It's Raining

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. 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. 

Fall range, smoke approaching

Earlier this month the cows and calves made their last move on the prairie, from summer to fall pasture. 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. 

Summer pond

I'm going backwards in this story. 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. 

Black bull in reinforced corral

Summer had its challenges, in particular the renegade behavior of certain steers and bulls. 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.

Cows and calves arrive on the prairie

Trailing out of the canyon in June went smoothly. 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. 

Good help from neighbors and friends in May

Branding is a traditional gathering time where friends and neighbors pitch in to help. 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. 

Handy for washing up

There were still plenty of fun and familiar moments. Like kids getting in on the action, and meeting new babies for the first time.

Little Kit with his dad Jordan 

Boys with ropes

We are so thankful to have help from this kind, loving, respectful, capable, and accepting group.  

Before branding, Mike and I spent a couple days in the canyon gathering cattle and getting everything ready. 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. 

Climbing up off the river bar

Sara trailing through Division Creek

So that's where we left spring behind and launched into a summer that brought us to autumn. 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. 

Somewhere in the middle of change

From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef

Zebulon Pike, RIP

He was, without a doubt, a keeper.  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.

Mike and Zeb, Dug Bar cattle drive 1999

He was born into the Brislawn herd of Spanish Mustangs on the short grass prairie near Oshoto, Wyoming.  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.

Always in his element in the canyons

Mike always said he only figured Zeb out because of Tom Dorrance and Tink Elordi. 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. 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."

First ride, Mike and Zeb, ponied by Tink Elordi

It was the beginning of 30 years of partnership. 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.

Gabe and Zeb (age 19)

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, as long as you stayed on. 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. 

Sara and Zeb (age 25) gathering cattle with Pete and Jon

I have so many stories with Zeb in them. 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."

Zebulon Pike, 33 years old, April 2020

That's how it was with Zeb, you always knew you would touch bottom. 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.

Mike's illustration, cowboy poem, the Zebra Dun 

"The stranger sat there on him, and curled his black mustache, just like a summer boarder, a waitin' for his hash."

From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef

Small Contentments

Wallowa Valley looking west

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. And when we do see it, a small cheerfulness, a contentment is often the result. I don't know why.

Andrew gathers cattle to take to Pumpkin Creek

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. 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.  

Can you see anything? 

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. 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. 

Trailing home from Pumpkin Creek

We are thankful not to have had bad trailing so far this winter. 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. 

Mike's power nap after cutting out a fallen tree in the corrals

I'm happy to say some people have been doing better at taking it easy around here. 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. 

Hooded and gloved for one more patch, just one more

The cockleburr invasion caused me to violate my oath. 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).

Road work ala Sara and shovel

And then there are the jobs you don't anticipate. 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.

Pulling nails 

More satisfying is making progress on jobs that have been on the list for years. 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. 

Especially since we are learning to 'take it easy.' 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. 

Resting 

From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef