Our herd has grown and then dwindled over the years. Now all of the goats that we had left a few days ago was my old black goat, Venice, the one I bought to start with, a billy goat, and a younger brown doe who I raised from a baby.

My sisters kept talking about shipping the few that we had left, but I didn’t want to part with my old nanny goat. She always has been my favorite, since she is fairly tame. I wouldn’t call her sweet, but she’ll come up to you and let you pet her.

Well, it was pretty late one night, and dark. Since we are in the middle of winter right now, it has been cold too. I was doing something in the house, though I can’t remember what, when my younger sister’s voice over my shoulder made me turn around. “Dad has goat milk,” she said.

I guess that I looked at her kind of strangely, because she motioned and said, “Come and see.” She led me to the porch, and there, lying in a box with the heater running on high nearby, was a tiny little baby with a star on its head.

“Whose?” I asked.

“Venice had it.”

“Are there any more?” Usually our goats had twins, but Venice only had one baby in all of the years that I owned her, so I didn’t think she could have a baby, let alone two. But my sister surprised me by nodding her head.

“Yeah, Dad left the other one out there. He wanted her to lick off one of them. This was the weakest of the two.” I looked again where the little goat lay. It sure was weak. It couldn’t even raise its head.

“We should go out and take care of the other one.” I yelled for my other sister, and we grabbed a few used towels. Rushing outside, the cold air hit us and millions of tiny stars glimmered in the sky. It was a beautiful night, but the clear nights, with the sky all alit, are the coldest, and the worst time for babies.

The goat pen was covered in snow, but in one corner was a pile of hay and on that lay another tiny black shape. This one was stronger; he let us know with a lusty wail. My sister knelt down and began to rub the little goat with the towel.  After rubbing him for a few minutes and still not seeing a lot of improvement, she turned to me.

“I think we should bring him inside.”

We carried the little critter in where he could warm up in spite of his mother’s wails. Both of the little goats lay in bony heaps on a towel, with the heater blowing warm air all over their tiny, cold bodies.

We didn’t think they would make it, but they proved us wrong. In twenty minutes, the larger of the two was standing. In another ten, both stood on shaking legs.

After a baby animal stands up, the next step is eating. Well, both of those little critters were just too weak to drink that night, so Dad improvised a tube and we fed them that way.

The next day, after a fitful night of sleep because of their bleats coming from the porch, we got up early to leave for a day of skiing at our local ski area. I wasn’t sure what the prognosis would be when we returned.

Venice, mom to these two new babies.

After skiing, they were a lot hungrier. Mom told us that she tried to get them to suck off their mom, but to no avail. We figured another shot couldn’t hurt, however, so my sister and I took them out to the pen where we were keeping their mother.

It didn’t take long.

I guess those little animals got hungry enough, because after about three minutes of teaching them to suckle, they got right to it, with a little help from their mom. We were both amazed and pretty happy. We let the little goats suckle for a while, and then gathered them up, in spite of their protesting mother, and brought them inside for the night so they would stay warm.

It may take a little while, but, as the weather permits, those babies are going to be spending more and more time with their mom and less and less time in the house. Just as with all of those newborns that get into some trouble and have a hard time, taking them in the house for some TLC seems to really pay off. Mom just isn’t sure if she likes goats in the house yet.

What are goats good for anyway?

I went with her on a similar project the year before and my data sheets and photos that I took of the rare plants she spotted were not bad. So she enlisted me again. I wanted to go not only because she would pay and I wanted to spend time in the hills, but because Road Creek was part of a large range where wild mustangs roamed.

I believe it was the second day that the real story begins. First off, I think its important to mention that the BLM had just completed a gather of the mustangs; most of the horses were being kept in the holding corrals back in the valley. They will do this every few years to manage the range. The horses can be adopted out, turned loose once again, or hauled off to another set of corrals.

There is a smaller stream that runs into Road Creek. The draw where the stream comes down broadens to form a basin, which, ironically, though I didn’t realize it then, is called Horse Basin. In the basin there is a cabin, a remnant of the Anderson Ranch Homestead. The meadows around the stream that flows there are filled with rare plants. We wanted to check it out.

The Horse Basin meadows.

We drove first to the cabin. It was an interesting structure. Though the roof was gone, the carefully hewn logs remained. I was amused by the door. Apparently the owners, long since moved on, had been short. My forehead brushes the top.

