tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7516829009541801492024-03-05T20:45:18.405-08:00Home on the Range with Bunchgrass BeefHome on the Rangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05493732576737672634noreply@blogger.comBlogger156125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751682900954180149.post-61671113749774080412023-06-03T12:14:00.000-07:002023-06-03T12:14:17.024-07:00A Year Gone By<p><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>Nearly a year has gone by since I last wrote in this journal.</b>
Not that I didn’t try.<br /></span></p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTqHLeHtsajgo9246Agcpo_jbNuf9sXToPYWfyd8z145BnR1DibQOqD_y71iKIYD-Z-tR52bha8soX-WQy1nkIp-dWrgTsvZ3VojnIyBo41sLUVuoOM9oGL8qm02CNaLL017HQc8cqmhH31VpJ6lfeJNWINQnDANuGMFn_HBp5hpVsebiscL_RmH-dHQ/s3264/PXL_20230305_004848645.PORTRAIT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1836" data-original-width="3264" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTqHLeHtsajgo9246Agcpo_jbNuf9sXToPYWfyd8z145BnR1DibQOqD_y71iKIYD-Z-tR52bha8soX-WQy1nkIp-dWrgTsvZ3VojnIyBo41sLUVuoOM9oGL8qm02CNaLL017HQc8cqmhH31VpJ6lfeJNWINQnDANuGMFn_HBp5hpVsebiscL_RmH-dHQ/s320/PXL_20230305_004848645.PORTRAIT.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Sara, hunting weeds </span></td></tr></tbody></table></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>It took a long time to realize I needed rest. So much rest.</b> More
rest than I felt I could justify. And the only way to find it was to turn from whatever
I <i>could</i> set aside. I would lie down alone, in a place that I reminded myself was
safe, enter the pages of books that never judged my fearfulness, and believe
sleep would eventually reach me in the dark. And be grateful.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEjSjAUaH7TJ62hI89oAB2sz8oFxEOn_UodOtQlbNt3Jl6r0x3-gnGK0eleoBuqPRf3G0xkBKbsPJipTPcJXXEKdAluwze_e4f5mN_Ow8ZpoOACANH9lEnaBf95U8LEbf08rZNjDL-3e2McDEiHi6DtautuGKHUKn2R1tzPmCLa-3bQEmpO7cgf-gGMQ/w400-h300/PXL_20211230_210010957%20snowy%20canyon.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>December canyon</b></td></tr></tbody></table><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>Back in December in a letter to a friend, </b>I wrote about how often we reminded ourselves that our travails of 2022 were small compared to war, famine, mass or solitary shootings, loss of one’s only shelter or livelihood or diagnosis of a terminal disease. And how we also often reminded ourselves that we have many resources to aid us in withstanding our troubles and that remembering and sharing gratitude for all who inspire, aid, love and encourage us is a proven antidote to gloom, a balm we apply frequently and intentionally.</span></p><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEjSjAUaH7TJ62hI89oAB2sz8oFxEOn_UodOtQlbNt3Jl6r0x3-gnGK0eleoBuqPRf3G0xkBKbsPJipTPcJXXEKdAluwze_e4f5mN_Ow8ZpoOACANH9lEnaBf95U8LEbf08rZNjDL-3e2McDEiHi6DtautuGKHUKn2R1tzPmCLa-3bQEmpO7cgf-gGMQ/s4032/PXL_20211230_210010957%20snowy%20canyon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQgUVbkbfVWe2lNqpmjliy_rlro7Wk5dNoCtGuHLK90dHds5h80NVsdgJBLETBqykvjJZoJgO0SuFmWsZOVES97GQzRwIjmdbPt6a9DHWC4M5h4gEtHuPTLuBnoW-IJKILAFVtN-G9rzKRhHhy5MrRdKzQtd2kHscp3zRJp-o0u6HFvtFlLBN-cMIuDw/s4032/PXL_20220903_204104422.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQgUVbkbfVWe2lNqpmjliy_rlro7Wk5dNoCtGuHLK90dHds5h80NVsdgJBLETBqykvjJZoJgO0SuFmWsZOVES97GQzRwIjmdbPt6a9DHWC4M5h4gEtHuPTLuBnoW-IJKILAFVtN-G9rzKRhHhy5MrRdKzQtd2kHscp3zRJp-o0u6HFvtFlLBN-cMIuDw/w400-h300/PXL_20220903_204104422.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial;">Doublecreek fire starts in the canyon</span></b></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>That was before I realized I needed rest. A lot of rest.</b> And the ebb of strength and time seemed ever gaining, and our capability to care and hope less regularly replenished, more often rationed out of necessity, like a weakness that makes simply opening a container a feat, even if we know there is nourishment to be obtained and shared within.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmmRgXy0Kqy5_WWy2vdxu-vvnR9sKsKQx6pH0FDZzSUZq0bcGOuCt_ubzEwNutuLcOygBLpkknPNqMD9dGajpgFKx-UUcp6c-lvhmJRZWmTdSvWVvKSGStEjTL6mw1c4T3zkvtD9BneN17jwF1Ep6TMgqbTbqm1iiAUxQ_6BscDSqHTNunZ6lHgD132g/s4032/PXL_20220909_024607484.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmmRgXy0Kqy5_WWy2vdxu-vvnR9sKsKQx6pH0FDZzSUZq0bcGOuCt_ubzEwNutuLcOygBLpkknPNqMD9dGajpgFKx-UUcp6c-lvhmJRZWmTdSvWVvKSGStEjTL6mw1c4T3zkvtD9BneN17jwF1Ep6TMgqbTbqm1iiAUxQ_6BscDSqHTNunZ6lHgD132g/s320/PXL_20220909_024607484.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial;">Fire coming close, Hahn Slide</span></b></td></tr></tbody></table><b><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></b></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>Drought and fire drove us through fall.</b> Winter passed in unfulfilled
threat and spring arrived in billowing storms and a month of coursing high
water. With a burst of green-up we started making our way out of the canyon and
now as we approach the zenith of light, it seems the days of the past year have
slipped by like grains of sand through an hour glass.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCiLFdWu5qYLaVuM0cKhU6_6398A8xukuEjZXuccMGXDtbS1oud4x0LyyKwZAcPfVacowui506dKrSZR3Ta7nqoRNfkr8EyD-knXWkXaub963DLSqfbbk4sgRtc2WQSUe2F-3dK5neT_SxteApNjVHEFQlj_hLUm9-pl91gF-sC5vCmyd6-hAQ7KZQxQ/s4032/PXL_20230305_204826798.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="2268" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCiLFdWu5qYLaVuM0cKhU6_6398A8xukuEjZXuccMGXDtbS1oud4x0LyyKwZAcPfVacowui506dKrSZR3Ta7nqoRNfkr8EyD-knXWkXaub963DLSqfbbk4sgRtc2WQSUe2F-3dK5neT_SxteApNjVHEFQlj_hLUm9-pl91gF-sC5vCmyd6-hAQ7KZQxQ/w180-h320/PXL_20230305_204826798.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>Mike digs post hole</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>Facing our challenges, Mike and I do a lot of mutual thinking nowadays.</b> That feels good, because it usually involves a compromise between what needs to be done, the hours in the day, and the pace and strength of our bodies. Mutual thinking has always been something of a challenge, and we are trying to notice where we are getting better at it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="border-bottom: 3pt solid windowtext; border-image: initial; border-left: none; border-right: none; border-top: none; padding: 0in 0in 1pt;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; padding: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; padding: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; padding: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; padding: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; padding: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; padding: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; padding: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p></div><b><br /></b></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK6jBfhv4OBfNes5K7kVJUEOcIaRPxWZJjIROcgGI4VuDDaNAFI7gh8KNb386SQq7-NeMcN33vMoePSfZJvTiwm3gvJFFOgPBZRBOa_y13e_i3pq6gxpZfJH2BnZGePux8_uDboUS5JY_UV82R8HZCyUAAx1891Ee1P_sfugKtW3bgfAZHw1TJHpb20A/s1163/steer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="872" data-original-width="1163" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK6jBfhv4OBfNes5K7kVJUEOcIaRPxWZJjIROcgGI4VuDDaNAFI7gh8KNb386SQq7-NeMcN33vMoePSfZJvTiwm3gvJFFOgPBZRBOa_y13e_i3pq6gxpZfJH2BnZGePux8_uDboUS5JY_UV82R8HZCyUAAx1891Ee1P_sfugKtW3bgfAZHw1TJHpb20A/s320/steer.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial;">Brindle steer</span></b></td></tr></tbody></table><b><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>This morning I look out the narrow window of the old
farmhouse here in the valley and see our little herd of yearlings wandering
single file along the garden fence</b>. Beneath their slick coats, I watch the
workings of bone and muscle smoothly carrying them toward the broad irrigation
ditch, to drink, to wade, to graze the banks and browse the tips of willow
branches. And I see each animal holding a bit of the vigilance they all need to
survive, each sharing a bit of reassurance: "We have each other, we’re a herd, let’s
go to the ditch, let’s go back to the north pasture, let’s lie down under the
spruce trees and chew our cud." And I see togetherness, relation, society. They
may butt each other, but they need each other too.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioJJ4O78fAtpRpd-R53taywsdFHasFBu-JIRdbC8R5LdwJduyYNcfPH9r3eMhn0-QtbyAeyZ6vcwerc-F477w8q0A92w0ne9yu4crjH35LbaH5NG8mk5wO_G1ZzHwlwo_X90UuBbo4HdeaIrS06FZR1zggzf_D4F6o7ujYyg5s5z7KxSafj_9vnPlYKg/w400-h300/cows%20in%20the%20small%20lot.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Cows on river bar, May</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span><b><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>A</b></span><b style="font-family: arial;">s we pack up to travel to the canyon and take
our turn gathering the last of the cattle</b><span style="font-family: arial;">, our careful cows with their frolicking calves, and start them on the first leg of their journey to the
prairie, I acknowledge the time I’m taking to write this. I acknowledge the replenishing
that came before and made this moment possible. The privilege of choice, of
rest. The value of sharing story, listening to one another.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioJJ4O78fAtpRpd-R53taywsdFHasFBu-JIRdbC8R5LdwJduyYNcfPH9r3eMhn0-QtbyAeyZ6vcwerc-F477w8q0A92w0ne9yu4crjH35LbaH5NG8mk5wO_G1ZzHwlwo_X90UuBbo4HdeaIrS06FZR1zggzf_D4F6o7ujYyg5s5z7KxSafj_9vnPlYKg/s4032/cows%20in%20the%20small%20lot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 3.0pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: wave windowtext 3.0pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA61s23guvn6EE4cEzlIc-QCrvCE-09n-mN-E8oMqCouNcYDPcR9EQy0KHhpZOtn7YEiyNgyFu-2MQdqmUs1PuVQj_dyOI7iQn73k7bhsiRY52HJikf5hmYFSlaV8XykeAZW6bTDREq0lyoWiN5zkyh9eleMTBASGtzkAvGVDJAAO96FoIg2JRGBV78A/s3264/PXL_20220909_224209042.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA61s23guvn6EE4cEzlIc-QCrvCE-09n-mN-E8oMqCouNcYDPcR9EQy0KHhpZOtn7YEiyNgyFu-2MQdqmUs1PuVQj_dyOI7iQn73k7bhsiRY52HJikf5hmYFSlaV8XykeAZW6bTDREq0lyoWiN5zkyh9eleMTBASGtzkAvGVDJAAO96FoIg2JRGBV78A/w200-h150/PXL_20220909_224209042.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Sara takes break, Doublecreek fire</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: wave windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: wave windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: wave windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>May you know we think of you
during our days and evenings, </b>and are thankful for all the ways you’ve added to
our lives and our learning.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: wave windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: wave windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: wave windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><b style="font-family: arial;">From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef</b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: wave windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: wave windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: wave windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: wave windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: wave windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><br /></p></div>Home on the Rangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05493732576737672634noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751682900954180149.post-36555834289336605042022-07-06T21:55:00.000-07:002022-07-06T21:55:54.106-07:00It’s Hard to Say<p><b>We lost our beautiful Chester horse in June</b> and everything
feels filtered through this loss, like looking at the world from underwater. I’m
learning that how we grieve is often shaped by the circumstances of death and this was a hard one. </p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgeiIyraMU9md0bg3CHNcLepFT8Y3r6OcpgSqcdehHWDnNNIZRpwLhk0UIb0FBRnTuka8SXAvs0kjqcLMf67_pTwoK2f-FuMRh2ksa11K_44WQCxKh8bo2NNwtzejmt9DWXwk5EAmmpHOdrU0dFXP0t0uqmDugx2lqVJVWK3rZmtCbPY0tQL_-kyVe0Ww" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="731" data-original-width="975" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgeiIyraMU9md0bg3CHNcLepFT8Y3r6OcpgSqcdehHWDnNNIZRpwLhk0UIb0FBRnTuka8SXAvs0kjqcLMf67_pTwoK2f-FuMRh2ksa11K_44WQCxKh8bo2NNwtzejmt9DWXwk5EAmmpHOdrU0dFXP0t0uqmDugx2lqVJVWK3rZmtCbPY0tQL_-kyVe0Ww=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Chester, the first summer we had him</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><b><br /></b><div><b>I don’t know if I could rewind to before the pandemic, that this loss would be any less overwhelming,</b> but I know my reserves are low, and even little upsets can feel threatening, as if the precariousness of it all looms just around the corner. <div><br /></div><div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjbq0IDUyVUdmfRiozX0RpN6Nt3dWztK0cJgIIgmHWIRPwA7jAh_BXYQLcMfu953b8ukPWcR7SA7t9qD1hZLB-3CwmIeT7O1hq4YLLUXhcBCaTp_lWBzKJUBMYOh0L8Q0vzih6obWneBTPJhXu3Dcv0iNfnGPusD1fnrcYvNtdgCovoDK5wqY1SJ_7mww" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="759" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjbq0IDUyVUdmfRiozX0RpN6Nt3dWztK0cJgIIgmHWIRPwA7jAh_BXYQLcMfu953b8ukPWcR7SA7t9qD1hZLB-3CwmIeT7O1hq4YLLUXhcBCaTp_lWBzKJUBMYOh0L8Q0vzih6obWneBTPJhXu3Dcv0iNfnGPusD1fnrcYvNtdgCovoDK5wqY1SJ_7mww=w225-h400" width="225" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Coming home across Rye Bench<br /><br /></b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>And I struggle to get my balance, to center,</b> to get my feet solidly under me so I can go on doing what is required. I think of so many circumstances that others in the world are laboring to survive, and I see the beauty and abundance around me, the love, and I still feel marooned and undeservedly so. <div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj3_toFyoMTiSjg3lqlQgc-6pN-eQJkO3XpAg2kasfkvl9-8LyzSRIeTU0GBVCDdcM1t1yQYJrHE8-tmo18ucnKoWpHxum0ZV36DOkkVrLN26YnEv0kaw3AWlRneJDsznoJu1E9LLV3fqYhPhI0V3As6oKtHl5xHw2LdTdcfe4ffzH7493HZEy-3VpW-g" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="759" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj3_toFyoMTiSjg3lqlQgc-6pN-eQJkO3XpAg2kasfkvl9-8LyzSRIeTU0GBVCDdcM1t1yQYJrHE8-tmo18ucnKoWpHxum0ZV36DOkkVrLN26YnEv0kaw3AWlRneJDsznoJu1E9LLV3fqYhPhI0V3As6oKtHl5xHw2LdTdcfe4ffzH7493HZEy-3VpW-g=w225-h400" width="225" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the Zumwalt</td></tr></tbody></table><div><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>When I feel grief cutting into me, </b>and I need to calm myself, I remember all the things I loved about Chester. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>I remember the two of us working alone on the bench, herding cattle back where they were supposed to be, </b>and afterward taking the long trot home, his big stride eating up the ground, carrying me willingly, both of us knowing our job was done and satisfied to be heading home. I can feel the rhythm of that long trot, almost like a heartbeat, hoof fall by hoof fall, my body almost a part of his body, his four legs almost like my own, and it calms and soothes me. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjkhQdJgwW0o6aOxooaMpwf1WkXuDbNR3OzIh_W6BwyTLDYwoYEHKBIJqsjAOF66pLGQ0pB8_K6_MQnfsyfBRVVmS4OHja2g0z-9ShLsJoPMY8-GsnLJXhK0JcYmAXDXuyG3Wdsk4jc2J_Xi-UHzl6zmbN2wvJs1gYX5NTOqvPkTLGuFPpcYNA6NRPvMA" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1758" data-original-width="1888" height="372" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjkhQdJgwW0o6aOxooaMpwf1WkXuDbNR3OzIh_W6BwyTLDYwoYEHKBIJqsjAOF66pLGQ0pB8_K6_MQnfsyfBRVVmS4OHja2g0z-9ShLsJoPMY8-GsnLJXhK0JcYmAXDXuyG3Wdsk4jc2J_Xi-UHzl6zmbN2wvJs1gYX5NTOqvPkTLGuFPpcYNA6NRPvMA=w400-h372" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>A snuggle with Chester, getting ready to pack protein </b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>I honor you Chester. </b>You didn't have a mean bone in your body. You had heart. You always wanted a good scratch, and if I wasn't looking you'd try and rub your sweaty itchy head on me so hard you'd almost knock me over. You were a pain to get on because you were so dang tall.</p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQGSQnjizgGvEflMEc3LQhUHldPiaALQ-HJ-pHcQA3l7NTaJXVg4yY7FiIRtMCRw21-_QYAFws5hhm5ISzsCv8hJXKJj0lcQHWp4jLKtrc2YJ8KZyLF2LE4Xrm_Rz3_QaB9x098NtZGn-rxbBKn98h3scK_TlP5ouKXSI0nWIaW3RX_0C_4Z5J3e8tBw" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1300" data-original-width="975" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQGSQnjizgGvEflMEc3LQhUHldPiaALQ-HJ-pHcQA3l7NTaJXVg4yY7FiIRtMCRw21-_QYAFws5hhm5ISzsCv8hJXKJj0lcQHWp4jLKtrc2YJ8KZyLF2LE4Xrm_Rz3_QaB9x098NtZGn-rxbBKn98h3scK_TlP5ouKXSI0nWIaW3RX_0C_4Z5J3e8tBw=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Taking a breather </b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><p style="text-align: left;"><b>You could have been around a while longer Chester, </b>but it wasn't meant to be. We'll all miss you and we'll try to tell the good stories with you in them. And I'll think of your soft silky neck against my cheek, and the horse-sweat smell of you, and the way you carried me across the river picking your way through the rocks in the strong currant and climbing the bank on the other side to catch up with the cattle and poke them on down the trail. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjupt44dVvA025pLLEeLP4mz8Fqzp264NJkigx8vL0pU9UK6v_e6DKtU3U7trbMNkOAATAQTcu8nyN1Rg3_6pV7HeNvVIZiwGSeZ5dXB9Oay0LShoMj2iUvdrwn3lo5NAb2MNnY368kVVYJB295iSl6QYKbOhuOhv2kEs6T32D-cpbG3VQREwJkxKw1qA" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="731" data-original-width="975" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjupt44dVvA025pLLEeLP4mz8Fqzp264NJkigx8vL0pU9UK6v_e6DKtU3U7trbMNkOAATAQTcu8nyN1Rg3_6pV7HeNvVIZiwGSeZ5dXB9Oay0LShoMj2iUvdrwn3lo5NAb2MNnY368kVVYJB295iSl6QYKbOhuOhv2kEs6T32D-cpbG3VQREwJkxKw1qA=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Trailing back from Pumpkin Creek</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>From Sara at Magpie Ranch home of Bunchgrass Beef</b></p></div></div></div></div></div>Home on the Rangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05493732576737672634noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751682900954180149.post-29177517061198436042021-12-23T12:48:00.000-08:002021-12-23T12:48:01.468-08:00What is Useful<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Mike and I hauled protein supplement to the canyon last weekend and had to chain up again. </b>It snowed clear to the river and greasy mud coated our tires. Without chains, it was nerve-wracking, swooping downhill into slick corners and churning uphill fearing we'd end up going backwards. </span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj8M-ltbQ0-8BT4GnhDIq2l6tmwc-zYgkk9pal35QdB2rstSBGXT8-uMdbJ_55zXUWXLp9R4AZU98g-qMAojLjZsFcWzPMx1CLrsE5gBzZJJTI_DPvRL9DHQxM3WAskgmPUgmVKUrBzsilDFJ49vHkMojJ-_aEnLopLeLHsA0RKZrnsbVL-n6hvobh3oQ=s4032" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj8M-ltbQ0-8BT4GnhDIq2l6tmwc-zYgkk9pal35QdB2rstSBGXT8-uMdbJ_55zXUWXLp9R4AZU98g-qMAojLjZsFcWzPMx1CLrsE5gBzZJJTI_DPvRL9DHQxM3WAskgmPUgmVKUrBzsilDFJ49vHkMojJ-_aEnLopLeLHsA0RKZrnsbVL-n6hvobh3oQ=w400-h300" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Chains on, heading down river</span></b></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>We are resigned to chaining up. </b>Chains are our friends, they allow us to do our work. But what if I could pop them on and off with a magic wand, instead of laying under the truck getting cold and filthy and scraping our knuckles? Now that would be useful!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEigjvr172QtxJLQfS1FGdtUVdARwRzTsmaMUUPTsMBb9Ii2VcnY-C2RS4Fi0cNLAofsnDaDR1ecqe7rhbo4YmYKsJ0v6DhMPfWzm-8EOxJTp-EYNwXVTHh9k4h4IIBTuw2RZEBbbGX5596FRdNJmQfR6oE7WAjfZkArn_Iww2fDgRrZd3CNOFhHw3EyJw=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEigjvr172QtxJLQfS1FGdtUVdARwRzTsmaMUUPTsMBb9Ii2VcnY-C2RS4Fi0cNLAofsnDaDR1ecqe7rhbo4YmYKsJ0v6DhMPfWzm-8EOxJTp-EYNwXVTHh9k4h4IIBTuw2RZEBbbGX5596FRdNJmQfR6oE7WAjfZkArn_Iww2fDgRrZd3CNOFhHw3EyJw=w300-h400" width="300" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Reminders from friends</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /><b><br /></b></span></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>The sun leaves us by four o'clock and in</b><b> the many hours before bed, I sense darkness pressing down on the bottom of the canyon. </b>A few weeks ago I put out candles and a wooden wreath and music box sent to us years ago by friends in Germany. The warm light of the candles sometimes makes me feel like there's a grandmother rocking in a chair nearby. In the narrow hall I hung the faded thee-kings banner made out of red felt by Mike's mom in the 1960's. After studying old stories about these travelers, I drew a placard and pinned it to the banner. It says, "Do NOT to go back the way you came." That feels like useful advice when I think of climate change. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiExcAUW2NDLYk0FDTQ-fh8K4fJuw0YOmLMtB26lLRehfwl01e1ciIyzwbrHXejhUzS9yzbD8afWWlU_2MaAR6N2xcsqm9sYIw39JQ6GlP4KKC4XVl2LxWePNfZBzNAuPgngSh5NeluMUMLlUrHvudiD2J88_eDs8fdQgKMasF8-ZJVtgfclOt6E0oVhQ=s640" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiExcAUW2NDLYk0FDTQ-fh8K4fJuw0YOmLMtB26lLRehfwl01e1ciIyzwbrHXejhUzS9yzbD8afWWlU_2MaAR6N2xcsqm9sYIw39JQ6GlP4KKC4XVl2LxWePNfZBzNAuPgngSh5NeluMUMLlUrHvudiD2J88_eDs8fdQgKMasF8-ZJVtgfclOt6E0oVhQ=w400-h300" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Zeke's 3 yr b-day gift in Quito, Ecuador</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>I love how people come to us in the dark of winter across time and space through memory, stories, objects. </b>Sitting atop a high kitchen cupboard, I overlook the largish ceramic cow gifted to Zeke by friends in Quito on his third birthday. Then the Christmas lights go up and I see cow again, and think of friends Anne, Anne-Luisa and Denis. And I think of how after a year at the equator we arrived home in Joseph, cow miraculously emerging from a suitcase missing only the tip of one horn. It is useful to be reminded that we can be fragile and strong at the same time. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjVTeK64r8C1UEg8MoBXgRm3twvImOhHmmf89oJtvQ5LbdKFceX0qRCHYhnFw16dPKPjqIvGoCJtjggeH0ztCIdCU1aFhyGpSKb3mjdSZ42wlL6tVMo761abXKehnoPX3PKStj_9nHOAqXiweD-skT-1gabiW2YXGBOZ-XWDmvF6_-dP52YQZGKieffEQ=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjVTeK64r8C1UEg8MoBXgRm3twvImOhHmmf89oJtvQ5LbdKFceX0qRCHYhnFw16dPKPjqIvGoCJtjggeH0ztCIdCU1aFhyGpSKb3mjdSZ42wlL6tVMo761abXKehnoPX3PKStj_9nHOAqXiweD-skT-1gabiW2YXGBOZ-XWDmvF6_-dP52YQZGKieffEQ=w400-h300" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Punch and Maggie, W. River bar, early December</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Looking out at the snow, I can hardly believe three weeks ago the canyon glowed with fall green-up</b> <b>and we were hauling hay down over good roads. </b>The green-up had lasted several months, reinvigorating plants and providing much-needed forage after the prolonged stress of drought. October and November were months of uncertainty and we felt grateful for every hour of rain. