The Patina of Life

We walked the young cows home from cropland grazing in a neighborhood about 9 miles from here. I was happy to see that lots of homes, the older ones anyway, still have fences protecting their yards. One couple came out to watch the herd go by and I thanked them for their fences. It’s a happy thing when people enjoy watching the cattle instead of being annoyed with us.

I brought the pickup and trailer along and let Dot bring the back end. Such a cushy job.

This is a sumptuous time of year. The dead of winter has a different feel and a different beauty. For now the damp grass lays over in swells and the cattle pull up big mouthfuls. Before the lovely snowscapes of winter are upon us, we enjoy this - a subtle grown-up beauty, laden with leaves and summer’s refuse.

I had a fun week hosting my sisters who visited from Montana and Maryland. We, along with my 3 local sisters, spent a week reconnecting and sistering (a word my computer redlines). We attended a Christmas symphony, but otherwise entertained ourselves by visiting and reminiscing with each other and some close cousins. We visited our ancestral home and discussed the attributes of replacing vs restoring the 132-year-old windows. Donna, experienced in old houses from her time living in the Eastern U.S., discussed the value of patina when assessing old things.

Patina is an Italian word that originally referred to the greenish film that grows on aging metal items, but it’s been expanded to include the warm, worn look of leather, etc. acquired through regular use and the passage of time. It’s a respectful word, honoring the change a surface acquires through weathering and experience. Donna said we ladies showed patina as well. The beauty and wisdom of worry lines and laugh lines, of gray hair and weathered skin. We spread our hands in front of us and remembered our parents’ hands, bulbous with lifetimes of hard work.

My photos for the last couple of weeks show the patina of a year at its end. Crop aftermath, bare trees, yellow grasses, even the winter coats on the horses and cows mimicking the browns and buckskins of our natural world.

Sis, Pard, Jane, Alice

Such a beautiful day from inside the pickup!

Dot keeps them coming

Kit, Becky, Rich, Merle, me, Donna, Janene

Cow Trails

We brought the young cows out of the mountains, those expecting their first and second calves. We’ll keep them separate for the winter. They do better if they don’t have to compete for feed with the mature cows. But when we put them on the road, they were lost without the older cows to show them the way. It took extra nudging to convince them they needed to walk home.   

There were only three of us to put them up and over the steep grade at Rawlins Creek, with Alan, our longtime helper, on foot at that. When we finally came out on top, He and Dave went back to help the rest of the crew who were putting the older cows through the chute for their fall vaccinations. I stayed with the young cows on my favorite horse, Jane, and with my border collie, Dot. We took the herd along the old stock trail that follows the river. Gary brought me lunch after a while and checked the lead cows before he headed back to the main herd.  

I’ve ridden this route many times. I rode it as a kid, begrudgingly taking turns with my sisters because we didn’t have enough horses to go around. And after I grew up and took a detour with the wrong man, I married Mark and came back to my roots. Mark was raised just like me on a neighboring ranch who summered cattle on the same range. He traveled the same route spring and fall - only he had his own horse and didn’t have to share! But there’s more.  

My Mom was raised in these mountains; her love of the land and the river lives on in me. The cabin built by my great-grandparents can be seen over the bluff along the Trail, safe from vandals, but victim to the passage of time and the river that erodes toward its foundation. When my folks married, Mom moved downstream, but never really left the mountains because of their herd’s annual transhumance. She didn’t ride horses, but was vital to the ranch in other ways. And every year, when she drove past the site of her childhood home, she paused.

Times are different today. I worry about the Trail in ways she never had to. There are more and more fences every year crowding our cows into a narrower and narrower lane. The county widens and “improves” the road annually. More off-road travel, 4-wheelers and side-by-sides, mean more two-tracks taking off in every direction. Invasive plants are moving in on our beloved sagebrush sea and we imagine no way to stop their advance – the weeds or the people.

But for some reason, perhaps I was busy moving the herd, perhaps it was the solitude. In any case, I took the day off from worrying. When the herd arrived at our destination, I waited. I tied Jane to a cedar, sat on the bluff and thought about my Mom and Dad. Thankfully I dressed warm that day. I told Mark I would've been in tears if I hadn’t. I soaked up the evening, the sunset, and finally darkness, trusting that the pickup and trailer, studded with lights, would show up eventually. And he did.

