called him Angus). Born in the 1890s and passed in the 1980s. He did indeed live in Montana. The gifted teepee was real. His close friendships with members of the Blackfeet Nation was real. The story of his wife being dragged on a path by a horse she won in a rodeo was real. Brownie was real.

Of course, this story is fundamentally embellished with a fictitious experience and characters. The owl, Theo, and Elk Mountain are from my imagination. I wasn't sure of the details of my Uncle's death and this story is what I would have wished for him. I used my own memories and stacks of his letters as sources, as well as some archives from the Montana Historical Society. He sparked my lifelong love of horses (my first-ever ride was on Brownie). And I was the flower girl in that wedding in the meadow mentioned in the story. We honored him in a memorial that included a ceremony in that teepee with a small gathering of his friends who, like him, carried memories that spanned the entire 20th century. As Alex said, "The pioneer age to the atomic age. I prefer the former."

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