Author's Note: Every story has a beginning. Some stories have an ending. Others just continue on. The characters change, the scenery fractures, and dates blend one into another. Mirroring Indian Summer, motioning forward and reminding us of the past, this is about that golden season and the warm afterglow that is created when one realizes that some stories never really end.

September 2000

        The red roan appaloosa eyed me cautiously as I approached . Ears pricked straight ahead, she bent forward and nuzzled me as I maneuvered the stainless steel gate open. Stepping into her pen, I haltered her. Lady accepted the halter after a friendly enough bob of the head. Her eyes turned and studied mine as the halter latch found its hole and became secure. Looking into the mare's gentle eyes, less than 6 inches from my own, I saw peaceful resolution. "Oh, it's you again." The gentle animal resigned herself to fate.

        Leading the mare over to a stock trailer, I replaced the halter with a curb bit bridle and the weight of a leather stock saddle. Cinches tightened, my boots found stirrups and then mounted, I rode over to the round pen where Thom worked a blue-silver, grulla, 'appy gelding.

        Thom's mount wasn't nearly as cooperative. The spirited animal fought for head while Thom worked the snaffle bit. As he reared up, the gelding's eyes flared wild as nostrils blew. Neither Thom, nor the gelding named Buck, was ready to give in.

        "This is exactly the kind of crap you get when you let people watch too much Monty Roberts. This horse is spoiled and he thinks he is people. But, he's a horse and now I have to remind him of that."

        I figured it was best just to keep my mouth shut. I was famous for treating horses like people and a fan of Roberts. I decided Thom really didn't need to know that Roberts' book "Shy Boy," detailing his “joining up” method of working with wild BLM mustangs, was sitting on my coffee table up at the ranch. Never mind the fact that my own spoiled horse Khen hadn't been ridden in nearly a decade. Already sternly warned by Thom, "Don't even think of adopting one of those mustangs. You want a working horse, we will find you a working horse." I decided not to push the issue.

        Buck belonged to Thom's sister-in-law and according to Thom was undisciplined and accustomed to getting away with murder. He was a master at getting loose and known for hanging out in front of the sister in law's window in order to get attention. In Thom's eyes, the mischievous horse needed fine tuning before he hurt someone.

        "They think he's cute..." Thom muttered breathlessly as he continued to work Buck and settle the “who's the boss” issue permanently. Meanwhile Buck's mother, Lady remained calm. Occasionally she would turn her head and eye me as if to say, "You catching all of this, Tim? Better watch that Thom...he won't let you get away with nothing."

        But I already knew that. I was all about “Yes sir!” and “No sir!” where Thom was concerned. I'd not known him long. But what I did know impressed me mightily. His towering presence was far more than physical in my mind.

        We rode out into the wide-open country. Thom, determined to break Buck's bad habits, hoped that within a month he would certify the gelding under him as “kid safe.” "I would rather the horse shy or crow hop with me onboard as he gains his confidence about people rather than pull those stunts on some kid. Buck is a good horse but he just has to learn his role and that he isn't the boss."

        Following them, Lady was quiet and steady as Thom's horse pranced then quieted and did a lot of in between steps that didn't qualify as anything other than irritating. Starting up the narrow barbed wire lined drive, my mind settled into the altered state that rhythm, hooves, and far off horizons allow.

        We rode down the half-mile drive under the deepest royal blue sky. Immediately past the last corral, Buck once again set in against Thom's hand, crow-hopping and trotting sideways while Thom calmly worked his magic on the horse. Buck fought hard against the struggle. Thom stayed patient, calm, and quiet. I never saw his temper. His voice remained steady as he reined one way and then another to counter his mount's passion.

        I watched the signs hinting at the soul of the horseman; the dance of man with animal, the touch of his hand, and the reach of his voice told me more about his spirit than a thousand dates ever would. Did he blow sky high or stay controlled? Would the horse settle or get higher than a kite under his hand?

        I had the luxury of a steady mount. Lady paid no attention to any of her colt's dancing. Instead, her round eyes surveyed the endless horizon and with ears bent forward she stepped out to wherever our travels led.

        I knew Burns pretty well. I have trucked through Burns more times than I can count. It's exactly the kind of place that most people dismiss when just passing through. The just passing through have that luxury.

        Most visitors remember other portions of the journey rather than the night spent in the cheap hotel on the main drag of town. Albert Rim, the Oregon High Desert, the Steens; they are the memorable pages left scrawled on the travel journal. Rarely noted are the moments spent in Burns.

        Burns is one of two separate communities joined at the hip. Burns and Hines are difficult to distinguish from one another and both seem destined to remain unacknowledged. Growing together like step-children, the two towns share and share alike in the ups and mainly downs of rural life in the 21st Century. Equally buried in the tailings of the new global economy, Burns and Hines are victims of circumstances controlled from far away. Noosed by the ruins of environmental regulation overkill, these once vibrant and rich intermountain west communities now resemble Appalachia.

        Burns is no stranger to shuttered timber mills, abandoned rail lines and fast talking politicians. In partial ruin and economically handicapped, the main drag showcases the region's status. Nearly as many shuttered restaurants stand dark as open. The restaurants that remain exist to feed hungry ranchers and truckers. Forget ethnic cuisine and vegetarian, here is where McDonalds makes a brave stand while squaring off against the Dairy Queen. For variety, the cooler at the Texaco truckstop does a nice Oscar Mayer.

        Most of the hotels in town are independent mom and pop operations. There was a Motel 6, but it burned down. Twice…when meth lab operators left the lights…and the Bunsen burners on. The nearest Walmart remains perpetually 140 miles away in Bend. But ironically, the closest casino is just behind the Dodge dealership.

        Even the tribes share in the economic misfortune of the town itself and usually the Casino is just as deserted as the Rite Aid .