My Mom, Alma, on the Trail

heading home

timeless 

Balancing Act

We rode in the hills yesterday putting cows on the mountain, encouraging them to graze up high where the feed is good. After a record-breaking cold spell in October, this weather feels sublime. And with the calves weaned, the cows have a carefree attitude. They move off the dogs with agreeable, obedient movement. Gosh it was fun. The hunters are gone and we had the place to ourselves except for a traveling band of sheep.  

There’s a quietude in the mountains. An expectancy of what's to come. Soon - very soon - the snow will fall and keep falling and push us to lower elevations. We have one more pasture downriver that we’ll move to soon. There the grass lays waiting, a deep tan color, hardened off with maturity and frost, but luscious feed for dry cows.

Jesse, Mark and I made good use of another warm day today. We wound the calves from pasture to pasture and into the working corrals to sort by sex. We walked them by us in an alley to the sorting gate, the heifers “by” and the steers “in,” then turned them back out onto grass. Jesse ran the gate expertly, with smooth, methodical movements to avoid scaring the calves. They’re anxious enough just being in close proximity to us, so we move carefully to teach them that we won’t crowd them, won’t jump in front of them, and will give them time to think.

I carried my walking stick that I got at an auction this summer. It has sections wrapped in leather complete with beads and feathers. You know the look. A family member built it at scout camp. It feels good in my hand and is versatile enough to not only work as a walking prop, but can direct a dog or block the movement of a calf. Jesse and Mark drummed a beat on the corral boards for me, but I still didn’t break into war song. That would be silly.

I forgot and left Dot in the barn, so I rode my bike back later to get her. It was just before dark and the new house being built on a side road stood out in the fading light. Seems there are lots of people who want a country view. I don’t blame them, but if they keep coming (which they will) with new neighbors all around us, how do we keep the country in the view? For now, I just hope the newcomers slow down for my dog when they pass us on their way to town.   

I spent a couple of days in Boise with the grouse/grazing research planning team. We're on the sixth year of a ten year project studying the effects of spring grazing on sage grouse. I love the stimulating conversations, and after this much time involved in the study, can keep up with the research discussion. I got to spend two evenings with Callie which was a bonus.

Anna and Cole, who had a stint in Nebraska, have made their way back to Southern Idaho. We now have all our kids within 4 hours of home and I’m feeling very blessed.   

With so much to be grateful for, I wonder why I have this nagging anxiety. I’m thinking back to the weaning process of a few weeks ago. All of my worrying beforehand yielded a big fat NADA. Well, that's not entirely true, the weather turned on us five days after the calves got home. Adding to the stress, the ditch froze, and some may have not found the trough. Despite our best efforts two calves died of pneumonia. The point is, worrying did nothing to help.

I’m determined to face my emotional failings at this stage of life. Mark deserves that much. . . . On the other hand, sometimes my concerns are valid and acknowledging them is OK too. It’s the balancing act that makes a marriage, makes a ranch, makes a life.   

good calves on good feed

the new brace looks sturdy

kicking through the leaves in Boise's north end
tomorrow is Halloween!

research planning team retreat
photo by Dave Meusil

Two Less Chores

Each morning when I look out my kitchen window, the landscape gets a little more muted. The winds of late are working on the leaves and the pasture grass is fading to golden from the tops down. Mark turned off his last stream of water. The canal that flows along our driveway will soon dry up adding to the melancholy I feel about the end of summer.    

The ranch has had two passages to mark the season. My border collie Kate had to be put down from a progressive neurological disorder. She was thriving after her midsummer maggot episode, but within a two-day period developed symptoms that the vet said would only worsen. She was 14 years old and her best herding days were behind her. We were all caught up; I say goodbye with thanks and no regrets.

Kate followed Beauty, my first border collie, and like her, tagged along whenever I worked cattle on foot or horseback. Kate, though being close to the ground, could always keep track of me, no matter how many zigzaggy turns my horse made through a maze of sagebrush. Collie’s have super powers. Wherever I paused, there was Kate. Always ready to read my position and keep the cattle together, headed in the right direction. Both of my female dogs had barrels of stamina. I always considered them good role models.

