The other morning I awoke at 4 and swung a gate open to let the horses into a pasture. I wanted to give one gelding in particular some time on grass before I loaded him into my trailer. In the moonlight, the animals' shapes signaled who was who as they ambled from the dry lot onto the grassy field, dust trailing.

I showered, made coffee and petted a yawning dog. Then I led the roan gelding — his barn name is Olaf — to the rear of the trailer, where he briefly stood fast, demanding assurances this would not be a repeat of his journey north from Texas this spring when he and I were stranded in a blizzard.

On that trip I had pulled off the blacktop one evening, seeking refuge from wind and snow, and angled toward a hardscrabble spread that suggested not everything had worked out as planned. Through a paned window I could see an old boy on a couch taking oxygen from an upright tank. "Wheel of Fortune" was commanding his attention and the television excitement drowned out my knocking. When I cracked the door to give a shout, snow curled into a boot-filled hallway.

"All I got is that welded pen out back,'' the fellow said when I asked if he had a place for my horse. "No barn or nothin'. You're welcome to it.''

Driving instead to a nearby town, lancing snowdrifts en route, I checked into a timeworn motel where I qualified for the $48 "stranded traveler'' rate. As if, I thought, any other kind of traveler stays here. Then I backed my rig to within a few feet of my room door, shuttered the trailer tight, untied Olaf so he could move about, double-blanketed him, hung a bag of hay and a bucket of water, and patted him on the rear.

"Good luck,'' I said.

Now it was the recent early morning, and while Olaf pondered his options at the rear of my trailer, a blush of oranges, reds and yellows painted the eastern horizon. Perhaps, I thought, the gelding was caught up in the chromatic milieu of night giving way to day. Or perhaps it was simple resignation. Either way, he soon stepped into the trailer and settled into its forward hole, and we were down the road.
Dennis Anderson

Various smart people have studied the notion of enthusiasm and noted that with age it tends to diminish. Possibly so. But I'll never tire of driving into the morning sun, particularly with a trailer swinging behind, and the prospect of doing something physical for hours on end, especially with animals, and raising some dust in the process.

When I was a kid in North Dakota we had a black Labrador named Boze. This was my dad's favorite hunting dog, and in the evening along the back roads that surrounded our home in Rugby, N.D., my dad, brother and I would take Boze running. Sometimes we'd hike over a hill and through Dad's binoculars watch mallards, wigeon and gadwall dabble on nearby sloughs. Other times we'd run Boze in watery ditches while we rode alongside him in Dad's car, marveling at how lucky Boze was, and we were.

I still do that with my dogs: exercise them for fun and excitement. But on this morning, I was driving to a friend's place some four hours distant to work cattle with Olaf. Anticipation in life isn't something, it's everything. I learned that long ago. And as I leveled off the truck's diesel at 2,150 RPMs, a horse in the back and a straight road ahead, I was high as a kite, thinking about the day's prospects.

I had bought Olaf in an online auction, but I knew a lot about him before I pushed the keys on my laptop that declared me the lucky purchaser. Every bit as much as chaps, spurs and big hats, this is the way of the modern cowboy: logging in and bidding up horse flesh. Spending money you don't have has never been easier. But, as I've explained to my wife, "That's the thrill of it.''

Stopping once for an Egg McMuffin and a large coffee that I laced with a shot of 5-hour Energy, I arrived in midmorning. A few other cutting horse riders were working cattle as I unloaded Olaf. Then I brushed him, knotted his tail to keep him from stepping on it while working, booted him up and threw a blanket and saddle over his back. Choosing a bridle with a Brad Loesch bit, a real snake charmer, I was loping circles within minutes, warming up.

You could argue none of this amounts to a hill of beans as the world turns today. Just about everywhere people are shooting at each other, some wearing uniforms, and many not. Other places have never been so hot, so rainy or so dry and, as usual, the way forward is uncertain.

Yet when my turn came and I cut a cow from the herd, dropping my rein hand to Olaf's neck, he coiled beneath me like a half-ton cat, alert to match any move the heifer might make.

At these times the rider can control the horse with his legs, boots and spurs, and the way he, or she, rides to a stop, and sits it.

But in equal ways, control in these situations is illusory, which is cutting's frustration — and attraction.

A couple of hours later, feeling great, I loaded Olaf back into the trailer, and we were on the trip's rebound, diesel humming.