        People mark their time in Burns by the weather. The big snow in the early nineties that stayed all winter. The snow in other years that never came at all. They also mark their time by the one radio station in town-the one that only plays “oldies”. People live to remember here. They remember that when cattle prices are up, the pickup truck stock at the car dealers goes down. When beef prices plummet, so does the local economy and nothing moves. Nothing, that is, except for fed up residents, as they pack up and high tail it to Boise or Portland for a chance to make a real living.

         I knew Burns enough to know my way around, trucking and ducking in and out of US 20 or hot logging my way up US 395. I was always just passing through the isolation, the boom-bust, and the weather. Neither frustrated nor overjoyed by its placement in the middle of the state, I thought of Burns as some neutral refueling spot near the northern edge of several different deserts. This time I wasn't just passing through. On this particular visit I stayed awhile.

        Some people consider a man crazy who drives 450 miles straight through on a late summer night just to ride shotgun with a hand he barely knows. In my mind, crazy beats boring any day. In the 15 minutes I'd spoken with him at our meeting in Sacramento, I'd instinctively sensed that something special lay in Harney County. I found myself instantly in awe of a man who could have taken the easy path, living “out” in some big city. But who had decided to stay true to his roots, preferring to live in a small rural town where being openly gay is anything but easy.

        "Just go south on 78 like you are heading down toward Burns Junction and McDermitt, Nevada. About 28 miles ouside of Burns pull off at the Crane store. Just ask how to get to Too Tall Thom's. They'll direct you my way, down toward Princeton. Make sure you check out that elk rack in the back. It's the largest one taken out of the Maupin Unit. It's mine." Accompanied by the country music twang of the rodeo banquet, the words flowed from under the shadow of his gray felt hat.

Thom had no phone so we didn't speak again until I arrived in Harney County three weeks later at the cutting edge of sunrise. I was back in God's high country. The orange, red dawn sky shedding light over Riddle mountain and the short hog-backed range surrounding Crane told me as much. What I didn't know as the awakened sun set the landscape bright with color, was that I would pass through some dark unlit bottom lands before I returned home. Dawn, Dusk, and Midnight visited all in the same vacation.

        The sun beat down upon us as Thom and I rode. At the end of the drive we turned west on a gravel road toward the Malheur Wildlife refuge and the horses settled into a pace that created a sing-song sort of sound against the dirt lane. Occasionally one horse became irritated with the other. Buck and Lady seemed dead set against covering the territory side by side. After a while, Thom and I gave up on forcing the two horses to cooperate. I ended up riding slightly behind him, Lady relaxed and contentedly followed her offspring, the young uppity Buck. Letting the reins drop low, I kicked my feet out of the stirrups and stretched my legs while surveying the vistas. Far ahead Lake Malheur glimmered in the sunlight. The migrating pelicans, ducks, and geese disturbed Thom.

        "It's real early for them to be heading south. I also noticed the deer are turning gray. Remember all them deer we saw yesterday? They're usually brown until October. Here it is the just the beginning of September and they are already turning."

        I nodded at Thom who turned around in his saddle to see if I'd heard him.

        Thinking about the deer that we'd observed the day before on our trip into the Steens country, I lingered in the memory. Considering the previous day in its entirety, our unforgettable journey became much more than touring scenic vistas and the navigation of well marked trails. Without yesterday's watershed moment, I might not have stuck it out for this morning's trial by fire. The one that came out of nowhere, like some great shit storm of unresolved everything. Yesterday made today seem bearable.

        When we stopped for lunch in French Glenn, Oregon, Thom found himself almost instantly engaged in conversation with a fresh-faced hunter. He pointed toward where the trophy monster racks of bull elk could be tagged. He shared a list of “last seen” locations, pinpointing the whereabouts of the young man's prey. The lone hunter was soon joined by his friends. Thom delighted in telling the camouflaged men about the elusive behavior of elk and their preferred hiding spots. I watched in awe as Thom held the group's complete attention as he relayed priceless tips noting the time of day he spied the best game while working cattle. Of course by now they could be anywhere. But the young hunters were grateful just the same.

        We returned to the matter of lunch, choosing a small hamburger stand just off the highway. Within a minute of stepping up to the counter to place our order, Thom became deeply engaged in conversation with the kind faced elderly woman grilling our burgers. As the two of them traded local valley stories, I felt the historical wealth the gray haired woman represented. Displaying a walking museum's worth of irreplaceable oral history, she'd witnessed nearly a century of local events. Barraged by endless tourists from over on the urban coast, she was grateful to speak with a local who didn't ask the same questions over and over again.

        The two of them spoke about the wind and the bog fires and about winter and didn't it seem like the waterfowl were migrating about a month early this year? Soon our food was ready. The super, value sized burgers came complete with toothpicks holding everything together and the kind of taste that a lifetime at McDonalds can never replicate. Paying for our meal, we returned to my truck and I felt her eyes lingering on us. I wondered if I would be like her at her age. Would I still treasure the endless scenic beauty? Would I savor each breath of the West as she did? Even in the midst of flipping burgers for barely appreciative city tourists, she had that special sparkle. A gleam in her eye that incorporated an endless appreciation for the newness of nature wrapped up with land born western respect and historical perspective.

        Thom left a positive impression wherever we went. The previous day I'd witnessed him drop his own concerns and load a woman's pickup at the Burns feed store. I'd watched him assist the checker at the hometown grocery store and lend a kid a quarter at the Dairy Queen. Thom was always taking the time to talk, to listen, and to show compassion for those in his path. His kindness didn't cost him but his actions spread out like wildflower seeds, took root and as a result produced a fragrance that was difficult to ignore. Next to him I felt small, and not because of our difference in height. To me, Thom something of an angel, the kind that is rarely found on this side of heaven. It's easy to become spellbound with people who appear to have their shit together and who time after time make the perfect choices, saunter into leadership and roll on through life modeling perfect lives as if that was their natural calling.

        As we idled south, Thom and I made an immediate left off the main highway, beginning a gradual ascent. Ahead the Steens rose gently until soon the sage gave way to juniper and then became groves of quaking aspens. The neon green aspens broke the wind and the sage became a mix of alpine prairie grasses. As our elevation increased, the harsh elements matched each rise in the terrain. A buck with a nice sized rack bounded across the road in front of our 4x4 and both of us made an identical comment about the fortunes of the young hunters we'd just left behind in French Glen.