The second passage was taking our standby quarter horse, Sly, to a retirement home. He was getting thin, and being in a corral with other horses, it was hard to feed him enough to keep him in good condition. Our friend Lonna, animal lover through and through, took him under her wing. He’ll be close by for her grandson to ride. Max loves Sly too, calls him “Swy.” Mark has been worried about his equine friend, but the worry is gone now knowing Sly can enjoy some well-deserved senior care.

Sly has tended many an inexperienced rider, of which there have been many over the years. And he’s tended the current cow boss, Mark, as well, who could get more out of Sly than anyone. Sly could turn a cow hard if you were skilled enough to ask him. We left him on Marsh Creek, nibbling hay and nickering to the neighbor’s horses, close enough to socialize, but far enough away that they're not competition for feed.  

I can’t even imagine how many cattle Kate and Sly have herded. All over the home ranch, up and down the trail to the mountains, winding through quakies, fording creeks, navigating slippery side hills, doing our bidding and making the impossible, possible with their help. They and a long line of others just like them have been companions and helpmates since the beginning of this centennial ranch. They round out who we are. Seeing our life as a mini diorama, there’s the red and white cows, barns, houses, tractors and corrals, tree-lined canals and haystacks in a row, all with the enduring land as a backdrop. Then there’s the people, growing up, growing older. And in the margins are our helper animals, our invaluable colleagues: Rocker, Susie, Woodrow, Moses, Mater . . . . . The scene is only complete with them at our side.     

We've never owned one more beautiful

photos by Anita:

Max on Swy

me and Kate

For the Birds

October sunshine is coming through the quakie out our front door. My Dad brought me the tree from the Blackfoot River Mountains where they grow in abundance. The tree feeds my soul. It brings my Dad - and the mountains I love - close in. The quakie is in full yellow brilliance, but most of the color in our trees has been squelched by a super hard frost. The box elder and cottonwood leaves are brown and crunchy. Dang it, I hate it when that happens.  

We've enjoyed watching dark eyed juncos foraging on the ground and we identified a ruby crowned kinglet in the bushes. Audubon says these species may migrate further south or stay and overwinter here. We left them plenty of standing seedheads on weeds and flowers, trees and brush for shelter, and leaves and plant litter to hide wintering insects for the occasional protein meal. Our place looks messy at first glance. Well, second glance too, but I have a new term for it. We had a young woman staying with us that called our ranch an “ark,” a stopover for wildlife in a sea of harvested farm ground. One of the definitions of ark, expanding on the biblical one, is something that affords protection and safety. I like the sound of that. We’re not messy, we’re an ark!

It reminds me of another visitor years ago that gazed off our porch and said, “Looks like you have a good mix of native and introduced species!” He was right and we’ve laughed about that over the years.

Mark has been stockpiling pasture, leaving lots of growth for fall and winter cow feed. He found me lying in the deep grass along our driveway last night. I could smell its pungent aroma and when I pulled the plants apart, the soil surface was covered with worm castings.

Winter is staging her descent, but life abounds all around us if we pay attention. It's cozy-up time. We've dug the potatoes and laid in the firewood. Hay is in the stack and the pastures are brimming with feed. Weaning calves is on the docket for next week. Time to dally the loop and draw in the harvest.

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

An Eight-Thousand Mile Handshake

Ben was a long ways from home, but in his element. He was visiting the Western U.S. from his home in the Falkland Islands, and came to spend a day on an Idaho cattle ranch. Mark saddled Gary's solid horse, Joker, and though Ben hadn’t been on a horse in years (he uses a quad, 4-wheeler, at home) after about 15 minutes he settled in and became just another member of our crew. The day’s task was moving the herd of cows and calves onto fresh grass in an adjoining pasture, while separating the bulls as they went through the gate.

Ben raises sheep and cattle in East Falkland and deals with similar issues as ours: keeping electric fences hot, overgrazing/overresting of plants, stock density, grazing timing, invasive plants, erosion, isolation, effects of weather, and the list goes on. When he arrived at our home and we settled on the deck to visit, we wasted zero time with pleasantries and went right to the heart of the challenges and opportunities of raising livestock on the planet today.

