Pedaling thru July

There is simple pleasure in having a bike waiting for you at the end of the sidewalk, slanted against the kickstand, waiting. I haven’t ridden a bike since, well, I never really rode a bike much. I got one in college, a ten-speed with skinny tires that I never felt safe on. Plus, biking in the city probably wasn’t in the cards for a timid country girl. I grew up on a dirt road, not much fun biking there either. Who knew at the age of fifty-four I would discover the joys of riding a bicycle?

Anna left her hand-me-down bike at home this summer. It's faded purple, a Diamondback, and just my size. Actually she forgot it, but now I tell her she can’t take it back until school starts.  

I live in the perfect situation for a bike. It’s a short ¾ mile to ranch headquarters, paved road, minimal traffic. I take the dogs with me, and my favorite part is stopping at the canal to let them wade in for a drink, cooling off up to their bellies. The plants are heady with July growth. On the way by I soak up a passing fragrance of . . . what is that? Milkweed in bloom, alfalfa, maybe yellow headed mustard, or just the coyote willows that crowd the lane. Today a swallow was tormenting a hawk, who just shrugged at her threats. Some days I pedal through a lovely bank of cool air. All of this we miss driving our vehicles with the radio on and the air conditioner blowing.  

Bonny, at 95, wishes she could ride with me. She told me about Gary’s bike he bought with his own money when he was 10 years old. He gathered beer and pop bottles for recycling. He would fill a case of twenty-four and get 35 cents for a case of beer bottles and 50 cents for pop bottles. He hit the mother lode in a neighbor’s trash heap, $11.00 in one stop! The local grocer gave him cash in return. His folks took him to Clegg's Second Hand Store where they sold new bicycles. When he got his bike home he was disappointed to find it didn't go very good in the sand. I discovered the same thing when I spun out in the stackyard.

Gary still has the bike, it cost $35.00, a fortune to a kid in the 50’s. He added a carrier later on to haul a passenger along. 

I'm on the hunt for a used basket to fasten to the handlebars and complete my look. 

Gary's blue and white Schwinn -circa 1954
(note the beaded buckskin gloves)

Shades of Gray

It’s been cool for mid-June. The hot weather garden plants have stalled out temporarily. 

We’ve had some rain, but not enough to give us much relief. A lightning storm blew through and spawned a fire in the lower elevation mountains along the Blackfoot River. I hate to see that, not that fire is necessarily bad. This one may have a positive effect, but I don’t want anything to encourage the march of cheat grass to the higher country. Parts of our nearby range is starting to burn regularly which encourages more of this annual grass to get a toehold. And with an extremely short green season, hence the name "cheat," it creates a tinder box of fuel. In southwest Idaho this combo has created a vicious cycle that threatens more and more native rangeland.  

We spent a few days in Central Oregon meeting with other ranchers throughout the West, taking a peek into each other’s businesses. We stayed at and toured a ranch where juniper trees are their major invasive problem. In their case, fire suppression is part of the scenario that creates a backlog of trees and the resulting simplification of the ecosystem. Seems every place has its nemesis. It was a beautiful operation with a respectful three-generation family that is addressing their challenges and making sure it works for everyone.

Mark and I went to check on the cows when we got home. We gambled on not needing a horse, so just took 4-wheelers to put out salt. What we found were a couple of very sick calves. Not to be deterred, Mark had me drive slowly alongside the calves while he sat sideways on the back of the machine with his lariat poised. At the right moment he hopped off and tossed the loop over the calf’s head and wrapped the rope around the rack of the 4-wheeler. I held the rope while he carefully gave them a shot of antibiotic and put two pills down their throat with a long handled “gun.” He said when there are sick calves there’s no need to be a cowboy. He's gotten really good at sneaking up on them. The procedure won't make the cover of a magazine but it works.

The older I get the more gray I see, not only in my hair but in all the situations of life. I know the answer to most questions is, "it depends." Whether it's grazing, fire, stockmanship - whatever, tell me how it's done, what other factors are at work, what's your objective? It's hardly black and white. 

a beautiful storm from this vantage

June, Oh June

June is pure magic. I find lots to worry about, it’s just my nature - from world scale concerns like climate change and invasive species, to my own backyard landscaping which is progressing at a snail’s pace and what to fix for dinner. But every day there’s an underlying thrill, a great satisfaction, from simply living in Idaho on a ranch in June.

We moved a group of yearlings to the pasture in front of the house. We like to watch their grazing behavior over our morning coffee.

The replacement heifers are on a piece of rented property on the other side of town. Mark and I have regular dates changing paddocks. Yesterday following a move we bought a sandwich at the co-op and sat on the grass in the park for a picnic. That’s a rare occurrence.

I get regular updates from Seth who is interning at the Noble Foundation in Ardmore, Oklahoma. It’s tall grass prairie country, so he filled me in on the particular challenges producers face with too much, and not very nutritious grasses. One of the research projects he is working on is mob grazing. He was helping set up electric fence yesterday and dealing with cattle that weren’t trained to it. He said it felt like home!

I went with my friend Jack to visit the grazing/grouse research project being conducted nearby. We observed the technicians, Haley, from Portland, Oregon, and Jennifer, from San Diego, California, laying out a monitoring transect to measure vegetation traits of grouse nesting sites. This particular hen’s clutch had been predated. Her radio collar had sent a mortality signal, and we found feathers at the site so surmised she was wounded when the eggs were eaten. I enjoyed learning about the specifics of the project, but even more I enjoyed the conversations with Jack, a grouse biologist, and the stops along the drive to walk through and discuss what we see happening with vegetation on the landscape.

Yes, we’re behind, no we’ll probably never be “caught up.” When I get discouraged I think of a great line from Emily Dickinson, “to live is so startling, it leaves little time for anything else.” And I feel better just living. 

changing paddocks

changing paddocks, again

company for coffee

this hen picked poor habitat for a nest

The Ranching Game

I spent a few days off the ranch and came home to an explosion of plant life. The orchard grass is waist high and all headed out. When did that happen? The annuals are already hardening off. Spring has barreled headfirst into summer.

The vegetable garden is starting to look lively. The peas and onions are up and the potatoes are just peeking through. I’m trying sweet yellow peppers and cabbage plants for a change.

Mark and I spent two days fencing in the mountains. We inherited an electric fence that needs lots of TLC. We tightened it after its winter rest and then tried to get it all charged. We each had a 4-wheeler and walkie-talkies and only got two-thirds of it hot.  

The hills are green upon green. The tiny white daisies, fleabane, are in bloom, as are bluebells and the loveliest of all, periwinkle camas. Part of the fence line goes up through the quakies. We followed a winding leaf-covered trail through the timber that looked like it had been landscaped just for us.

We stayed one night in the Meadow Creek cabin which was supposed to save us time, but with setbacks including a flat tire, we didn’t get home until dark. Now that the cattle are in the hills, it's a well beaten trail we travel back and forth. 

Sometimes it feels like Mark and I are trapped in the last of the old, struggling to transition to the new. We’ve complicated the ranch with more ground and more intensive management but can’t seem to get around it all. We embrace new technology only if it fits our philosophy of ranching. We like our old trucks and equipment, still irrigate largely with a shovel, and prefer pasture and “waste” ground to monoculture intensive farming. We would love to be totally pasture and range, but our valley ground is too valuable not to farm. Add dry conditions to the picture and it really gets complicated.

The fencing scenario in the mountains rings true for the whole ranch. Rusted barbed wire remains alongside new high-tensile wires for carrying electricity. Each time we tend the fence we have to carry supplies for fixing the old along with supplies for maintaining the new. Sometimes a stray barbed wire grabs a high tensile wire and shorts the whole line. I can’t help but see the analogy of that!

Navigating this vortex we find ourselves in is confounding. How do we balance the needs of the two older generations who live on the ranch with our own needs, and also look ahead to creating/maintaining a ranch that is viable for our kids and hopefully grandkids? It’s not for the weak of heart. 

old and new

To Grass

We made it to the range with the cows. Seth and Anna have been helping and Anita brought lunch every day. It’s an “all hands on deck” event.

We had two herds on the Trail at once. It took five days to go 30 miles with the baby calves, and four days with the older ones. Smaller bunches mean the cows and calves stay paired so they don't go back. If they can't find one another they'll return to where they last nursed. This trait is so strong that tending the back end of the herd requires much due diligence. Doing that job is Anna’s strong suit. She calls it quality assurance. Yes, the lead guys are important. They watch for obstacles up ahead like gates left open or stray animals and keep the lead cows from jogging away from the slower travelers. But don’t stick your most tenacious help up there; she (or he) is needed on the drag. Home grown help is irreplaceable. My prayer is that wherever the kids are in life’s adventuring, they make it home for the cattle drive.

Memorial Day festivities are in full swing on the range we share with the recreationists. We dumped the herd in the Brush Creek field which is adjacent to a popular camping area. As we pulled out on Friday evening, the campers pulled in.