        Mostly we rode in silence as the ruts of the gravel road jarred the rig and other times Thom spoke about opportunities that had come and gone. Opportunities to hire on and work in the high desert, on the northern flank of outback country. First as a guide, then as an outfitter and finally working cows, his luck and prosperity came and went.

        We climbed higher and higher until after a prolonged silence, Tom pointed south into a lush green valley. "There's your wild mustangs, Tim. They ain't much, but there they are."

        At first I didn't see them. Scanning the valley, I drew a blank until I finally saw the three horses he was pointing at. They didn't look any different from domesticated stock. "Tom are you sure they're wild? I thought there would be more..."

        "Nope. Those are definitely wild horses, Tim. These are pretty harsh conditions up here and the land can only support so many animals. The most horses I have ever seen in one band around these parts was ten. Pull off. We'll watch them for a minute but be ready in case there is a stud running with them. Those wild stallions will charge us if they feel threatened."

        Pulling off the road, we sat watching the mustangs as they grazed, unfazed by our presence a quarter of a mile away. The horses' coats were partially bay but broken with bright white blankets on their rumps. Darker spots filled in the blankets. Two of the horses warily raised their heads and watched. Although too far away to know for sure, I imagined them scarred and wind blown with wild manes and tails catching the wind like small wings.

        I reminded Thom that one day I'd like to adopt one of these animals from the BLM. Thom looked at me with a partial smile and a partial threat.

        "Don't even think about it. You want another horse besides that worthless Arab you got now? We'll get you a horse. A real horse. Not one of these wannabe mustangs that are nothing but the rejects of local ranchers. Turned out. Just so the rancher can save on his feed bill."

        As we started moving again, I studied Thom on the sly when he was otherwise occupied looking for game. With his strawberry blond hair, when the light caught his face just right, everything seemed golden. The crowsfeet around his eyes gave him a weathered presence that hinted of wisdom rather than age.

        Pulling into the Kiger Gorge lookout, we stood at an elevation approaching 9,000 feet. The once tall steppe grass around us lay flattened by the wind and the force of the gale almost took the door off the truck when I opened it.

        On foot, we followed a twisty route toward the edge of the Kiger Gorge. I fought to stay upright against the wind, keeping my head down. Conversation became strained against the gale's roar and even the dirt seemed to find air, becoming lodged in hair, nostrils and eyes. Thom abruptly stopped ahead of me. His tall frame blocked my view until I moved to the left off him. Looking up and out, in vain I reached for something to hold onto.

        There was nothing to touch but high altitude air.

        The wind no longer took my breath away. The free fall view did. The gorge, dropping down over a thousand feet in front of me, seemed surreal. One more step and a nearly a mile's worth of weightlessness would greet that last fatal footfall. Known as the ”jewel of the desert”', Kiger is the deepest gorge in the United States.

        Rather than standing up against the wind, I decided to sit this battle out. Finding shelter on the leeward side of some boulders, I regained my composure as I gazed out over the cliff. Behind me the gentle rise and the flattened prairie grasses contained no small hint that within mere feet the earth would disappear into a near bottomless, rapid descent.

        Remaining as a lasting testament to the handiwork of glaciers, Kiger Gorge is an oasis in the truest form. From the high walls of the Gorge, nature funnels the sparse desert precipitation down into the sheltered valley far below and the resulting moisture is a bonanza for wildlife and vegetation. Spotting numerous elk, we watched the tiny Aspen groves below us for hints of other wildlife. Listening as avalanches and rock spills gave harmony to the screams of the high ball winds roaring up the gorge, I lay against the boulders that gave shelter and witnessed the world below.

        The rest of the world seemed very far away. Thinking this must be God's view; the divine perched up high and removed from the order and chaos below, I did not feel important. In the long run, whatever fate came my way wouldn't matter much. In the scheme of things, I am nothing but small. But awed by so much greatness, all I felt was respect. In this grandest scheme of things, I was nothing. I'd never felt more inconsequential. Nor had I felt so much relief.

        Eventually two hunters joined us and the conversation turned back toward Thom's big game and the elusive bull elk they sought. Once again Thom shared his vast knowledge of the terrain.

Leaving Thom engaged in conversation with the hunters, I stood up. I began hiking further up the ridgeline, hoping to see if the elevation on the western side of the gorge would accommodate a look east into the wide-open basins of what I knew to be the Owyhee country and the Alvord Desert.

        Stopping after I climbed as high as the western ridge afforded, I still couldn't see over the ridge on the other side of the gorge. I couldn't gaze past the east rim. Thom followed and soon the hunters were nothing more than specks far beneath us. The wind picked up intensity. The greater our elevation the stronger the gusts became. Although Thom was beside me, I could barely hear him over the roar. All I could make out was my labored high altitude breathing and the sound of God continually carving out this last labor.

        "Those hunters are lazy. If they want to scout out them elk, they should be hiking down into the gorge rather than sitting up top like that. Elk know what time of year this is and they aren't going to come out until near dark," Thom shouted above the roar.

        I nodded as I steadied myself against the wind. Conversation was pointless. Breathing seemed challenging enough. Eventually the cold and the wind overcame our resolve. Not even the spectacular view could entice us to remain perched against the ledge. Returning to the truck, we found shelter and continued on our journey to what seemed a dead ringer for the top of the world.

        The roads became rougher and at times even in four wheel drive it was impossible to travel much faster than a couple miles an hour. Thom eventually steered us toward an east rim overlook that seemed to be the backbone of the tallest summit of the mountains. To the north, Kiger Gorge plunged off the plateau toward oblivion. Behind us Blitzen Gorge settled into a nice repeat of the same. Looking east I stared off the crags and pinnacles toward a horizon that seemed to defy all logic. Struggling to take it all in, I squinted against the enormity. Challenging the power of one set of eyes, hundreds of miles of open space fell open, raw and unknown before me. The Alvord desert, the Bowden and Mahogany Mountains and the rugged Owyhee country burned the topography.