He stayed the night with us and said he woke up at 2 a.m. and wrote an email to himself, and to us, with, “the answer,” he called it. The email talked about the hurdles we face in applying the powerful tool of grazing to the best of our abilities, and how we need to “get it right in our inner world, in order to get it right in our outer world.” We know exactly what he means. Like us, he has one foot in traditional methods and one foot in the new/old world of holistic grazing. There are many blocks to advancing our best practices, some real and some we just think are real.

Ben is the same age as Mark and this was his first visit to the States. After a few hours of gathering cattle under a gorgeous Idaho sky, the heady scent of sage all around us, he said if he had come as a young man he might never have gone home. I rather doubt that after hearing the deep love in his voice when describing his homeland.

He showed us photos of beautifully restored grasslands after addressing decades of overgrazing by sheep. One photo showed a sea lion lounging amongst giant tussock grass plants along the shoreline - with cattle in the background! Turns out that grazing, if done at the right time of year and then allowing the plants to regrow, can complement the use of the same habitat by sea lions. Other seashore users are penguins, who prepare a kind of seedbed with their nesting activity. Ben and a group of volunteers then follow up by planting plugs of tussock grass thereby restoring a healthy coastline.   

We were surprised to see that the cattle grazing Ben's land were of the same hereford based breeding as ours. One photo showed a group of yearlings walking off a barge onto Ben’s farm, and they could have been our own.    

We are joined with Ben by an ethic, a philosophy, a love of land and animals. We’re joined by a thirst to find better ways to enhance soil fertility, grass vigor and ecosystem diversity, while improving the carbon cycle and ultimately helping to address climate change. The path is rocky. Ben and I have both read the timely book, Call of the Reed Warbler, by Charles Massy, and I found a line that I wish I had shared with Ben. Massy quotes Wes Jackson who founded The Land Institute in Kansas. "If you’re working on a problem you can solve in your own lifetime, you’re not thinking big enough.” The words resonate with us and I'm sure they would for our new visitor as well. Ben, if you're out there, let me know what you think. 

Dot makes the Grade, and other News

We’ve been moving cattle around – as usual. Here at home the heifers have been seesawing through irrigated pastures. We blood tested the group of possible replacement heifers for pregnancy, and then, armed with the results, gave each one a new identification tag to join the breeding herd. We appreciate the new processing chute even more each time we use it. It’s quiet, safe and functional. A good design makes such a difference.  

The other heifers will head to a final feeding phase before being turned into nutritious food. The flow of energy from the sun, to plants, to animals, will be completed as nature intended. But as Seth told me, “Mom, it’s not by some grand design or intention. It’s what worked!” What he means is that ruminants cycling cellulose created from the sun’s energy - while moving frequently - worked throughout evolutionary time to provide for multitudes of species. Many folks, especially the fake meat crowd, are blind to this simple process.

I’ve been having fun with my young border collie, Dot. She’s really pulling her weight now after a slow start. She excels at fording streams and canals to gather cattle on the other side. She’s gaining confidence and following my cues to stay where she’s needed.  She’s finally learning to move off a steady stare and to commence “herding,” which is, after all, her job. I’m no expert trainer. We just stumble along and somehow get the cattle where we want them, learning as we go. Sure is fun with a helper.

Mark and I spent a night in the mountains to fix fence and move cattle. After fencing for several hours, we quit early, well 7:00 pm or so, and tried out our new solar shower before fixing supper. It was great, even though we added hot water to please Mark for his turn. The next morning I woke up with a sick headache and still had to get on Jane and ride for several hours moving cattle. I had forgotten my meds, but hoped if I ignored it, my headache would go away. And it seemed to do just that while in the midst of herding a bunch of cows that didn't know where they were going. But when we finished, and had to ride the hour back to the cabin, I was miserable.

Summer moves quickly at high elevation. The wrens are already gone from around the cabin. They had a nest at the outhouse and scolded us continuously on our last trip. It's getting quiet too soon for me.  