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZcHSrsC06sMKpQypuJYcQt1EEzvjvk8xK13zEKM7bJEBdAMrY5G4C40Pe7sCwgFg6ZHdvOFj2ZR1PuqqsSq0RIqhOVjiGEOP2A6xGgvFTDB3Tde5Ltxi7TPNqQg44YhVu298TdRdhPxI8WLHbtlonWcg0CG-oexjjb4gKAHCeo50Z_Ke90rYnFr1wRA=s4160" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2340" data-original-width="4160" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZcHSrsC06sMKpQypuJYcQt1EEzvjvk8xK13zEKM7bJEBdAMrY5G4C40Pe7sCwgFg6ZHdvOFj2ZR1PuqqsSq0RIqhOVjiGEOP2A6xGgvFTDB3Tde5Ltxi7TPNqQg44YhVu298TdRdhPxI8WLHbtlonWcg0CG-oexjjb4gKAHCeo50Z_Ke90rYnFr1wRA=w400-h225" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Mike and Dave pull in with a load of hay</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /><br /></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>After we unloaded the protein, I checked the cistern; no water was coming in. </b>Our spring heroically managed to keep a pinky-finger sized trickle flowing through eight months of severe drought. Now it seemed the low flow had not been enough to keep the line open, and the long pipe up to the spring had frozen. I filled two five-gallon buckets from the river and carried them up to the porch. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjC8vQU2DCIiUHdH7-crDmibv7JSjQhu5NMTDtoIxp1Vemcw5YrTvKxAwvfB9p5QoZnEQSzJx0QGxhhZM5mAv9BaGvDP4kYcGQ5ODzgwSjW5R3zZaTMi-NwStNKlElt2qrO71Cxf4LA0H-HFLPzZ1Q3jFxekNcru9yYjV_JtLMnMJbqILFMduUVCWQNXA=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjC8vQU2DCIiUHdH7-crDmibv7JSjQhu5NMTDtoIxp1Vemcw5YrTvKxAwvfB9p5QoZnEQSzJx0QGxhhZM5mAv9BaGvDP4kYcGQ5ODzgwSjW5R3zZaTMi-NwStNKlElt2qrO71Cxf4LA0H-HFLPzZ1Q3jFxekNcru9yYjV_JtLMnMJbqILFMduUVCWQNXA=w300-h400" width="300" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Mike tarping hay in weaning pen</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /><br /></span></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>That evening I dipped hot water from the big pot on the wood stove and washed dishes. </b>When the dishes were done, I suggested Mike wash his hands in the dishpan of warm rinse water. Then I wrung out a rag in the used wash water and wiped splotches of dried mud off my coat from when we put the chains on that morning. Finally, I rinsed out the compost bucket with the dirty warm water. It brought back memories of the cow camps where we lived and worked without running water. I thought to myself, well, that's one useful thing I know how to do, live in a dry camp. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /><br /></span><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgeYFl-joOk_fD7Jg-Fv_wrKjpnwTDRJ-iJf1qCRyiYThhFpJSPkEwybwupANZpPbXo7HZqdKHiw4Lz_x1EXZ_7nNnoomR5R9ZUiKYjaD8hEhPgJGWgTcLhM9QZGi91RC9TR8Eq0tHzuq8aySCHxVANn4kgYnSiBclksDOvTGUK2_tVYlpIqsuawra3pg=s4160" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2340" data-original-width="4160" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgeYFl-joOk_fD7Jg-Fv_wrKjpnwTDRJ-iJf1qCRyiYThhFpJSPkEwybwupANZpPbXo7HZqdKHiw4Lz_x1EXZ_7nNnoomR5R9ZUiKYjaD8hEhPgJGWgTcLhM9QZGi91RC9TR8Eq0tHzuq8aySCHxVANn4kgYnSiBclksDOvTGUK2_tVYlpIqsuawra3pg=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Trailing stragglers back from Hall's</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Near the shortest day of the year, I'm feeling less certain of the joy of turning from darkness toward light</b>. Solstice used to promise hopeful signs of growth and vigor, but now in our bones we still feel the zenith of summer, its brittleness and thirst. </span></p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjqz3bwVVQbe37tzR7787pj1Uc7N_iVQrqxHJuJdlCCgEHB9m9opcb8ZvbI6IXNd9ReD8lKqWd7RC4DxwBdy_3ZNPqJldjfcbMZKa28BwrhW37JgF1ipY77gWUbnnW4Xx0F9W63uZLDiN9wzf6RKh-JbHeUwFd3vKJ8TT3ZckbOX1bZhWsBnfrCWkFl0w=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjqz3bwVVQbe37tzR7787pj1Uc7N_iVQrqxHJuJdlCCgEHB9m9opcb8ZvbI6IXNd9ReD8lKqWd7RC4DxwBdy_3ZNPqJldjfcbMZKa28BwrhW37JgF1ipY77gWUbnnW4Xx0F9W63uZLDiN9wzf6RKh-JbHeUwFd3vKJ8TT3ZckbOX1bZhWsBnfrCWkFl0w=w400-h300" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Valley Solstice</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>The next morning I hiked up the draw to recon the water line. </b>Every so often I lifted the black plastic pipe, feeling if it was empty, or heavy with ice. Near the mouth of the draw, I found where cattle had knocked the line apart and a stream of water the size of two thumbs was running out onto the ground. Not only was the line thawed, twice as much water was flowing down from the spring. It is useful to check your assumptions. Sometimes they are wrong and could cause you to miss out on a hot shower in the near future. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef </span></b></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh3SsQIz7JYhZOfgnCPf2aFJBO8FdjLFoT-6K-vFUm9SK-x2PhmVSlyV6M9tAFBsSbcOoFc6Rr2lEI77LtL2wN4YNs7DP7Rnrr04A0C8OJ_BCP4yJZxb0ixBfM5SHIAu7zqIxUDNF7nJ4-drhRFLQ1Jj1xGdBveeDWdGMvXvqbEKUm5UD0YVi8i1sDOqA=s2226" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2226" data-original-width="2042" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh3SsQIz7JYhZOfgnCPf2aFJBO8FdjLFoT-6K-vFUm9SK-x2PhmVSlyV6M9tAFBsSbcOoFc6Rr2lEI77LtL2wN4YNs7DP7Rnrr04A0C8OJ_BCP4yJZxb0ixBfM5SHIAu7zqIxUDNF7nJ4-drhRFLQ1Jj1xGdBveeDWdGMvXvqbEKUm5UD0YVi8i1sDOqA=w184-h200" width="184" /></span></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p>Home on the Rangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05493732576737672634noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751682900954180149.post-32755112899153927762021-09-28T22:46:00.001-07:002021-09-28T22:47:44.223-07:00Way Over Yonder in a Minor Key<p><b>We just passed the autumnal equinox</b>. The first day of fall arrives
in a buttery flat light spread over dry fields and ridges to the north. Wisps
of sweet clouds lose their pinkness by the minute, turn grey then white as the
sun rises out of the east like a laser cutting a flaming horizon from dark timber, then headlong brightening the valley, planting kisses here and there among the hills.</p><p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB0_WM94Io_Fjj_nok55Dzcn3L3HHU6mpnMkNGL4gL7WYRyLrOVF9kjB10xYZo2S4J9e5ycuJ7aNvrpgeAghHXoizakZRJS3ff2yAJLlQMKXEW1awFgb-vF_Uhr_DonP6bkxK4iYsFhaO8/s2048/PXL_20210920_143023202+first+snow.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB0_WM94Io_Fjj_nok55Dzcn3L3HHU6mpnMkNGL4gL7WYRyLrOVF9kjB10xYZo2S4J9e5ycuJ7aNvrpgeAghHXoizakZRJS3ff2yAJLlQMKXEW1awFgb-vF_Uhr_DonP6bkxK4iYsFhaO8/w400-h300/PXL_20210920_143023202+first+snow.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>First snow, irrigated fields still green</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>Where is my love in this quiet moment before the day
unfolds in the rumble of grain trucks, the rattle of stock trailers, the bawling of the neighbor's cattle at weaning time? </b>He is slumbering under covers made heavier and warmer now that nights are longer and freeze
more often than not. For sleep, I am thankful.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitutxkWav9bokI173iM9TmAE1jojZ9GDhLMtlEHLxzIqgCvXPdAO3UCXrJl4Dp6QUEEgvwf-WTHorQ3YxnreqTw2EisZgEIJfcpPvT6UXHtS_LyRQfHDfnTXr3lDfrUgsmlyq8V6ZMhRrx/s2048/PXL_20210919_022055787+moon+barn.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitutxkWav9bokI173iM9TmAE1jojZ9GDhLMtlEHLxzIqgCvXPdAO3UCXrJl4Dp6QUEEgvwf-WTHorQ3YxnreqTw2EisZgEIJfcpPvT6UXHtS_LyRQfHDfnTXr3lDfrUgsmlyq8V6ZMhRrx/w400-h300/PXL_20210919_022055787+moon+barn.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Here she comes, harvest moon</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>We have to move our cows and calves off the prairie early
this year.</b> It is no surprise, but we were holding out hope that we might be
able to make it to early November, like we usually do. I’m trying not to think
about it too much, or ask too many questions. We have options. I’m letting
my pardner figure them out.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /> <o:p></o:p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgNlDMZMq4M1fHCodlqm4jsgk4t0vqid4XTYGh9Ga-ebvaTZdNOvhCoVOIETNDjCCqimmC1FcsRno8ouh-1KaTVcg5VtkFlhLGeOX4CkXD8419E5_3KUZ32VtWRqBM461XWBdR2KubbRfx/s2048/PXL_20210924_190545673.MP.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgNlDMZMq4M1fHCodlqm4jsgk4t0vqid4XTYGh9Ga-ebvaTZdNOvhCoVOIETNDjCCqimmC1FcsRno8ouh-1KaTVcg5VtkFlhLGeOX4CkXD8419E5_3KUZ32VtWRqBM461XWBdR2KubbRfx/w400-h300/PXL_20210924_190545673.MP.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Sibling spin - grandkids</b></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>After the month-long beef harvest with deliveries and communications,
we try to rest more and do less for a while. </b>The customers are kind and
thoughtful and varied and they jump into the dance of harvest, reassuring us
they will be there at the ready on delivery day, meeting us with words of
thanks and encouragement, taking interest and sharing stories from their lives.
And I am thankful for safe travels; for our adult children
unloading heavy boxes, taking payments and keeping track, and arranging a
delicious dinner of Thai take-out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu2HnSPWLCq92P5dIhGsVlbWG8hTx46pyLW5JvWQXEdLyhOusdkRqBV5s-ULqjucPRqVbi1eUOjXYgZTsazUopOHv64YwFK_qnX4VSNwjfBav33wlnAWnTklAHaSveO4Cdeyn2xZxH-pQO/s2048/PXL_20210912_221058518.MP+crop+loading.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1951" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu2HnSPWLCq92P5dIhGsVlbWG8hTx46pyLW5JvWQXEdLyhOusdkRqBV5s-ULqjucPRqVbi1eUOjXYgZTsazUopOHv64YwFK_qnX4VSNwjfBav33wlnAWnTklAHaSveO4Cdeyn2xZxH-pQO/w381-h400/PXL_20210912_221058518.MP+crop+loading.jpg" width="381" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Thank you carriers of heavy boxes</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>We try to do less and rest more. </b>We imagine a lull in the ever-long list of tasks and projects and before the hay hauling and the cattle trailing begin, we go to the canyon to see if the bears and deer and turkeys have left us any pears. We get a late start and drive down in the dusk through an eerie landscape of parched
rangeland. The first real rain in four months has fallen just a few days ago, but you can't even tell, and I feet a familiar weight on my chest and a familiar pit
in my stomach.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXgUUc_IZ_0BgYBSocdOTXHMx46PlVCGhmhMhMVctUDkjcmn6ur8u-luo1wz8sC2DNBZlgMOpNbFBIktp1RmBUIrbRjSZdIiq5HfJVPmNAoZQ_6GwTMeranoC5IcY7L9TtHK1X-KRivRQa/s2048/PXL_20210919_021016430+storm+clouds.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXgUUc_IZ_0BgYBSocdOTXHMx46PlVCGhmhMhMVctUDkjcmn6ur8u-luo1wz8sC2DNBZlgMOpNbFBIktp1RmBUIrbRjSZdIiq5HfJVPmNAoZQ_6GwTMeranoC5IcY7L9TtHK1X-KRivRQa/w400-h300/PXL_20210919_021016430+storm+clouds.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Storm clouds, hope they bring rain</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>We unload in the dark
and we check the spring – a trickle still fills the cistern. </b>We make a fire
in the woodstove and we go out in the night and sit silently for a while on the
edge of the porch, watching strange dimpled clouds arriving out of the east.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW_ZQob9hR9JN5KDU2MiLPOEa4SiPdzX1V_YBDiAN60HuOo7stYXIaVhgBWJDqaSuZl0p8hR3U1-8rRPj_6MJQ2-ONtkQBFPAu3zIDe4zQbtGGwo-A4aLvv4iKOyqtz73m6ERXBFTsw-Rk/s2048/PXL_20210831_191534695.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW_ZQob9hR9JN5KDU2MiLPOEa4SiPdzX1V_YBDiAN60HuOo7stYXIaVhgBWJDqaSuZl0p8hR3U1-8rRPj_6MJQ2-ONtkQBFPAu3zIDe4zQbtGGwo-A4aLvv4iKOyqtz73m6ERXBFTsw-Rk/w300-h400/PXL_20210831_191534695.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Dog tamer</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>We walk out into the orchard to look at the trees. </b>The full moon has yet to crest the eastern rim, but in the dark
lee of the river bottom we can still make out our faint shadows on the ground. We
turn around and stare at high western rims already bathed in a near-daylight that edges towards us, casting draws and benches in stark relief. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-dC6EQ8k1SJ1DZJFbdbq__9u9HrkgfQJ-sz2G4T2i8o9-Lo3-EcpvusyON_2PJBZ2BaC7_yJy8J2CJ4HdgixUSvI0Q4Kut3C-rkYnHKMtw4_h4W98ESzkWrCsm_i6RFv6Q1WfDvwjHwXR/s2048/PXL_20210929_010912118+farmhouse.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-dC6EQ8k1SJ1DZJFbdbq__9u9HrkgfQJ-sz2G4T2i8o9-Lo3-EcpvusyON_2PJBZ2BaC7_yJy8J2CJ4HdgixUSvI0Q4Kut3C-rkYnHKMtw4_h4W98ESzkWrCsm_i6RFv6Q1WfDvwjHwXR/w400-h300/PXL_20210929_010912118+farmhouse.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Little farm house in the valley - home place</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>As I look up at the towering rocks, for a moment I feel cradled inside a circle of strong brothers.</b> But a tumult of emotion overtakes me, first like salt
water knocking me down and dragging me across a rocky beach, and then the river gripping me in a frothy rapid and spitting me out into a gentle curling eddy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For not feeling estranged from beauty, I am
thankful. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdHvhVS0RhrMRm85QjYIwJOiM93d7LQ0XVenuuC1Bvp5oOdSIdoGwozTa0-9V7iOJ1Bs96G0y4LC2GhTjFmf6oeBF8sQ2xvd22gZ8cqfJ-VxuRD2G8J3QQachY916bjOJoam6VOPEIR4Qu/s2048/PXL_20210928_002104500+horses.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdHvhVS0RhrMRm85QjYIwJOiM93d7LQ0XVenuuC1Bvp5oOdSIdoGwozTa0-9V7iOJ1Bs96G0y4LC2GhTjFmf6oeBF8sQ2xvd22gZ8cqfJ-VxuRD2G8J3QQachY916bjOJoam6VOPEIR4Qu/w400-h300/PXL_20210928_002104500+horses.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Sedona and Chester</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>And we stand there under the trees, apart from each other, quietly gazing on everything around us.</b> Finally, we talk to one another, and he tells me things I never heard before. And I listen, and my love listens back, and I am thankful. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK9rHYxWhzhu2agI-WHuRt8rZRGt6pEw4-5r51EuEqtigv7M-_lzAAjhFNYSoV3exn36-rvvidxwXGrXaZtpLGQuH81kkXtu7BPKdLrmoP3hJHZS5uDx6hTb_n-zLxJHcDINqY9_YSIG4P/s655/I+had+a+little+girl+in+a+holler+tree+crop.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="501" data-original-width="655" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK9rHYxWhzhu2agI-WHuRt8rZRGt6pEw4-5r51EuEqtigv7M-_lzAAjhFNYSoV3exn36-rvvidxwXGrXaZtpLGQuH81kkXtu7BPKdLrmoP3hJHZS5uDx6hTb_n-zLxJHcDINqY9_YSIG4P/w320-h245/I+had+a+little+girl+in+a+holler+tree+crop.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Woody Guthrie Poem, excerpt <br /><br /></b></td></tr></tbody></table><b><br /></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef</b></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpDw7Ap27fNQEWBiEFjxboJgDaKZG_iN8z7GzBhYBqKiBL-s_IgS7l3qoDz18G0jMgVrAsBuy0iY744eGNuTXDAsMnH9rSOs5cYYd9bTcXe1AjK5J-mNYhdSFV5po0qO0EZY7STiA6qzec/s2048/PXL_20210831_193429862.NIGHT+edit.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpDw7Ap27fNQEWBiEFjxboJgDaKZG_iN8z7GzBhYBqKiBL-s_IgS7l3qoDz18G0jMgVrAsBuy0iY744eGNuTXDAsMnH9rSOs5cYYd9bTcXe1AjK5J-mNYhdSFV5po0qO0EZY7STiA6qzec/w320-h240/PXL_20210831_193429862.NIGHT+edit.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Dirty faces - </b><b>Sara and Abby</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><b><br /></b><p></p>Home on the Rangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05493732576737672634noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751682900954180149.post-86345088520310297342021-08-27T13:24:00.000-07:002021-08-27T13:24:57.141-07:00Winnowing<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>This morning just before dawn, when I woke up and could feel
cold seeping into the old farmhouse,</b> <b>I thought of the garden, ripening and
vulnerable. </b>The cucumbers and beans are coming on strong, but the winter squash
has a long ways to go. An overnight forecast of 41 degrees in Joseph could easily be 31
degrees here where the air currents flow down-valley along the creek.<br /> <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvnC3-204yYIP_nqwXkPh9AEQzgzWoUQymhDqSl1lBYmfAJv4zXUv9kWeVKi1UUipIL85ASYeBswJQudIrQudWSGosGOUhhWBhFBvU3KQ7u1So29Ecunoastcd0ervpWekXhS0imsNHsYz/" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1517" data-original-width="2048" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvnC3-204yYIP_nqwXkPh9AEQzgzWoUQymhDqSl1lBYmfAJv4zXUv9kWeVKi1UUipIL85ASYeBswJQudIrQudWSGosGOUhhWBhFBvU3KQ7u1So29Ecunoastcd0ervpWekXhS0imsNHsYz/w400-h296/KIMG0206+crop.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Yearlings mid June</b></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>The last two nights I covered the garden with huge tarps and it had frosted hard.</b> But I didn’t want to go out in the dark and cold last night, and now my conscience was nagging me. I went to the kitchen and looked at the outdoor thermometer, 36 degrees. Whew. This cold snap would not be the one to put an end to the warm weather crops. There was still hope of a few winter squashes to squirrel away for the months ahead. </p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbGjtgPSQg33rCPAJtcsEHGZhyphenhyphenLsadReDOESbr8sN34_QWnpyynn0J7Juu_ntupslEE8z6n_TkZJ5QSLfyFWb9FUIGIytLo9spNZLmfky3wYl3vYULE56xUMyIimbddshKS63ffDSopbVS/s2048/PXL_20210822_024442781.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbGjtgPSQg33rCPAJtcsEHGZhyphenhyphenLsadReDOESbr8sN34_QWnpyynn0J7Juu_ntupslEE8z6n_TkZJ5QSLfyFWb9FUIGIytLo9spNZLmfky3wYl3vYULE56xUMyIimbddshKS63ffDSopbVS/w400-h300/PXL_20210822_024442781.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>First cuke harvest</b></td></tr></tbody></table>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>I have not gleaned or put-up as much food this year as I
usually do. </b>The drought and other challenges have put extra demands on our bodies
and our waking hours outside our day-jobs of community development and
rangeland management. Dealing with dwindling irrigation water, early moves to
pastures, fences needing many repairs, hustling to get catch pens up in
pastures without<br />corrals or reinforcing old corrals. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQqHzymzrnSb2htpF1jWUl1F9AFReH0D5CapV8ToT_V2i9kn6-VpuvSQeqZ3H8NrlKiJh7ca8-gC_nsXXo1AQvfYOgPjPAaHMCkKqujCEvhMjFm9Ua7CT32YkGpMvbF_MDoKH7_3KzwOP-/" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQqHzymzrnSb2htpF1jWUl1F9AFReH0D5CapV8ToT_V2i9kn6-VpuvSQeqZ3H8NrlKiJh7ca8-gC_nsXXo1AQvfYOgPjPAaHMCkKqujCEvhMjFm9Ua7CT32YkGpMvbF_MDoKH7_3KzwOP-/w400-h225/KIMG0221.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>New full crib </b></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><b>We are aware that others are facing much more stressful
choices</b> like hauling stock water to cattle when range ponds dry up, having to
sell mother cows because they have run out of feed, or desperately organizing
evacuation of animals under threat of wildfire. We are thankful.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK6Amt605T0HXQ36l03JeG-IhInbTwM_yKQumzdUm8eC71P1f1vIKr3NXWEAxYhIRstWK8gseiQOrwaP2WRXWyaJK2P3ziLkBYPIlrxngbaVOzEiXni6WW3jpg6RcFUK9D7Gcea-ByGLW2/s2048/KIMG0288+day+one.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK6Amt605T0HXQ36l03JeG-IhInbTwM_yKQumzdUm8eC71P1f1vIKr3NXWEAxYhIRstWK8gseiQOrwaP2WRXWyaJK2P3ziLkBYPIlrxngbaVOzEiXni6WW3jpg6RcFUK9D7Gcea-ByGLW2/w400-h225/KIMG0288+day+one.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b> Cows and calves, August pasture move earlier than usual<br /><br /></b></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>This morning, even though there is no wind, I find myself
thinking of winnowing</b>. The act of separation, the ways we choose what to keep
and what to discard, what is desirable and what is unwanted.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDkPw4CLuSI3RXKf8XDOGm9bzjtjiVTGAmiPOEr8Rn9Eg7XYDvKpEEahRyRi8dhLcM38r1QN7hC1Vop_IxkbSVbH7pWAVKZE5ExSur4fy2DFUWGIH6F-scYPwsiAcwBcFxs5Mcruiprjru/" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="673" data-original-width="624" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDkPw4CLuSI3RXKf8XDOGm9bzjtjiVTGAmiPOEr8Rn9Eg7XYDvKpEEahRyRi8dhLcM38r1QN7hC1Vop_IxkbSVbH7pWAVKZE5ExSur4fy2DFUWGIH6F-scYPwsiAcwBcFxs5Mcruiprjru/w372-h400/image.png" width="372" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>August bouquet<br /><br /></b></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>In June my friend Beth passed away and I wanted to make
something special and delicious for her memorial.</b> She was a skilled farmer and used her organic produce and other locally-sourced food in her catering
business, with beautiful and yummy results. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfklXhxnrhOjEgPlNlb1R61kLLGWXS6rnaNnUe0w09WbadE-R1cqSwys0JWBMTylAy5prX6Imlnsry_aphtwUlyFoa9o_IGs4LdO0TPIXoAYmbijqAhWAz7TVQJ45g9mCFlPaiSxpsY5bG/" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfklXhxnrhOjEgPlNlb1R61kLLGWXS6rnaNnUe0w09WbadE-R1cqSwys0JWBMTylAy5prX6Imlnsry_aphtwUlyFoa9o_IGs4LdO0TPIXoAYmbijqAhWAz7TVQJ45g9mCFlPaiSxpsY5bG/w400-h300/PXL_20210827_152813922.MP+pickeles.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Honey curry pickles</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>Beth was also my partner in last minute trips to pick fruit in wild places. </b>We borrowed each other’s ice cream freezers when we needed to make multiple gallons of ice cream to feed large gatherings. We schemed and planned community food system projects, like starting a farmers market and a local food directory, or a grow-a-row for the food pantry campaign. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq4agAHBSrSTfOTaNZ3FXX-yg9CeCVLGP83yQHwEySOv4z33bnkLUKbcAuqe07WdaahmKWcBdcVMdoBUWHczn0U-tMAEwwtlzpPOQkeMQVfMWO86RY8xpOwr_EmEsWhAuhNy6JUB1QFESw/" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq4agAHBSrSTfOTaNZ3FXX-yg9CeCVLGP83yQHwEySOv4z33bnkLUKbcAuqe07WdaahmKWcBdcVMdoBUWHczn0U-tMAEwwtlzpPOQkeMQVfMWO86RY8xpOwr_EmEsWhAuhNy6JUB1QFESw/w400-h300/PXL_20210827_153530496.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Maggie one year old, 'I'll herd em! Cats, cows, horses!' </b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>When I decided to make beef cheeks for the potluck, I did something
I rarely do, I followed a recipe and I cooked with wine. </b>After a 90 degree day,
I stayed up so I could use the oven at night, braising the beef cheeks on a
bed of vegetables for three hours, then putting the pot in a bath of cold
water to so I could go to bed. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDsPv6ayePcDBbbGIeiCg4OxGArsI8FjccvmQ-i29ZHcd-kRa1pA_OiGDwUPFLK0dE6DKX0I2Hr_lt6RDSeQmV_fAAV0OEsqwMRjHWI6d2Vyzfm5zKSDWBWM6KAI5yOmcokyOsQUyBDewG/" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1525" data-original-width="2048" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDsPv6ayePcDBbbGIeiCg4OxGArsI8FjccvmQ-i29ZHcd-kRa1pA_OiGDwUPFLK0dE6DKX0I2Hr_lt6RDSeQmV_fAAV0OEsqwMRjHWI6d2Vyzfm5zKSDWBWM6KAI5yOmcokyOsQUyBDewG/w400-h297/PXL_20210827_152847579.MP+bunkhouse.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Bunkhouse, August morning Wallowa Valley</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>The next day, I saw the recipe said to remove the meat and
put the vegetables and braising liquid through a sieve.</b> I have a sieve, but I've hardly ever used it and I almost skipped this
step. What difference would it make? But I went ahead and fished out the chunks of
meat and heated up the gelatinous stock to make it pourable.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIJpeeJpx6TSYyvxQeac1hmh0hhLLfAw1Zun9Dz7t2t5H3ct0tFlyCLVHerZZfaDnSVxYLVCicvAto6FoRvmLeDzv4iBopuy8mptSiNS48v_7uBkwkavdO_1xQ0laQZ30E4L3IRdMPvBTK/" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIJpeeJpx6TSYyvxQeac1hmh0hhLLfAw1Zun9Dz7t2t5H3ct0tFlyCLVHerZZfaDnSVxYLVCicvAto6FoRvmLeDzv4iBopuy8mptSiNS48v_7uBkwkavdO_1xQ0laQZ30E4L3IRdMPvBTK/w400-h225/KIMG0241sedona.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Sedona, Zumwalt Prairie</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>Back and forth, back and forth, I pressed the wooden spoon
against the mesh until nothing more seemed to go through.</b> Not much was left in
the sieve and it looked totally edible to me. I was tempted to scrape it into
