Memorable moments: The woolly riot

In 1997, I spent a month backpacking around the UK, falling deeply in love with the rugged beauty of Wales. I spent my days hiking the Pembrokeshire Coast Path, a spectacular trail that winds through ancient farms—some welcoming, and others guarded by stern "No Trespassing" signs.

One evening, as the sun began to dip toward the horizon, the sky turned a bruised, beautiful purple. I desperately wanted a photo, but a large field of sheep stood between me and the perfect shot. There wasn't a farmer in sight, so I decided to play the part of the silent intruder. I would sneak in, slip across the pasture, snap my masterpiece, and make a rapid, ghostly retreat.

I carefully, quietly unlatched the heavy wooden gate and swung it open.

The silence of the Welsh twilight didn't just break; it shattered. Immediately, three hundred heads snapped up in unison. Three hundred throats began to bleat with a deafening, hysterical excitement. Then, before I could even raise my camera, the entire flock charged.

They didn't just trot; they thundered toward me with a terrifying, single-minded pace. I stood my ground for a split second, convinced I was about to be trampled by a woolly mob, before realizing the frantic logistics of the farm.

The farmer had been rotating the flock. They had spent the day grazing their current field down to the nubs, and they had been waiting all afternoon for the gate to open to the lush, rejuvenated "salad bar" of the second field—exactly where I was standing. To the sheep, I wasn't an intruder; I was the Messiah of the Meadow, finally come to deliver them to the promised land of thick grass.

Panic set in as the "quiet" morning was replaced by absolute pandemonium. Realizing the farmer would likely be appearing over the hill at any second to investigate the noise, I did the only thing I could: I slammed the gate shut and latched it tight.

The silence that followed was heavy with 300 broken hearts. I didn't get my sunset photo, but I did get a rapid-fire exit. I fled down the path before the farmer could catch me, leaving behind a field of very disappointed, very vocal sheep who probably still remember me as the man who promised them heaven and delivered only a closed gate.