The other summertime constant at home, besides moving cattle, is moving water. Mark heads to the ditches every morning. He keeps a plastic tub in the bed of his pickup to collect refuse that shows up in the waterways. It’s easy to understand how trash ends up in the ocean because water intercepts objects which then make their way downstream. Most of it is single-use plastic drink containers. What an unnecessary crutch we’re teaching our kids to expect. And even if you don’t throw it on the roadside, it ends up somewhere. We can do better.  

cooling off and getting a drink

early morning gather

the power of a good design

tools of the trade

what the canals (and Mark) gather up

Playing our Part

Well, that’s how July went. It’s been hot, like July is supposed to be. But oh, our Idaho nights! We don’t have an air conditioner, just let the morning breezes do the job. We’ve been sleeping in the basement where it’s cool and quiet. I tell Mark it's a mini-vacation. Why does it feel so good to snuggle under blankets even in mid-summer?

We identified a new bird (to us) this year, a western wood pewee. It’s nondescript in looks, gray/brown with a touch of a topknot on its head. Its song is a somewhat annoying screech. Kind of like a nighthawk with a blurb in the front. They start calling before dawn and are the last to bed at night. Different birds seem to dominate our homestead each year, or maybe we just turn our attention to them. For a couple of years it was the kingbirds squawking us awake each morning. Last summer, I imagined that all I heard was the two-tone monotonous call of the chickadee. We love them all, of course.

We will remember this July as when my dog, Kate, had the maggot episode. Flies took advantage of a hot, moist spot on her, maybe where a cheat grass awn had embedded in her skin, and thought it a good spot to lay eggs. What a harrowing event it was! We knew something wasn't quite right with her when we left for a day of cutting weeds. When we returned that evening we found her in a sorry state. I made a quick run to Walmart for hydrogen peroxide and examination gloves and we worked together on her, getting rid of the vermin, until 11:30 pm. Maggot work is not a job you want to tackle alone. The next day I took her to the vet for hydration and a partial body shave, only to find after we brought her home, that the professionals had missed two more nests under her collar! The sight of wriggling masses of maggots kept coming to my mind for the next few days. Yuck.

Kate is feeling much better now. Today she followed along to change water and was wagging her tail and digging up gophers with the rest of the dogs.

Other than maggots, weeds have been a morning conversation staple this July. I tell you what, they take the joy out of ranching! We concentrate on burr-producing invasives since they collect on our animals, but there are others that concern us too. I regularly monitor musk thistle for the presence of seed-eating weevils. Bio-control offers the best hope for the future. It may not be a clean sweep, but it’s cheap, sustainable, and environmentally friendly. The irony was not lost on me to find that the musk thistle weevil looks a lot like a maggot.

Insects in all their life cycle activities contribute to our world in many ways, maggots by decomposing and recycling animal carcasses, others for feeding songbirds, pollinating crops, and in general adding to the biodiversity that makes the whole thing function. We don’t notice or appreciate their work enough, but we wouldn’t last long without them.

Nature works in strange and wonderful ways. Finding our place and guarding our niche, while studying her mysteries, will be our life’s work. It will be imperfect, disappointing, exhilarating and amazing. We call ourselves ranchers, but during the growing season, students of the ecosystem is a better title.

lovely blossoms of penstemon in the mountains

musk thistle seed weevil
not sure what the adult interloper is

    

a second bio-control agent, the crown weevil, stunted this thistle stand

my cheery front porch

A Ranch Wedding

Seth and Leah were married here at the ranch in June. I had anticipated the event for so long, and it was such a big undertaking that I admit to being a bit discombobulated in the aftermath. Just three short days after the wedding, hardly time to catch our breath, we took a trip to Oregon. Upon our return, irrigation water was ponding on the site of the ceremony, and the net wire fence that had been folded back to accommodate the wedding procession had been spliced and closed. Did it really ever happen at all?

A ranch doesn't easily lend itself to formal festivities. Me in heels and Mark in a suit – to stay home? We don’t have a showplace for sure, but our sturdy, native trees are wonderful, and a pasture of grass with the Blackfoot River hills in the distance was just right. We were pleased that California-raised Leah chose the ranch for the event. Getting to know her close-knit, fun-loving family, and giving them a taste of Leah’s new life was a total pleasure.

In anticipation of hosting guests, we took the opportunity to clean up around the ranch headquarters where Seth and Leah live, as well as our home where the wedding would be held. Various objects that we’ve walked and driven by for years suddenly looked out of place and had to go. I moved the dog houses, planted grass here and there and trimmed trees. A new coat of paint on the hitching rail and the propane tank, fresh oil on the saddle shed, along with a generously wet spring helped a lot.

