This Side of Sixty

We rode Brush Creek yesterday looking for strays. A stray is someone else’s cattle. We have them coming in on our fall grass from several different directions, in several different fields, which is not unusual for this time of year. It’s no one’s fault, for we share fence maintenance and work together to get things sorted out. The cattle are thinking of their own fall fields now, and the renegades are walking the fence lines looking for weaknesses. We knew the strays were there, but we rode the field without finding them until we climbed to a lookout point near Gremlin Ridge. Then we saw them, three cow-calf pairs far below us, lounging behind a cluster of willows along the creek.

Mark rode Pard and I rode Alice. I was thinking of describing them as “young,” but actually they’re 7 and 12 respectively - just a couple of horses that for one reason or another have matured without having been ridden much. It’s more correct to call them inexperienced. In any case, it was just what they needed, saddled and trailered to the mountains, ridden across a bridge, up a mountain and through soggy bottomlands. All under a golden Septemberesque sun.

At one point I asked Mark to hold my horse so I could check out a different species of willow, taller than the rest, growing in the thicket that crowds the creek. As I ducked under the canopy and came out the other side, I was delighted to see a sunny glen of marshy grass banked by a sea of cattails, which is not visible when you ride by. It is in such stark contrast to the dry sagebrush mountains that surround it, I wished I could plop down in the grass and memorize the view. That wouldn't work, of course, but for the guy on the opposite side of the willows accommodating my curiosity.

Days in the hills, after the weather has cooled and the flies have vanished, are precious. One day we repaired fence along a ridgeline, waist deep in serviceberry and snowberry bushes and bordered by quaking aspen. After we were almost done, we took a rare diversion and hiked to a lookout point just for the view. It was a respite we don’t usually take, but did because September allows it. The month offers an ever so slight slowdown, so welcome and so brief.

I wish I could bottle up September and dole it out in magical doses, careful to soak up every drop. I turned 60 this summer (wait, what?) and finally have to admit I’m in the September of my life. No wonder I’m looking at its beauties, its richness, and ignoring what lies ahead. 

resting on a cairn most likely built by a sheepherder

  

Signs of September

The hot weather finally broke. We’ve had rain all morning and a cool breeze. It feels lovely and it's so good for the range.

My garden is finally bearing. Oh, how we love fresh vegetables. Mark says they taste like what they are. A cucumber tastes like a cucumber. Crisp-tender and so delicious!

If you read my stuff much, you know that weeds often intrude on my writing. This time of year it’s goatheads that, well, get our goat. We know there's other weeds knocking at our door as well, some worse than what we've got. Mark came in the other day and asked if I knew what the yellow-blossomed plant was growing down in the corner pasture. He grumbled about a new noxious invader to deal with. I checked it out and didn't recognize the plant either, so I took a photo and emailed it to our county weed supervisor. Imagine my surprise when the email was returned with these pleasant words: “the plant is a native wildflower important for pollinators.” I was so happy. I told Mark, after all our weed worries, that it was a good omen.

We had a big herd move in the mountains. We had to go through the neighbor's cows in an adjacent pasture and over a mountain. There were creeks to ford and gates to thread the herd through. We had plenty of riders and the move went well except for the wind. The range was dry and several hundred hooves kick up a lot of dust. We were coated with dirt by the end of the day. I had put on sunscreen and chapstick which only attracted the dirt and turned my features black. Mark studied me, then handed me his handkerchief to wipe my face. I told him I was fine, I wasn’t far from water, but he insisted. “It’s awful,” he said.

Mark and I stayed overnight to clean up any pairs that got separated and came back to find each other. We heard bawling in the night and knew they were walking back individually and hopefully finding one another in the dark. After a leisurely breakfast the next morning and a 4-wheeler ride to check grass in the fields behind us, we had 12 pairs and one calf to take back. The air was still and it was a nice ride. I asked Mark if I could come next year for clean-up day only. “No,” he said, clean-up day is the reward for helping with the move.

It's a grasshopper year and one of the worst we've seen in the mountains. We witnessed a strange phenomenon when we came upon an especially heavy area and decided they were mating en masse. They were in clumps of one female and one or more males. The males are small and yellow, the females larger and brown. Their eggs will lay in the ground and hatch next year. Not something we welcome, but with the bad is always the good. About a week later, I was changing water at home and saw two monarch butterflies in a mating embrace. Another omen!

photo by Anita

it  only got windier as the day progressed 

yellow bee plant

everyone should grow a vegetable or two

lots of milkweed but no caterpillars