        Silhouetted against the endless view, Thom, even as large as he was, faded into the vastness of the landscape. Small and overpowered by the giant spaces that surrounded us, the gray hatted cowboy no longer appeared larger than life. The contradiction put everything into perspective. I found myself lost in thought, wondering how God viewed such places compared with my own reactions. Did God have favorite places where he sought solace and refuge? Was God ever breathless with marvel? Did the beauty of creation ever take The Almighty by surprise? Did the Divine ever wish to linger longer in those places that were special or was the mark of such an extraordinary presence beyond time? What might it be like to create something so magnificent, yet wander those places alone? Who comforted the lonesome ache of a creator?

        I felt small compared with 6'6" Thom. But against this never-ending territory, I felt invisible. How did God keep track of everything? When someone as large as Thom became muted and lost in the grand scheme of things, how did I have a chance of catching the eye of the creator? Did I even want that kind of attention? Could I withstand such scrutiny?

        Perched thousands of feet above the desert floor, I looked out over the valley one last time. Finally turning back toward the truck, an interesting and ironic thought struck me. Chuckling under my breath, I reconsidered everything. Value sized, downsized, and minimized, I realized that I was locked into step with my fellow Lutherans.

        Lutherans hate to stand out. Lutherans never make a scene or a fashion statement, and they hate exclamation points. We don't do nude beaches. We don't do spice in our cuisine. We blend.

        Yet standing there looking out into all that unorganized space, I 'd seen that all the great pains we take to avoid attracting divine attention were for nothing. Our endless attempts at "not making waves" appeared a ridiculous endeavor indeed. Based on the size of the landscape, I accepted the possibility that it was entirely plausible that the only way God was going to notice us was if he was looking for us.

        Maybe we didn't have to blend anymore. Maybe we could use exclamation points when the other Lutherans weren't looking. Maybe we still had a shot at heaven even if we'd accidentally been to a nude beach or two. Could it be that Lutherans had it all wrong? Could it be that God didn't intend for our cooking to define bland?

        I wondered if perhaps the creator didn't have it in for us as much as we thought he did. Maybe occasionally God actually delighted when we reached high and sought more than a pursuit of median averages. As I reached the sheltered sanctuary of another set of wind breaking boulders, the whole "don't call me, I'll call you" idea of God comforted me.

        At first.

        Then I remembered Jonah.

        New concerns troubled me. Recalling what happened when God went looking for Jonah, I shuddered.

        Maybe Jonah was the first Lutheran. Jonah got pretty good at 'blending'. But God got even better at bounty hunting. Maybe I didn't want to wait until God got around to looking for me or he actually had to send out a search party. As the wind wailed around me and Thom turned to walk back toward where I stood on top of the ridge, I realized that understanding God is no easy task. Lutheran angst and wrestling with locating our place in the divine scheme of things is nothing new. Whatever conclusion I came to today was subject to revision tomorrow. My last thought before Thom reached me brought me full circle. It is much easier to accept this divinely inspired universe without question than it is to try to get a handle on that which is far beyond my understanding.

        Thom and I returned to the truck and drove toward the valley far below. I decided to speculate about a subject I had an even slimmer chance of grasping: The man who sat next to me.

        Thom, an extraordinary man of the high desert, was skilled in the mostly forgotten rituals of rural living. Pondering the sort of example that he made against traditional gay stereotypes, I already knew the man knew his cows and he knew his horses. Reading the landscape, he translated the pathways of animals while describing the more conflicted intersections of human trails. I was quickly thinking of him in heroic terms.

        The road became rough and Thom spoke about dreams. I listened and compared his walk against others I have known. He'd been a father twice. He'd been married, then divorced. A former elder in a Morman church and a former rodeo cowboy. Both experiences were rough rides. He'd been in a bad truck accident once and he was pretty sure the first on the scene of his wreck was an angel. The physical injuries were a long time mending, yet not nearly as hard to recover from as the emotional injuries he'd suffered in his relationships. He'd come out in the small town of Burns and felt the persecution of some and then the support of others. He'd lost jobs because of his sexuality and he'd become acquainted with loneliness. Nothing was perfect. But currently things were better than they had been.

Our drive back to Princeton and the Bar Five Nine became quiet as I thought about all these things and it became increasingly clear that the more I observed about life, the murkier things appeared. Ironically, in the face of such confusion, my faith gets stronger. Faith in friendship. Faith in the practicality of the impractical. Faith in the no win position of Lutheranism. Faith in a higher power. And hopefully, faith that at least for the time being, God wasn't looking for me. He knew right where I was. Blending or not.

The red mare paused, almost as if she understood me and then turned and continued her tenuous progress off of the mountain. Hooves clattered and rocks came loose from the bank signaling our awkward progress. At any moment, I imagined that a rattlesnake might strike out from some disturbed hiding place. Lady's ears pricked forward. Alert and on guard, yet confident, she only stopped once, turning to face me as if to check up on me.

        When Thom and I finally met up at the bottom of the ravine, my thoughts were sidetracked as we once again rode easy across the bottomlands. My mind settled on the disturbing events of that morning.

        That's where the trouble started.

        Thom's parents were also truckers and when I'd first arrived, they were on the road. Initially, upon their return to the ranch, everything went fine. Thom introduced us and together we talked about freight brokers who don't pay on time. Or at all. We talked about rising insurance rates, sky rocketing equipment costs, and escalating fuel prices. We talked about Freightliner and Kenworth, the difficulty of keeping up a place when your place is on the road. We talked about everything but “it.” I took my cues from Thom and kept to safe topics. Trucking, trucking, and of course, trucking. Some subjects are best left untouched with some people. So talking trucks with Thom's folks seemed to keep everything neutral. The art of diplomacy and discretion is one of humanity's highest achievements. Therefore it is no accident, that these gifts completely escape me.

