On our final day, we ford a river and climb through drifts of buttercups to Old Baldie, a high treeless pass. We’ve travelled some 70 odd miles and not one of us wants to leave. We dismount and tether the horses, pulling a final picnic lunch from our saddlebags.
There is little conversation. The peace rolls over us in waves. Sitting there, the warm wind on my face, flowers at my feet, I try to drink it all in, to fix it in my mind, while all around the cowboys and girls snooze in the long grass.
