The phrase “until the cows come home” gained a new dimension for Les and me when our cows went AWOL.

First, I should note that we call our two guys “the cows” even though they are steers. We know the difference; no matter, we still call them “the cows.” Second, I confess that I did commit the cardinal sin of naming “the cows.” In my defense, at least the names – T-Bone and Rumproast – foreshadow their eventual fate.

Anyway, all summer T-Bone and Rumproast seemed content with their surroundings, munching down our tall grass, hanging out with the horses, chasing the dogs and perfecting some pretty spectacular drools.

Then, in early October, a stray cow from one of the forest grazing allotments happened by our lower fence.

Les was home at the time and noticed that one of our cows seemed to be on the wrong side of the fence, getting acquainted. Les hustled down the pasture to lure our errant cow back in, but the stray spooked and took off running. Our outside cow followed suit, prompting the inside cow to leap over the fence. (Can you hear the music from “The Great Escape?”)

It occurred to me that a 1,000-pound animal clearing a three-strand barbed wire fence could be a wondrous sight. But according to Les, it’s actually more of a heart-sinking, teeth-gnashing, tire-kicking experience.

Once he got over it, Les decided that at least our guys were confined to the adjacent pasture. They could wait there until we both got done with work. We would round them up together. It would be fun.

Unfortunately, the canny stray found a way out of the next pasture and by evening, all three were gone. A phone call to Jerry and Margaret down at the Dunstan Ranch turned up this intelligence: three cows had been sighted that day, lumbering west on Middle Fork Lane.

At daylight, Les traced our guys and the stray to yet another pasture, where he closed the gate to hold them. It was adjacent to a field full of cows, and we figured they’d see it as sort of a dogie day care.

We weren’t done with heart-sinking moments, though. The next one came that afternoon, when we drove down the road to gather up our guys. Passing by in the oncoming lane was a great big Holliday cattle truck.

Uh-oh, we thought.

Sure enough, when we got to the pasture, the three cows were gone – and so was the herd. It began to look as if our T-Bone and Rumproast had hitched a ride to town.

We checked with the Hollidays, who were quite gracious about a couple of rural newcomers who had managed to lose their entire herd of two cows. Checking their stock, however, they found no sign of T-Bone and Rumproast.

Hmmm. That meant “the cows” had made their escape before the trucks rolled in. We made a foray farther down the road, where another herd was said to be hanging out. Sure enough, there were two yellow ear tags amid the sea of greens. Les gave his trademark Zaitz-whistle – it works on dogs, horses, sons, the spouse, you name it – and two brown-eyed heads popped up, alert above the otherwise sleepy herd.

Turns out, the guys had settled in with a herd owned by the Burrows of Prairie City. They graciously allowed our two guys to hang out with their new friends until it was roundup time.

This time the cows were trapped, and there they stayed for about a week. Kind of like cow camp – making new friends, sleeping under the stars, learning some crafts …

Anyway, T-Bone and Rumproast are back at home now, acting like nothing at all has happened. Maybe they don’t even remember their journey. Who knows what goes on in those bovine brains? But just in case they get another bout of wanderlust, we’re keeping an eye on that lower fence.

In a few weeks, we won’t have cows any more but we will have a freezer full of beef. That’s a good thing, even if it means the end of the road for T-Bone and Rumproast. Even though it’s our first experience at raising animals for food, I’m OK with the process. Still, I’m kind of glad the cows had a little adventure along the way.

Scotta Callister, editor of the Blue Mountain Eagle, writes occasionally about ranch life on the Middle Fork John Day River.