the pot, but I didn’t. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtBd3O_PG_EFy9zDsT8rAeG5z_wDmIVtLB5KrbrsntZTbow9Bbhjf2IMz-Tf0fqFEGMR1kGaRKTWAeDRc3OnxiIezd8mnzV3hwcizTYR2objSh8dUYiR_59ZZCQ_xjJBEhpekFhOVD7uAg/" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtBd3O_PG_EFy9zDsT8rAeG5z_wDmIVtLB5KrbrsntZTbow9Bbhjf2IMz-Tf0fqFEGMR1kGaRKTWAeDRc3OnxiIezd8mnzV3hwcizTYR2objSh8dUYiR_59ZZCQ_xjJBEhpekFhOVD7uAg/w400-h300/PXL_20210827_154116851+micke+choice.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Back porch</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>The recipe then said to slice the beef cheeks and put them back into the sieved liquid and reheat. </b>I’ve never done that before either. I’ve just cooked them until done and served them. But I did it, hurrying to get it all really hot before packing the big pot in towels in a box and rushing off to the potluck.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs38osmz-z5C41G-wC0u6rCXyuH5LiKJGjdJcc1Htzm1l-db2YFhB_NKHxo5gBiUiM9pYxnNtaYbQ9qNLQKiR5gh9LXG3JSF8mh8lMtiPDi1TnX9wB49JBOcZEykO9LtQJrtWevCB2x_os/" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1694" data-original-width="2048" height="331" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs38osmz-z5C41G-wC0u6rCXyuH5LiKJGjdJcc1Htzm1l-db2YFhB_NKHxo5gBiUiM9pYxnNtaYbQ9qNLQKiR5gh9LXG3JSF8mh8lMtiPDi1TnX9wB49JBOcZEykO9LtQJrtWevCB2x_os/w400-h331/PXL_20210827_153246315+crop.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Squash, cuke, bean patch, not yet frosted! </b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>As I placed the pot on the table, I was given a little card
to label my dish, “Beef cheeks braised in red wine, Magpie Ranch.” </b>I thought a
lot of people might avoid eating a beef cheek, something they had never probably
never heard of or tasted before. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpTkKqMS-_E9-iJpue2uAw5tXrTgIk5M0XnDF5S-HFlkbzVKjMcrY4i2colQ0wJ7mc6XoGRp6w3HYv8IXwdtUxDj1EnSqpcMXvpZeeObJPuTJ_Bpb9kLdpuGwHrzJCk2ysVhQGJsclaAv2/" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1828" data-original-width="2048" height="357" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpTkKqMS-_E9-iJpue2uAw5tXrTgIk5M0XnDF5S-HFlkbzVKjMcrY4i2colQ0wJ7mc6XoGRp6w3HYv8IXwdtUxDj1EnSqpcMXvpZeeObJPuTJ_Bpb9kLdpuGwHrzJCk2ysVhQGJsclaAv2/w400-h357/PXL_20210827_153108455+crop.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>New hollyhock, from seed collected in an alley<br /><br /></b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>I was a bit overwhelmed by the gathering, even though it was
outdoors and everyone was well spread out under the pine trees beneath the
shadow of Mount Joseph</b>. I lingered on the edges, thinking of Beth and feeling
her loss, but after the eating began, people started coming up to me. “Somebody
told me you made that dish, those beef cheeks. Those are incredible!” I said
thank you, and figured I better go try some myself. They were different from any other meat I've had. Hot, savory, and satiny, they literally melted in my mouth. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGN4MUz7HlVmESF6enFQ65-BPMAwH-0Ki8wDgVpf7fRSYquzrQMjP_zVe4yRVz6MA0_xSXKZiwzOMUmAYdq2SIico4tsfyLGZPeJMbxgQt0tWSemCO-SjR8my47xTJO_1hi2-FAdEuogJd/" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGN4MUz7HlVmESF6enFQ65-BPMAwH-0Ki8wDgVpf7fRSYquzrQMjP_zVe4yRVz6MA0_xSXKZiwzOMUmAYdq2SIico4tsfyLGZPeJMbxgQt0tWSemCO-SjR8my47xTJO_1hi2-FAdEuogJd/w400-h300/PXL_20210827_153032769.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Transparent apples, early to ripen, good for sauce</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>I</b><b> don’t really know what this means, but since the potluck I’ve
used my sieve a few more times, discarding parts of what I’m canning, blackberry
seeds, plum skins.</b> And each time I’ve felt an oddness about this winnowing,
this choice to discard something that could be eaten, that is probably good for
you. And it makes me think of other kinds of winnowing, of the labels we put on
people, sorting them into keepers and culls, and of who does the deciding and
how and why. Which farmers or ranchers qualify for drought relief funds? Which small businesses should get financial support? Which changes should we seek in the
world? Who deserves water, a home, nutritious food, a ventilator, love?</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEsMCwFX4wWJuz-CmqivGmCaJqtl1VgeIRz5ohbQ7IMeu9BqLOA1y-9yVkedzcXwkf0LEHyao9hT3l_9Jnb2AVFqxPAdmsQAPau5I-kLHzkowh6xzvOe7t78Tb30R2PmD3TRWXb0wtgeb-/" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="875" data-original-width="624" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEsMCwFX4wWJuz-CmqivGmCaJqtl1VgeIRz5ohbQ7IMeu9BqLOA1y-9yVkedzcXwkf0LEHyao9hT3l_9Jnb2AVFqxPAdmsQAPau5I-kLHzkowh6xzvOe7t78Tb30R2PmD3TRWXb0wtgeb-/w285-h400/image.png" width="285" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Customer love helps keep us going</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></div><br /><br /></div><br /> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>And I know I’m sometimes like the wind, sifting through the
days and moments of my life,</b> choosing, sometimes recklessly, what is precious
and what is undeserving of further thought. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef</b><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Home on the Rangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05493732576737672634noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751682900954180149.post-5535416158366873682021-07-05T09:56:00.000-07:002021-07-05T09:56:06.786-07:00<div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Honest Failure </b></span></div><div><br /></div><div><b>The other day, I was in town to switch out my winter tires and while waiting I dragged a chair outside the tire shop to eat my lunch and read. </b>During the hour and half I was sitting there near the front door, I noticed how exposed I felt as other customers came and went. At the same time I noticed part of me really wanted to see people and be out in the open.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii4fRsr3d0W-xDEU1Dhxok0V9Al4Y8XvaCXtrNT3sRJVBlnpsNbyjOAgIKfheIRU0qpDaNQB4HXZuTrLqAcfi_rDobYXvmRriHw8e6NSo1vU3ERhueNspqRjszCznhC8K3UYhLZ_QzUfqM/s2048/late+may+storm.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii4fRsr3d0W-xDEU1Dhxok0V9Al4Y8XvaCXtrNT3sRJVBlnpsNbyjOAgIKfheIRU0qpDaNQB4HXZuTrLqAcfi_rDobYXvmRriHw8e6NSo1vU3ERhueNspqRjszCznhC8K3UYhLZ_QzUfqM/w400-h300/late+may+storm.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Late May storm in canyon</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><b>Since the pandemic, I've been sticking to my list when I go to town and not interacting with people much, </b>so when a woman I know pulled up, I was delighted to find myself compelled to go talk to her. Our lives have intersected over the decades, not often, but in a variety of ways and across several generations. We are both ranchers working to keep our businesses going and we've collaborated to plan community food systems projects. We're both moms and grandmas. She's part of a fifth generation ranch and I'm part of a first generation one. We are alike and we are different. </div><div><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJASMQqKTAJQQPfdb4a21IQ2MkEbI0pBRgGE6lfOSEw_GreB1SUsDMcoaWhbpIRd2uAnYeIAYh49WDDmKkBinMC2esj4_Wx585wh5HNXsh06sRs9MWObRrZP2wj2_OH9gFTXXGBkaut8m2/s4032/maggie+late+may.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJASMQqKTAJQQPfdb4a21IQ2MkEbI0pBRgGE6lfOSEw_GreB1SUsDMcoaWhbpIRd2uAnYeIAYh49WDDmKkBinMC2esj4_Wx585wh5HNXsh06sRs9MWObRrZP2wj2_OH9gFTXXGBkaut8m2/w300-h400/maggie+late+may.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Maggie pup late May</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>A few years ago, after we had known each other a long time, we connected in a new way. </b>She heard me read at Fireside, a winter program where the Fishtrap literary organization invites local writers to read for the community. Afterward she came up to me and said, "I didn't know that about you." Did she mean that I wrote poetry? That I was a herder? Even living in a small place with not that many people, it is easy to make assumptions about who people are, what they believe or how they live their lives. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Here is bit of the poem I read, which is about herding cattle:</b></div></div><div><br /></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><i style="color: #244061; text-align: center;">Sometimes there's a jam, like when a branch catches in high water, </i></div><i style="color: #244061; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><i>and if you don't get it out right away, all the stuff
coming down the crick piles up, wedged so tight you can't budge a thing.</i></div></i><i style="color: #244061; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><i>But if you quick ease out that one willow slip, something else will shift and suddenly everything
flows smooth again.</i></div></i><i style="color: #244061; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div></i><i style="color: #244061; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Or the way your horse moves kind of like a dog
sometimes </i></div></i><i style="color: #244061; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><i>quietly threading the prairie behind the cattle</i></div></i><i style="color: #244061; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><i>sometimes flanking, sometimes trailing</i> </div></i></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><i style="color: #244061; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><i>sometimes heading, loping </i><i>shoulder to shoulder with a heifer</i></div></i></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><i style="color: #244061; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><i> and turning together </i><i style="text-align: center;">back toward the herd.</i></div></i><i style="color: #244061; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div></i><i style="color: #244061; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Or when you’re back-riding in a fall storm, three riders hunting thick timber
for sign, </i><i>listening </i><i>for the bawl of cattle when they hear us coming through the brush.</i></div></i></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><i style="color: #244061; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Everything wet and getting wetter, thunder crashing so close and rain falling so hard you pull up and hunker three steaming horses wedged side by side under a stubby fir on the side of the
draw, </i><i>all of you knowing in a moment you’ll step back into the rain,
hooting dribs and drabs of cattle out of their thickets, losing daylight and needing
to go. </i></div></i></blockquote><div><div><br /></div><div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOGkJ8ut-MRFTCDErXA4Tlrm4aLr7CUAKhVT5MO2SPkuk1ApAHlAbpNjCFchhgQqF6AQMMVL_4uVYCXqv8eUGzXRisWf1gOriyRoS4_KTuvqMcf31U1RpIDM_dIHSdvVhgoF7i-c9lDOG8/s2048/sara+gather+crop.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1262" data-original-width="2048" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOGkJ8ut-MRFTCDErXA4Tlrm4aLr7CUAKhVT5MO2SPkuk1ApAHlAbpNjCFchhgQqF6AQMMVL_4uVYCXqv8eUGzXRisWf1gOriyRoS4_KTuvqMcf31U1RpIDM_dIHSdvVhgoF7i-c9lDOG8/w400-h246/sara+gather+crop.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Sara gathering cattle in canyon</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>I wanted my friend to thank her daughter for reading a story at another Fireside event a few months back.</b> It was the daughter's first time reading in public and because of the virus she had to read online in front of a computer screen, with no way of knowing who was in the audience watching and listening. She looked vulnerable and uncertain, but I could also sense the necessity she felt to share a part of her life. </div><div><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoWKHtCK79ywTaaa5GKELk9dqInQvhR1MDqPAPIL6oDkr-kEsA3No_xhTFONwTe1wPKidlYFA0zRerh6HiRDsfE934shknxtHUmjs8cNVZj2LBFKp0o2n2Fd134Xk8Ark1YWZd5XpchKh0/s2048/cows+in+the+small+lot.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoWKHtCK79ywTaaa5GKELk9dqInQvhR1MDqPAPIL6oDkr-kEsA3No_xhTFONwTe1wPKidlYFA0zRerh6HiRDsfE934shknxtHUmjs8cNVZj2LBFKp0o2n2Fd134Xk8Ark1YWZd5XpchKh0/w400-h300/cows+in+the+small+lot.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Lush river bar, late spring</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div><b>In the story, she had been working on a remote ranch, calving out heifers during a severe winter. </b>Night after night, she pushed off the weight of exhaustion and crawled out of bed every few hours to do what had to be done. On the night of the story, she slept through her alarm and woke up thinking of the heifer her boss warned might calve soon. Out in the swirling snowstorm, the beam of her headlamp caught first the wild eyes of the heifer and then below on the ground, the black mound of a dead calf. And all the voices of the naysayers in her life came rushing back, "You are too lazy and too selfish, and you will fail at ranching." </div><div><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7oJhXVysjROCOFfd73TP3mfXWL2DTD4Rugt03558XS-dd32JSLlHhAh7Hh3zOHm7ZFtCbSx_RYTn0OmUe4Buk3oXreCYZpXRWpOdW3aBf19Y8rf-XV92-mABBxklq4yzwN2B6dvjX7fJs/s1926/sara+abby+cammie.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1622" data-original-width="1926" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7oJhXVysjROCOFfd73TP3mfXWL2DTD4Rugt03558XS-dd32JSLlHhAh7Hh3zOHm7ZFtCbSx_RYTn0OmUe4Buk3oXreCYZpXRWpOdW3aBf19Y8rf-XV92-mABBxklq4yzwN2B6dvjX7fJs/w400-h336/sara+abby+cammie.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Sara, Cammie and Abigail on day three trailing cows</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>But she didn't give up. Eventually she met her partner and is finding her own path toward raising a family, tending livestock, feeding community. </b>As the story came to an end she told us how being woken in the night by the cries of her newborn what she sees first in her mind is not her son needing comfort, but that heifer's calf frozen to the ground. </div><div><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilXw6hF1lkL9G6ygrNgGqf_xc9OXsSuod0fHr77NndDKp61CBD9dZfkd70JygosQ7H2JYLGIqzWnOtHDfT6WRCsf8dbVB_I3lZGK5FwCF6tgMqDhCIgkvO9KqUxKXnqeBWb9t0-ZYsEvLr/s2048/gabe+cammie+turn+out.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilXw6hF1lkL9G6ygrNgGqf_xc9OXsSuod0fHr77NndDKp61CBD9dZfkd70JygosQ7H2JYLGIqzWnOtHDfT6WRCsf8dbVB_I3lZGK5FwCF6tgMqDhCIgkvO9KqUxKXnqeBWb9t0-ZYsEvLr/w400-h225/gabe+cammie+turn+out.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Gabe and Cammie turning out on the prairie</b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2rZZ8ujOkMZ25O5tQlvB4d_w4BDnNBnGlDkyRcFe1MJgkgmVo16ceB1WK4wVgRz-5yT2MSLrAw0mPIHq4OHl2qrN5avlZ-9VNyf-C6UNza1xPeT1lEDEDfLkPomfnJ7F01nYgIl4li7v0/s640/IMG_5183.JPG" style="clear: left; display: block; float: left; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"></a><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b>I was moved by this story and the honesty required to admit that we sometimes fail. </b>We can't control the weather, but we have skills and resources and we try to use them as best we can to care for the cattle, horses, dogs and people we work with every day. It is good for us to remember that we all fall short sometimes. And by sharing the stories of our failures maybe we can learn from each other, not just how to do things or how not to do them, but how to listen, how to feel empathy and see the interconnectedness of life, the interdependence of all living beings on one another and our world. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b>As drought and uncertainty unfold this summer, I'm sure I could use more of that kind of learning. </b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b><br /></b></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGO1YQii8oyyWSDVikeNE7g6DTDj075gvPCAhEK604CXZuoi6NyeWUT6fRAdSV8S_a2zWAul53ZZ16vdgvSkBjbIHF_tZessoTk5pCQfSpcyDJKPCLKC6FISs9ubPeCmRa84TlakIVXiLs/s2048/KIMG0098.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGO1YQii8oyyWSDVikeNE7g6DTDj075gvPCAhEK604CXZuoi6NyeWUT6fRAdSV8S_a2zWAul53ZZ16vdgvSkBjbIHF_tZessoTk5pCQfSpcyDJKPCLKC6FISs9ubPeCmRa84TlakIVXiLs/w400-h225/KIMG0098.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Wishing for rain like this and not thunderstorms<br /><br /><br /></b><b style="text-align: left;">From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef</b><b><br /><br /></b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><b><br /></b></div>Home on the Rangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05493732576737672634noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751682900954180149.post-27874243188292632102020-09-24T11:15:00.000-07:002020-09-24T11:15:40.317-07:00<p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">It's Raining</span></b></p><p><b>I heard it from the kitchen this morning when I was up making coffee in the dark and I opened a window and stuck my hand out to be sure</b>. A few months ago the sun would have been up hours ago. We have passed the equinox. Our days are shrinking while our nights grow longer. We feel it in our bones. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUQWiZ8qQBSMycVULt3D860fkUEyuxVJi3O_iId163seQXPZR33ctx4KDB6yW2mr4_fAhU75mSzh4lMLpJCUDcwNw7prXsNaVPWuPD0uw6MnbiZ3lsXJcdO14Ksp10cM6Isqo5ttoR3Zb6/s2048/IMG_20200912_075710695.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUQWiZ8qQBSMycVULt3D860fkUEyuxVJi3O_iId163seQXPZR33ctx4KDB6yW2mr4_fAhU75mSzh4lMLpJCUDcwNw7prXsNaVPWuPD0uw6MnbiZ3lsXJcdO14Ksp10cM6Isqo5ttoR3Zb6/w400-h300/IMG_20200912_075710695.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Fall range, smoke approaching</b><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><b>Earlier this month the cows and calves made their last move on the prairie, from summer to fall pasture. </b>I didn't even spend one day helping trail. I never even went one time all summer to see them. It makes me feel strange and disconnected from my world. I have spent most of my time since March indoors, in a virtual world, assisting hundreds of very small businesses to try to keep going, to pay their bills, to juggle their own versions of family, health, finances. This is the face of the pandemic in rural, where nearly half of people working have created a business to employ themselves. Like us, many have both businesses and jobs. It just happens that my job is helping businesses and nonprofits in a three county region. The hardest day so far was when a business owner on the other end of the phone told me I was kind. After she hung up, I cried. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Sl5bvAy9qPSbU8qNzjl8n7lgHJ_IjjclQ8VdaMUAH7p42eLiiVu6e7bLGiak8Akd44Ls5A6o2klW2LOYietRrv0Qt5KhsrHqzZ_1IfOWykmNC6TZ8_b6F3SzvB-Kszn36pIPltwflWYx/s2048/IMG_20200816_110507358.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Sl5bvAy9qPSbU8qNzjl8n7lgHJ_IjjclQ8VdaMUAH7p42eLiiVu6e7bLGiak8Akd44Ls5A6o2klW2LOYietRrv0Qt5KhsrHqzZ_1IfOWykmNC6TZ8_b6F3SzvB-Kszn36pIPltwflWYx/w400-h300/IMG_20200816_110507358.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Summer pond</b><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><b>I'm going backwards in this story. </b>Starting now in the time of harvest, of the ending of life for our beautiful steers. The flurry of communication, arranging a freezer trailer, mobile harvest services, the local meat processor, customers and invoicing. All leading to delivery day and the culmination of a year's work to raise healthy meat and feed people. I'm tired this morning. But I know in a few days I will see the faces of people who buy our steers, I will hear their lovely voices and their words of encouragement and appreciation. And they will help carry us forward so we can leave behind some of this uncertainty and toil with a renewed connection to others, people we rarely see and hardly know who remind us we are more alike than we are different. </p><p><br /></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqVAkTd44F2LfQ0eRxRXtjuDdoQ7SKaakqTKjtutOQM4ECr0o2kofVPPc6wjvbwSyMIVP5hdSCclGlTbGIgs3fGQZgXnlbk3R-FbkJFOfa3Z5kalJvVnWMRBP3JX0GmKnFKrrtl9kZDtC-/s2048/IMG_20200721_200618810.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqVAkTd44F2LfQ0eRxRXtjuDdoQ7SKaakqTKjtutOQM4ECr0o2kofVPPc6wjvbwSyMIVP5hdSCclGlTbGIgs3fGQZgXnlbk3R-FbkJFOfa3Z5kalJvVnWMRBP3JX0GmKnFKrrtl9kZDtC-/w400-h300/IMG_20200721_200618810.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Black bull in reinforced corral</b><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><b>Summer had its challenges, in particular the renegade behavior of certain steers and bulls. </b>We've not really had this problem before and I hope it will be a long time before we do again. It started in June in the canyon when one of our big steers decided he didn't want to wait in the corral for his trailer ride to summer pasture near the Wallowa Mountains. The corrals are tall, but that didn't stop him from trying and his weight made short order of the top two rails, creating a nice hole for all the other steers to follow. He did this twice. The second time after we made repairs, which were then followed with serious corral rebuilding (not on the schedule of course). Then it was the bulls out in the valley. They were so docile and manageable when we brought them home to await their trip to the cow herd out on the prairie. That was before they got wind of some neighbor's heifers a half mile away. Three escapes and three corral/fence repairs later, we were exhausted and they were contained and soon with their own cows on the summer range. All was well for about a month, until someone brought cattle onto the neighboring range and our bulls went awol. More wrangling and putting back in the right place ensued, until one day we got a call, "I roped your bull and have him in my trailer and I'll be at your house in twenty minutes." Black bull came home and was sold shortly thereafter. He had been busy. Whew, everyone behaved after that.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhauhDQDP3vPpZNJTi7h-ZpEz2CnI_B0h2s3lxE40hp_Y3yWLgGxpoHXDDN-yV-92ugQ6kLetzO8r6PCbfm5X7POvRTy_cAgj7d0TqS9yDHEjTN9Ky8CRzbCYuW2YVvbE0ArQ8tsPmW5PHT/s2048/IMG_20200627_091629398.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhauhDQDP3vPpZNJTi7h-ZpEz2CnI_B0h2s3lxE40hp_Y3yWLgGxpoHXDDN-yV-92ugQ6kLetzO8r6PCbfm5X7POvRTy_cAgj7d0TqS9yDHEjTN9Ky8CRzbCYuW2YVvbE0ArQ8tsPmW5PHT/w400-h300/IMG_20200627_091629398.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Cows and calves arrive on the prairie<br /></b><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><b>Trailing out of the canyon in June went smoothly. </b>It takes us three days on horseback. One cow calved the day before we started on the trail. She and her tiny calf made it up into the breaks, but then the calf petered out so we had to leave them behind in the timber. Two weeks later, she showed up in our herd after finding her way on her own. Good cow. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig1LeTt-Qrf5w1TT6tByOxBOrNZUunoo0swF6O6Gg6xodIQ-kiX3Vd0f-KkTVqheOqkTdJ2GWLzEbEhx1kuWSfNomZUziCgC42jLVcnilMGN5ncE5iNdVG_LVDjRyrOHvLCcXd-3W7w-L0/s640/IMG_4804.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig1LeTt-Qrf5w1TT6tByOxBOrNZUunoo0swF6O6Gg6xodIQ-kiX3Vd0f-KkTVqheOqkTdJ2GWLzEbEhx1kuWSfNomZUziCgC42jLVcnilMGN5ncE5iNdVG_LVDjRyrOHvLCcXd-3W7w-L0/w400-h300/IMG_4804.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Good help from neighbors and friends in May</b><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><b>Branding is a traditional gathering time where friends and neighbors pitch in to help. </b>On big ranches that means lots of people, horses, kids, dogs, food and storytelling. On little ranches like ours, it's a smaller more intimate group, and this year with Covid-19, we kept it even smaller. It was kind of wierd, with changes like an outdoor handwashing station, not having people go in the house without a mask, no hugs or handshakes and distancing when possible. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPeytfswPWxEZZ4OFdKhIUUYvp6rjosOtg8AsuCR_dY52cWWMYs88EowjpUtWwM2_eBke23V6YIk7iHWrivvv7PHzTVDRWd1na4CtD0opIKRMOjiDBJBTUsPHN7hjgRS161IxVTNCWGv9y/s640/IMG_4853.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPeytfswPWxEZZ4OFdKhIUUYvp6rjosOtg8AsuCR_dY52cWWMYs88EowjpUtWwM2_eBke23V6YIk7iHWrivvv7PHzTVDRWd1na4CtD0opIKRMOjiDBJBTUsPHN7hjgRS161IxVTNCWGv9y/w400-h300/IMG_4853.