Finding nothing else of interest from our vehicle, and wanting to cover more ground, Mom decided to head off down the basin again. About halfway, we stop and she gets out, preparing to climb up a small hill in search of elusive species.

I notice something across the creek. “Look,” I say, pointing. I squint my eyes, trying to make out what it could be. “Is that a calf? Or a pig?” No kidding, it looked, for a split second, like a wild pig. But our hills are not home to wild pigs. “I think its a horse!” I say excitedly.

“I think so too.” Mom turns toward the hill again. “Go look and see why he’s out there.”

My superb tracking skills (yeah, right!) switch on high as I sneak across the meadow. Ducking out of view behind a screen of willows, I notice that the wind is blowing in my favor, down from the horse.

The ground under my feet turns mushy. Then one foot plunges down into the mire. I move quicker to avoid sinking.

Soon, my feet touch the solid ground. I drop to my hands and knees and crawl into the sagebrush. After some time, I run into a barbwire fence. This serves as cover for me. I ease myself into a standing position, and am surprised.

Not thirty feet off a little colt grazes. He’s black and matted looking. I can see every rib. Before this, we never had a foal, so I can’t age him, but I think he must be too young not to be on a dam. After watching him for a bit longer, I walk away.

Back in the truck, Mom listens as I tell her what little I know. “I can’t call the BLM now,” she tells me. “But I’ll call them when we’re done here today and see if they think they could catch him.”

The rest of the day I can’t stop thinking about that little critter. There must be coyotes and wolves up there. He wouldn’t die of thirst with the creek, at least.

A poor, hungry little guy

Mom calls the BLM.

For the next few days, I wait. We are all hoping that they call back and tell us if they got him. I jump for every phone call. Finally the one I am waiting for comes. Mom answers it. I listen. “There aren’t any strings?” Mom asks. “We’ll get a trailer up there in a few days when you’re sure he’s stable.”

“So we can have him? They’re going to let me raise him?”

Mom nods. “He needs round-the-clock care and his chances aren’t great. They thought he would have more likelihood of making it if he went with us.  But know that this is going to require a lot of care and time.”

That didn’t matter to me. The orphan was going to be mine to raise.

The wild mustang today.

Green pasture on Alderspring.

When the grass is growing two inches a minute during the hot months, the cattle are moved every one or two days. During past years, the job of hotwire has fallen to my younger sister, my friend who works during the summer, and I. It is pretty funny to be laying out a hotwire with two hundred head of hungry cows bawling across the fence at you.

I remember one time a year or two ago. My friend and I were working on the hotwire. The cattle hadn’t been moved for a while, and they were hungry. “Don’t make too much noise,” my friend told me, hoping not to rouse the critters, who were grazing up the pasture from us. She didn’t have to warn me; I knew that the smallest thing could capture their attention.

We set to work on the hotwire. Those fractious critters began to drift down toward us. We worked faster. The sun beat down on our backs.

I don’t know exactly what set them off. Maybe our worthless ranch dog Amos ran in front of them. Perhaps they thought the hotwire was down and they could go into the next pasture. Regardless of why, they began to run right toward the fence and us! There wasn’t any way that we could stop ‘em.

Nobody ever taught a cow patience.

As the two hundred cows approached the fence, they began to slam on the brakes, having seen the fence. About five head, pushed by the critters behind them, ran through the fence. Thankfully, the electric wire rebounded and the rest of the herd were slowed from their stampede.

From an incident that could have been a day in repairing to a small mishap. We were both pretty relieved. Finishing the fence that we were working on, we released the cattle into their new pasture. As we tied the last few pieces together and switched on the wire, we breathed sighs of relief. Then we jumped into the Toyota (some jobs just can’t be done on a ranch horse) and went off to the next task  for the day.

REAL ranch vehicle, the little Toy.

In spite of the work to get there, its really pretty satisfying to see all of those critters with their heads down in the alfalfa, grazing and gaining. Job well done.

“Missy” and “April” in the stock trailer during a range day.

We tack up and load the horses into the stock trailer. Our range is about an hour’s drive, or even two depending on the roads and where we want to unload the horses. Usually we unload them at Hat Creek Ranch, which is our ranch (700 acres; we’ve got a thousand in the valley) in the hills, and the reason that we got the range in the first place.

Dad on “Ginger” and “Gypsy” riding herd.

