Sweet stem-clover crunched between my back teeth, juicy and cool as morning dew. I am Lou, a spotted dairy cow with an eye for horizons, and my herd of cows was finally marching across America to see its natural wonders. I had a foolproof three-step plan to reach the great Badlands canyon. Step One: sniff the western wind for wet grass. Step Two: follow the straight creek beds. Step Three: trot neatly up the final ridge with clean hooves.
"My hooves already ache, and there is nothing out there but dust," groaned Modesto. My uncle is an elderly horned steer who prefers naps to wonders.
"Nonsense, Modesto! The west wind smells like a salad bowl," I said, nudging an old brass bell off my neck and hooking its leather strap over the ears of Karla, a young red heifer and our herd scout. "We will have nonstop grazing the whole way."
"Ooh, look, purple flowers!" Karla said, already chewing a mouthful of wild bergamot. "Are these snacks? I bet they are snacks!"
At the back of our column, Valentin, a heavy black bull carrying our spare saddlebags, gave a brisk snort. "Stay in line, scout! Let us move these hooves!"
Step One worked splendidly for three days. The prairie grass tickled our chins. Then it dropped to our knees. Soon, we were marching past a dusty mound where a tiny burrowing owl with one crooked tail feather stood on one leg, bobbing his head as our heavy hooves thundered past. By noon, the grass was nothing but prickly, ankle-high stubble.
Modesto planted all four feet and let out a long, low groan. "Turn back, Lou. The earth has forgotten how to grow dinner."
I lowered my wet nose to the dry dirt and thought hard.
