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

Honest Failure 

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. 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.

Late May storm in canyon

Since the pandemic, I've been sticking to my list when I go to town and not interacting with people much, 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. 

Maggie pup late May

A few years ago, after we had known each other a long time, we connected in a new way. 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. 

Here is bit of the poem I read, which is about herding cattle:

Sometimes there's a jam, like when a branch catches in high water, 

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.

But if you quick ease out that one willow slip, something else will shift and suddenly everything flows smooth again.

 

Or the way your horse moves kind of like a dog sometimes 

quietly threading the prairie behind the cattle

sometimes flanking, sometimes trailing 

sometimes heading, loping shoulder to shoulder with a heifer

 and turning together back toward the herd.

 

Or when you’re back-riding in a fall storm, three riders hunting thick timber for sign, listening for the bawl of cattle when they hear us coming through the brush.

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, 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.  

Sara gathering cattle in canyon

I wanted my friend to thank her daughter for reading a story at another Fireside event a few months back. 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. 

Lush river bar, late spring

In the story, she had been working on a remote ranch, calving out heifers during a severe winter. 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." 

Sara, Cammie and Abigail on day three trailing cows

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. 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. 

Gabe and Cammie turning out on the prairie

I was moved by this story and the honesty required to admit that we sometimes fail. 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. 

As drought and uncertainty unfold this summer, I'm sure I could use more of that kind of learning. 

Wishing for rain like this and not thunderstorms


From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef