June Scrapbook

June is slipping away. June always does that.

We had a major move over the last mountain with the cattle. The route is convoluted. It includes a blind corner and a steep grade. It’s a trick to execute with a big herd, so we determined to cut them in half. We were able to make a clean sweep and not separate any cows from their calves and got the first herd well along their way before dropping three riders to gather the remaining bunch. When the first herd topped the mountain, Anna and I fell back as well and left five riders to get them the rest of the way.

We found Mark and his skeleton crew with the second herd gathered and just about to attempt a creek crossing. They were glad to have us and our three border collies. 

When the first cows crossed the creek, they immediately headed for home instead of climbing the hill. It was hidden to us and being otherwise occupied with the tail end, we didn’t see their escape. We had to gallop around the lead and get them turned around before we could attempt the climb. After much ado we got them lined out just in time to face two side-by-sides with flags fluttering on each side of the machines. This caused an about-face with the lead which we aggressively mauled back to face the right direction.   

The last excitement for the day was doling out the stash of yellow slickers we have stowed in the horse trailer just before the rain started. The day ended well, but I suffered the last two hours thinking I could forego my biking shorts hidden under my jeans. I won’t do that again.

Since then we’ve had the disappointing experience of a thief in the mountains that not only stole from us, but left a gate open and let the cows into a neighboring field. We hate to lock things up, but that’s our only recourse.  

At home we’re moving yearling heifers around, fighting weeds, irrigating and more irrigating.

It’s lovely weather, we’ve received lots of rain and the ranch is exploding with growth. We sup on the terrace every evening and make a point to soak in the beauty that surrounds us. But we’re tired and behind as usual. We have to bolster one another up to let some of it go and quit worrying. I asked Mark what it was like to be him and he said with a smile, “I’m not bored.”   

I don’t have any cow pictures, just wildflower pictures from a rare day of quiet on the range.     

brodieae

blue flax

sticky geranium

a type of arnica  (I think)

A Visit from Down Under

Anna and Gus are ranchers from New South Wales, Australia. They’re on a five week visit to the U.S. to see their daughter who is working here in her gap year following high school graduation. They're friends of friends. They visited the ranch over a couple of days and got a feel for how we do things in the West.   

We took them to the mountains to check cattle. They got to handle a lariat, a tool the beef industry never developed on their continent. Because of this, their saddles have no horn to dally a rope to - and nothing to hang on to as far as I can tell. We found a sick bull which Mark roped to give him a shot of antibiotics. He was a young bull, but uncooperative, and Gus got the challenging job of giving the injection and then, the riskiest part, taking the rope off his neck when we were done. A bit of excitement for sure!

We talked at length about the differences between ranching there and ranching here. They can’t use temporary fence because the overpopulated kangaroos knock it down. Their squeeze chute is called a “crush.” They use motorcycles; we use horses. We’re called ranchers; they’re called graziers. They graze year 'round; we only wish we could graze year 'round. They rely on highly variable rainfall. We irrigate and can usually count on rangeland moisture. They shared the heartbreak of having to sell cattle to deal with drought. We talked of the challenges of grazing in a cooperative and pleasing the public on public land.    

But it’s our common values we enjoyed sharing the most. We both raised our kids immersed in the business, fed them home-cooked meals, and didn't let them drink pop (fizzy drinks). We both share the feeling that we’re running a ranch on land that is too valuable to put cows on, but do it anyway. We're both confused by our respective governments and the idiocy that sometimes accompanies agriculture policy. We love grass and species diversity and deeply respect soils and all the organisms that live there. Cattle are not only our livelihood, they’re our hope to enhance the land we manage. We run cows through dry and wet, hot and cold, high prices and low prices.   

We had fun sharing stories of what it's like when your spouse is your business partner - and the challenges thereof. I'm adopting the title Gus gave Anna on their farm, Minister of War and Finance! Anna is the first woman rancher I've met, who, like me, has photos on her phone of grass before and after grazing. Ya gotta love that.    

Anna on Alice, Gus on Sly, Mark on Jane

wildflower season

Word of the Day - Sylvan

Mark took a couple of days to get the fences pulled up on our mountain ground. He left me with only one stream of water to change so that makes me happy and I feel a bit of freedom with him gone overnight. That is until I wake up and feel unease at my aloneness. He took the mosquito net. I hope he uses it because the little buggers are fierce this year.

It’s lovely to have the cattle in the mountains. They take constant tending, but it’s a different kind of tending than winter-time feeding. Mark knows each animal even on the range, but to me it’s as if they take on different characteristics in the wild. He might say, “there’s the cow you blogged about in the calving barn with the twin.” Really? I don't even recognize her. She’s just another slick hereford out enjoying the foraging season.   

It’s snowing cotton at our house from the giant cottonwoods that grace the northwest corner of our sylvan homestead. I like the sound of "sylvan." It means wooded, only more poetic. It is associated with an idyllic or pastoral setting, disconnected from the modern world. And we are, that is, we do . . . live in the woods. No, not a majestic hardwood or pine forest. Our trees are common black willows, box elders, elms, Russian olives and cottonwoods. They’re fast growing. Some might call them trashy. We call them beautiful, stately, comforting.

I’ve learned there can be too much of a good thing, however. I’m trying to convince Mark that we need to take some trees out to address the “how many ever” board feet of lumber that is produced every year on our ranch. The leaves cover and choke the grass in the pasture, the base of the trunks provide hiding places for weeds, and most of all, with too many neighbors, the lovely silhouette of each tree is blurred and crowded out. Then there are the limbs, upon limbs, which need to be picked up and hauled away or burned. If I feel old, it’s after a day of dealing with weeds or tree limbs.

Not to mention the cotton! Every seed on the cottonwoods has a halo of white stuff that coats the lawn and garden and piles in the corner of the porch. Sometimes as the breeze swirls on the pavement, balls are formed - neat little spheres that dance a dos-a-dos on the sidewalk. Working in the garden means a nose full of cotton. The seed-making indicates that we’ve had a wet spring and our trees are making the most of it. Nature is cool like that. We’re not complaining. Mark says it’s a reminder that we’re not in charge. How true, like the mosquitoes.   

a man-made flood irrigating pond

they're loaded this spring

another sign of a wet spring: expanses of camas lillies