Weather was always the wild card. It has been cold and rainy this spring, and with wind in the forecast, Seth and Leah made a last minute decision to move the reception venue to Gary and Anita’s new dog working arena. Our lumber cousins provided wood chips to cover the dirt floor, which, along with a sod encircled dance floor and drapes and lights strung thru the rafters, transformed the space. I fashioned a wreath of rusted barbed wire rolled up from a long forgotten fence and adorned with greenery. Add formal tables and chairs, a handmade drink bar, straw bales to soften the sounds, and we had us a party.

Friends and family made it a homemade event in lots of ways. Many hands went to work to pull the whole thing off. My sister, niece and cousin created the meal. The Blackfoot FFA Floral club did a great job with the flowers. More high school students helped with set-up and parking to fund FFA travel in the coming year. And the most important part, the ceremony, was beautifully written by Leah’s Aunt Rachel. Rachel, who is Jewish, shared three Hebrew words with us, Baruch atah Adonai, which I learned later essentially means, “Thank you, God.” The words began each of seven blessings for the couple which were full of rejoicing for the unity of all, for peaceful and harmonious relationships with one another and the world, for inspiration, abundance and love. Seth and Leah followed the blessings with their own handwritten vows which were perfect in every way.

We couples in the audience were moved (as is usual at weddings) to remember our own vows. For me and Mark, our vows were shared 29 years ago and don’t exactly roll off the tongue these days. We were reminded to practice patience and compassion, kindness and forgiveness. To communicate always, and then communicate some more. To provide a safe place for our spouse. To focus on the important things and to let go of the rest. 

Mark and I wish we could do the kids' wedding all over again. If we could, we’d take the time to thank each person who helped raise our son. I would slow down and let the experience soak in a bit. Images and stories keep coming to mind. The fragrance of freshly laid wood chips filling the arena and Anna asking, "Does anyone feel like they're at the 4-H fair?" My carefully tended Olive below the house and how naturally it sheltered guests at tables covered in white linen. A last minute bridal shower the day before the wedding to accommodate traveling guests, a brilliant idea by young people who take on more than we adults ever would. And then, the sweet, supremely happy faces of Seth and Leah as they cemented a love they’ve shared for over 5 years now.

In the end, it was one more exceptional experience we’ve had in our role as parents. This ride of a lifetime. Holding tight, opening our arms a bit wider, wrapping up Leah for good.

photo by Anita Pratt

photos by Kendra Elise

Alpha Gamma Roe fraternity serenade

photo by Anna Pratt

heifers in on the planning

Spring 2019 Recall

Whenever I wait too long to write a blog, so much has happened that I don’t know where to start. And we’re so busy that sitting down to write seems like a total waste of time. I know Mark doesn’t think that, though. He always encourages me to write. Some winter evening he’ll page back to spring 2019 and want to remember how it all played out.

Spring comes on like a freight train. The calving routine just starts to let up when the irrigation water needs turned on, the cows need put on grass, fences need fixing; the list grows each day. Just as the grass was looking good, we had a couple of nights of hard frost that burned it back. You can see it as golden flecks across the pasture and it especially stressed the plants because they were dry. It directly affected the feed bank in front of the cows.

With Jesse and Milee's help, we managed a fun, final visit to the University of Idaho as parents. Anna and Cole graduated together and we had a lovely celebration to mark the occasion. It was bittersweet packing Anna up for another move. I don’t think many folks leave the idyllic setting of the Palouse without some melancholy.  

Like every spring, we’ve had fun watching birds out our kitchen window. There are some brilliantly colored western tanager and lazuli bunting pairs making their homes here. We had fun going through the bird book and learning to identify a western wood pe-wee and a yellow-rumped warbler. 

Though Mark won’t like this memory, this was the spring the older calves got sick just before we headed to the hills. We were bouncing around the pasture one evening just before it got dark. I was driving and Mark was on the passenger side with the door open and his lariat poised. We were trying to sneak up on some sick calves to give them a shot. We treated a few, but found more sick than we could get hold of. We went to bed that night with a sick feeling.