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Handy for washing up</b><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><b>There were still plenty of fun and familiar moments. </b>Like kids getting in on the action, and meeting new babies for the first time.</p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_YJwoyY4PJXM2kKq_ukbeOdPQmntCg82jK8IF0l1Dit16E5KcwDjV7hMowqH6agXBKSIoVMdxEpYt9r7l7Gr_6lEc4GsDJ-SltqL4RIWjbBBKgIigFWzvsAYt04HiyN2UuXuxs0NyWs8p/s640/IMG_4832.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_YJwoyY4PJXM2kKq_ukbeOdPQmntCg82jK8IF0l1Dit16E5KcwDjV7hMowqH6agXBKSIoVMdxEpYt9r7l7Gr_6lEc4GsDJ-SltqL4RIWjbBBKgIigFWzvsAYt04HiyN2UuXuxs0NyWs8p/w300-h400/IMG_4832.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Little Kit with his dad Jordan </b><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1hU0aYgB-7kaM6wU94g0XiukED3tQeiRUeDaBAgYZEENzVPmt3I52z66GBsIU9_YxWgj3nhzvLOSlK7OsK0ekq2QFegMAp576-4JRBvbHzOgNcaSq-kNtrWIbq3ZvX061qjFj0znw2iRS/s640/IMG_4823.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1hU0aYgB-7kaM6wU94g0XiukED3tQeiRUeDaBAgYZEENzVPmt3I52z66GBsIU9_YxWgj3nhzvLOSlK7OsK0ekq2QFegMAp576-4JRBvbHzOgNcaSq-kNtrWIbq3ZvX061qjFj0znw2iRS/w300-h400/IMG_4823.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Boys with ropes<br /></b><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>We are so thankful to have help from this kind, loving, respectful, capable, and accepting group. </b><b> </b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKLry6tWsuclhiWE7F2lm_lM5riW-_zyLp1Zl2V0hB6QM8kHzPRknJh-h7NxLnDNPJcPN0D55WB3bohtRtE9HtzhlziHBPr9vrTMxu4iUibcWwHAk2yJHDQIT3RYxuIEPdqpV_-o-fmKRj/s640/IMG_4870.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKLry6tWsuclhiWE7F2lm_lM5riW-_zyLp1Zl2V0hB6QM8kHzPRknJh-h7NxLnDNPJcPN0D55WB3bohtRtE9HtzhlziHBPr9vrTMxu4iUibcWwHAk2yJHDQIT3RYxuIEPdqpV_-o-fmKRj/s320/IMG_4870.JPG" /></a></div><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>Before branding, Mike and I spent a couple days in the canyon gathering cattle and getting everything ready. </b>I cherish these times when it is just the two of us, riding together, mostly agreeing and sometimes disagreeing on how to get the job done. You never know exactly where the cattle will be, scattered in little groups in the rugged terrain. The days heat up quickly, it's hard to get them to move if the sun is too high. After wintering together, it's a mixed herd with cows and calves, yearlings, and two-year olds. The younger cattle are like teenagers, goofy, impulsive, and athletic, deciding to cavort off in the wrong direction. While the calves tire more easily and a few of the old cows will try to sneak off the trail and hide in a shady draw. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0moyjNFycvnmprfW19HkHewkIDNc2Yh4M7IM9CJaNY0MWiYaW20s_7r5DCo2y8rO-7wKoixkxv4nCI8qcpXH4FE8BwILoxzheYmeY0vCp16ke7JMzQzAuz8toB19dN8YIOTTUVfy_31Uo/s2048/IMG_20200516_174554970.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0moyjNFycvnmprfW19HkHewkIDNc2Yh4M7IM9CJaNY0MWiYaW20s_7r5DCo2y8rO-7wKoixkxv4nCI8qcpXH4FE8BwILoxzheYmeY0vCp16ke7JMzQzAuz8toB19dN8YIOTTUVfy_31Uo/w400-h300/IMG_20200516_174554970.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Climbing up off the river bar</b><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzbK6R0p7fiEApVGWMcHKWzfRLeTB5cmXKcd4aOyNcaNpfYeOEqL3G1HbMUOt1ivZe20JorO2tkFLrfaCPT4baoSHIeK18AGfSqO8bhZ9msc74oD9sbpkZrnQJTg-n2ERvvG2RM3HLtJ9E/s2048/IMG_20200523_110617921+edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzbK6R0p7fiEApVGWMcHKWzfRLeTB5cmXKcd4aOyNcaNpfYeOEqL3G1HbMUOt1ivZe20JorO2tkFLrfaCPT4baoSHIeK18AGfSqO8bhZ9msc74oD9sbpkZrnQJTg-n2ERvvG2RM3HLtJ9E/w400-h300/IMG_20200523_110617921+edit.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Sara trailing through Division Creek</b><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><b>So that's where we left spring behind and launched into a summer that brought us to autumn. </b>What a lot of changes we've seen since then. At a time when the stress levels of people are high, and our emotional reserves are low, I'm thankful we can be with animals who live their lives at a slower pace. They experience their own challenges of daily life, finding their place within their social structures, navigating the terrain, staying vigilant of predators, finding resources of food and water during a time of climate change. But these challenges feel less complicated, and more manageable without the anxiety wrought by polarized and unhelpful media and politics. And I remember the voice of my old dear friend describing the effort and uncertainty of giving birth, "Ride the waves," she said. And I feel myself facing a wave, being lifted, and carried down the other side. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFYh7a-cGv9ZWGclCIEuadXBqSb0EV00zV0L6aWnuyfa5anRCCD-Cl4AGkQGgjJPEizGET37GvSsX3m8KLD_0yQiam80rfmz98wWsCIKlnuLW4OyfwHktVUgG9IcvAsGInrLqIGNQWe3b0/s640/IMG_4881.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFYh7a-cGv9ZWGclCIEuadXBqSb0EV00zV0L6aWnuyfa5anRCCD-Cl4AGkQGgjJPEizGET37GvSsX3m8KLD_0yQiam80rfmz98wWsCIKlnuLW4OyfwHktVUgG9IcvAsGInrLqIGNQWe3b0/w400-h300/IMG_4881.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Somewhere in the middle of change</b><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><b>From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef</b></div>Home on the Rangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05493732576737672634noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751682900954180149.post-24763110350254954222020-07-06T22:32:00.000-07:002020-07-06T22:32:07.312-07:00Zebulon Pike, RIP<b>He was, without a doubt, a keeper. </b>I'm not much for betting, but I bet it would be hard to find anybody who would disagree with that statement. Sound. Never had an accident. Steady. Strong. Sure footed. Good sense of self preservation. Pack him. Ride him, Rope a bull off him. Lead a pack string off him. Swim him. Slide down a hill on him. Jump a log on him. Chop trail though a hackberry thicket and lead him close behind and he'd keep himself out of the way of the machete.<br />
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<b>Mike and Zeb, Dug Bar cattle drive 1999</b></div>
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<b>He was born into the Brislawn herd of Spanish Mustangs on the short grass prairie near Oshoto, Wyoming.</b> He came to Oregon in the 1980s when a friend bought a load of young horses from the rancher who agreed to meet up in Dillon, Montana. Mike hauled a trailer over to get the horses and picked out a line-backed zebra dun gelding as his payment and named him Zebulon Pike. He was two years old and had only been handled a few times.<br />
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<b><br /></b><b>Mike always said he only figured Zeb out because of Tom Dorrance and Tink Elordi. </b>Mike had been working with Zeb for over a year, ground work, round pen, several colt clinics. But Zeb had a powerful sense of self preservation and he hadn't thought of a good reason why he should let Mike get on his back. Finally Mike took Zeb to a training clinic in Malheur County with Tink, a younger basque trainer who was working with Tom, the venerable horseman from Wallowa County.<b> </b>A lot of trainers had advised Mike to 'desensitize' Zeb by exposing him over and over to the things he didn't like, sudden noises, clumsy movements. But after two days at the clinic, Zeb sulled up and wouldn't let anyone near him. Tom was watching from outside the pen and Tink asked for ideas. Tom told Mike to break it down to three steps, "Approach him like you're walking on kittens, grab some mane hair and get on." Mike 'walked on kittens,' got to Zeb's shoulder, took hold of some mane, put a toe in the stirrup and when he hesitated he heard Tom's quiet voice,"He's ready Mike. He's ready."<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjad9iQR8RSQJFvwu7ZVknngEfxg-t43niHOeNBMEcJ3MjTpsH_2i2AkmJq9Zm2NuEiAfJMiZOYxpargQZzuWKuEye0itGO9iOPdGBv6nXCjH6HGv3qVhZj78ZfCKjiCd7BfBbLXlAhVNeD/s1600/IMG_20200501_182218_142+first+ride+crop+edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1308" data-original-width="1600" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjad9iQR8RSQJFvwu7ZVknngEfxg-t43niHOeNBMEcJ3MjTpsH_2i2AkmJq9Zm2NuEiAfJMiZOYxpargQZzuWKuEye0itGO9iOPdGBv6nXCjH6HGv3qVhZj78ZfCKjiCd7BfBbLXlAhVNeD/s400/IMG_20200501_182218_142+first+ride+crop+edit.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;"><b>First ride, Mike and Zeb, ponied by Tink Elordi</b></td></tr>
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<b style="font-weight: bold;">It was the beginning of 30 years of partnership. </b>Without the relationship Zeb had with Mike, none of the rest of us would have ever been able to enjoy knowing him. Over the decades, his mistrust changed to tolerance tinged with suspicion for most of us, but he always trusted Mike. Zeb was reluctant to be haltered, right up to the end, but as long as you showed commitment and quietness he'd let you catch him. Once caught he was always respectful.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;"><b>Gabe and Zeb (age 19)</b></td></tr>
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<b>He might jump sideways at a tree cracking or spin to face a potential predator or slide a bit on a greasy north, but he'd stay upright and so would you, </b><b>as long as you stayed on</b><b>. </b>If the terrain was challenging he'd take his time, little steps weaving down the steep slope or picking his way through deadfall. A smattering of cowboys, all of our kids, and - in his later years - a slew of visitors and novices all enjoyed Zeb for his capable, sure-footed way of handling himself. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Sara and Zeb (age 25) gathering cattle with Pete and Jon</b></td></tr>
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<b>I have so many stories with Zeb in them. </b>The time at the Steen Place when an ornery angus bull butted Zeb and lifted him right off his feet with Mike on his back. And the day out on Alder Creek, when Mike and Zeb roped an injured bull in the brush and wrapped him around a big pine tree so we could doctor him. Or the winter we were coming down off Square mountain in a blizzard in Hells Canyon, me and my mare following Mike and Zeb as they broke trail through drifts up to Zeb's neck, and Mike warning me, "It'll feel like you can't touch bottom, but you will."<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;"><b>Zebulon Pike, 33 years old, </b><b>April 2020</b></td></tr>
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<b>That's how it was with Zeb, you always knew you would touch bottom. </b>Not many horses are as steady and capable as he was. Part of that was his self-preservation and part of that was based on the trust he had with Mike. They'd been through a lot and they worked it out together as they went a long. The day he died, Mike was by his side, keeping him company with a few gentle words to Zeb's occasional nicker, a patient companion as Zeb took the long trail for the last time.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Mike's illustration, cowboy poem, the Zebra Dun </b></td></tr>
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"The stranger sat there on him, and curled his black mustache, just like a summer boarder, a waitin' for his hash."<br />
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<b>From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef</b>Home on the Rangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05493732576737672634noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751682900954180149.post-3362054848775604702020-02-17T10:03:00.000-08:002020-08-12T07:49:07.235-07:00Small Contentments <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXh_vV2Wecg16rSW5jF9Et7XUOBTwtnWl8HGW3qNxpSXCHLBbjOM_3ebaW7dB3JOLV2t9R_mopTd_eHleJ8pmQnXFsa4MpSlAAuYTi3LJmCGxaFNsRyk0TWHG1GlFWBAzlH8aHgwCCvvq9/s1600/IMG_20191212_071156424_HDR+crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="747" data-original-width="1600" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXh_vV2Wecg16rSW5jF9Et7XUOBTwtnWl8HGW3qNxpSXCHLBbjOM_3ebaW7dB3JOLV2t9R_mopTd_eHleJ8pmQnXFsa4MpSlAAuYTi3LJmCGxaFNsRyk0TWHG1GlFWBAzlH8aHgwCCvvq9/s640/IMG_20191212_071156424_HDR+crop.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Wallowa Valley looking west</b></td></tr>
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<b>Sometimes the moon reminds us. Year after year, night after night, sailing across the sky or smothered by winter clouds, whether we see it or not, it's still up there easing along. </b>And<b> </b>when we do see it, a small cheerfulness, a contentment is often the result. I don't know why.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Andrew gathers cattle to take to Pumpkin Creek</b></td></tr>
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<b>Perhaps I like to see the moon because it means a storm will only be wind and cold and not the snow or mud that burden our movements. </b>No blizzard erasing what is ahead and leaving us without landmarks, feeling our way down through lurking cliffs with footing that gives way on steep norths. When this happens, I don't like to be alone. Caught in a fast-moving storm, barely able to see where my horse is about to take his next step, the breath and creak of another rider close behind comforts me. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Can you see anything?</b> </td></tr>
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<b>When the trails are bad, I don't feel like going but I don't like being the one stuck back at the house either. </b>Waiting for late riders to come in, when I don't how the work unfurled that day, whether the cattle were found and moved, whether the trail to the salt ground was passable. And I look up toward the bench, thinking of where they might be, right now, making their way down the face of the canyon. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Trailing home from Pumpkin Creek</b></td></tr>
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<b>We are thankful not to have had bad trailing so far this winter. </b>Coming and going to Pumpkin Creek were both pretty good. When it was time for the cows to come back to the river, Andrew gathered and brought them down the creek and up to the bench and handed them off to Mike and I. A quick parlay by the hawthorn thicket, then Andrew headed back to Pumpkin Creek and Mike and I took the cows the rest of the way. It was an easy day. Nothing too muddy or half-frozen, no rain or snow, just clouds hovering along the ridgetops as a storm licked slowly toward us from the southwest. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Mike's power nap after cutting out a fallen tree in the corrals</b></td></tr>
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<b>I'm happy to say some people have been doing better at taking it easy around here. </b>One would be me. Mike would be another. This means that fencing and weed chopping and old feeder demolition are supposed to take place in shorter increments. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Hooded and gloved for one more patch, just one more</b></td></tr>
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<b>The cockleburr invasion caused me to violate my oath.</b> A heavy load of seed was carried onto the river bar by a flash flood last August and quickly germinated in the low spots. Now the vile injurious weed lured me and my hand scythe into one patch after another. Four hours later, even Mike was telling me to call it quits. I wanted to get the seed down on the ground before cattle or horses had to graze here. I hate the red and oozing ulcers sometimes caused by these sharp torpedo-shaped burrs burrowing against tender skin and I know how challenging it is to extricate them when they are tightly woven into an animal's hair (or my own braid for that matter).</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Road work ala Sara and shovel</b></td></tr>
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<b>And then there are the jobs you don't anticipate. </b>Like digging out the bank above the road up Pumpkin Creek where the same flash flood last summer cut too close to the track. A few feet of extra width made it a little safer until we can get equipment up there to do a better fix.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Pulling nails </b></td></tr>
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<b>More satisfying is making progress on jobs that have been on the list for years. </b>Replacing the old feeder down river on the east side is one of these jobs. Last year we rebuilt the fence along the old driveway and now we can rip out the old feeder, salvaging what material can be repurposed into new panels. Someday we might use this little pasture for weaning, instead of the temporary feeder that we have to put up and take down in the corrals every year. But first we will have to build a fence along the river and put in a water gap...jobs that will be on the list of winter work for a while yet I reckon. </div>
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<b>Especially since we are learning to 'take it easy.' </b>Part of which is feeling time. Standing still once in a while to just take a look around. Maybe spotting the moon travelling by, headed west. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Resting </b></td></tr>
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<b>From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef</b></div>
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<br />Home on the Rangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05493732576737672634noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751682900954180149.post-55934814804329675342019-11-03T09:13:00.002-08:002021-07-24T08:13:05.381-07:00I Have Decided to Remember<b>When it is too early to be awake. When the sun has yet to rise and my mind has been telling me</b> for a couple hours of all the things undone, the decisions unmade, the shortcomings and impossibilities. And my other mind has been quietly saying not really, so what, doesn't matter, because my body is still wanting rest, my cells saying replenish us, saying we will keep you alive to work another day but you have to give us time for ourselves.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Harvest</b></td></tr>
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<b><br /></b><div><b>Sitting by the cookstove, having made a fire as quietly </b>as possible, and reheated a cup of coffee, taking it out of the microwave when the timer says one second, before the jarring five-beeps of 'done' disturbs the other human in the house who is still asleep, I am studying.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikZAq6kQs93LAuFeB9v0OIHZzfdPJdKBww6Y_qzbx8cqa45LP_929eDQ39-IIzQ3XoJX-gcrRfAp-OzZEczTn0gytAJI6gD71lWEuxzOlLUGU9EwSfxnEeOfTu424wl0xvPUESfcGnqL6c/s1600/IMG_0119.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikZAq6kQs93LAuFeB9v0OIHZzfdPJdKBww6Y_qzbx8cqa45LP_929eDQ39-IIzQ3XoJX-gcrRfAp-OzZEczTn0gytAJI6gD71lWEuxzOlLUGU9EwSfxnEeOfTu424wl0xvPUESfcGnqL6c/s400/IMG_0119.JPG" width="400" /></a><br />
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<b><br /></b><div><b>In my left hand is the book I have been trying to finish before the second renewal on the interlibrary loan expires. </b> A deceptively small book of nearly 300 very dense pages in size 9 font. A book that turns out to be a kind of manna for a hunger that I am still discovering exists in me. A book I was advised to read by my colleague Janet, a risk-taker, daughter of immigrants, survivor of bad behaving bosses who were let off in spite of being called out under the 'protections' that claim to give us the right to labor in safety. Janet, a speaker-upper and sufferer of doubts, lover of human beings and desirer of change. Of course I'm reading it.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>From the garden</b></td></tr>
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<b><br /></b></div><div><b>And plowing through the tall grass of learning inside this book, occasionally I reach a hawthorn thicket </b>and lack the gumption to pick up a machete and hack my way forward. I make a few feeble attempts to push ahead and consider going back. Taking the easy way out. But by now, I've absorbed too much of this study, this learning that feels like a missing element introduced into my personal reactor, allowing neurons I never knew I had to start messaging each other, oblivious to my intention.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Wes, Abby, Punch (grown up) in the barn</b></td></tr>
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<b><br /></b></div><div><b>This book of strategy, of magic, of agency, of future</b>. It simultaneously evokes relief and dismay, possibility and doubt. It calls forth the manifestation of the high school teacher, weirdly savant, who expected us to imagine social engineering through the lens of science fiction written by extraterrestrials. Which made perfect sense to me, when everyone else thought he was crazy.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Gate to mailbox</b></td></tr>
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<b><br /></b></div><div><b>It calls forth the bizarre contrasts of a life with both the self-choosing of hermitage and manual labor </b>on the ranch and the dogged commitment to a job in a hierarchy where a superior reminds me, <i>Don't forget, I get to decide what you do with your brain. </i><br />
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<b>And so this book, this infectious changeling </b>breaking out of its birth-shell to replicate in vulnerable hosts like me, leads me to a decision.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Wes caught a frog in the marsh</b></td></tr>
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<b>I have decided to remember. </b>I have decided to listen to the people who arrive inside this ecomap of self where I am experimenting with making sense. For whatever reason they choose to be here. For whatever reason, as yet unknown to me, that has brought them here.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Punch (Opuntia - Prickly Pear) as a puppy</b></td></tr>
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<b><br /></b></div><div><b>And this morning, as the sky turns from black to matte blue in the west and to streaky grey-blue on the horizon of the Seven Devils in the east,</b> I remember Yesenia. Because she is here in the kitchen with me. Right now.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKNQv-ukVlik9iixBEVJxK-17RV3XOpnsSBKlg5RJOu-3laO2fl2X6eSTz_k2QJ1IQU2uGP1rpL81V2d-oKSkTBud9NTd1vg_Sfn5jrM76hYkLtgvhbGNHSowyMNE7RDaP4mr9I9vgrgER/s1600/IMG_3133.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKNQv-ukVlik9iixBEVJxK-17RV3XOpnsSBKlg5RJOu-3laO2fl2X6eSTz_k2QJ1IQU2uGP1rpL81V2d-oKSkTBud9NTd1vg_Sfn5jrM76hYkLtgvhbGNHSowyMNE7RDaP4mr9I9vgrgER/s400/IMG_3133.JPG" width="400" /></a><br />
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<b>And I wonder why. And I think of her fierceness, </b>her quiet apologetic confession when her heart is not right and she needs to lie down for a moment, her casual declarations of intention in business, her crossing the blood barrier of culture and language and family and success. And I think of her among the agave plants and the cricket protein and the fruity paletas of entrepreneurial exploration, bouncing back and forth among the powerful monied and the powerful poor. And I think of the invitation of fiesta, that I could not partake in but longed to, Dia de los Muertos, at her tiny house in its bigger yard that I have never been to in Southeast Portland, an invitation to be with family, to speak and love in the sounds of other languages of us, the people of earth.<br />
