San Juan National Forest has some open cattle ranges. As I sought my bedding place last night, I passed cows of all ages enjoying their dinners, some in the road. After a while, I chose to park in a spot with the fewest cow pies, though I could still hear their evening lowing.

Investigating my chosen home and attempting to find the laughing flicker* nearby, I came across a little watering hole. It was pretty full but not very cute, and I was glad to have my tent far from whatever the water might attract bug-wise.

In the stunning dawn hours came the bellowing of ruminants. “Moo” is deeply insufficient for the drawn out moans of free cows. Powerful, guttural, rib-rendered groans whispered and rang from all around, expressive, intermittent. I wondered if they were just sending their good mornings out into the forest. But then, halfway through my morning yoga routine—indeed, just as I was stretching from cat into cow!—I heard the hooves. Coming toward me.

Mamas paired with little ones were heading my way from several directions on the straightest paths to their tiny pond. Some were in a hurry, others plodded along. All kept their distance, stayed skittish. I sat quietly on my mat and wished them all good morning. One or two paused to look at me, big cow eyes curious, and I pointed toward the watering hole, as if they didn’t know: everyone has gone that-a-way. They seemed to appreciate the gesture, somehow, and mooved along.

I can hear the herd poking around their water. The smell of fresh pies isn’t completely unwelcome, I suppose. They continue arriving from all directions, and I’m sure I haven’t seen the last of any of them. The flicker is still chuckling from somewhere up there, whenever it isn’t pecking at the trees.

As I write this! An all-ages group of five cows comes toward my setup in the gentle way only cows can. Before I know it, one of them lets their curiosity take over, moving in to investigate my breakfast arrangements. I am still in my car when she does this, so that my reaction must be all the more startling as I scramble out, reaching belatedly for their gentle ways to calmly say, “No, no, that’s not for you.” Having heard my movements, these animals were already over it, nosing at each other as they meandered away toward some grass.

That same bird, still unseen, is laughing relentlessly.

After these strange introductions, we settled into the morning. There were never fewer than a dozen cattle nearby, at one point a full two dozen! Within sight of my setup, I could watch their rough bovine bodies rubbing on trees, weird big tongues taking turns tending one another, hooves stomping through bushes as though in china shops of munch-able greens, bending their front legs into a full kneel before dropping giant rears onto the dusty ground to rest. The whole scene punctuated at random intervals by various and unmelodious groaning, all of which I thoroughly enjoy. Somebody among them had a little cough. Once in a while a solo cow would wander toward me, pausing in quizzical silence to stare. They seemed wholly unperturbed by any noises I made, but movement caught my hoofed friends wary. Thus, I went about my own day emulating their calm, watching my new pals loll in the sun and shade of their predictable routine.

*I would soon discover that “the flicker” was in fact several nuthatches. I’m learning.