Right when you think the days will never get any longer, the sun rises on the shortest day of the year. What a relief.
 |
| Valley sunrise |
And I think of all that has happened since the last time I felt this way. 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.
 |
| Trailing to the winter range |
And none of it happens without help. 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.
 |
| Andi, old hand and wild woman of range |
When I look back, I can't help but think its a long ways forward. The work and unfinished business ahead can feel overwhelming.
 |
| Gabe, steep country for fencing |
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, "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.
 |
| Starting point, the old riparian feedlot |
In the Magpie Ranch chapter of our life, this taking stock now goes back not one year, but decades. 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.
 |
| Old feedlot, now restoration project |
There was something grim about it back then, after the flood of '97, and all those the feedlots. 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.
 |
| Old Newt on one of his last trips to the canyon |
Old Newt dog won't be walking with us this year. 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.
 |
| Mike taking a break from herding |
So here we go into the new year. 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."
From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef