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<b>So in spite of nearly a year since I last thought of Yesenia, this person I know very little about, </b>I text her to thank her for visiting me in the predawn in the kitchen where I am sitting next to the ticking fire of the cookstove, with the sound of the wind flowing across the fields outside, and I tell her mi mama fallecio el fin de Junio. I tell her how the day my mother died was a day of love and friendship and humor. How astounded I was at the gift my mother gave me of being able to wash her corpse and the revelation of beauty and strength cultivated over 94 years that allowed her to achieve her life-long desire to donate herself to students of medicine as an aged female with no disqualifying conditions, because her own life was transformed by the gift of education when she was young and poor and studying the bodies of others who had given themselves to be dissected, to be revealed in their glorious intricacy and variation.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Con mi Mama</b></td></tr>
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<b>I have decided to remember there is a reason people come up behind me</b> and are tapping at my senses. They are speaking and I'm going to listen.<br />
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<b>From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef.</b><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Fairy Godmother of Systems Change</b></td></tr>
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<br /></div></div>Home on the Rangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05493732576737672634noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751682900954180149.post-85580641145496105052019-09-21T23:58:00.002-07:002021-07-24T16:04:55.540-07:00Without a Word<b>One of the things I love is the quiet, calm, wordless world of handling our beautiful cattle.</b> I experience this sometimes poking along with a bunch of cows strung out along a trail, taking their time as they slowly make their way from one part of the range to another. A munch here, a munch there, a swish of tail, a swing of a cow's long-horned head looking back to make sure her calf is still just a few animals behind and then moving on through the brush, across a creek, or side-hilling a slope beneath stair-stepped rims.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_m-srBz1645DsAicaETWy_czZFPi95kjmPxi_K1KoM9bQlDQuLwZm4rO7Kk_eU5dxeVxswbz2KbO5d7gPdafolejE0gWx1fxB0DLdLWa3bpjxCEuI6_kBXfCh7HRnVz7RtbPkeX_602DK/s1600/DSCF4358+edit.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_m-srBz1645DsAicaETWy_czZFPi95kjmPxi_K1KoM9bQlDQuLwZm4rO7Kk_eU5dxeVxswbz2KbO5d7gPdafolejE0gWx1fxB0DLdLWa3bpjxCEuI6_kBXfCh7HRnVz7RtbPkeX_602DK/s400/DSCF4358+edit.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b>Our lives became more complicated when Mike took on the grazing management of 30,000 acres of Zumwalt Prairie Preserve a few years ago. </b><i> </i>I've learned a lot watching him consider the intersection of millennia of past tradition and mere decades of modern demands in this landscape.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mike on the Zumwalt</td></tr>
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<b>As a herder and a pastoralist for nearly all of his adult life, the care and tending of animals is in his blood.</b> As a rangeland ecologist, he is deeply attentive to the relationships between plants, animals and their environment. And perhaps most importantly, he approaches this blending of culture and science as a precious and imperfect unfolding, the way-finding of story. What do we know? What do we see? What are we telling each other? Are we listening?<br />
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<b><br /></b><div><b>Going forward with the ranch sometimes feels like tiptoeing across a bog. </b>You have to keep moving or you will sink into the muck, so you pick a set of hummocks and you go for it. Guessing how much force you need to leap from one mound to the next, trying to land as delicately as you can in case your perch proves too soft and you need to keep going, getting just enough purchase to launch again. A wobbly hopscotch through an unknown mire where you can see the solid ground you're aiming for on the other side. But who knows, will it really be as solid as you think?<br />
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<b><br /></b></div><div><b>As we juggle five or more grazing leases of our own every year, we must consider each property's needs and provisions; its owners, fences, waters, forages and logistics. </b>Some with cabins and barns and corrals and water systems and roads to maintain. Some with nothing but a weak fence and difficult neighbors.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;">Trailing to fall pasture on the prairie</td></tr>
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<b>I'm challenged to communicate how much it means to have quiet help in this work. </b>Just the other day as Mike, Dave and I gathered and sorted some of our beautiful two-year old steers for harvesting, the fellowship of good help washed over me in a moment of joy and wonder. Every part, from bringing the steers off the hillside and through the gate onto the road, turning them into the corrals, sorting them on horseback and on foot, loading them into the trailers, was done quietly with a firm and gentle nature.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dave builds a loop at branding time</td></tr>
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<b><br /></b></div><div><b>We were aware of the alternatives. </b>We've all been part of loud, frantic scenes of barking dogs, yelling people, roaring four-wheelers, bellering cattle, charging horses. Ramming and jamming. Dogging 'em. Git 'er done.<br />
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<b>If heaven is a transcendent intersection between the terrestrial world and the unknown, with the possibility of rebirth at the cusp of uncertainty and danger, it includes quiet moments of grace like these. </b>A few souls, gathered together, doing as best they can for one another, reconciling life and death, being willing to change and knowing circumstances might not be this way tomorrow or next year or a million years from now.<br />
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<b><br /></b></div><div><b>And what can I say to Dave? </b>Stepping up to help us as a day-rider, when once again his peaceful and competent approach aligns with ours like the rivulets of a stream joining together to flow gently over an obstacle in their path, and quietly carrying on. Just carrying on.<br />
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<b>Mostly I just say, "Thanks Dave." And he nods and we go on with our work. </b>But as time goes on I'm realizing that the beauty of this effort needs to be acknowledged with more words. And I try to remember each time we receive help in this way; whether it's one person or a group of people; whether gathering, trailing, branding or hauling; I try to remember to say what I mean, "Thank you for helping us. Thank you for being safe and for treating the animals with respect and care."<br />
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<b>From Sara at Magpie Ranch, Home of Bunchgrass Beef</b><br />
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<br /></div>Home on the Rangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05493732576737672634noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751682900954180149.post-65228784345138951832019-07-18T09:28:00.000-07:002019-07-18T09:29:51.121-07:00Predictability and Change<div style="text-align: left;">
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<b>We made it to the summer range.</b> Does this sound familiar? Sometimes I feel like I'm saying the same thing over and over, because the rhythms of our lives repeat year after year. If we are lucky, they are rhythms we like. The groove, the lullaby, the tango, the march, the two-step, the waltz.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Little Red </b></td></tr>
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<b>We had good help again trailing the cows, another circling around with children and grandchildren</b>. Mike and I got things started, gathering the herd and bringing them down to the river bar below the house. We sorted off steers and left them in the corral and took the cows and calves across the river and pushed them up through the gate towards Crazyman Point. While we were over there, Sedona decided to escape the horse pasture, swim the river, which was pretty high with meltwater, and jump the fence to join us. Silly mare. She missed Chester.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Gathering cattle off the East Bench in the canyon</b></td></tr>
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<b>Next morning I trailed cows and calves to the Hall place and Gabe and Mike hauled the steers to the valley. </b>Chester picked up the long trot until we found the cattle who were all the way to Packsaddle. I held them while Gabe and Mike passed by with the trucks and trailers. Then it was a short push back to Halls and through gate. After that Chester carried me smooth and fast back to the house. No shenanigans. It was a nice day.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Cows leaving Packsaddle for Halls</b></td></tr>
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<b>After letting them graze at Halls for a week, Prairie and Mike gathered the cows and calves and got them started up Log Creek. </b>The heavy rains of spring had turned the draw into a poison oak jungle. Gabe hiked up early that morning to clear trail, with a chainsaw! When he got back to the house I met him at the door with a bottle of poison oak soap and a towel and said, "Take a shower!" Amazingly, he never broke out with it, but I did.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHW02B7LNYgntKE6k0p86NZKCjvPQ5kCfpcuhovrt25auaAY7619OuB-GX6MzVid4nNSx054hCglI0rrcrmMMZ2yY7dvq93qszztoXo1gCT5q-eT_K6J0ISJD_WN_sh0KX85HgQa3nAdvP/s1600/IMG_20190615_121516209+edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHW02B7LNYgntKE6k0p86NZKCjvPQ5kCfpcuhovrt25auaAY7619OuB-GX6MzVid4nNSx054hCglI0rrcrmMMZ2yY7dvq93qszztoXo1gCT5q-eT_K6J0ISJD_WN_sh0KX85HgQa3nAdvP/s400/IMG_20190615_121516209+edit.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Harlan has a horse sit at Log Creek with Prairie and Sara</b></td></tr>
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<b>Next morning, day four, we got off to a late start. </b>Prairie and Jon and Harlan had to head back to Portland, so Cammie, Gabe, Dawson, Weston and Abby came out to help. The cattle had topped out and overnighted near a pond by the cambium peeled trees and in the morning they'd wandered off to graze.<b> </b><b> </b>For a while we were afraid we might have lost them in the timber, but no, they were good cows and had stayed on the trail toward Thomason Meadows, more or less.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Cammie, Dawson, Wes and Gabe heading cows toward Thomason</b></td></tr>
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<b>The wildflowers were in full bloom, larkspur, Old Man's Whiskers (Prairie Smoke), yarrow, allium, paintbrush, clarkia, erigeron, biscuit root. </b>While hiking through the forest, Weston picked a bouquet for Mike. "I really love nature," Wes said.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJPThMZtJOK4uJR4N49-0pBiU_WFdJpMmva_7avPCPjAxSYsnC7Ur-HwUuEx5jtVVaZNZt8tSUKB4876_lqpqdQAg1EfSVd9b72BHy9OEmqP6-_r1twyA-WUtpMvkLXJolpVWeXnKWtWNC/s1600/IMG_20190616_125234964+edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1158" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJPThMZtJOK4uJR4N49-0pBiU_WFdJpMmva_7avPCPjAxSYsnC7Ur-HwUuEx5jtVVaZNZt8tSUKB4876_lqpqdQAg1EfSVd9b72BHy9OEmqP6-_r1twyA-WUtpMvkLXJolpVWeXnKWtWNC/s400/IMG_20190616_125234964+edit.jpg" width="288" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Mike's bouquet</b></td></tr>
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<b>By the time we got to Thomason, the day was quickly heating up. </b>We took a lunch break and let the cows drift and graze for a while.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4BbdU-GqpIgvlsyMxscplP-lKjPmCBn5owk9chnCONSrCiMgbIKsWxcqPt32EMHgyQH21Nd4c2sIyNJe-qIUnk97gsTiys2BmSFSvmhz4nQ4lUCs4fwwF13kNnzX9d_svfxmvt7_KsImd/s1600/IMG_4646+edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4BbdU-GqpIgvlsyMxscplP-lKjPmCBn5owk9chnCONSrCiMgbIKsWxcqPt32EMHgyQH21Nd4c2sIyNJe-qIUnk97gsTiys2BmSFSvmhz4nQ4lUCs4fwwF13kNnzX9d_svfxmvt7_KsImd/s400/IMG_4646+edit.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;"><b>Lunchtime with Abby, Cammie, Dawson, Gabe, Wes</b></td></tr>
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<b>The longest part of the day was getting from Thomason to the head of Alder Creek.</b> Cammie and the kids and I rode, while Mike and Gabe drove the trucks and trailers. At one point a bunch of McClaran bulls started bellering on a ridge off to our right. Dawson and Wes engaged in a bull-calling contest until I told them to quit and hurry up and get the cows through the next gate before the bulls decided to come join us. Pretty soon about eight red bulls came roaring up to the fence. Luckily they were more interested in harassing each other than getting in with our cows.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy1k0G9_6xGasju-Kr9IgXCyG8iNF5A1hva4-6FCKT0M15dhQWh38PZdFsuu3Rk_lqEoGswkkJbHVj675ytNeHYDnHSdR950XKztbZQ-AKNWZ7gtgX_Ipu064Z3m_2OAaDWE3wOvkJtLtf/s1600/IMG_4639+edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy1k0G9_6xGasju-Kr9IgXCyG8iNF5A1hva4-6FCKT0M15dhQWh38PZdFsuu3Rk_lqEoGswkkJbHVj675ytNeHYDnHSdR950XKztbZQ-AKNWZ7gtgX_Ipu064Z3m_2OAaDWE3wOvkJtLtf/s320/IMG_4639+edit.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Leaving Thomason</b></td></tr>
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<b>Mike had already hauled our bulls to the McClaran corrals at the 400 acres.</b> The plan was that when we came by with the cows, we would turn the bulls out and the herd would be back together for the summer. When we got near the corrals, Mike rode off to let the bulls out while I pushed the cows through the gate into the 400 acres. Unfortunately the cows balled up at the gate at the same time my horse decided to throw a hissy fit about her buddy leaving her behind. She started dancing around and I figured I'd better get off, but everytime I undallied my McCarty rope from the saddle horn and took my foot out of the stirrup she'd spin another circle and I'd have to redally and push her forward so I could stay in control. I'd made about three unsuccessful attempts to get my horse to stop, when I saw that Mike had let the bulls out and they were on a dead run for the cows, half of whom were still on the wrong side of the gate. I finally just bailed off when my horse was turning a circle. I landed on my feet and shoved the last of the cows through the gate and got it shut before the enthusiastic bulls plowed into the herd. Boy were they glad to see those cows.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMqbBfpd9HpjydPLZj3CkUCgPae1K_MX2r6iJmAEuHl0G1CK9F33NHDP5wTpHzQO7zP8NiG5v-5_w9Bj2kcsrUumzT6LIgoZbeyL_zMS74bQdxharcxkkH0uZn8RZrmDlcPTYg-tnE_Bkz/s1600/IMG_20190616_171729085.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMqbBfpd9HpjydPLZj3CkUCgPae1K_MX2r6iJmAEuHl0G1CK9F33NHDP5wTpHzQO7zP8NiG5v-5_w9Bj2kcsrUumzT6LIgoZbeyL_zMS74bQdxharcxkkH0uZn8RZrmDlcPTYg-tnE_Bkz/s400/IMG_20190616_171729085.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Sara and cows at the 400 acres on the Zumwalt Prairie</b></td></tr>
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<b>After that little excitement, everybody calmed down. </b>We were almost to our summer pasture and the last bit down through the trees to the head of Alder Creek went smoothly. In the bottom we saw where an incredible gully washer had gouged an eight foot cut right alongside the two-track leaving huge ruts in places and taking out a fence in the process. We turned the cows through the last gate and propped up the fence as best we could. We figured the lush grass, tired cows and eager bulls would be happy to stay put until we had a chance to come make the needed repairs. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Like cow, like calf, a good mama on the summer range</b></td></tr>
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<b>As we rode back toward the corrals we talked about how it seems like the flash floods are getting worse and more frequent with climate change and the increasing intensity of storms. </b>And we thought about adaptation, and what it feels like to live with unpredictability. And we were glad to be certain of one thing, we made it to the summer range again and a late dinner and hot bath were waiting for us back in the valley. </div>
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<b>From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef</b></div>
Home on the Rangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05493732576737672634noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751682900954180149.post-21779104796995442982019-05-23T21:15:00.000-07:002019-05-26T05:37:22.026-07:00Saved by the Green <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>You can't go wrong with a St Patrick's Day pie. </b>Especially if it is from the fruit you picked last year and froze and it's mulberry, blackberry, blackcherry. Especially if it is for your 40th wedding anniversary. That's B for berry.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>40 year anniversary pie</b></td></tr>
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<b>It's hard to believe we've been partners for 43 years. </b>The first three years, while dating, we were mostly far apart, sometimes on different continents. Alaska, Germany, Washington, Minnesota, Oregon, Yukon Territory. When we finally decided to get married and go to work on a ranch, we thought we might be spending more time together. </div>
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<b>We soon found that ranch work involves long distances and often long separations. </b>I've always loved working with Mike, even though sometimes we 'disagree' on how to get things done. He decides. I consider. Then we negotiate. About half the time we come up with the same solution.<b> </b>The other half of the time I'm right, or he is. Either way the jobs get done, or they don't, but we try hard and mostly we do good work. Together. <b> </b></div>
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<b>Gabe and Mike install railing on new bridge</b></div>
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<b>Sometimes when Mike worked for McClarans, if we wanted to spend a night together we had to sleep in the old travel trailer at the heifer lot on Cow Creek. </b>All four of us. Mike and I bunked on the bottom and the two kids bunked on top, about 18 inches over our heads. This was BZ. Before Zeke.<br />
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<b>Our home place back then was at Brown Canyon near Imnaha. </b>Mike only got one day off every few weeks and most of that was spent driving back from Cow Creek, doing laundry and fixing stuff. You can see why I thought the heifer lot was better than nothing. </div>
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<b>Gabe and Prairie had a blast getting into stuff, helping chore, 'driving' the truck. </b>I think they were three and four. It was the same year Grey Ghost, a McClaran pack horse, went berserk packing fence material. She bucked off her pack and ran all the way back to Cow Creek, where she jumped off a little rim, knocked open a swinging gate by the yard, gathered up the saddle stock and ran them into the pasture where the kids and I were walking back to the house. The horses thundered towards us with Prairie obliviously running ahead of me to 'win the race.' I yelled at her and she stopped and saw the horses. Maybe she was petrified, but she stood stock still while the running horses parted around her like a river around a rock. Scared the beejeezus out me, but I learned something. A horse isn't likely to run over you if they can avoid it. </div>
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<b>Just like Prairie did, Abby sometimes wears attire that I concoct from whatever is on hand. </b>I made Prairie overalls and dresses on my beloved treadle sewing machine, using fabric cut from old garments, curtains or tablecloths. Sometimes I got wool at the mill in Pendleton. With Abby, it's mostly my vests, when she forgets her coat at the house and the wind comes up when we're choring or fishing. It's not quite in keeping with her fashion standards (she takes after Cammie), but she tolerates it. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;"><b>Cammie and Abigail on the way to Witch's Hat</b></td></tr>
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<b>McClaran's are celebrating 100 years on their ranch this year. </b>Sometimes when I meet Scott on the river road and we stop for a chat with our windows down, we talk about all the changes we've seen over the decades. The people who've come and gone. The people we miss. And sometimes we marvel at the fact that of all the people who have come and gone, we're the ones still here following the cattle, riding the range, packing salt, driving bad roads. </div>
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<b>There's a saying that there are only two kinds of cowboy poetry. </b>The kind where somebody dies, which is tragedy. And the kind where they survive, which is comedy. So I guess it was comedy when a cow almost gored me back in March It was right after Snowmageddon and she was so poor I could count her ribs. We kept her in when the other cows trailed back to the bench so we could feed her hay by the box elder grove. I was hauling a couple buckets of water for her from the river and I looked up to see the 'feeble' cow jumping over her pile of hay and coming at me like a freight train, head down, horns forward. </div>
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<b>I dropped one of the buckets and backpedaled as fast as I could over the hummocky hard ground, yodeling for Mike, who was somewhere behind me at the truck. </b>"Drop the bucket and run!" he shouted. But I couldn't. The bucket was the only thing between me and the cow and she was already butting it. Right when I started to stumble, I heard Mike come up behind me with a stockwhip and the cow reversed gears. I dropped the bucket and turned around, wobbling my way to the truck. For days, I cringed every time I thought of those pitchfork horns just wide enough to fit one on either side of me as long as I stayed on my feet. Every time Mike thought about it he laughed.<br />
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<b>That's the nature of a good partnership, reliability. </b>If you add up all the disappointments and the disagreements and the misunderstandings and the frustrations, they still don't amount to near as much as the times you saved each others' lives, which in the ranching business seems to happen more often than usual.<br />
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<b>And even if all you need is moral support, you can count on a partner to share the load. </b>Whether it's bad storms, a sick horse, a brokedown truck, climate change or social upheaval, when you're the one down, your partner helps you see the future with a little more acceptance, a little more gentleness. And when they're in a dark mind, you take your turn to paint a picture of good things that might come again.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;"><b>Hallelujah! The grass is growing at the end of March! </b></td></tr>
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<b>And so green finally came to the canyon again, transforming in its magical way the hungry bodies of ruminants. </b>And I'm thankful for all the animals who can rise up on this nutritious food, and for the power of spring to rejuvenate us in this corner of the world. And I think of the people who have lived here for thousands of years, and the ones who have been here just a hundred years, or maybe even just forty.<br />