The trail drive is the most love-hate event I can think of on the ranch. The first ride of the morning is sublime. Your horse is eager, the cattle walk out, the only sounds are sage sparrows and meadowlarks and the occasional beller as the cows pick up their calves. As the day wears on everyone gets more sluggish, water sources are scarce, it's dusty, and by mid-afternoon I’m sore and ready to call it a day.  

It's a mini life-lesson in five days: 

Be alert - well tended details create successful outcomes. Having to go back for a calf that was lost because of not paying attention is a make-work project.  

Be respectful – of vehicle traffic, of other people’s property as you “graze” by, and of your help-mate animals, the horses and dogs who give so much. 

Do your part – everyone has a role. If yours is guarding a gate, making lunch, saddling the horses, or riding flank, you play a vital role in the whole. 

And finally, get up early – cattle travel better in the coolness of early morning, you’ll get to your destination that much quicker. And as Gary will tell you, "people die in bed." 

Anna on drag

the crew

What May Brings

The irrigation water is flowing across the ranch. Starting it is always a big chore. And then once it’s on, the tending is constant.  It’s a good feeling knowing the ground is getting wet. It’s been trying to rain but all we’ve gotten is damp.

We've been pummeled by high winds day after day this spring. It blew from the north yesterday, which meant the tumbleweeds that had lodged from the usual southerly winds became unlodged and traveled in the opposite direction. They like to roll into our ditches and cause havoc by clogging the pipes and headgates. Mark and I spent part of yesterday pitching weeds to avert disaster.

On the rare calm evening we like to sit on the terrace and listen to the birds. Their call is constant with all the trees on our place.

I had fun one morning when I stopped to listen to a common starling in a willow along the drive. A sound I’ve heard many, many times, but finally took the time to look up and locate the singer. What I thought was coming from a tree full of birds was coming from a single individual. What a fuss he made! He was ruffling his wings, pumping his breast, croaking like a frog, grunting like a puppy, “screeing” like a hawk, and in general making a royal fuss. And to think he comes up with that whether any human is around to enjoy it or not.

We keep the binoculars on the kitchen island with the bird book handy. We counted 25 cedar waxwings in one bunch and they’ve hung around for a few days. I hope they stay, but I’m guessing they’re only stopping over. During a stiff wind they were hunkered on the lilac right outside our dining room window. Their little top knots stood straight up if they turned towards us with the wind to their back. What creamy feathers they have - and so dignified with their masked features and unruffled demeanor.

We identified a few yellow-rumped warblers making use of the chokecherry blossoms. They would fly out periodically to catch insects mid-flight. I thought the behavior would help to identify them. Sure enough, when I went to the website, allabout birds.org, the text said, “you’ll often see them sally out to catch insects in midair.” Sally? I haven't heard that for awhile. I looked it up - “to rush out suddenly.” I think I’ll sally out to tend the dogs from now on.

just past "the hornet's nest," site of water wars

cedar waxwings in the locust

An Evening Burn

Mark and I had a ditch burning date last evening. He worked on one side of the pasture and I worked on the other. The dogs went with him digging for gophers along the way. 

  

The mourning doves and robins kept me company. I swear the robins get louder as dusk approaches; or maybe it’s just that the world gets quieter.   

  

I’m glad to burn with Mark. Not so much by myself. With him close by I never have to worry about the fire getting away from me. It’s satisfying when there is enough weeds or dead grass to carry the flame along so that each waterway gets a buzz cut before the first stream enters. And as we appreciate what fire can do, we’re careful to extinguish the flames just as they clear the embankment. Plant material, old and new, protects the structure. Our sand ditches can be fragile if left naked.

One spring when we were newlyweds, I got adventurous. Mark was teaching at the nearby high school and I decided to burn ditch over at the “Bartausky Place.” I was doing fine until the fire got into the willows along the large adjoining canal. I panicked. I had a thermos along that I dunked into the canal to throw on the flames, but the vegetation kept popping. I figured Mark’s last class was almost over so I drove into town for his help. He knew I was in trouble just looking at my red face and near tears expression. He followed me back, assured me the willows would fill back in and saved the day. It wasn’t the last time. 

Why do humans love fire? The flames are beautiful for sure. And their power is breathtaking. There’s no tool to compare with fire for many purposes. What makes me cranky is when country dwellers think they need to burn weeds and old grass along fences, edges, etc. to create a clean slate for new growth.  What they don’t realize is the shelter and concealment for birds and other small creatures they’re eliminating. Old organic matter feeds soil life, moderates soil temperatures and holds moisture in. Nature isn’t tidy for a reason. 

you'll need a pitchfork