Gotta admit, it took me a while to figure out what that sound was.
It was a low-pitched and kind of lethargic boop-boop-boop-boop sound, like a goose honking but slowed down by two-thirds. It was coming from either right in front of me or somewhere just out of sight next to me. It was weird, like nothing I’d ever heard before.
But then I saw what it was. In front of me, a small band of wild horses had chased the range cattle off a salt block and they were now licking it down to a nubbin. But every once in a while one would try to take a bite of it. And that’s what was making the sound.
It was horse teeth on salt.
Wild horses were the reason I had headed out here to the Harold Creek valley west of Water Valley in the first place. A couple of months ago I’d reencountered a family group that I’d first seen nearly a year before, so I was hoping to find them again to see how they were doing.
I was especially hoping to see the young blue-eyed, white-pelaged baby. Called a cremello, it was one of the most unique-looking wild horses I’ve seen and I wanted to have another look and see how it was doing.
So, thinking that early morning might be the best time to find them, I was out the door and on the road by 5 a.m. and headed west.
Such a gorgeous morning. It was calm and warm and just humid enough that a light mist filled the valleys. The canola fields, now in full bloom, were glowing bright yellow in the early light and I found a pair of mule deer fawns on the edge of one. They bounced away a few steps when I stopped but one paused for a moment, a single yellow petal pasted to its forehead.
There were a few clouds around once I got a little further west and they cast shadows down into the Grease Creek valley as they passed in front of the sun. But they soon drifted eastward and left both the Grease Creek and Harold Creek valleys in sunshine. Tendrils of spider silk caught the light and the ripples on the creek water reflected blue and amber behind stands of fireweed. I could hear dogs barking at a nearby ranch house and cattle bawling from over in the willow-filled meadows.
The beaver dams up the valley were full to the brim with coffee-coloured water, so I put up my little drone to get a bird’s-eye view. The thin, bluish mist softened the warmth of the morning light but with so little breeze, the waters were like mirrors.
Dew dappled everything so, landing the drone, I grabbed my other cameras and went for a walk.
The flowers were amazing. Fleabane, cinquefoil and harebells were everywhere. Three-flowered avens — prairie smoke — were blooming, too. Love how their furry heads catch the light. Some bright magenta flowers grabbed my attention, too. They were thistles, very low to the ground. Gorgeous blossoms but unpleasant to lean your elbow on when you don’t notice them.
I wasn’t quite as far up the valley as the last place I’d seen the little cremello’s family back in March. But back in the truck and driving on, I kept looking for them. I found a momma mallard and her babies on a roadside pond and cowbirds arguing on a tall pine tree, but no horses.
Not a surprise, really. They have plenty of room to roam out here, open stands of aspens and grassy meadows to laze in, so they could have been anywhere.
There were clearly horses around, though.
Stallions drop their loads of processed grass in piles to mark their territory and there were mounds all along the road — some of them quite fresh — that showed there were horses in the vicinity. And just past the willow flats where Harold Creek veers away from the road, I found them.
Wasn’t much of a challenge, either. They were trotting down the road right at me and they looked like they were heading somewhere specific.
They were.
Salt and other minerals aren’t very accessible out in the wild, so during the grazing season when ranchers are allowed to run cattle in the foothills they put out blocks of salt to supplement the usual diet of grass and shrubs. These blocks help keep the cattle healthy through the months they spend unattended and living, essentially, like the wild animals their ancestors used to be.
But cattle aren’t the only animals that need these salts and minerals. Everything from deer to butterflies will take advantage of these salt licks. And so will the wild horses.
The band in front of me weren’t my little cremello’s band, but they were a handsome group all on their own. The stallion paused to glare at me as the horses cut through the trees before charging off among the cattle gathered near the salt block and leading the blaze-faced band down to the lick. Where they all bent down to slobber away.
Not wanting to annoy them, I stayed back with my long lens and watched through the viewfinder as they tongued away. The little foal with them didn’t partake, but the rest of the band lapped it up. And as they did, I heard that weird sound.