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<b>From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef</b></div>
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Home on the Rangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05493732576737672634noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751682900954180149.post-30635951982162910372019-05-17T19:35:00.001-07:002019-05-17T20:01:36.167-07:00Bad Trails Shifting Loads<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>Packing salt in early February did not go as planned. </b>Although the West bench was mostly dry, it turned out that even without snow, the East bench was treacherous.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>East side, half frozen and greasy</b>.</td></tr>
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<b>Mike and Andrew wanted to give Looking Glass a packing lesson, </b>so they loaded her up and set out with Chester and Sedona.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Andrew and Mike headed upriver</b></td></tr>
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<b>After they left, I fed the yearlings in the weaning pen and the early calver with her calf "Dirty Snowball." </b>He was born at Pumpkin Creek just before we trailed back to the Imnaha.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Dirty Snowball and his mother Little Red on the chow line</b></td></tr>
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<b>I kept an eye out and eventually I saw Mike climbing the steep trail to the bench. </b>He was riding Sedona and leading Chester and even from a distance I could see Chester lunging for footing. The question was, where was Andrew.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Looking Glass getting ready for packing lesson</b></td></tr>
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<b>After a while, Andrew came back, leading Looking Glass along the river. </b>He told me she slid off the trail and rolled her pack. They switched the pack to Chester and Mike continued on up the trail. Looking Glass was okay, but it wasn't a good day for a packing lesson. Andrew and I got busy with other chores and in the late afternoon, heavy snow clouds began to roll in.<br />
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<b>There was no sign of Mike. </b>I thought he was taking an awfully long time and I started to worry he might not get back before dark. That's when I spotted him coming off the bench on foot. He arrived at the barn, weary and dirty and reported the trails were goo. Even in sharp shoes the horses couldn't keep their feet. After both Sedona and Chester slid on the trail, Mike got off and walked the whole rest of the way. He fell down a couple times too, but he got the job done.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cork gouge near the coronary band. </td></tr>
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<b>I kind of wished he'd given up. </b>In the scramble to get his feet, Chester corked himself, gouging the top of his left front hoof with the rear caulk on his right front shoe. That was some fancy footwork that kept him on the trail, but left its' mark, and I hoped it would heal okay in the muddy conditions.<br />
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<b>From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef </b></div>
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Home on the Rangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05493732576737672634noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751682900954180149.post-58922985327181613762019-01-16T09:05:00.000-08:002019-01-16T09:07:08.873-08:00Looking Back Thinking Ahead<br />
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<b>Right when you think the days will never get any longer, the sun rises on the shortest day of the year. </b>What a relief.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Valley sunrise</b></td></tr>
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<b>And I think of all that has happened since the last time I felt this way. </b> Wandering backward through the year, trailing cattle to the winter range, and before that -- the move to fall range, and before that---trailing out of the canyon to the Zumwalt prairie. And scattered in between, there's packing salt, weaning, branding, steer harvest and all the other chores of running a ranch.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Trailing to the winter range</b></td></tr>
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<b>And none of it happens without help. </b>Of which it seems we need more and different of the last couple years. And some of the faces are familiar, old hands like us from the old days. And some are younger, but still familiar, ready for the hard climb, the careful travel on remote and icy range. And some are newer, wanting to contribute, and we are willing to figure each other out, willing to try to understand the work together.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Andi, old hand and wild woman of range </b></td></tr>
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<b>When I look back, I can't help but think its a long ways forward. </b>The work and unfinished business ahead can feel overwhelming.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Gabe, steep country for fencing</b></td></tr>
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<b>Then I remember how as a child, when I had to get somewhere on foot and it was taking way too long, I'd tell myself, </b>"A while ago you were at the bottom of the hill by the creek thinking it was too far, and now you're already at the top of the hill and pretty soon you'll be there." It was like a game of mental leap frog, and it always helped me keep going.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Starting point, the old riparian feedlot </b></td></tr>
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<b>In the Magpie Ranch chapter of our life, this taking stock now goes back not one year, but decades. </b>I think of starting out, how the river bar was a winter feedlot where we worked as hired hands. A place deep in mud and manure churned up by hundreds of black-bally cows taking their daily ration of hay and waiting to have their calves and be turned back out on the range.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Old feedlot, now restoration project</b></td></tr>
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<b>There was something grim about it back then, after the flood of '97, and all those the feedlots. </b>When we bought our first cows and made our first plans I wondered if our ideas and our labor could get us at least close to where we wanted to go. Now when spring rolls around and I walk through the old feedlot, I look at the lush grass and think of the years of burning and seeding and weeding and tell myself, "Well that didn't take all that long, really." And I feel like going forward will bring some other good change, and I'm ready to keep walking.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Old Newt on one of his last trips to the canyon</b></td></tr>
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<b>Old Newt dog won't be walking with us this year. </b>He departed for the cowdog range in heaven last October. He was fourteen. His legacy as a good dog with heart was measured also by his surviving being run over by me driving a truck loaded with hay when he was ten months old. The months in a cast and pins almost drove him crazy, but he healed with a crooked hind leg that didn't stop him from working hard for ten more years.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Mike taking a break from herding</b></td></tr>
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<b>So here we go into the new year. </b>Hopefully remembering to find a good rock to rest on, and to rest on it when we need to. And maybe have a conversation about the work still needed to end the day, or maybe even a conversation about life and the world and us in it, making choices, looking for help, managing the range, as Mike says, "like gardening on a very large scale."<br />
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<b>From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef</b><br />
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<br />Home on the Rangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05493732576737672634noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751682900954180149.post-54505127833996890602018-09-23T09:48:00.000-07:002018-09-23T12:28:23.752-07:00Feeding You<b>Back in July, our customer Alivia mailed us a sweet note</b> along with the deposit check for her order of Bunchgrass Beef.<br />
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<i>Dear Mike and Sara, We hope this finds you enjoying summer with family and friends. May we relish the cooler seasons coming soon. We look forward to crossing paths, Cheers Alivia and Justin</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Gathering the cow herd at the summer range</b></td></tr>
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<b>We met Alivia and Justin when they won the bid on a ranch stay that we donated for <a href="https://zengerfarm.org/" target="_blank">Zenger Farm</a>. </b>Our daughter Prairie works at Zenger in SE Portland. She helped start their Community Chefs program to '<i>support women food leaders who nourish and strengthen communities through food, knowledge and solidarity</i>.' I've had a chance to be at the farm a few times when these women shared their food traditions. It gave me a powerful and rejuvenating feeling of connection, with stories and laughter and questions in different languages while we cooked and ate together.<br />
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<b>Not all the Zenger ranch stay folks have become beef customers, but they have all helped us learn, </b>exchanging knowledge and friendship across differences. We are thankful for their support of Zenger Farm and they remind me of the life goals Mike wrote down twenty years ago. As pastoralists, an important part of our vision is sharing educational opportunities, along with involving our children, feeding people, and providing a place of refuge.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Looking southeast, upriver last spring</b></td></tr>
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<b>We never know what will speak to our guests during their visit or what they will teach us. </b>This year we hosted Paul and Laura. I loved learning about Paul's long career in China and seeing Laura connect with the horses and dogs that work on the ranch. Laura also sent us a sweet note.<br />
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<i>I remain deeply touched by the time we spent with you and
Mike at Magpie Ranch. We delighted in all that we learned and found it so
refreshing to be pulled out of our “city” existence. And I had a BLAST with the dogs and horses. </i><i>We loved learning about your ranch and the deeply informed
and unique approach you take to raising cattle. The time spent with you
really refreshed my soul. I’m so grateful!</i></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Laura and her admirers Ruby, Opuntia (Punch) and Bell</b></td></tr>
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<b>This year I'm paying extra attention to the little notes.</b> At the beginning of the new millennium, in early 2000, I was on an airplane and my seatmate was a Pakistani man from Idaho who was returning home after hearing the Dalai Lama speak. The man seemed reserved, but I could tell he was deeply moved. His Holiness had said this century would be one of unprecedented cooperation. The man and I talked about this possibility, how at the turn of the century technology offered us information about virtually every place on our shared planet. We wondered, would we be able to move beyond technology to human connections that could influence our decisions, and distribute power in less selfish ways? Would we survive the next century?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>My idea of a real cowboy, trims 93 year-old mother-in-law's fingernails</b></td></tr>
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<b>These days that cooperation feels both like it's coming closer, maybe just around the corner, and like it is disintegrating and running through our fingers. </b>I find myself looking for it. Studying small actions. What we do for each other. What we do for strangers. And last spring when I realized there were people that I avoided looking at, I started making eye contact, opening myself to the stranger in this tiny way. It is changing me, even if I'm not sure how.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Pat helps Gabe load post and pole material from Pat's thinning job</b></td></tr>
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<b>The simplest notes are still encouraging, like the one from Andrew written on the memo line of his check. </b><i>1/2 beef deposit, can't wait! </i>And there are ones like Richard's that seem to invite me to peek into his kitchen. <i>Sara and Mike we are very much looking forward to this year's order! Just in time, we have 3 pieces left in the freezer. </i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Abby's heifer with first calf. Two years old, just like Abby.</b></td></tr>
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<b>For a brief time our planet holds us tilted neither toward nor away from the sun. </b>Harvest days are warm as summer and tucked between a nightly chill. I can almost feel the planet shifting on its axis, listing toward the dark. And I am humbled and encouraged by people I rarely see and the little messages that reflect back to us their view of our work, our family, the animals we raise and eat.<br />
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<i>Hello Sara and Mike---we are quite happy with the order. Thanks so much for your passion in these endeavors. It's so nice to count on your quality beef. Enjoy the sweetness of autumn. </i><br />
<i>Dennis and Carrie</i><br />
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<b>And I move on into the coming year, in the last century of my life, a little braver than before. </b><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Looking south from Cactus Mountain</b></td></tr>
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<b>From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef</b>Home on the Rangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05493732576737672634noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751682900954180149.post-18299452954685349662018-07-28T21:00:00.000-07:002018-07-28T21:00:09.399-07:00Sprung into Summer, New Mongolian Friends<b>We sprang into a green green world sometime back in April when the rains started. </b>And it seemed like it just kept raining. It was beautiful. All that rain, soaking into the ground. I even let the horses in the yard a few times just to help me keep up with the mowing.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Chester and Theo in the yard</b></td></tr>
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<b>With all the rain, the river was high and muddy. </b>Luckily the only flash flooding that occurred was in a side canyon fifteen miles away, on the road to town. The state highway crews jumped in and cleared away tons of debris so the road could reopen after a day. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>High and muddy Imnaha</b></td></tr>
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<b>We had some welcome help from family and friends as we rounded the corner toward summer. </b>Branding, repairing fences, and getting ready to trail cattle out of the canyon to the prairie. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Harlan on the horse swing with Jon</b></td></tr>
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<b>The boys slept in their tent on the porch. </b>They figured the rattlesnakes probably wouldn't come up there. Abby slept in the house, but joined the party the next day so she could read up on sharks...</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Tent nest on the porch</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Dawson, Abby and Weston</b></td></tr>
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<b>As it often does in spring, the weather seemed to suddenly turn off hot, hot, hot. </b>I got overheated brushing out blackberry and poison oak on the Log Creek trail in preparation for trailing cattle. I was very happy to have my itchy sweaty labors rewarded by finding a hummingbird nest amongst the blackberry vines. </div>
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<b>It was an easy trail to the summer range at the beginning of June. </b>We enjoyed a couple days of cooler weather, a little rain, but not so much to make for muddy trails. I remember one year when the temperature dropped into the forties with a cold driving rain. We had been on the trail two days and we were nearly there. Gabe said, "I think we can make it all the way if we keep going for a couple more hours." Through chattering teeth I responded, "I cccccan't ffffffffeel my ffffffingers. I hhhhave to ggggget in the ttttttruck and wwwwarm up." </div>
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<b>Gabe and Prairie and Cammie did most of the riding this year. </b>Moms and kids took over on the last day. Prairie on Chester with Harlan in front, Dawson on Buddy, and Cammie on Bird with Weston on the back. Little did we know this would be Bird's last trip out of the canyon. After a brief illness, we had to put him down in July. RIP bird, you were a wonderful horse and we miss you. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Moms and kids on the last day</b></td></tr>
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<b>June also brought special guests when Mike hosted a study exchange of pastoralists from Mongolia for the Nature Conservancy. </b>I was grateful to be included in several days of activities as the group met with local people involved in ranching, range management, conservation and community development. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Welcoming the Mongolian delegation with cowboy scarves</b></td></tr>
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<b>It was a big surprize and a lot of fun when Mike and I and Bayar (Science Director, T</b><b>NC Mongolia</b><b>) </b>figured out that Bayar was the person who years ago lent a car to our Mongolian friends Ene and Aza so they could drive from San Francisco to Joseph to visit us. What a connection! </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Study tour stop on the Zumwalt Prairie</b></td></tr>
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<b>I love it when pastoralists from different countries have a chance to meet each other. </b>There is always a lot to learn and even with language barriers (those translators are kept BUSY) we seem to understand each other. Whether checking out fencing tools or horse tack, discussing our marketing or production methods, or talking about the serious challenges to rangelands around the world, we relate to each other in a special way. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Visit to USFS range allotment with rancher and scientist Dennis Sheehy</b></td></tr>
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<b>Mongolians have a robust culture of horsemanship and are enthusiastic about horse races. </b>At Buckhorn overlook, we made a stop to learn about Nez Perce fisheries, tribal rights and practices, ranching in the canyons, and research applying remote sensing and weather data to predict forage conditions on vast rangeland areas. During lunch, a Mongolian delegate got out his phone and we gathered round to watch a tiny video of his horse winning an important race back home. I made a joke about how in Wallowa County our horse races are to see who can go downhill the fastest...that got a reaction as they looked over the edge into the canyon. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Looking into the canyon from Buckhorn</b></td></tr>
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<b>There were many emotional moments. </b>I especially enjoyed visiting with the women delegates and was reminded how women have many leadership opportunities in Mongolia, more so than in the United States. And we had a lovely evening near the end of their stay hosted by Mike and Nikki Beachy and their boys for a potluck, s'mores, a traditional Mongolian-style toasting circle, and wonderful singing in several languages. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Joe receives his special gift.<br /></b></td></tr>
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<b>One of the most moving interactions during the study exchange was a presentation of a special amulet to Joe McCormack. </b> The man making the presentation said that as a child he dreamed of making a journey to the other side of the world and meeting other native peoples. Now to his amazement, his dream had come true. We all felt a tenderness in our hearts as we watched Joe accept this gift with grace on behalf of the Nez Perce people. </div>
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<b>Qe’ciyéw’yew’ Joe. <span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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Thank you Joe.</div>
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<b>Tá’c kîiye pîihekin. </b></div>
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<b>From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef</b></div>
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Home on the Rangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05493732576737672634noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751682900954180149.post-11992259450374416392018-03-28T10:13:00.000-07:002018-03-28T13:33:44.208-07:00Those People Who Can't Afford<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="7r2e" data-offset-key="9sqad-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Sometimes I wish this second-class, we-are-not-them qualifier </b>wasn't part of our thinking and dividing of community.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjizVAAbIrzsQ-vjY9LOQmJjmrLzC91oEd2BY0fXEE6I02VAOE62laj4XpfGEEM6a0240gADAPzXMW_Aw_kin8l1QdXjBkCmslmDco_oD7Zl89zMgL4dv3R0SFKc2L4ujfmyGDDTLWXG32k/s1600/IMG_20180303_180941177.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="901" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjizVAAbIrzsQ-vjY9LOQmJjmrLzC91oEd2BY0fXEE6I02VAOE62laj4XpfGEEM6a0240gADAPzXMW_Aw_kin8l1QdXjBkCmslmDco_oD7Zl89zMgL4dv3R0SFKc2L4ujfmyGDDTLWXG32k/s400/IMG_20180303_180941177.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b> Restoration project, </b><b>Sara pitchforking burning kochia</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As in, </span><b style="font-family: inherit;">"Isn't it great that we bought bike helmets for the poor kids whose families can't afford them?" </b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Or, "Isn't it great that even kids whose families can't afford other fun stuff --like skiing or boating---can enjoy this nice park we just built?" Or, "Isn't it awesome that we volunteer to grow vegetables for families who can't afford fresh food for their kids?"</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Xtat_Vh6XyQRPaOVWgZOPYQGCk3XXA_rgaqlMSbDEYRFux1mJHxaPDZ4OkqEcpMwdHMgY_t5UeJerXNX-aLOW1sjcVd2AIKP1zYdC8f2GCI4sBMEkywjcSuEGs2Hw-uMmrc-1ePVsHBv/s1600/IMG_20180219_132945462.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="901" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Xtat_Vh6XyQRPaOVWgZOPYQGCk3XXA_rgaqlMSbDEYRFux1mJHxaPDZ4OkqEcpMwdHMgY_t5UeJerXNX-aLOW1sjcVd2AIKP1zYdC8f2GCI4sBMEkywjcSuEGs2Hw-uMmrc-1ePVsHBv/s400/IMG_20180219_132945462.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>First calf, I'm glad he was born before the storm</b></td></tr>
