The metaphorical river, in my mind, is that constant flow of online information, but at the moment, I was more concerned with an actual, fast-running river. On my horse, I could cross it and so could the 80 cows we were moving. But would my dogs be swept downstream?
Situations like this regularly unfold since I shifted my energies from writing to riding. I’ve spent decades as a journalist, and in recent years found myself increasingly sucked into the online currents of discourse and distraction. Now, I get paid to ride, fix fence, fight with scrub oak and ask my dogs to swim. (They did fine.) I barely get minimum wage, I go through gloves and jeans quickly, but I’m excited by the things I can do. I feel healthier.
I know others can’t retreat to the southwest corner of Colorado near the San Juan Mountains, but I’m here to attest to the benefits of radically reducing your involvement with the online world. We all know or sense its deleterious effects. From the National Library of Medicine: “The hazards of excessive screen time: Impacts on physical health, mental health, and overall well-being.” A YouGov poll this year found that nearly half of Americans “worry they spend too much time on social media.” The Environmental Protection Agency estimates that Americans spend 90 percent of their time indoors.
You might think that out here in the hinterlands, with no Uber, DoorDash or 5G, technology’s pull would be less of a concern. Not so. But limits to digital access can make it a more deliberately sought commodity, like groceries and gym time. For years, I could get no internet at home and had to drive 10 miles each way to connect at the library. The visits meant I’d also connect with people. We became library family. Back then, getting online even seemed healthy — it offered a break from my solitude, since it involved visiting with acquaintances face to face.
More recently, I’ve moved into an RV on 90 acres, where internet availability is spotty at best. In the summer, when I’m working on a National Forest grazing allotment, there’s zero cell service. I sometimes use my phone, though, to take a picture of a bear or to consult a map.
Not counting time asleep, nowadays, especially in the summer, I spend more time outside than in. Daywork, some call it cowboying, requires me to pay attention and be resourceful because I’m often by myself, far from anything, with only my wits, an able body, my animals and perhaps a pair of pliers.
While the digital world seems replete with successful, look-at-me extroverts, out here, it’s the quiet, observant humans who have the advantage. The land and the work require being “present” in a consequential way. Not stuck in our own minds, not heading down virtual rabbit holes, but looking out for actual rabbit holes, or the bigger marmot holes, that could launch you over your horse’s ears or break its leg. If you’re distracted, you’ll miss things. If you miss things — like weather developments or changes in animals’ behavior (stressed calves, dehydrated dogs), like not closing that gate (or not leaving it open) — it will be to your detriment.
This summer, the Stoner Mesa fire encroached on the 15,000-acre U.S. Forest Service allotment where my boss puts her cattle. I was asked to move cows to a lower pasture, away from the fire. That sounds simple, but the country is thick with aspens and conifers, and it’s steep, rising from 8,500 feet at the banks of the West Fork of the Dolores River to 11,000 feet near Eagle Peak. In midsummer, the cows were contentedly feeding and completely uninterested in relocation. They became quiet and elusive. I relied on familiarity with their grazing and drinking habits and watched my dogs and horses, who usually see or smell cows before I do.
Some things I’ve learned:
I know scat. It will tell you who you’re sharing space with (bears, coyotes, bobcats, mountain lions, deer, elk).
I know how quickly it gets cold after the sun goes down on Stoner Mesa — about one degree per minute. Carrying layers is essential.
I know that even when the West Fork seems to be drying up, there are a remarkable number of little springs and reservoirs with water in the mountains. That’s where you may find cows. And deer and bears and birds, for that matter.
If you find yourself out in the middle of the metaphorical river, struggling amid the digital flood, I urge you to try to get out. Maybe find a real live stream to visit. I hope it has trout and is lined with raspberry bushes, thorns and all.
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