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indelicate language sounded plain ridiculous here. I needed to change it up, maybe to Great Scot! That sounded even more ridiculous.
    Having thrown my hands down in a useless effort to break my fall, I tentatively inspected my palms. Damp sheep droppings the consistency of mashed peas were plastered against both. I couldn’t spot a single thatch of poop-free grass to rub off the mess. The soggy ground was soaking into my jeans and my legs were growing numb from the cold. I let fly another frustrated exclamation. And it wasn’t “God bless America.”
    Whether due to the cursing or the American accent, the sheep took off running once more, bashing into each other until complete chaos ensued. Then the flock abruptly stopped, turned, and stared at me. I stared back, concerned at this sudden about-face. I had reason to be; a set of horns bobbed through the pack. A ram emerged, heading straight toward me, horns curled around its head into menacing points. Dealing with a situation like this had not come up in my research, and I was hardly prepared. I’d rather face a rattlesnake; at least then I would know what to do.
    The ram plodded forward at a steady pace, not exactly charging yet but not leaving an opening to get past. All of the sheep faced me now in a burst of solidarity, blocking my downward escape. Would this Sheep King pursue me if I climbed back up the hill or would he be satisfied he’d proven his manhood and leave me alone?
    I scrambled to my feet and turned to head back in the direction I had come, but a thick, foggy veil had draped the peak and was rapidly descending. Visibility wouldn’t last more than a few minutes. My first day and I had already managed to upset the locals and get stuck on a Highland hill with a storm coming—a storm I had thought was hours away.
    The ram drew closer, bleating loud and long, and no doubt gearing up for a charge. The thought of those horns meeting up with my body sent my fight-or-flight response into high gear. I stepped backward looking for a tree I could climb and spied a long stick on the ground. Wrapping my fingers tightly around it, I swung up with force. The ram bleated what had to be a threat. I swung again, yelling my own version of a battle cry. The sheep scattered, abandoning their leader. The ram’s complaints became louder and more urgent. I took a couple of steps toward him, jabbing the stick in the air. He made no move to retreat. I waved the branch closer to his face, hoping he would take my warning to heart. He didn’t blink.
    “I don’t want to have to hurt you, but you need to move on. It’s time for me to get off this hill. You and your harem don’t need a sign to warn people not to worry you. You’re worrying me plenty. Now get out of my way!”
    I took a few steps backward. He advanced two steps.
    “Okay, if this is how it’s going down . . .” I rushed him, brandishing my stick with murderous intent, determined to whack anything in my way.
    He baaed me out, demonstrating his volume and lung capacity, and then stepped off the path seconds before my stick would have met with his shaggy body. I caught the contempt in his eyes as I flew past; this had all been a rather tedious comeuppance for the uninitiated Yank.
    The ram no longer blocked my descent, but I couldn’t stop if I wanted to. My legs more rubbery than my boots, I flailed down the hill, stick waving, adrenaline propelling me over the lumpy, rock-cluttered slope at a dangerous speed.
    The only thought that came to mind: don’t break your neck . No one would be looking for me up here and likely no one would for days—certainly one way to stake a lasting claim on my family’s land.
    Barely able to stay on my feet but motivated by the alternative of tumbling across the rocks and boulders poking through the spongy ground, I caught sight of an upward incline off to the side of the bottom of the hill. The thought flashed in my mind of a semi-truck burning its brakes down a mountain road,