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<b style="font-family: inherit;">I seem to hear this comparison more and more in my community. </b><span style="font-family: inherit;">I've been part of one of those families a</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">nd I don't remember people talking to me that way. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ-3odNYSKhPpCXi0TcdXnIjHBIo5HqVENup2vnQIuY6781sWM9Z-DbpYnzlyYA-FDSDpgF-X0HgSDgiUJzWDnd_GN7JzT_-iZSvbs-raPi965M2RtaDKzXrRRvXk1uQlYawrs9Hut46tL/s1600/IMG_20180225_124400492.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="901" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ-3odNYSKhPpCXi0TcdXnIjHBIo5HqVENup2vnQIuY6781sWM9Z-DbpYnzlyYA-FDSDpgF-X0HgSDgiUJzWDnd_GN7JzT_-iZSvbs-raPi965M2RtaDKzXrRRvXk1uQlYawrs9Hut46tL/s400/IMG_20180225_124400492.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Hay for the horses on a windy day in the canyon</b></td></tr>
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<b style="font-family: inherit;">Sigh.</b></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqlFkG7lpNBghyphenhyphenPkMBkgVFOLF_vGRbzrq7637dTdX4-ApIiObIxMhtd01htgPwt2pBk7qdTWVPkNYfVMkxs7dk9wbSwu-wiyipNl1DkZQU7EaUlvU12m1CjsucT-aou9ITNvbM72l0nsqP/s1600/IMG_20180225_124453224.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="901" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqlFkG7lpNBghyphenhyphenPkMBkgVFOLF_vGRbzrq7637dTdX4-ApIiObIxMhtd01htgPwt2pBk7qdTWVPkNYfVMkxs7dk9wbSwu-wiyipNl1DkZQU7EaUlvU12m1CjsucT-aou9ITNvbM72l0nsqP/s400/IMG_20180225_124453224.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Punch, Ruby and Bell, the faithful ranch crew in travel mode</b></td></tr>
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<b style="font-family: inherit;">It's like an invisible sword where people don't know they just stabbed the heart of the mom they are chatting with. </b><span style="font-family: inherit;">She is one of those people who can't afford, but she hadn't been thinking of herself that way.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheOavawNaM1X8ozZX3aS1EB4qiA9QYzOc2UPhW6hRCYui6pL3hlnJDb5cNJhyjZ7o9JOZgzLM9zVJ5WEV4NJ-EezMYQSSO1ffL0Cm9CDfbC6rjgjGSyZ-4H_T3C1KS8b9ohVWMhJJ0b3BQ/s1600/IMG_20180220_070918550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="901" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheOavawNaM1X8ozZX3aS1EB4qiA9QYzOc2UPhW6hRCYui6pL3hlnJDb5cNJhyjZ7o9JOZgzLM9zVJ5WEV4NJ-EezMYQSSO1ffL0Cm9CDfbC6rjgjGSyZ-4H_T3C1KS8b9ohVWMhJJ0b3BQ/s400/IMG_20180220_070918550.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Still few people, but feels more fragmented and less connected</b></td></tr>
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<span data-offset-key="5j36h-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><b>She was thinking of herself as a person who was part of community, making a contribution, </b></span><b style="font-family: inherit;">of equal value</b><b style="font-family: inherit;">.</b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Bike helmets for all. Parks for all. Gardens for all. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvS8SR_U4_SQ0Ph3CBGEBJ5Iq2P92dJ6WFstiM-ZKCIQsLMnOMtNvz7e_ahLHn0-qvLq__Me3LaEGjKR9tb48UOd9AWUvfZYZEnMnamdTfhaz4kS0uGGzW5utz1vZ42nHVqjYZF3S-ufaT/s1600/IMG_20180324_152203216_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="1600" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvS8SR_U4_SQ0Ph3CBGEBJ5Iq2P92dJ6WFstiM-ZKCIQsLMnOMtNvz7e_ahLHn0-qvLq__Me3LaEGjKR9tb48UOd9AWUvfZYZEnMnamdTfhaz4kS0uGGzW5utz1vZ42nHVqjYZF3S-ufaT/s400/IMG_20180324_152203216_HDR.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Heading out for the day's gather upriver</b></td></tr>
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<span data-offset-key="5j36h-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span data-offset-key="5j36h-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="font-family: inherit;">I want to be on a journey toward change. </b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Which trail will lead me</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> away from division and fear and toward association and sharing?</span><b style="font-family: inherit;"> </b></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAfLQ8Gc-tyaUpbl4amaxcVjgooOIkmGZdV7MBUD_qDDrhtENzpRqwWsmbVIps0lg8rs6PzI8XYtWbpgvtKDIMOiUri1kA3p6O5skoXOWN4nN5x6QUHYdgDK9iJa9loq_qVEIIOQoCCh4M/s1600/IMG_20180324_175533546.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="901" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAfLQ8Gc-tyaUpbl4amaxcVjgooOIkmGZdV7MBUD_qDDrhtENzpRqwWsmbVIps0lg8rs6PzI8XYtWbpgvtKDIMOiUri1kA3p6O5skoXOWN4nN5x6QUHYdgDK9iJa9loq_qVEIIOQoCCh4M/s400/IMG_20180324_175533546.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>You get the ones down low and I'll get the ones up high<br /></b></td></tr>
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<span data-offset-key="5j36h-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>I'm very thankful for all the ways and all the people and all the places and all the times </b>that are helping me find the trail, stay on the trail and have the stamina and hope to get over the ridge and see what is ahead. And that includes my partner of nearly 40 years! </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha1rxeFV3R2GQ1883AzFuF5Xu-EzWQyPVToDc3nW0ThzAtb6OJ7JT-aXfutjBsmeFgIfONebpTeLUyZFWjkx84KtDj2kC3AlCPDW7lnnZ_G8aW5waOp6OzBY__jkZtke2AUtbVJkBt9bor/s1600/IMG_3532+crop+ccrop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="673" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha1rxeFV3R2GQ1883AzFuF5Xu-EzWQyPVToDc3nW0ThzAtb6OJ7JT-aXfutjBsmeFgIfONebpTeLUyZFWjkx84KtDj2kC3AlCPDW7lnnZ_G8aW5waOp6OzBY__jkZtke2AUtbVJkBt9bor/s400/IMG_3532+crop+ccrop.jpg" width="356" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Happy St Patrick's Day and 39th Anniversary Pard! </b></td></tr>
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<span data-offset-key="5j36h-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><b>From Sara at Magpie Ranch, Home of Bunchgrass Beef </b></span></div>
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Home on the Rangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05493732576737672634noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751682900954180149.post-14257461666755449222018-02-16T07:04:00.000-08:002018-02-16T07:04:58.703-08:00I Am An Old Woman <i><b>Named after my mother. My old man's another, child that's grown old.</b></i> So goes the words and I realize I've never really thought about why this song has stuck with us for so many years.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Gabe and Bird headed to Pumpkin Creek</b></td></tr>
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<b><i>Make me an angel </i></b><i><b>that flies from Montgomery. </b></i>I want the angel.<b> </b>But Montgomery seems like a specific place. A specific story that I know little about.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Bell, youngest of the crew, a bit on the wild side</b></td></tr>
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<b>And which Montgomery? </b>Surely there is more than one. So I just make it my own Montgomery, the place my angel harkens from, the place I want to be.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPPD8Mi_gwT_9dkKjEid52_lqORjtZ1igQMRqMT1aLrZePGpIIpwrshqraHaWwMpCLeWbYLVuCuchjl8WEqaOpXFhoS5Mc9tzv4H85JKOYNiaoRvmlkTQmC1YlMrZjOjl_8qsd4d6eFYFX/s1600/IMG_20170129_120601604.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="901" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPPD8Mi_gwT_9dkKjEid52_lqORjtZ1igQMRqMT1aLrZePGpIIpwrshqraHaWwMpCLeWbYLVuCuchjl8WEqaOpXFhoS5Mc9tzv4H85JKOYNiaoRvmlkTQmC1YlMrZjOjl_8qsd4d6eFYFX/s320/IMG_20170129_120601604.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Punch (Opuntia), sweetie pie, works well to the left</b></td></tr>
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<b>My mother is a very old woman. </b>These days her stories create startling connections between eras and locales. Ownership is fluid. My brother's house may as well be the house her father built. She knows he built one and it is hers, where she lives.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH6CEqjvFHHtfXIesNnosKsAmPjsvPCBtKhMwTZT-kpD3sj8WMsoSF2mlK_SfHJT9LzNl0bRjFDo331WShww1c0u91sBAyXNjugTeiReNV7er6AlQohCIVGPrTvE1FR-ne7ErWltXeAkVX/s1600/IMG_3449+crop+coffee+break.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1047" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH6CEqjvFHHtfXIesNnosKsAmPjsvPCBtKhMwTZT-kpD3sj8WMsoSF2mlK_SfHJT9LzNl0bRjFDo331WShww1c0u91sBAyXNjugTeiReNV7er6AlQohCIVGPrTvE1FR-ne7ErWltXeAkVX/s320/IMG_3449+crop+coffee+break.jpg" width="279" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Coffeetime, thankful for Andrew's help this winter</b></td></tr>
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<b>As old as she is, my mother knows she isn't home anymore.</b> She knows she's not with family.<b> </b>No matter how well it worked before --- agreeing that she was where she belonged, asserting ownership of my brother's assets at times, and going so far as to suggest some of us 'visitors' could be asked to leave --- all that has changed.<br />
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<b>Now, the distance home is inconceivable. </b>She doesn't want to recognize where she is; she doesn't want to live there. But she tries. "It's not easy, such a change, when you're as old as I am."<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAPzvIyvxNRZ3Vtq8fv7joFL_Zo6yMLjUJGkUHOMdZs5crJ4Va5jh5eQfbSOzP66mtAyxNCoDIePIsaA2z1CR4dgXM-JEQycF61-gIcBBE0mxpikuW6dxkC3zkglS_As2RaTvDy9FO5doN/s1600/IMG_20180121_095154574+dear+chester.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1473" data-original-width="1600" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAPzvIyvxNRZ3Vtq8fv7joFL_Zo6yMLjUJGkUHOMdZs5crJ4Va5jh5eQfbSOzP66mtAyxNCoDIePIsaA2z1CR4dgXM-JEQycF61-gIcBBE0mxpikuW6dxkC3zkglS_As2RaTvDy9FO5doN/s320/IMG_20180121_095154574+dear+chester.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;"><b>Glad someone besides me draws in the ranch journal!</b></td></tr>
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<b>Her lap is still available in a big chair with padded arms, wide enough to support a small child. </b>And children come to see her. Babies and toddlers, boys with legos. Even college boys.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg9JkPNwUadjp6wv9jgxOOnNPnZWrWbU9_JgKYVi7dhrUu5P_gjwmHt1hvFUsLm-ZnN2wmBoGrHUz1A0Ucq4bxRecG_JVWH8sH4Hc48EXAZ9PfQoXn2gXfmIbq92F9VmQ6dFkCw9WCWnTu/s1600/IMG_20170129_180727994.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="901" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg9JkPNwUadjp6wv9jgxOOnNPnZWrWbU9_JgKYVi7dhrUu5P_gjwmHt1hvFUsLm-ZnN2wmBoGrHUz1A0Ucq4bxRecG_JVWH8sH4Hc48EXAZ9PfQoXn2gXfmIbq92F9VmQ6dFkCw9WCWnTu/s320/IMG_20170129_180727994.jpg" width="179" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Warm up, have a cup</b></td></tr>
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<b>We tell her our names, and most of us get a pass into her world.</b> The others have learned to create a chain from their lives to hers, describing the links a few times until she recognizes her own lineage.<br />
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<b>And our names are longer now. </b><i>PrairieRoseYourGranddaughter</i>. The little ones call her Great, and she is. If they are lucky, they are old enough to remember playing together, with the sound of her voice encouraging them to go on and on in their imagining.<br />
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<b>And we bring her things. </b>Small things to hold on to, pictures held together in small books, our faces labeled, the places we come from labeled.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh347OrCM1cKtVPfCxZQpolaXYC49s5vL3AE4K1C1Yt0izcEsbZ_ZUpz6bVM8FnrJj55tXvvANGMzT7gA2ZMeXPodIYR3juwidylXRXRaHCVXC5z5jpzRmp2UNXl4Ka5YoJTPJ5oZd4YeEQ/s1600/zenger+guests+ranch+weekend+027+crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="867" data-original-width="1597" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh347OrCM1cKtVPfCxZQpolaXYC49s5vL3AE4K1C1Yt0izcEsbZ_ZUpz6bVM8FnrJj55tXvvANGMzT7gA2ZMeXPodIYR3juwidylXRXRaHCVXC5z5jpzRmp2UNXl4Ka5YoJTPJ5oZd4YeEQ/s400/zenger+guests+ranch+weekend+027+crop.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Greening in the bottoms!</b></td></tr>
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<b>We might be the angels now</b>, arriving at the door of her room, painting and repainting the picture of her life.<br />
<i><br /></i><i>Make me an angel </i><br />
<i>that flies from Montgomery.</i><br />
<i>Paint me a picture </i><br />
<i>of an old rodeo.</i><br />
<i>Just give me one thing </i><br />
<i>that I can hold on to. </i><br />
<i>To believe in this livin' </i><br />
<i>is just a hard way to go. </i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMyR5-bpEah_OZDtX3RKGnYqszxHUDSHW8DpbLIgtXFCt2Arw2WGLU_JDZONWUo1aiRaE0WgZUin3qCPNMcQ_dLpP8EOyiaUMs89OPk_79NOxiK5_PprpqBQ8o0C7IePnU_wjX1MUSiFQ0/s1600/27749815_10160070631130512_7463208415581569042_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMyR5-bpEah_OZDtX3RKGnYqszxHUDSHW8DpbLIgtXFCt2Arw2WGLU_JDZONWUo1aiRaE0WgZUin3qCPNMcQ_dLpP8EOyiaUMs89OPk_79NOxiK5_PprpqBQ8o0C7IePnU_wjX1MUSiFQ0/s320/27749815_10160070631130512_7463208415581569042_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Mom, Harlan, Prairie</b></td></tr>
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<b>From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef</b><br />
<br />Home on the Rangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05493732576737672634noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751682900954180149.post-83408482748053024652018-02-01T08:37:00.000-08:002018-02-01T08:37:03.292-08:00A Different Winter<br />
<b>This winter is about as different </b><b>as it could be </b><b>from last winter</b><b>. </b>Last year at this time we were slogging through two months of chaining up on treacherous roads, battling storm after storm that kept winter feed buried in snow and trails too slick to ride. Our weaning pen and haystack were flooded with snowmelt, then frozen into an ice rink. Even the elk seemed miserable, crowding into the canyon in unprecedented numbers seeking relief from the deep snow of higher elevations.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg83aWMY4pr9hUjiW6LBaYP28x9YZ7UmUN7Y8K8Rxo_BqXSDp3OPrKcfMonpmyRzXuyAh_x091WR7OzHHqqSfZunSEkQsUVMwZjyx_8g-kROXhI0IZLQG9q4_DmbIzgjwWV4LEaurzSeLhF/s1600/IMG_3345.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg83aWMY4pr9hUjiW6LBaYP28x9YZ7UmUN7Y8K8Rxo_BqXSDp3OPrKcfMonpmyRzXuyAh_x091WR7OzHHqqSfZunSEkQsUVMwZjyx_8g-kROXhI0IZLQG9q4_DmbIzgjwWV4LEaurzSeLhF/s400/IMG_3345.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Looking north from the horse pasture</b></td></tr>
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<b>This January, we've had mostly open weather, with trails decent enough to pack out salt and herd cattle, and only one episode of chaining up to get out to town.</b>We've had our fingers crossed, not wanting to jinx it, but meeting our few neighbors coming and going on the downriver road, we chat about what a difference it is, how relieved we are. And the conversation always wraps up with, 'Well, it's not over yet, so let's hope it keeps up this way.' </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Mike loading salt on Theo</b></td></tr>
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<b>We took salt out to the cattle, packing Theo for the first time, the big mustang lent to us by friend Paul. </b>Theo did pretty good, and Bird too, in spite of Theo losing his footing on a greasy north, where Mike was leading them through a draw above the barn. I was riding behind and saw Theo start to slide backward and then sideways off the trail. He was dallied to Bird and pulled Bird off with him, the two horses plunging down slope in a scrambling tangle. Somehow they made it to the bottom without hurting themselves and ended up still tied and breathing hard across the draw, looking around as if to say, 'What the heck happened?' They could have run off in a wild spook, but Bird stood quietly ground-tied until Mike got off the hill to gather them back up again. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;"><b>Theo, relieved of half his load</b></td></tr>
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<b>After that, Mike led Theo to the top of the ridge and I rode Bird and led Chester. </b>We unloaded half the salt and supplement at the first salt ground and the rest of the ride was uneventful. I was glad it was early enough in the day that most of the norths were still frozen. It felt good to be up on the bench horseback and nice to check a task off the list: pack salt. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;"><b>Cattle coming in for salt<br /></b></td></tr>
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<b>The day before I had worked a long day teaching non-profit management in town and having time in the saddle allowed me to reflect. </b>I love teaching and I learn so much from the participants, in this case, volunteers with projects ranging from youth programs to the cemetery. I was mostly thinking about our journey toward improving inclusivity and equity in our organizations and programs, something that can't be done without personal growth and challenge. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Sara and Chester packing salt</b></td></tr>
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<b>When we got back to the house we worked on setting up the temporary electric fence outside the corral. </b>We've been weaning, with the calves in the corral on hay for a few weeks already. Now Mike will use the temporary pen to train the calves to electric fence. They get a bit more space outside the corral and can discover the electric fence. We don't use much electric fence in our operation, but when we do, it's helpful that all the cattle have been trained to it at some point in their lives.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgarIZC_oYIufKN4r-OrfSu1zhX1COs1awq2Q-GtJBrGYRQrXcuoC99eEq5_XELoL3ktZJgJ5A-nEKZfcYP2rxEIoY2Jv1loBPQdBDdxhQSKoGIpcXkg4YBAqaA_7Kxd_NsiLvFRgFmDHeB/s1600/IMG_3417+crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="953" data-original-width="1390" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgarIZC_oYIufKN4r-OrfSu1zhX1COs1awq2Q-GtJBrGYRQrXcuoC99eEq5_XELoL3ktZJgJ5A-nEKZfcYP2rxEIoY2Jv1loBPQdBDdxhQSKoGIpcXkg4YBAqaA_7Kxd_NsiLvFRgFmDHeB/s400/IMG_3417+crop.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>A few of our good looking calves in the corral</b></td></tr>
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<b>I think my favorite time during the holidays was having three of the grandkids at the river while Gabe and Cammie took a trip to Seattle. </b>In spite of some mid-night sleep disruptions, we had a pretty relaxed few days. Mike made a deal with the boys to help rake wild turkey poop out of the yard in trade for truck driving practice and a jaunt upriver to the fishing hole. The fishing was a bust, but the exploration of hide-outs in the massive debris piles from the 97' flood was super fun.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieJZ-fLAKBJ9p3ME3mjpIs4XEo_G7d8NTlptVkDOS8eaerMxd3ViwWDKLSnKVtHjI3Mbh4Yv60Fs_8LANB7MiO0bdyw5cLTMbE3_HXnX667YvFyfn9K26QUshHLDd4p7PxMZ3LfeoMQ6NG/s1600/IMG_3341+crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1300" height="369" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieJZ-fLAKBJ9p3ME3mjpIs4XEo_G7d8NTlptVkDOS8eaerMxd3ViwWDKLSnKVtHjI3Mbh4Yv60Fs_8LANB7MiO0bdyw5cLTMbE3_HXnX667YvFyfn9K26QUshHLDd4p7PxMZ3LfeoMQ6NG/s400/IMG_3341+crop.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Put them to work! </b></td></tr>
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<b>When we recorded our highlights in the ranch journal, wild rumpus dancing was at the top of the list, followed by the bonfire and food. </b>The top dance tunes were: Ring Around the Rosie Rag and the Motorcycle song (I don't wan't a pickle...).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYfU587Y-Rp73lXn0wTPHv-C9JzLDO-8zdDiGhEyiu6nE1buhEead_GnLebWhc6m5y8b7FdD927lf6LZywwgW8Q3X2R-w9LXl1fYhJpJ33J7twwtkhPwqpAwiZ9M3mrezjjio18Z0FG1aT/s1600/IMG_3322.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYfU587Y-Rp73lXn0wTPHv-C9JzLDO-8zdDiGhEyiu6nE1buhEead_GnLebWhc6m5y8b7FdD927lf6LZywwgW8Q3X2R-w9LXl1fYhJpJ33J7twwtkhPwqpAwiZ9M3mrezjjio18Z0FG1aT/s400/IMG_3322.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Abby loves anything she can climb on, stand on or sit on</b></td></tr>
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<b>Compared to last winter, it feels amazing to have down time for any kind goofing off, or even just resting up. </b>It's funny how a few little traditions can settle us and bring space into our thoughts giving us respite from the craziness of the world's changes, giving us courage and strength to be part of what is to come. A winter crossword left out for anyone to puzzle on, finding my way through a new song on the concertina, a walk downriver to visit the hundred year old graves of Tinie Stubblefield (3 years old) and Effie Mae Lydell (3 months), where I sit on a rock and draw the ridgeline rising above me like the spires of a cathedral, only better.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b> Haas Ridge - morning, watercolor pencil</b></td></tr>
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<b>From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef</b>Home on the Rangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05493732576737672634noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751682900954180149.post-77478221852301504292017-11-17T11:05:00.000-08:002017-11-17T11:05:01.152-08:00Wood Stacked Before Church<b><br /></b>
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<b>Pride. A word that can make me cringe.</b> Pride goeth before a
fall. The prideful sinners in Dante’s Inferno who bear enormous rocks on their
backs, rocks they carry for eternity or else be crushed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>I feel proud that I got the wood stacked in the shed before
church. </b>I was late to church, but luckily, people are encouraged to ‘come as you are.' Which is to
say disheveled, pitchy, dirty, and wearing an old shrunken blue sweater littered
with sawdust and bark chips. And with an itchy nose full of dust. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Sara gathering cows to head to Pumpkin Creek</b></td></tr>
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<b>We had a busy few days, getting ready to move the cattle to Pumpkin Creek, but I really wanted to go to church. </b>It had been many months since I had a chance to enter that hundred-year old stone sanctuary and take time to reflect and question life with people of different minds. I knew a storm was moving in and the firewood was still in an enormous pile in the yard.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh159Nlc5I6q5uKtdbZqNoWnYd4W9LdBaHpvaaCjKxRk1Dgw_vvovDk6Dm9ZpDOA_5O6MBUhdWokSryyGeZ1Y9U1LDDCXKcfeM_Z7bG1DT4_KMzVjAiQiKYtAaFUkhfzfKJIV_XT3WpGA1Q/s1600/IMG_20171104_141639870.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="901" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh159Nlc5I6q5uKtdbZqNoWnYd4W9LdBaHpvaaCjKxRk1Dgw_vvovDk6Dm9ZpDOA_5O6MBUhdWokSryyGeZ1Y9U1LDDCXKcfeM_Z7bG1DT4_KMzVjAiQiKYtAaFUkhfzfKJIV_XT3WpGA1Q/s400/IMG_20171104_141639870.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Crossing Rye Bench</b></td></tr>
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<b>So first thing Sunday morning, I wrestled the big quarters of tamarack, red fir and pine </b>into neatly stacked rows inside the woodshed. A small thing, so simple and necessary that I can’t help but admire it during these trying times, when all around me I feel a cacophony of wrongs ringing against the mountains like the shots of duck hunters at dawn.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Andrew saddling up to take horses to P Creek</b></td></tr>
