Orange oak leaves mask the ground. I am off my horse- he follows behind me, ears perked, attentive to my anticipation. I am prospecting. My eyes are straining, almost painfully, attempting to distinguish between bone-colored branches and bone, the ivory that once knew warm blood versus the ivory of dead wood.
Last year, some enterprising genius (tongue-in-cheek, there) purchases thousands of dollars worth of elk antler sheds and dropped them-- within view of our horse trails-- around the ranch. Then, he lied to guests and told them they were naturally shed... at 8,000 feet... in January.... obviously our ranch guests are not ecologists. Anyway, I'm told there's four sets that were never recovered. That's in addition to the multiple treasures fallen out of guests' pockets and wranglers' saddlebags. We're on a treasure hunt!
Tulsa wasn't interested in treasure hunting, though. Tulsa just wanted to gallop. No trotting, no negotiating rocks, no jumping creeks, just running as fast as he could. That limited my ability to spot the objects of my search. I found my new gloves, and a radio I lost two months ago (that thankfully still works). I found the skeleton of a steer, and the jawbone of a raccoon, but no elk antlers. Mostly I just hung on for the ride. Maybe the treasure was more in the air I breathe anyway, and the wind in my ears as we pounded along.
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