I’ve done a poor job of describing it so far, but suffice to say it was a strange, hollow sound, a scraping sound. And through my long lens I could see that the sound was indeed caused by scraping. The horses were trying to gnaw chunks of salt off the block and that was the cause of the sound. I could see them biting at it, see their jaw muscles clenching as they managed to break off tiny chunks and chew them.
A couple of cattle tried to join with them, but one look from an older mare sent them backing away. The rest of the cattle wandered off into the trees and down into the valley while the horses licked up their salt. Finally, a couple of the horses wandered away from the block and grabbed mouthfuls of grass. Soon, the rest joined them. The cattle gave them a wide berth as they grazed.
By now it was plain that I wasn’t going to find the band I’d originally headed up here for. But because it was now barely nine in the morning, I decided to keep going up the valley and over the top to the headwaters of the Little Red Deer River. There were more beaver ponds to explore and maybe more horses.
The ponds were nice and there were cattle but no horses. What there were, though, were trucks and their passing filled the valley with dust, so I just kept on going.
I hit the big road and turned north toward the Burnt Timber creek valley, where I stopped to explore around one of the campgrounds. Surprisingly, there was nobody there. Well, there was a particularly territorial squirrel. But no campers. I’d expected the place to be full.
And as I was photographing the pugnacious squirrel, I heard another sound I hadn’t expected to hear. From somewhere off in the distance came a rumble that started low, increased in volume and then shut off.
Thunder?
The sky that I could see looking up from among the trees was clear. But as I got back to the main road and looked around, I could see billowy clouds off to the north. Yeah, must have been thunder.
I drove on a little farther and then turned off on a road that led down to the Burnt Timber Creek bottom to explore a bit more. It was hot and humid down in the valley but pleasant, the sultry air filled with the buzzing of bugs and the singing of birds. I parked the truck and got out for a walk.
A little stream — Stud Creek, I think it’s called — cuts through the shady side of the valley before joining Burnt Timber Creek a little ways along. It’s a pretty, colourful spot any time and a great place to find a variety of mushrooms in late summer. But today it looked, well, almost surreal.
Everything was green except for the roses and bunchberries blooming in the shade. And not just regular green, but an electric, neon green, The horsetails and twisted stalk and moss and lichens were all various shades of emerald and jade. With the sunlight coming down the slope and between the trees, it was almost beyond belief.
It was real, but it definitely looked like it wasn’t.
The thunder definitely was real, though. The billowy clouds I’d seen back down the road were getting darker now and the thunder had gone from a low rumble to a clap. It was still mostly sunny and relatively calm where I was, but that wasn’t going to last long. So I packed up and hit the road again.
I was running mostly parallel to the storm, but I could see it clearly as I rolled southeast through the hills. Stopping at a set of beaver ponds to fly my drone again — I love looking down among the beaver-drowned trees — I saw a flash of lightning off to the north beyond it. The thunder got to me maybe a minute later. The storm was getting closer, so I landed the copter and rolled on.
First came the wind. Then the rain. And, finally, the hail. It was pea-sized by the Burnt Timber Gas Plant and — mercifully, for only a few minutes — walnut-sized over by Boggy Lake. But by the time I hit the Little Red Deer River valley again I’d passed under the storm and was now beyond.
By Winchell Lake, south of Water Valley, it was hot, sunny and breezy. Among the trees near the shore I found a ruffed grouse who thought it could hide from my camera. I watched as it preened and made little humming grouse noises among the shadows.
Nearby there were pond lilies in bloom, so I put the little drone up again and flew low over them, while in a sheltered valley just up the road I found lovely wood lilies in bloom, swaths of blanket flowers — one of which hosted a police car moth — and tall, blossoming cow parsnip. Down here the only sound was the rustling of leaves and the tinkle of the spring-fed creek. Until I heard another sound. Thunder, again.
The storm I’d passed was beginning to catch up, so I rolled on back toward the city. But just east of Dogpound, I stopped next to a canola field to have a look back toward it.
And as I stood there with my camera aimed across the sea of yellow blossoms toward the storm, I heard another unexpected sound. But this one I recognized right away.
A savannah sparrow had landed on a fence post right beside me and was singing its chirpy little afternoon song.
A perfect — and melodious — way to end my day.