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<b>The night before, at the cultural center in Joseph, people gathered to be part of a project</b> <b>that uncovers racism and change through music. </b> There were stories about black people who migrated from the south to the logging town of Maxville in nearly all-white Wallowa County in the 1920s. There were stories about redlining and confinement of people of color to areas like Vanport in NE Portland in the 1940s. Our history, our story.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Leaving the Hall place, over the hill to river crossing </b></td></tr>
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<b>Marilyn from the Portland Jazz Ensemble calls her
voice a </b><i><b>musical tool; </b></i>she sang a newly-birthed song about trees. Trees that give
so much to life and have also taken life away. Her music travelled into my solar
plexus and left me vibrating and without words. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXtLxEu5TmWryuJw7J3r1GwO6TSIHJ0-MAgYYmia5Daftjs7ZZDBtngUkNnaNKJc37OYrkCKHXOMPMXybaqvWSjbH2F4R6W9If5Kj78XuPghDb24kWTTYhyphenhyphenKU3AixDfu6efDOeUieozr0H/s1600/IMG_20171103_163427191.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="901" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXtLxEu5TmWryuJw7J3r1GwO6TSIHJ0-MAgYYmia5Daftjs7ZZDBtngUkNnaNKJc37OYrkCKHXOMPMXybaqvWSjbH2F4R6W9If5Kj78XuPghDb24kWTTYhyphenhyphenKU3AixDfu6efDOeUieozr0H/s400/IMG_20171103_163427191.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;"><b>Chester watches cattle cross the river</b></td></tr>
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<b>And then I had to walk to the front of the room</b> <b>and take
the microphone and moderate </b>the audience discussion with the
panelists. I said that some months back, at the dedication ceremony
for the Nez Perce longhouse in Wallowa, the leader of the Washat service reminded
us that each person who journeyed to be there brought something to that space, each person contributes something. What is created in the Washat is made possible because of every person who is present. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Mike and Andrew arrived at Pumpkin Creek</b></td></tr>
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<b>What I learn over and over again is that I am not in control
of my voice.</b> I give it air. I give it sound. I give it thought and recognition
and attention. But sometimes my mouth opens and words come out and people are frightened, feel left on the edge of a rim, and sometimes people are
bored and dissipated. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXjrTP4oSmclzun_3B7VBA7GwDWB0DDwfEYqe4QrjZm9-2D6MUQf-W3WG3PnE8UVsbyjRiSMxYR4Y4vQTPAOkUg3I-qCMhGSlg8bOx6evDhnioozUl629_yNh7NhcZZIvD4zu48B_Pmo2p/s1600/IMG_3106.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXjrTP4oSmclzun_3B7VBA7GwDWB0DDwfEYqe4QrjZm9-2D6MUQf-W3WG3PnE8UVsbyjRiSMxYR4Y4vQTPAOkUg3I-qCMhGSlg8bOx6evDhnioozUl629_yNh7NhcZZIvD4zu48B_Pmo2p/s400/IMG_3106.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Fence fixer, complete with dirt mustache</b></td></tr>
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<b>The experience of grace in the Washat gave me the courage to
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of something difficult together.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>If we dig deep enough we find a kernel of ugliness and a
kernel of beauty in each of us.</b> Each of us has something rotten and repulsive
in our story, and each of us has a flower fattening toward light, a grub
morphosing into a hummingbird moth.<br />
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<b>Before I went to the Josephy Center, I spent the day propping up old
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Mike and Andrew fencing across the draw</b></td></tr>
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<b>Near my feet, I spotted an
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<b>From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef</b></div>
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Home on the Rangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05493732576737672634noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751682900954180149.post-88189201205309804072017-10-18T22:08:00.000-07:002017-10-18T22:08:15.814-07:00"Thank You So Much"<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><b>The encouragement and appreciation of our customers
goes a long way to getting us through the rough spots.</b> After delivering to our local customers a few weeks ago, we geared up to haul a freezer trailer of beef to Portland, which is always a bit stressful. The trip went extra smooth this year. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.6667px;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;"><b>Everyone was so nice.</b> </span>The guys at the trailer rental place in La Grande who prechilled the trailer to minus five and tested the wiring before we picked it up.<b> </b></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Linda and Morgan at Valley Meats who helped us load the trailer. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.6667px;">Zenger Farm who hosted our delivery location. C</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">ustomers aged 4 months to 70 years who thanked us again and again for the delicious beef. Prairie and Jon and Harlan who shared dinner and offered us a warm soft bed for the night. Even Kevin at Valley Meats, working 'eight days a week' in this busy season, came outside and stood on the street for a minute in the sunshine and thanked us for returning empty boxes on our way back to Joseph.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>We made it! Ready for customers to arrive at Zenger Farm</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="font-size: 14.6667px;">We arrived home to a beautiful late fall afternoon and a note from one of our customers, </b><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;">"Thanks again Mike and Sara! It was nice to see you yesterday and all of the Thomsens (Kristina, our boys Noah and Henry, and I) are excited to get this year's beef." Sigh, what could be nicer than to feed people delicious natural beef raised with care and effort by our family. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Exploring Zenger Farm wetlands with Harlan</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;"><b style="font-size: 14.6667px;">Before we made the trip to Portland, we took the cows to the canyon.</b><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;"> We went early this year and will go up Pumpkin Creek for a month as we didn't graze that range at all last winter. We trailed the cattle to McClaran's corrals in the valley where we loaded the trailers. Then we hauled to the end of the pavement at Fence Creek and walked them in four miles to the Hall place where they will stay for a while before we cross the river and head to Pumpkin Creek. </span></span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Cow herd at the Hall place</span></b></td></tr>
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<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></b><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14.6667px;"><b>The drift fence at Halls had slid down the steep hillside, but we were able to prop it up enough with the materials at hand.</b> We'll go back later with some new material and make better repairs. We are thankful to have neighbor's like Halls who provide an important stopping point for our cattle when we are coming and going from the canyon. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Patching up the drift fence</span></b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14.6667px;"><b>While I was in the canyon I was glad to have a chance to gather the walnuts before the wild turkeys ate them all. </b>I enjoy sitting in the dirt under the big trees, picking through leaves and twigs and tossing the nuts onto a tarp to drag inside. The acrid pungent smell fills the air around me, another smell of harvest season, of putting food by for winter. I'm thankful for these resilient and long-lived trees and the food they provide. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Walnuts curing in the mud room<br /><br /><br /></b></td></tr>
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<b style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14.6667px;">Most of the vegetation along the river is still green, but the poison oak has turned and the sumac colors the canyon like veins of blood flowing down the draws. </b><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14.6667px;">It felt good to be in the sunshine, in the last warm weather of the year. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Poison oak lovely, but still annoying</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14.6667px;"><b>It was warm enough to get sweaty working. </b>Warm enough for the river to look inviting and almost make me want to jump in. But I was content to take off my boots and dip my feet in the cold clear water, and just sit and listen for a while. Thankful for beauty and kindness and another turn of seasons. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Under the Horse Creek bridge</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px;">From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef </span></span></div>
Home on the Rangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05493732576737672634noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751682900954180149.post-85952475409845556112017-09-21T20:42:00.000-07:002017-09-21T20:47:46.135-07:00Date Ride and Cows to the Valley<b>It felt like a dream. </b><b> Summer was hard-parched and the one day Mike and I had to ride for a few stray cows it rained. </b>Not only was it a gentle cool rain, we also found the cows right away and had an easy time getting them back in.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Coat and gloves! Rain clouds not smoke! </b></td></tr>
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<b>Of course, we had to figure out where the cows got out and as soon as we found a big Ponderosa keeled over on the fenceline we had our work cut out for us. </b>Luckily we were able to get the fence back up without needing a chainsaw.<br />
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<b>Even with all the fence work, the rain made for a nice date ride for the two of us. </b>It felt like the clouds were toasting us, like we were celebrating our anniversary or something. </div>
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<b>The thirsty ground soaked up the moisture and all the animals and plants seemed to be as grateful for the rain as we were. </b>We knew the change in weather was short-lived, which made it all the more precious.</div>
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<b>About a week later, we took some more salt out and Mike collected fecal samples for nutritional analysis as part of our monitoring program. </b>It was hotter then heck and dry as ever.<b> </b></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Collecting fecal samples</b></td></tr>
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<b>The ponds still had good water, but we knew it was time to move the herd to new pastures. </b>And this year, that meant hauling them to the valley.</div>
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<b>Mike and I set to work going around the fence at the valley pasture so we could bring the cattle in. </b>We spent two days plugging holes and putting up fence that the spruce trees had smashed down. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>End of a day fencing valley pasture, tired and hot</b></td></tr>
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<b>A flurry of phone calls lined up friends and family to help haul cattle over Labor Day weekend. </b>Dave and Mike rode and brought the cattle into McClaran corrals, where we loaded six trucks and trailers. We were able to haul everything to the valley in one trip. </div>
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<b>When I thanked our crew I told them it was the smoothest day of cattle hauling we'd ever had; one them asked why. </b>"Because we had enough help," was my reply. Often after the first trip in, Mike and I are making several more runs to bring in the tail-end and haul the horses home, which makes for a very long tiring day. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Tyson, Mike, Dennis and Mark after loading</b></td></tr>
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<b>I can't say enough about friends who are experienced, have the right equipment and are willing to share the work that makes a small family ranch possible. </b>Many hands make light work and less stress! </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Callie and I goofed off and visited! </b></td></tr>
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<b>When we let the cattle out of the trailers at the valley pasture, they bawled for about twenty seconds while mothering up with their calves. </b>Then they looked around at the fresh flowing water, green grass and shady timber. "Now this is nice!" they seemed to say as they meandered off and began to graze. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Happy cows on new pasture</b></td></tr>
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<b>And we were soon headed home, with plenty of daylight left for us to work on other chores. </b>Or not.... </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Our good crew</b></td></tr>
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<b>From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef.</b></div>
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Home on the Rangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05493732576737672634noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751682900954180149.post-3981888775935234502017-08-12T14:47:00.000-07:002017-08-12T16:40:20.545-07:00That's How it is on the Range<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>"</b></span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Clouds race by, smell rain but it's dry, that's how it is on the range."</b> </i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The grandboys like this soulful song and surprised me by singing along as we drove home from the prairie. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="color: black;">What surprised me was feeling them recognize and agree with the point of view. </b><span style="color: black;"> They are growing up on the range, it's part of their family, and they are old enough to express that now. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i style="color: black;">"Jack rabbit darts, blue grouse starts, the roll of some distant thunder, it won't stay long, its moving along, that's how it is on the range."</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="color: black;">I'm happy they like this song because so do I.</b><span style="color: black;"> And sometimes when I'm far from shelter and a storm up and dumps on me, I think to myself, </span><i style="color: black;">"Dark clouds roll in, its darker than sin, he heads for a rock overhang, the rain comes down fast, but he knows it won't last, that's how it is on the range."</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><b>Or when my tongue feels halfway parched and stuck to the roof of my mouth</b> <b>and I can feel my organs sucking the moisture out of my skin.</b> Or when the cactus flowers. Or the baby fawns rocket from their nests. Or when the pines reach out their arms and I have to go over to one and smell its bark. <i>That's how it is on the range.</i> </span></span><br />
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Hal Cannon wrote this song, so lovely and deep and pendant, and I'm thankful for hearing it.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>"He's searching around, then catches the sound, the lilt of a laughing woman, he listens again, then sees that sage hen, he shivers and knows he's alone."</i></span></div>
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<b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Lately, I've been negligent in my attendance at social functions.</b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> But I do read the paper most weeks, so I know there's a birthday party and art opening at the art center, and a music bash at the rodeo grounds, and fair starts Sunday with first the dogs and then the horses and then the fat stock and land products. And there's a geology presentation on Tuesday and an entomology presentation on Thursday and there's lots of people going out to the woods to pick huckleberries in their secret huckleberry picking patches. And I know I won't go to any of it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Sometimes it's hard to describe the melancholy part of </b></span><b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">being in love with </b><b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">land that we'll never own. </b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The other day a line in the poem How Heavy the Glass from Cameron Scott </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">gave me pause, "</span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My greatest possession: this animated world." </i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> There is that word, </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">possession, which once meant </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">occupancy</i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> and later, to have </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">control</i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> over, as in things we </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">dominate.</i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The rangeland that I love I have no desire to dominate. And no one can really control it. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But there is another meaning that appeals to me. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">To possess, to maintain within oneself.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>To carry inside me some presence of what lies below and upon and above</b>, what grows and births and dies, what lingers and what expires. A grain of sand, a column of basalt. A mariposa lily. A vesper sparrow. These I would like to possess and be possessed by. </span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>"Life is so rare, but persistent out there, the prairie is open and true, we make a small mark, then fade in the dark, that's how it is on the range."</b></span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef</span><br />
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Home on the Rangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05493732576737672634noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-751682900954180149.post-66691192546089619602017-07-30T18:00:00.000-07:002017-07-30T18:00:01.961-07:00 Harlan Checks on the Cows<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<b>Mike has pretty well recovered from his bout with pneumonia earlier this summer. </b>We had some good family time when Prairie and Jon and Harlan came home for a friend's wedding, and everybody chipped in to help with chores to give Mike some rest. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Mike enjoys the hammock at Hope's wedding</b></td></tr>
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<b>The wedding was classic Wallowa County. </b>A lovely summer evening, too hot until the sunset, loads of delicious homemade food, kids running in packs in willow thickets around a pond, beautiful bride and handsome groom, rowdy band on a flatbed trailer, portable dance floor in the middle of a pasture, cold beer and plenty of revelrous guests of all ages.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Harlan, Prairie, Jon - photo booth! </b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Harlan, Sara and Abby 'the hat stealer'</b></td></tr>
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<b>The morning after the wedding, Harlan and Prairie and I got up early to go check on the cow herd out on the Zumwalt. </b>Prairie scooped Harlan out of bed and into the truck, along with a big to-go bowl of oatmeal with dried apricots and pears which he greatly enjoyed, once he was awake.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Are we there yet?</b></td></tr>
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<b>We couldn't have timed it better. </b>As we drove through the gate at Alder Creek, we heard the first voices of the cows coming down to water. Several mother cows came right to the truck, where Harlan could check them out up close and personal. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Harlan calling in the herd</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>One of our older mother cows</b></td></tr>
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<b>Soon there was a chorus of calves calling for their mothers, and mothers calling back, as more cows and calves wandered up the draw, their strong voices reverberating through the trees. </b>I told Harlan they were talking to each other. "Where are you? I'm over here." "Here I am. Where are you?"<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiXzCV8xbPBOE_0O0USakfGoA4XD68DriRHffepyt7rEZlo1QCXyDRrqk0j22HQaMJ7cCzILwwnDYyp9mWrarLOU15RnK3cTWYKZ23u6ZiJhyphenhyphenz5F3NKbW-1diySMElGeEMw2bil0pZMeKV/s1600/IMG_20170723_074828_959edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1499" data-original-width="1600" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiXzCV8xbPBOE_0O0USakfGoA4XD68DriRHffepyt7rEZlo1QCXyDRrqk0j22HQaMJ7cCzILwwnDYyp9mWrarLOU15RnK3cTWYKZ23u6ZiJhyphenhyphenz5F3NKbW-1diySMElGeEMw2bil0pZMeKV/s320/IMG_20170723_074828_959edit.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Calves finding their mothers</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>A very gentle red cow.</b></td></tr>
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<b>I was taking a picture of Prairie and Harlan when I caught a glimpse of our big blonde bull coming up fast behind me. </b>I smacked my shin on the trailer hitch as I scrambled onto the flatbed. The bull wasn't really coming after me, he was just making a bee-line toward a group of cows in front of the truck, but I had Mike's admonition in mind as I made my hasty exit,"Never turn your back on a bull."<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Blonde bull</b></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Snack time in the back of the truck</b></td></tr>
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<b>The morning was cool and pleasant, but we could feel the heat building quickly. </b>We took looked over the herd as they began to graze back through the trees and concluded that all was well. Plenty of grass, plenty of water, all the critters where they should be, including the bulls.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Ruby, Bell, Prairie and Harlan headed for the gate and home</b></td></tr>
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<b>It was good to get Harlan out with the cows. </b>Someday he'll be big enough to make a hand and like his mother before him, he'll have a hankering for the prairie, for the smell of the tarweed and the Ponderosa pine, for the call of the meadowlark at dawn, for the creak of the saddle and the ramble of a sure-footed horse beneath him.<b> </b><br />
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<b>From Sara at Magpie Ranch, Home of Bunchgrass Beef</b><br />
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<br />Home on the Rangehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05493732576737672634noreply@blogger.com