This was the spring we started using a new irrigation tool, a pitchfork with tines that curve downward and is handy for collecting debris that piles up as the first water runs down the ditches. I found it in an old pile this winter and it didn't have a handle, but that was easily fixed. Mark thinks someone modified a regular pitchfork. How many generations of Pratts have been flood irrigating here and never used this tool? (Which reminds me that I left it someplace and need to retrace my steps!)

It’s stressful - this spring weather, as much as we love it. And this life, as much as we love it. In the middle of the night when we’re both awake, worrying, we hold hands silently, hoping that with joint concentration we might reassure one another and fall back asleep. And every morning things look better and we start again.

We’re thankful to have kids here to help, at least for a few more days. We’re thankful the weather has cooled, a blessing for trailing cattle. Tomorrow the herd starts for the mountains and things are what they are. Wishing safety for the crew, health for the herd, and that all the rain in the forecast materializes.   

evening on the Palouse

the graduates and newly engaged couple

my Dad would call it a "man needer"

Dot is not much help

When Green Comes

I made a fire in the woodstove this morning and it sure feels good. With all that wonderful green outside, it’s a blow to the system to step out and find it’s actually cold and windy. We even saw some snowflakes dancing around.

Mark and I have had such fun with my TEDx talk on grazing. We check periodically to see how many views the video has garnered. And Facebook shares are international – Denmark, Kenya, Nova Scotia. There’s a worldwide community of folks that agree with us on the necessary role of grazing animals and they want to be heard. But is anyone viewing who thinks cows are the problem? Am I changing any minds? I hope so. On second thought, I don’t really expect to change minds, just crack them open.

The water has returned to the canal that runs through our property. Now, when the dogs come off their tether, they run to it to get a drink instead of following the trail to the hydrant and waiting for me to lift the spigot.

I’ve been tidying up the willows that line the canal in our driveway. Pruning and picking up limbs, revealing the breathtaking beauty of trees, is addicting. Seth taught me to operate Grandpa’s little chainsaw and I’m having such fun! I only need a man with a tractor for final clean up, which suits Mark just fine. I am now a force to be reckoned with on my own.

The bees are loving the first flower on our willows and box elders, and we’re happy to oblige their early spring pollen needs. And out our office window, the leaves are filling out on the quakie (quaking aspen). They’re the happiest, shiniest, chartreuse green-iest leaves you can imagine. Mark’s grandpa said when the quakie leaves are dime-sized it was time to turn out the cows. It’s a cowboy’s way of describing plant life phenophase!

I went to a workshop last week full of passionate people from conservation collaboratives across the West. Group after group talked about the value of working landscapes and keeping farmers and ranchers on the land. They even talked about the benefits of flood irrigation and how the pulsing wet and dry provide for birds, and how the system mimics an old-style flood plain. It was like getting a deep massage to hear positive messages about our way of life.

When I took my turn at the microphone, I shared a little bit of my world. I finished by saying, “if you get a chance to talk to a rancher, ask them a question.” I think they heard me. As the workshop continued, several people made a point to ask me a question. One fellow said, “How are you? That’s a question!” Indeed it is.

Here's that link:

Wendy's TEDx talk

Through Lauren's Eyes

First the red-wing blackbirds arrive in February. Then the killdeers. Then the meadowlarks. At first their familiar songs don’t register in my brain, but then . . . oh, it’s spring! And just now, while I’m writing, five goldfinches have discovered the seed heads I left on the flowers in my front bed all winter.   

To welcome the birds, the plants are waking up. I drove into the yard last night when the sun was just starting its slide to the horizon. There it was – a change in the willows. No, they’re not turning green yet, but there’s a new clarity, a fullness. The buds are swelling! And across the pasture the grass blades are popping their heads out, and the tiniest of forbs have pushed up some tentative leaves.

Lauren from Boise State came to stay for a few days and added a little excitement to this busy time of year. She’s working on a doctorate and wanted to experience life on a ranch to help inform her questions around humans, agriculture and ecology. Spring Break is the perfect time because it coincides with our heaviest calving period.  

