Regular readers will recall my plans to celebrate cowboys and girls of the American West in this column by offering a series of stories I have been privileged to experience or learn in my work there for the U.S. Department of Agriculture. I will run the stories here intermittently. There is little in American history more “outdoors” than the unique lives of cowboys.

I didn’t ask his name, but he rode up to my little elk camp in Buffalo Park, Colorado on a horse named Nell. (The park in the western mountains is a relatively flat place, somewhat treeless, lying among surrounding forested mountains.) Buffalo Park was maybe 15 miles long and 6 miles wide some 8,800 feet above sea level. My tent was pitched near the rim of a huge valley within the Park named Barber’s Basin. It was October, identifiable by the aspen trees, now being almost bare of their brilliant yellow autumn leaves.

His first words from a deep, friendly voice were, “You’ve got a fine camp in here,” referring to the long distance I had negotiated to pack in equipment and water. “Most hunters stay up on the roads and get into the back country.

“Thanks,” I replied. “I like to get in as far as I can and hunt by myself. My brother and I packed in and he got a good bull two days ago and we got a fellow up on the road to pack it out for us.

“Have you seen a big red bull with a few cows loose in here?” he asked.

“Two cows and a big calf browsed through here yesterday,” I said. “That’s all I’ve seen and I have hunted north in the basin and up on top.”

“I’m huntin’ that bull for a rancher down below,” he said, “ They all come see me if they got some lost cattle. We ride these ridges a lot, ain’t that right Nell,” he addressed his horse for silent verification as he leaned forward in the saddle and stroked the mare’s mane.

I noticed that the horse was very old.

“I’ve worked for all of ’em at one time or another,” as he waved his hand slightly indicating a hundred square miles of God’s most beautiful mountains, streams and rocky meadows. That’s my Airstream up on the road on Milk Creek. I got that little placer mine on the creek there, ain’t that right Nell?” he again asked the mare to concur.

“I saw your washing box out there on the creek.” I said.

“I took $6,000 worth of gold out of that creek in August,” he confided.

“Oh?”

“There ain’t much gold on this mountain. Is there, Nell,” he said. The aging horse flicked her tail. “But I find a little.”

Presently, the aging cowboy leaned forward and with a glance to each side asked in a low voice, “You ever been to where Frentz Creek and Muddy Creek run together? His dark eyes stared straight into mine, never wavering, expressing the expectancy of a trial judge.

“Yeah,” I said, not knowing what this remote spot in the middle of Barber’s Basin might have. His eyes brightened and even twinkled as he whispered calmly, “A feller can get a little color in his pan down there.” Then he smiled as he leaned back and sat straight in the saddle.

More talk ensued with the old man clearing his statements with his mare. But I recall only bits and pieces. I was preoccupied with his revealing the spot for panning gold on Muddy.

“Well, we better ride back south’” he finally said. “Let me know if you see that red bull.

I said I would. He and his horse faded silently into the woods and left me with gratitude he had shared a bit of his life with me.

(This story was excerpted from a more detailed one in my book “Here Where We Belong” available from me. Phone 601-482 4440.)