        When I first arrived at the ranch, Thom assured me that his parents knew about his sexuality. I assumed they were fine with it or else why would he have invited me? I should have clued in when Thom kept repeating how surprised he was at "how well they're taking to you." I later learned that I was the first gay man Thom had brought home to the ranch.

        I can usually talk to anyone about anything. Besides missing out on the diplomacy and discretion genes, I also went lacking in the “knowing my place” gene. As a result, I've shared coffee with bikers from the Hell's Angels. I've asked alcohol fueled, funny-car drag racers if they are scared that on some race they may have a date with the wall or the grandstands. Once, I even nearly succeeded in getting a secret service agent to move President Bill Clinton's parked motorcade so I could get my trapped truck out.

        So of course, I wasn't surprised that Thom's parents initially liked me.

        But that was before they stopped to do some simple addition. Thom has one bed. Two men were sleeping in that one bed. Thom on his side, me on mine. It didn't matter that Thom and I were just friends and not at all sexually involved. What mattered to the parents was what the strange gay man plus my gay son sleeping in the same bed equation equaled. Don't ask, don't tell was now impossible to keep silent.

        Even worse, Thom had assured me that unlike many cowboys, he did not get up at the crack of dawn. He slept in a bit. So we were sleeping in when his mother awakened us outside his bedroom window. On my side of the bed. Our wake up call came with all the subtlety of a hard freeze and the sensitivity of Mack truck.

        It turned out I was not the only one born missing the diplomacy and discretion gene.

        Thom flew out of bed accompanied by his mother's wild cussing. Throwing on his clothes haphazardly, he scrambled outside to do chores and deal with his mother. I followed suit instantly aware that I was now a failed experiment in tolerance. An experiment that for all practical purposes had just gone horribly sideways. I also realized that this normally gentle and kind woman could have given my grandfather a run for his money in the cussing department.

        Thom's parents are normally wonderful and gracious people. This wasn't about me and I knew that. I'd been through a similar experience with my own parents when shortly after graduating from high school my father walked into my bedroom and discovered me sleeping with a friend. Again, it wasn't a sexual moment but for some reason, a light bulb went off in my father's head and he cleaned an entire barn in the space of an hour as he struggled to get his emotions under control. By the end of the summer, I was out of sight and out of mind at Bible College. Hopefully they could fix what my father couldn't.

        Thom's parents deeply love their son. They want the best for him. They were worried about him and his future and they were frightened for the safety of their grandchildren. Unfortunately, when it's your family, your flesh and blood, and your dreams, it is very difficult to suppress all the emotions swirling about. WE were confronting Thom's parents with their worst fears and just my presence meant they couldn't ignore the reality of Thom's sexuality any longer. In many minds, homosexuality still equates to child molesters. And being gay is about endless negatives and the only "positive" sign a parent can imagine for their child is HIV.

        Struggling to reclaim a low profile, I cornered Thom as he was feeding the cattle. "Thom, I'm real sorry. Do you need me to leave? I totally understand if you do."

        He stopped forking the hay and looked at me. His face was contorted with pain. "Don't you even think about leaving. I'm a grown man and this is my home. We've done nothing wrong and I want you to stay. You're my friend. I invited you down here and I'm sorry you had to go through that." He looked up toward his parents' home. "It's time they got over this and realized that this IS what I am. There is nothing that they can do about it."

        I stood watching him for a minute totally unsure what was going to happen next. Unsettled, yet wishing to comfort Thom and shed some light at the end of the rainbow, I didn't want to fail him.

        "You best get your boots on so we can go riding. We need to work Buck so I can get him finished. I can put you on Lady or you can ride my horse. I think its best if we try to steer clear of my folks." He swallowed hard, pulled his hat down and resumed forking hay to the yearling calves. "I'm real sorry Tim."

Nearing the top of the ridge I thought about the gift of comfort. I thought about conflict. And I considered the nature of heroes. After this morning's run-in, I knew that Thom's collision with his mother would be a moment forever marred in both of our minds. Whatever magic I'd shared with Thom now seemed permanently altered. Worse, I knew that as a result of that morning, when he looked at me, he would see his parent's disapproval and that I would most likely symbolize one of the most embarrassing moments in his life.

        I sat.

        Waiting.

        Alone and pensive in the Rainbow Tavern, I wondered what was keeping Thom. He certainly wasn't here in Maupin. At least not yet.

        Maupin, Oregon lies buried in the Deschutes River Gorge, and as I sat in the tavern daydreaming through the big glass windows onto the highway, it was obvious that we were between seasons. The whitewater rafters were a month away and the last of the hunters had cleared out months prior.

        One of those eccentric yet just shy of amazing little towns the West is infamous for, Maupin is perched on a series of unforgiving switchbacks that lead straight down or straight up depending on your inclination. The town clings to the partially covered sage cliffs and seems barely able to make room for US 197, the asphalt dividing line that seems to dissect everything neatly in two. Just east of The Warm Springs Indian Reservation and within spitting distance of nothing else, travelers don't usually end up in Maupin by accident. They end up there in Maupin because they meant to.

        I suppose I am included in that sample.

        An hour later Thom finally showed at the tavern door with Forrest. The door slammed behind them and I had to look damn near straight up to make eye contact with Thom. Shaking Thom's hand, I turned on my stool to say “how do” to the ruggedly handsome man standing behind him. Like me, Thom has some irrepressible genetic flaw that inclines him to match make. We weren't just down in Maupin to work cows out of the bush, taking some of that stock into The Dalles Oregon sales yard. This was also supposed to be my trial run with the blue eyed, dark haired Forrest, a friend of Thom's from Burns who was shy and just out of the closet.

        "Hey, Tim. Good to see you again."

        "Likewise.. Glad to see you as well."

        Then that awkward silence. The one that will make you prematurely deaf. God I hate dating. Hate it, hate it, hate it!

         Thankfully Thom broke the silence. “So what do you think of this country, Tim?” He motioned toward a table and we sat. "It's been warm during the day and cold at night up on top. Hope you brought some all weather gear."

