The Hundredth Meridianrnby Chilton Williamson, Jr.rnThe Great PortcullisrnIn the third week of August someonernpushes the button and brings summer tornan end in the Mountain West, thoughrnbeautiful weather and Indian summerrnlie ahead. Typically the change comesrnwith the discharge of a powerful thunderrncell, seemingly no different from anyrnother electrical storm but collapsingrninto a gray leaden overcast instead ofrnpropelling itself onward through crystallinernskies. The rains continue for a dayrnor two, then cease. The skies clear, andrnnothing appears changed. But everythingrnhas changed.rnEarly in August, the birds begin tornleave: some of the songbirds first, thenrnthe Canadian geese in military formation,rnand eventually the sandhill cranes,rnhigh-flying and confused as smoke,rngathering only to twist apart again,rncranking their rachitic cries distantly outrnof a cyanic sky. Pale underbodies neariyrninvisible against the sun’s glare, they beatrnraggedly away toward the bosques of thernRio Grande south of Albuquerque, towardrnMexico. By Labor Day Mexican,rnBasque, and Indian herders are drivingrnthe sheep down from the alpine meadowsrninto the hills above the creeks andrnrivers, for sorting and then for trucking torntheir winter range. Early last SeptemberrnI went with the Thoman family tornKendall Bridge on the upper Green Riverrn15 miles below the Green River Lakes.rnWe slept over the night at camp and inrnthe morning rode horseback up to arngrassy park where Bill Thoman, his sonrnDick, and Dick’s wife Susie, with thernhelp of a pair of Indians, had arrangedrnthe steel panels trucked in by pickuprnto form a series of pens and a funnelrnof wire fence drawing to them. Thernherders drove the sheep at the funnelrnwhere they milled and climbed on onernanother, bleating, while Dick and Susiernand their seven-year-old son Ben walkedrnthrough them from the funnel’s neck tornits mouth, flailing at the animals withrntheir coats to drive the flock more closelyrntogether still into the funnel as thernIndians stood watching the dogs workrnand I sat my horse and now and thenrnpushed back a straggler.rn./’^Hs^rnf-1rnAs the sheep passed singly along thernnarrow corridor formed by the panels,rnBill worked the gate to deflect themrninto one or another of the pens: wethers,rnewes, the large strong bucks, and thernrunty ones to be castrated. We seizedrnthe animals behind the front legs, threwrnthem, sat them on their rumps likernteddy bears, and held them while Dickrntwisted the tails off, and, operating withrna penknife, slit the scrota and tore outrnthe testes with his fingers; after hernstepped aside, Mickey Thoman injectedrnthe sheep in the inner thigh with penicillinrnand daubed a disinfectant on thernwounds, and Mary retrieved the sunderedrnparts in a pan for lamb fries.rnWhen Dick had flnished notching earsrnthe herders pushed the bloodied sheeprninto the hills again, and we drove thernbucks down to Kendall Bridge where therntruck waited, a semi coupled to an aluminumrnstock trailer. The aspen jettedrnfrom the ground like yellow gas flamesrnstreaked with green, the parks bristledrnwith the golden frost-killed grass, andrnbeyond the meandering Green thernnorthern abutment of the Wind RiverrnRange stood hugely in cross section,rnblocks of pink granite thrusting above arnpedestal of black timber, tilting against arnsuddenly overcast sky, waiting for snow.rnThat night a cold torrential rain fell drivenrnby a shrieking wind; at dawn the tentsrnwere frozen stiff and a thick fog packedrnthe valley. Driving home, I saw that thernhighest peaks—Gannett, Coolidge, Fremontrn—had received a dusting of snow,rnand by the time I arrived in Kemmererrnlate that afternoon the great and silentrnstillness of fall had embraced the town.rnTom Eliot to the contrary, April is notrnthe crudest month.rnThe first snow, usually in the initialrnweek of September, draws into thernparched ground within hours, and forrnweeks afterward the sky remains remoternand intensely blue. Out on the desertrnhunters pursue the wily antelope whoserndark and globular eyes can read the numberrnon your hunting permit from a distancernof half a mile and whose solernmeans of defense is flight, at speeds to 40rnmiles an hour. Their tan and white coatsrnmake them fairly easy to spot at a distance;rnafter selecting for height of hornrnabove the ear, curve, and thickness, thernhunter begins a stalk on his quarry thatrncan last hours, or all day. He creeps uprndry washes on hands and knees, crouchesrnmovelessly in excruciating positionsrnbehind small clumps of sagebrush, andrncrawls on his belly to the shaly verges ofrncanyons over a carpet of prickly pear thatrndeposits its fiery spines in the palms ofrnhis hands, in his chest, stomach, and legsrnbefore he has a chance to pull the trigger.rnOnce while chasing a splendid buck Irnalmost stepped on a large badger playingrnpossum in the brush. Since I was too farrnfrom the prey for a shot and didn’t wantrnto spook him by appearing over the risernbetween us, I sat for a time with my riflernacross my knees watching the badger,rnwho presently opened one eye and thenrnshut it quickly to convince me of thernactuality of his demise. A wilderness ofrndeep basins walled by steep cliffs stripedrnred and white, mesas buttressed by massesrnof gray, green, and cream-colored clayrnlike the fossilized feet of giant pachyderms,rnsmooth golden hills separated byrnfolds of lavender shadow, and juniperrnbreaks growing upon islands of red sandstonernrock—the desert stretches in everyrndirection to the horizon and the far bluernmountain ranges that triangulate it. Thernlone hunter, hearing the wind pass slantrnacross his ears, observing the dust devilsrnrun twisting over the sagebrush plain,rnand feeling in his bones the acute emptinessrnof fall, knows that he is preciselyrnthat: alone.rnBefore the Wyoming Game and FishrnDepartment split the deer and elk seasonsrnfrom each other ten years ago, movingrnup the deer hunt to the first twornweeks of October, I made a fishing triprnto western Montana every fall beforernreturning home for elk camp. By eariyrnJANUARY 1995/49rnrnrn