She rode Sly moving cow-calf pairs into a neighboring pasture. She helped sort and weigh the yearling steers. She cleaned stalls and fed the bottle calf. She bucked hay bales into the calving barn. She fed a few loads of hay and straw to the heifers. Skinny jeans and a long braid aren’t the best for feeding and I’m sure she had straw in every crevice, but she was a good sport. She even helped Mark deliver two calves that needed assistance.

The evening before she left, we had finished our work just as the full moon was rising. We stopped to watch it from the corral outside the calving barn. It was a perfect evening with cold, clear skies. I told her I wanted to experience every full moon I could until I died. She reminded me that not everyone has that chance unless they live in the country. Oh. 

She mostly soaked up a way of living she had never experienced. One evening we went through her formal questions. How do we measure success? What are our plans for the future of the ranch? Are we unique? How has the environment changed over our lifetimes? The queries made us think, and that’s a good thing.

I’ve had some experience working with university researchers, and it’s me that asks the questions. Rarely do they seem very curious about what we ranchers know, so to have the questions directed to us was a welcome change.

She had supper at Seth and Leah’s one night, and spent the last morning with Gary and Anita, going through her questions - and going through their art collection. After meeting individually with all three generations living on the ranch, I wonder what insights she saw that we can’t.

She lost her cell phone in the melee somewhere and spent a day and a half sure it was gone for good. She and Mark had been buzzing around on the 4-wheeler and the battery was dead, so it seemed hopeless. The loss put a damper on her visit. I told her to keep the faith and keep looking for it. And then the next day there it was, half buried in the sand where I was feeding the bottle calf. It was bent in an arc but worked fine! I told her good things happen.

checking out the calving barn               (Lauren Hunt)

                               moving pairs on Sly                                 

not as easy as it looks

the worm moon                             (Lauren Hunt)

feeding time                                    (Lauren Hunt)

Stall Six

It’s raining calves on the ranch. Today we moved another set of cow-calf pairs away from the drys (those that haven’t calved yet). It’s probably the most nuanced move we make on the ranch. The trick is to leave the drys settled, while pressuring the pairs just enough to peel them away from the others. If you’ve never felt the razor edge of a bovine flight zone, this is excellent practice.

We're well into calving now, and I'm just getting to the blog I intended to write about the occupants of stall six. Mark had brought in a baby that couldn’t get the hang of sucking. His tongue leaked out the side of his mouth so he couldn’t get a good drag. And he looked a little lopsided otherwise. Maybe he had laid in the womb wrong. Mark prepared a stall with fresh straw and walked the cow and calf inside. He knelt next to the cow and guided the hungry calf close to her flank. If Mark cupped the teat just right, the calf could suck. After a couple of days the baby figured it out and the happy couple went back outside to the herd.

Tending the pair was my first stint in the old calving barn this spring, and it seemed good to be back inside its cozy walls. It’s the oldest working building on the ranch, so familiar and functional. It’s warm and quiet during severe weather. And in late morning when I clean stalls alone, and sunshine flows through the gaps in the wood siding, it has a timeless feel that makes me think of Grandpa and Grandma and how happy they must have been when the barn was new.  

Calving is serious business, but you can tell the Pratts have had fun in the barn over the years. There's a neon "Lucky On Tap" sign hanging from the ceiling that dates to long before my time. I tried plugging in the cord and, no, it doesn't work anymore. There's a Hereford sign on the back wall, two cowboy portraits in the straw room, and a scratchy transistor radio on the shelf. 

And though I love the old building, I’m campaigning for some upgrades. Maybe a blog will get Mark's attention! The sliding door across the front is temperamental and Jesse got locked inside one day when it wouldn’t track. It’s heavy and requires both hands and my whole weight put into it to get it closed. There’s an inside door that leads to the warm room, or "technology lab" as the sign on the door reads. It needs replaced as well. It doesn’t shut and stay closed easily, you have to twist it towards the interior of the door and then push solidly. We go in and out of the warm room continually. Inside is a relic refrigerator which holds extra milk, a deep sink with hot running water, clean towels, syringes and treatment bottles, various tools for the task at hand, and a heater on the wall to warm up a cold calf if needed.

So, yeah, it would be nice to absentmindedly shut the door. It’s not like we have any extra attention or time during calving season.   

mother and baby cozied up

Pratt Calving Barn