The River Hills

One of my fondest recollections, among many in the Dakota’s, was my first afternoon in the river hills of Oacoma, South Dakota, helping my rancher friend Travis fill a doe tag.  We bounced down a twisty gravel road for many miles in his old pick-up and finally rolled to a stop in front of a weather worn cattle gate. After getting my bearings, he pointed out the way for me to make a push. I watched him jump into his truck with a smile and rumble down the trail to his post on the other side of a long valley. I waited, listening to the prairie wind. When the time was right, I weaved my way through many small ravines in the foreign country, bumped some big does, hoped I would not make a wrong turn, and found a massive antler shed as I ducked under a low-hanging pine bough. Finally, I trudged up a steep hill and came out on a bluff which over-looked the convergence of the Missouri and White Rivers… The view opened up for miles as I stood in awe and watched two waterways become one, an ancient trail which reflected the days last light as it meandered into a darkened horizon.

Along the way I heard a rifle shot echo through the draws. My buddy Travis had filled his tag!

Peace

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