Except in Pam Houston's Cowboys Are My Weakness, cowboys and kayaks don't normally run hand-in-hand. It came as a surprise, then, when we rounded a corner on day three of a trip down Colorado's Yampa River to see a grizzled cowboy attired in chaps, flannel shirt, handkerchief, boots and spurs standing on the bank signaling us over.

At first we thought he was just a drifter, passing through much as we were--especially after he informed us of his intentions. "I was wondering if you boys might be able to help me get my horse across the river," he said, tipping his sun-beaten hat. "I'd be much obliged." We figured he was working his way north--much like the birds flying far above the canyon rim--looking for ranch work up in Wyoming. Then he cleared matters: "We have a few cattle giving us a hard time on the other side of the river and we need to get 'em back over."

It was a high water year, early May, and the banks were already full. During normal years, ranch hands could get wandering, winter cattle back across the river without any problem--the river was usually low enough that a simple wet, cattle drive would get all heads back where they belonged. But this time it was different. The water was raging.

We tied off the horse's halter to the bowline of our dory and Tim ferried him across. Three-quarters of the way across, the horse stopped swimming and stood up in the river. Soon the dory was dangling helplessly in the current, held fast by the horse's straining neck. A friend ferried over in his kayak, cut the rope with his river knife and soon both dory and equine were free. Now came the problem of the cows. With a horse now on the other side of the river, the cowhand rounded up the 20-odd strays and herded them toward a sole cliff band where they had no choice but to jump in the water. With the water high, no animal in its right mind would enter the river without significant prodding. That's where our job came in, as five or six of us would peel out of our respective eddies in our kayaks and attempt to herd the misplaced monoliths back across the river.

"Phht, Yeah!" we'd yell, mustering our best Louis L'Amour accents while keeping our boats, and the cattle, headed in the right direction. "Hya, Hya!" It wasn't the time to think about proper technique, not with several tons of writhing beef capable of turning on you at any second. And that's what happened the first three times. Just shy of halfway across, the leader would turn and ferry back, leading the entire herd. The result was a frothy mess of hooves, tails and horns, with one behemoth going so far as to step on the sprayskirt, hoof inches away from the crotch, of one of our kayak wranglers. Another time a steer turned and feigned a charge at another kayaker in the saddle.

After hours of wet wrangling we managed to get only one calf all the way across the river, a few hundred yards downstream of where it first entered the water. Not the best showing, but not bad for admitted round-up rookies. With that, since it was getting late and we still had 10 miles to go to camp, we dusted ourselves off, tilted our helmets and paddled off into the sunset for a night of John Wayne kayaking stories around the fire.

--Eugene Buchanan

 Originally Published, Paddler September-October 2001