"So what do you think of Obama?" I ask. But I already know the answer won't be politically correct. The Chief Motel we passed on the way has a "Me Like Um" motto above its promise of "newly-remodelled rooms," and my uncle has already encountered "birthers" — people who think Obama was really born in Kenya (regardless of his Hawaiian birth certificate) and his presidency is therefore illegal. They claim it was without a licence that he fished here in August. He couldn't get one, he's not American. "I think he's too close to those Muslims, you know, all that giving a speech in Egypt. What's he doing there with the Muslims when we've got real problems here at home?" 

I look around the dimly-lit bar and notice how the hard-drinking clientele watches suspicious newcomers like me, with my British-tainted accent and far too many questions. I ask another one: "Do the Hell's Angels come here, Brian?" Bingo.

"We get all the biker gangs here. I'm a biker myself, you see," he says pointing to his ad in Montana Biker, featuring his own "hog" (as Harleys are known) and the headline "Ride 'Em Hard, Y'All... Winter's Coming!!!" "They meet in the back and conduct their business. They're okay guys, but you wouldn't wanna mess with 'em." 

The sky looks as if it's on fire the next morning when I rise before dawn for the cattle drive: flaming russet and gold cling to the underbellies of a few scattered clouds and refuse to illuminate the dark earth
beneath. I dress in layers, warned that we would run the gamut of three seasons in a day, and indeed I think I can nearly see my breath as I hoist a huge Western saddle on to the back of a horse that looks bored by it. 

We're at a neighbouring ranch belonging to the Pullmans (family of actor Bill, a close friend of my screenwriter-director uncle) to drive their cattle off federal land ahead of the opening of big-game season. Despite the fact that I have ridden since I could walk, I'm struggling a bit with all the straps and heavy leather everywhere. Gary, a cowboy out of central casting, complete with worn leather chaps and a red bandana, offers help and loops straps around places that simply don't look right to the fox-hunting eye. Off we go, a motley crew. It's so windy, I can't feel my face. My saddle's so thick, I can't feel my horse. 

Our first task is to rescue a small posse of escaped cows that are dangerously close to the highway. As other riders chase the cows towards me, I have to block them and bounce them through the gate, back toward the herd with a rapid back-and-forth manoeuvring on horseback. This is the main tactic in cattle driving: chasing, blocking and bouncing the cows back to where you want them to go, in a move reminiscent of the Atari video game, Breakout. For in the sprawling expanse of federal land, the cows are everywhere: up hills, down ravines, hiding behind bushes and houses. With dogs to help us, we have to round them up into a herd we then drive back towards the ranch where they will be corralled, sorted, penned, and inspected.