        I motioned toward my beat-to-shit Carhartt jacket still drooped over the barstool.

        "That'll do."

        "Thom, I've been here before...I trucked through here a few times hauling apples out of Hood River and The Dalles. Always liked this country. There's something spiritual about it. Might be the rez up on top or all the ghosts over in Shaniko."

        Watching Forrest, I noticed that he hadn't run screaming out of the place. Yet. That was always a good sign. I asked him about his job and if was still planning on attending school. He didn't say much but he smiled a lot. That was enough for me.

        We ate a surprisingly good meal and then Forrest jumped in my truck to ride with me up to the Juniper View Ranch.

        "Forrest will keep you good company, Tim. That way if I lose you on the hill, he can make sure you don't end up in Shaniko. Now you two lovebirds behave yourself." Thom winked, slapped the door and quickly turned before I had a chance to strangle him.

        The awkwardness of the moment and Forrest's silence made the quiet that much louder. Mentally I rehearsed the all important first date checklist. Don't grind the gears. Suck in your gut. Be aloof. But be approachable. Don't talk about your ex. Especially, if they are plural.

        We followed Thom out of Maupin and crossed the Deschutes River. Climbing up out of the gorge on the other side, the road spun like a kite and switchback after switchback demanded concentration. Forrest remained silent.

        "Hey, I just got this new CD. Wanna hear it?"

        Forrest smiled. "Yeah, sounds good."

        I fumbled for the new David Gray CD and popped it in the player, grateful for the distraction. Forrest grinned as the songs began playing, especially on the second track, Babylon. "I like this. He's really good."

Score!

        After several miles of climbing, the road finally opened up on top of a vast desert plateau. We were the only vehicles on the highway. After a few miles we made a left, following a long rutted double track through the sage. The sage broke way on one side and soon we skirted a planted field of winter wheat. Eventually we dropped off the rise and descended into an old homestead meadow. Junipers dotted the landscape, as did the remains of an old farmhouse. Off to the Northwest, Mt. Hood rose out of the desert. A deep gorge tumbled down before us, the views near endless. It wasn't anything other than just this side of perfect.

        I'd met Forest the summer before in Burns. Thom was retrieving boxes from the local grocery store just in case things got too bad at home with his folks and he needed to quickly pack up and move. We ran into Forrest in the parking lot. As I stood listening, Forrest and Thom exchanged all the local news. Who was moving to Portland. Who was moving back to Burns. Who wasn't going anywhere, getting anywhere or knew where they were. After we left town, Thom made damn sure I clued in that Forrest was “of the same tribe. “

"Do you think he's cute, Tim?"

        For months afterward, Thom worked diligently to get Forrest and me hooked up. He had his work cut out for him; Forrest and I lived 500 miles apart.

        First there was the investigation of mutual interest. Check. Then came the exchange of email addresses. Check. Next the exchange of phone numbers. Check. Forrest phoned me first. Double check. Then there was yesterday, last night and this morning.

        Home run.

Many straight folks have a pre-date checklist that they enter the dating world with. Put simply, this list is all about “ have to haves” and the “better not haves.” Basic litmus test items. Smoking. Drinking. Drugs. Religion. And of course the sex stuff: are they a virgin and if not, how far from it? What about HIV or other STDs? This stage of dating can be a bit like wading through the voter's guide.

        Personally, I try to be careful and ditch the list. Forget about logic. Forget about consistency. Forget about everything but gut instinct. And sometimes, as I have waded through all the ins and outs of players, playees, played out, and not really in play, I have wondered what's the point?

        Forrest seemed like a possible, real live something in common, maybe this could go somewhere besides nowhere sort of match. He was a small town boy, I was a small town boy. He liked many of the same things that I do. And we were attracted to one another.

        "Hey you love birds...up an at em! We got cows to work." Thom's voice brought me back to reality.

I scrambled out of my sleeping bag and sat dangling off the edge of the tailgate. The sun was long up but it was still friggin' cold. I pulled on my jeans, a T-shirt and a sweatshirt and struggled to stand with my feet only partially negotiating my lace-ups. Forrest wasn't in much better shape. Handicapped with a partially messed up back from a water skiing accident, he was even stiffer than me.

        Thom handed me a cup of coffee that was mostly grounds. "Morning, Sunshine. How did you sleep last night?" Wink. Wink.

        Forrest blushed and Thom asked me why he was turning red. I looked at Thom, "Aint you ever seen windburn before?"

        I gave up. Somewhere buried in my duffel bag was my Authentic “Certificate of Virginity” and it was stamped "Renewable." That gave me reentry privileges and maybe that would shut Thom up.

        It didn't.

        "Already got the horses tied up to the stock trailer. Forrest, I'm putting you on Lady. Tim, you take Buck. I'll ride mine."

        I stumbled over to the trailer and reacquainted myself with Buck, the same squirrelly buckskin colt from the previous September. He seemed relaxed and eager for whatever lay ahead. As Buck nuzzled me, I figured that he was trail-ready, bridle-ready, and Tim-ready.

        I figured wrong.

        Among horsemen there are certain situations a rider just doesn't court. Especially riding next to a cowboy one wants to impress. The more experienced the rider, the more important it is that said rider isn't the first person dumped. A good rider knows his horse, knows the terrain, and is ready for anything. A good rider knows when he is in over his head.

        I knew nothing.

        Well, almost nothing. I knew Buck was green. But I didn't know he hadn't been ridden much since the previous fall. Nor did I know I was only the second person to ever ride him. Oh yeah, and I also didn't know that Buck didn't have a clue how to neck rein.

        I know all of these things now.

        Saddled up, we rode down a long steep draw into the bottomlands. Thom led the way, and I hung back talking to Forrest. The Juniper trees became taller and about a mile in the canyon opened up and the trail became a bit less worn. Buck brushed up against some tall sage and it tickled him where just about any guy doesn't like to be tickled.

