New Website - Our Ranch Journal has Moved

Yay! We have a new website, and the first thing we got up on it is our ranch journal. 

One of our beautiful herd matriarchs

Now you can keep up with us at  Magpieranch.org

You can still visit older posts here.  

Thank you for all the positive feedback you've given me about this journal. I love connecting with folks through storytelling and pictures and look forward to continuing the conversation.

See you over on Magpieranch.org! 

From Sara at Magpie Ranch Home of Bunchgrass Beef

Sara with first picking of Asparagus 

A Year Gone By

Nearly a year has gone by since I last wrote in this journal. Not that I didn’t try.

Sara, hunting weeds 

It took a long time to realize I needed rest. So much rest. More rest than I felt I could justify. And the only way to find it was to turn from whatever I could 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.

December canyon

Back in December in a letter to a friend, 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.

Doublecreek fire starts in the canyon

That was before I realized I needed rest. A lot of rest. 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.

Fire coming close, Hahn Slide

Drought and fire drove us through fall. 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.

Mike digs post hole

Facing our challenges, Mike and I do a lot of mutual thinking nowadays. 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.

Brindle steer

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. 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.

Cows on river bar, May

As we pack up to travel to the canyon and take our turn gathering the last of the cattle, 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.

Sara takes break, Doublecreek fire

May you know we think of you during our days and evenings, and are thankful for all the ways you’ve added to our lives and our learning.

From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef

It’s Hard to Say

We lost our beautiful Chester horse in June 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. 

Chester, the first summer we had him

I don’t know if I could rewind to before the pandemic, that this loss would be any less overwhelming, 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. 

Coming home across Rye Bench

And I struggle to get my balance, to center, 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. 

On the Zumwalt

When I feel grief cutting into me, and I need to calm myself, I remember all the things I loved about Chester. 

I remember the two of us working alone on the bench, herding cattle back where they were supposed to be, 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. 

A snuggle with Chester, getting ready to pack protein 

I honor you Chester. 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.

 

Taking a breather 

You could have been around a while longer Chester, 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.  

Trailing back from Pumpkin Creek

From Sara at Magpie Ranch home of Bunchgrass Beef

What is Useful

Mike and I hauled protein supplement to the canyon last weekend and had to chain up again. 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. 

Chains on, heading down river

We are resigned to chaining up. 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!

Reminders from friends

The sun leaves us by four o'clock and in the many hours before bed, I sense darkness pressing down on the bottom of the canyon. 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. 

Zeke's 3 yr b-day gift in Quito, Ecuador

 

I love how people come to us in the dark of winter across time and space through memory, stories, objects. 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. 

Punch and Maggie, W. River bar, early December

Looking out at the snow, I can hardly believe three weeks ago the canyon  glowed with fall green-up and we were hauling hay down over good roads. 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. 

Mike and Dave pull in with a load of hay

After we unloaded the protein, I checked the cistern; no water was coming in.  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. 

Mike tarping hay in weaning pen

That evening I dipped hot water from the big pot on the wood stove and washed dishes. 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. 

Trailing stragglers back from Hall's

Near the shortest day of the year, I'm feeling less certain of the joy of turning from darkness toward light. 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. 

Valley Solstice

The next morning I hiked up the draw to recon the water line. 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. 

From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef 

 

Way Over Yonder in a Minor Key

We just passed the autumnal equinox. 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.

First snow, irrigated fields still green

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? 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.

Here she comes, harvest moon

We have to move our cows and calves off the prairie early this year. 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.

 

Sibling spin - grandkids

After the month-long beef harvest with deliveries and communications, we try to rest more and do less for a while. 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. 

Thank you carriers of heavy boxes

We try to do less and rest more. 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.

Storm clouds, hope they bring rain

 

We unload in the dark and we check the spring – a trickle still fills the cistern. 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. 

Dog tamer

We walk out into the orchard to look at the trees. 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. 

Little farm house in the valley -  home place

As I look up at the towering rocks, for a moment I feel cradled inside a circle of strong brothers. 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.  For not feeling estranged from beauty, I am thankful.  

Sedona and Chester

And we stand there under the trees, apart from each other, quietly gazing on everything around us. 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.  

Woody Guthrie Poem, excerpt      

From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef

Dirty faces - Sara and Abby

Winnowing

 

This morning just before dawn, when I woke up and could feel cold seeping into the old farmhouse, I thought of the garden, ripening and vulnerable. 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.

Yearlings mid June

The last two nights I covered the garden with huge tarps and it had frosted hard. 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.  

 

First cuke harvest

I have not gleaned or put-up as much food this year as I usually do. 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
corrals or reinforcing old corrals.

New full crib 

We are aware that others are facing much more stressful choices 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.

 Cows and calves, August pasture move earlier than usual

This morning, even though there is no wind, I find myself thinking of winnowing. The act of separation, the ways we choose what to keep and what to discard, what is desirable and what is unwanted.

August bouquet

In June my friend Beth passed away and I wanted to make something special and delicious for her memorial. She was a skilled farmer and used her organic produce and other locally-sourced food in her catering business, with beautiful and yummy results. 

   

Honey curry pickles

Beth was also my partner in last minute trips to pick fruit in wild places. 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.  

Maggie one year old, 'I'll herd em! Cats, cows, horses!' 

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. 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.

Bunkhouse, August morning Wallowa Valley

The next day, I saw the recipe said to remove the meat and put the vegetables and braising liquid through a sieve. 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.

Sedona, Zumwalt Prairie

Back and forth, back and forth, I pressed the wooden spoon against the mesh until nothing more seemed to go through. 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. 

Back porch

The recipe then said to slice the beef cheeks and put them back into the sieved liquid and reheat. 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.

Squash, cuke, bean patch, not yet frosted! 

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.” I thought a lot of people might avoid eating a beef cheek, something they had never probably never heard of or tasted before.

New hollyhock, from seed collected in an alley

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. 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.

Transparent apples, early to ripen, good for sauce

I 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. 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?

Customer love helps keep us going

   

And I know I’m sometimes like the wind, sifting through the days and moments of my life, choosing, sometimes recklessly, what is precious and what is undeserving of further thought.

From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef