Pulling my windbreaker tight around me, I headed down the gravel road from the Big House on my aunt and uncle’s ranch towards the pasture just across the interstate from the Madison River. Next to me ran Happy, my aunt’s big English sheepdog. Even though it was August, we were high enough up in the mountains that I could see my breath in the cold morning air. I wasn’t supposed to be up and out already but had woken early as the fire died down and the field mice ran across my plaid Pendleton blanket.
I headed over to a stream filled with watercress that I remembered from the year before. At nine years old I liked imagining I was a pioneer raising my own food, gathering wild plants and living off the land. As we got closer to the pasture, Happy started acting scared; whining and whimpering. Irritated, I sent him back to the house.
Staining my fingers with rust I pulled the strands of barbed wire apart and wiggled my body through the opening and to the edge of the stream. Sharp smells of clover and yarrow filled the air and I could hear chickens from up by the house cackling their joy at laying an egg.
There was a lot of cress growing in the slow moving waters along the banks of the stream. I dashed over and while eating a few of the peppery leaves and filling a bag for later, I heard a snorting. I looked up and charging towards me was a huge bull–clearly not happy to find me in his pasture.
Running like I never had before, I flew towards the fence. The noise got louder and I could feel the ground shaking as the distance between us narrowed. Almost there, almost–I imagined I could feel the animal’s hot breath on me as I dove under the wire, scraping my back with the sharp barbs–then I was safe on the other side.
My mom had often read me the story of Ferdinand, the gentle flower eating bull, but this creature chasing me from the stream looked more interested in eating me. With quivering limbs I slowly walked back towards the house still clutching my bruised bag of watercress.
“Looks like you’ve been mud wrestling someone to get me this cress,” said my aunt smiling as I handed her the bag upon my return. “Oh, just tripped,” I replied as my wings would’ve been clipped had I told the true adventure.
To grow your own cress, hopefully safe from bulls, click here.
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