        He spooked, crow hopped and then did this part sideways trot and part front hoof canter. I reined him in. Things seemed fine. I gave him his head about the same time he got another tickle from the chest high sage.

        Faster than you can say, “Tiny Tim Take a Bow,” Buck blew up. Totally unprepared for this burst of speed, I tried neck reining him around to the right with my left hand. The colt was frightened and he went further left. Off center, I watched helplessly as the snaffle bit began it's graceful exit out the right side of his mouth. Nostrils flared. We picked up speed. I could barely hold on. Seeing his head go down, I knew that, sure as shit, Buck was about to start well, uh, bucking.

        I couldn't pull his head up. I couldn't pull him in. I was near that point of irrecoverable reckoning where boy meets ground. Boy bonds with sage. And, boy helplessly watches Buck taste the freedom and the thrill of hauling ass with his reins dragging under his hooves. With one last lunge forward, I leaned into his neck and tried to pull him into a circle. Too far forward, too soon, I realized much too late that I was traveling at the same dizzying speed as Buck.

        Only, I was now looking into Buck's eyes.

        A sudden calm, a peaceful realization replaced the desperate motions of a second before. I was now completely parallel to the charging Buck. He looked at me curiously. I did the same to him. My trusted mount, the almighty Buck, The Wonder Horse of all wonder horses was gaining speed. Galloping faster and faster. Without me.

        I was slowing down.

        I'd like to take this moment to introduce to you The First Ever World Champion Maupin Sage Wrestler. Thom gave me a 9 out of a possible ten. Forrest said it was at least a 9.5. They both marked me off because I spent way too much time in the air wasting valuable time before I picked the sage I was gonna wrestle.

        I didn't say anything. Mainly, because I couldn't.

        Laying busted up on the ground, I heard Thom's mount's thundering hooves as he went to retrieve the now totally spooked Buck. I'd crashed and burned on my first date. I tasted sage in my mouth, stuffed it down my pants, and hit the ground hard. Real hard. Landing on a part of my body one generally tries to protect at all costs.

        I stood up.

        Now, I was certain I wasn't ever going to have kids. Ever.

        One of the first things students learn in First Aid classes is the danger of letting victims of various mishaps lapse into shock. I would like to take this moment to reexamine this foolish policy. I am here standing before all who will listen proclaiming, "Let there be shock! Shock is Good! Long live shock!"

        Because, if there is not shock, then there is only the alternative: Pain! Cowboy up! GET back in the saddle. Don't cry. Don't show how hurt you are. Pet the nice horsie. Tell the horsie you love him. Try not to forget that you've only ridden the first mile and you still have over twenty to go.

        Thom handed the reins back to me. Limping I took the reins and looked at Buck. Lathered up, he was now equally covered in sage. I blew in his nose and Buck arched his neck and returned the gesture. His gentle eyes seemed to be full of sincere remorse. It was almost like he himself didn't quite know what had happened but he was sure sorry. I petted him on the head and then patted his neck. Ever so gently I lifted myself into the stirrups and then softly eased my weight down onto the saddle.

        It was at that exact moment that the shock wore off.

        “Cowboy Up!” has nothing to do with intelligence.

        The three of us continued our ride. Thom brought cows and calves out of the higher ridges while Forrest and I kept the herd together along the creek bottom. Tall cottonwoods and willow trees sheltered us. Cutthroat trout scurried past us in the creek on their way to spawn. We found drop calves a few hours old hidden in the brush. We hoisted them over the yoke of Thom's saddle and he rode back toward camp with the newborn calves straddling the horse's withers. By the time the day was done, Forrest broke a cinch and got dumped. Trying to avoid some low hanging branches while balancing the calf, Thom himself was knocked off his saddle.

        Riding with both hands, one on each rein, I kept Buck in check. Eventually he quit fighting me and began instinctively cutting cattle, heading them off and keeping them together. Our herd became larger and aside from the screaming pain, I felt at complete peace with the world.

        Forrest and I took up the rear as we began climbing elevation and grew closer to camp. The cows seemed to lead themselves. Forrest and I took the lull in unplanned dismounts as our cue. He talked about his kids from when he was married. Every time he gazed my direction, his blue eyes seemed magnetic. We laughed about small towns and the foolishness of big cities. He told me about his family and I tried describing to him the various characters in my own.

        Arriving in camp, we sorted through the herd and loaded up a stock trailer full of cows bound for the sale yard. I'm sure that once we finally closed the doors to the trailer, it was overloaded. But figuring that the scales would be closed, we choose productivity over legality. Pulled by a dilapidated old Ford cab-over tractor, most of the trailer's lights were burned out. Between the two units there was more rust on everything than paint.

        Struggling to get my legs high enough to climb up and into the cab-over, I winced. I could feel each muscle. I was sore in places I didn't remember existing. Everything was stiff. Forrest followed me into the sleeper and we both lay in the bunk sipping hard lemonade.

        His bright blue eyes flickered in the twilight and as we lay against each other in the sleeper, I began to hope that maybe I'd finally found my “someone.” Was Forrest a tender- hearted giant who understood? Could he support the reality that not everyone is cut from the same mold, wants to live in the city functioning in all the scenes with their politics? Forrest loves the west as much as I do. He didn't look at Wranglers and country western music as drag. He didn't look at trucking as the ultimate career path to getting laid. I began to wonder those first thoughts that people try not to think but they do anyway. The ones about waking up together when you're seventy and will you still laugh at and see the world in the same tones and hues. Will the commonality build and the differences diminish? Will a shared tomorrow be as good as today? And better than yesterday?

The call came out of the blue.

        "Tim, it's Thom. I heard you were in a bad accident.”

Thom and I had not spoken in over a year.

        “I wanted to call and make sure you were OK."

        I stared at the receiver. This was a surprise.

A few weeks after we'd helped him bring the cows out of the bush in Maupin, Thom and Forrest found themselves in Boise at a gay rodeo. They drank, they danced, they caught up with old friends and made new ones. Thom left the party early.

