When the backpacking craze hit our family, the annual reunion was scheduled at a wilderness campground high in the Continental Divide. Fifty strong, our family set up a base camp in a huge, cattle-infested alpine meadow near a mountain stream. Bulls abounded, but the two groups coexisted peacefully.

Although city bred, I had spent the last five years living on a farm, but not so my sister, Bonnie. As we bumped along the narrow dirt track in the equipment-lade VW bug, often eye to eye with placidly chewing Herefords, Bonnie grew increasingly apprehensive.

Finally the road petered out into an enormous meadow seemingly carpeted with grazing Herefords. At the far side, our Aunt Wilma waved and yelled a greeting.

We shrugged on our 50 pound backpacks and prepared to hike over to the base camp as several family members started across to meet us. My sister, always leery of even my domestic farm animals, hung back.

"Come on across," yelled Wilma. "It's okay. We've been walking through the cattle for three days now. The bulls won't charge!"

"Charge!" shrieked Bonnie hysterically. "Charge? I was afraid they'd give it to us for free!"

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