COWBOY POETRY: Stolen Solitude

Bryce Angell is a cowboy poet. Angell was raised on a farm/ranch in the St. Anthony, Idaho area with approximately 75 head of horses. Horses remain an important part of Angell's life. Angell shares his poetry with Cache Valley Daily every Friday.

I rolled out of my sleeping bag, still fightin’ sleepy haze.  Then turned ten hungry horses out.  I watched them as they grazed.

On my sixteenth year I guided at the Bechler Meadows Camp.  The nights were cold.  October frost turned dry grass into damp.

So, I hopped up on ole Stretch’s back to keep my cold feet dry.  I could hear the cook a cussin’ ‘bout the fish he had to fry.

I pulled my Stetson past my ears.  The fall air nipped a bite.  Then looked out on the river, not a fisherman in sight.

The Bechler wasn’t quiet but the sounds were all her own.  And one thing was for certain.  We were out there all alone.

I shoveled in three hotcakes with a fried egg flipped on top.  Then licked my plate so doggone clean, I didn’t leave a drop.

Our fishermen were ready.  They weren’t wastin’ time to veg.  So, we rode on down the Bechler, dropped em near the river’s edge.  

I made a point of telling them, “The Bechler’s still unknown.  I hope you don’t get lonely ‘cuz the river’s all your own.”

 I just turned sixty-seven years.  That trip was long ago.  The Bechler’s since discovered.  It’s the place for all to go.

Last week we saddled up and rode the meadow for a day.   We witnessed scores of hikers.  They were hellbent on their way.

One hiker came a runnin’.  Said, “I didn’t have a clue.  My cell phone has no service.  Now I don’t know what to do.”

I must have looked confused from all the masses, I was told.  What brought the hordes, the multitudes?  Had someone hollered, “Gold!”

As Edens are discovered it’s for dang sure gonna hurt.  The droves will keep consuming.  God ain’t makin’ no more dirt.

The world will deem it progress of the wonders we can’t hide.  I call it Bechler Meadows and for now I will abide.

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