Tanked up and feeling no pain, Forrest went home with a stranger. He woke up the next morning, hung over and feeling guilty and stupid for having reckless sex with the stranger. Forrest came clean two days later.

He also disclosed that Thom had urged him not to tell me about it. I confronted Thom about his counsel, and about not watching out for Forrest to begin with. We ended things on a cold note.

        "Tim, do you think you're going to be OK? What happened?" Thom's question brought me back to the here and now.

        "I was driving an airfreight van and got T-boned in an intersection. The impact was from the side so the airbag didn't deploy. I made kissy face with the windshield then bonded with the driver's side windshield. At first the paramedics thought it was just a slight concussion but then two weeks later I was diagnosed with hemorrhaging behind my right eye. I've suffered a contusion to the optical nerve and I am currently struggling with a diagnosis of a Right Fourth Nerve Palsy. I am looking at some pretty complicated surgery to correct it."

        "So are you working right now?" Thom asked.

        "No. Right now I'm seeing double or blurry depending on the angle of my head. I can't drive truck or see very well and I get these killer headaches. I haven't been able to work since February."

        There was silence on the other end of the line. I knew Thom had been through his own major accident in which he'd suffered a severe head injury. I hoped my situation wasn't waking old ghosts or bringing his own bad memories back to life. Worse, I knew that year's later he still battled complications from his truck accident injuries.

        "I'm sorry, Tim. Really."

        "Thanks Thom. It means a lot to me that you called."

        We spoke for a few minutes more and eventually said our good-byes, never talking about the original problem that created so much distance in our lives. Somehow none of it mattered anymore. There were far more important things to consider and I was just grateful to hear from him.

        The ugliness of the mirror of self-examination filled my living room. I didn't relish acknowledging that I'd nearly ended a remarkable friendship over a momentary lapse in judgment. I knew that Thom had only been trying to protect my feelings. He'd known I was excited about the possibilities with Forrest. And what knowing about the incident would do to me. I had let my disappointment cloud my judgment. And as I sat staring at the ceiling, I realized Thom was a far bigger man than I.

        My roommate Mikey, one of the kindest and gentlest people I know, confronted me recently with the observation that I'd somehow become more judgmental since the accident. He'd been brutally honest with me, telling me he wanted the “old Timmy” back. His words were like a cold shower. I hadn't realized how much I'd changed.

        I admit Mikey's words came out of the blue and burned like acid. Judgmental? Me? Are you sure? I didn't exactly like hearing them. Yet it's true friendship that allows one friend to knock the other upside the head and mention the unmentionable. Whether it's the obviously stinking big mess in the middle of the room or the secret things you think no one knows about, true-friends often bear the only honesty that can cut through our carefully constructed bullshit. The mark of unconditional friendship is that it crosses bridges and says what needs to be said. Relying on the bonds of accountability, the fabric of unconditional love, and the measure of time, I had no choice but to take what Mikey said seriously.

        A few weeks later Thom called again to check up on me. After I got off the phone with him, I fell silent. Listening to the wind through the trees, I considered the friendships I have been blessed with. Looking out the window, I watched the Pend Oreille River blur in the moonlight, then go completely double. I struggled to get my vision to fuse but it was hopeless. I know that good things sometimes come out of disaster. I certainly had a different perspective on life since the accident, although I'd like to think I never took it for granted before. Staring into an uncertain future, a lot of things I've invested a lot of energy into seem in hindsight to be petty. Mikey shot straight. He'd hit a bull's eye. He wasn't using me for target practice but he spoke candidly because he loved me enough to care. As much as I hated hearing the words judgmental and Tim in the same sentence, I also knew his accuracy wasn't meant to bring me down. He was trying to build me up.

        In retrospect, my whole life, I've been lucky enough to be surrounded by heroes. People who in the midst of chaos and strife somehow reach deep and pull something marvelous and wonderful out of their hats. It seems obvious, but it gets lost in our critical world that nobody's perfect. When I was attending Bible college, I constantly struggled with a negative attitude until one day it finally dawned on me that a critical mind is a critical problem.

        No one is consistently consistent. Everyone has flaws. And, the last time I checked, no one had gotten everything perfect this side of heaven. Not our parents. Not our friends. Not our heroes. Not our siblings. Not our lovers.

        In a recent conversation, Thom spoke about being out in Burns, and how for the most part he doesn't have too many problems being the only openly gay person in such an isolated place. But he admitted his parents still haven't fully accepted his sexual orientation. He loves his family deeply and he has swallowed endless pride in trying to navigate the relationships that are the closest to him.

         "Tim, if I want my parents to accept me where I'm at, I have to accept them where they are. Sometimes it feels like bullshit. They are coming along so slowly. But you know, you don't just go to school and immediately end up in the 12th grade. I mean some geniuses might make it through all twelve grades and graduate in one year but most of us start out in kindergarten. And some of us spend a long time in kindergarten. And nothing I can do is gonna change that, so I might as well accept it."

        In hearing Thom's words I think I can appreciate a little more fully the beauty of irony and the never-ending presence of hypocrisy in our lives. I don't think there is any harm in having a few very human heroes in your life. It doesn't cost anything to celebrate the courageous, to reward the generous, and to acknowledge the selfless. Admiration doesn't have to equal blind faith, but rather a gentle willingness to accept the good with the bad. And to not be too surprised by either.

        I'd let the distance of one drunken rodeo weekend crowd out a perfectly good friendship. And even though Thom had consistently taken the high road, I couldn't bring myself to let it go. Sometimes riding the high road means reaching down to lift another up, and when it came to forgiveness Thom didn't have too much pride to make the first move. He is a better man than I. How wonderful to have a few good friends. People who ride shotgun alongside you no matter what. People who give it to you straight. And people, who shoot from the hip and sometime still hit the target.

        People like Thom Davis and Mikey and all the rest of the Straight Shooters.

Author's Note: Thom Davis was featured in the August 2002 edition of Out Magazine in an article entitled. “Sex in the Saddle: The Real Life of Gay Cowboys.”

© 2002 Timothy Anderson