We ride out, and sometimes we have to ride for most of the day before we find any cows. There are a few days a year when we don’t find cows at all, and we just go on a rugged trail ride for the whole day. The cows are monitored to keep them off the creeks and other places we don’t want grazed. A lot of the day up there are just spent moving thirty head of cattle higher, or lower, and onto forest.

Moving cow-calf pairs on the forest land.

Dad will pay me for these days on the range, and if I remember to write it down, I make some pretty good money for riding. Most days up there are about five or six hours long, but sometimes you have a fluke. I remember when I was sick (oh, the irony) with a cold, we rode about twelve hours. Dad figured the mileage out, and that makes approximately forty miles that day. Then there have been a few days where you only ride two hours.

We stop for lunch about halfway through the day, and take a break by one of the range’s many springs and creeks. It isn’t green on the hills, of course, but there are a lot of draws that are filled with trees and brush, and a little water is running through them.

Stopping for a break in Big Hat Creek.

On a longer day, the cows will be moved, and we’ll be riding out at dusk. Sometimes it gets to the point where its dark all together. Hopefully we’re on a road heading back to truck, and not stuck on some mountain, but if that happens, the best thing to do is trust your horse. We walk when we get in rough country, but in the dark, the horse can see better than you anyway!

Driving back is either a time for conversation, or sitting there staring into space, too tired to open your mouth. A lot of times, it’s dark by then, and I wonder what people think, seeing those headlights coming off the hills!

We unsaddle the horses, and let them out, and then go up to the house to eat something, because by that hour, you’re hungry! My friend and I would joke that anything tastes good when you come off the range!

Since it’s winter in the Pahsimeroi and this valley makes snow look pretty good, I decided to take my camera out and snap some shots. Horses in the snow are fairly photogenic, so I tramped out to the remuda to get some photos.

This is Jassi, my sister’s old but very sweet Arabian mare. Sometime my sister will get on and ride this mare around with no headstall or saddle.

Bonny was a BLM mustang for the first part of her life, a pack horse for quite a few years, and finally a kids horse for some friends of ours. When we got a hold of her she was already old, but she logged many a patient hour with my sisters and I on her back, learning to ride. Now she takes the youngest kids in my family out on little rides around the ranch.

Jingle, one of two Belgian draft horses we have around.

The other half of the team, Belle. In spite of being blind in one eye, she pulls her own weight when it comes to a wagon.

My dad’s big mare Ginger had a rough start when she slipped off a trail on the range. After rolling ten or fifteen times down the side of a mountain (minus my dad, who managed to get off). She dislocated her front leg and was laid up for the winter. After a lot of prayer, we had a vet come out to look at her in the spring and he told us she was sound. She’s never taken a lame step since.

This little horse I got a few weeks ago from a breeder in Montana. She should grow up pretty athletic and really be able to cut a cow. I can’t wait to start her under saddle!

It would take me a while to get photos of all of ‘em, but I hope that you enjoy these few photos. Check back often for more news from Alderspring ranch!

A while ago, one of our friends got engaged. Since she was going to be married, she could no longer keep her two horses. They were both Arabians, although only the mare had official papers. The mare was seventeen and cute, with a coat that was long and soft even during the summer. She was also very “filled out.” The other horse was a gelding, about four. He was black with a light build and a beautiful head. We gave the owner $500 for each and took them home.

I let the gelding take a few weeks to settle in before training began. Although I had some previous experience with horses, those had been tolerant of my mistakes. This horse was different; he would take no nonsense. I can’t remember exactly what facet of training I began with, but I recall teaching him to lead. I didn’t know much about training a horse and I thought that the best thing for conveying that I wanted him to move his feet was trying to pull his neck off with the lead rope. That didn’t work. At all.

I went in to my mom, discouraged and upset. She told me that horses responded to pressure and release, and that if I wanted to teach the horse to lead, I had to pull on the rope with a firm steady pull until he took a step. Then I was to release the pressure I exerted on the rope and in this way he would learn that whenever he took a step, I would stop pulling on the lead rope. I taught him to lead using this method, and finally, he followed behind me without any pressure at all.

Many triumphs (and failures) followed this breakthrough. Through trial and error, I taught him to accept a saddle with all of its strange weight and hanging leather. He allowed me to handle his feet and tie him up without too much trouble. I even named him. Eventually, I realized that Sable was ready to ride, but I was too scared to get into the saddle. I had heard of horses that bucked when first ridden.

We had a friend over and were saddling our other horses and preparing to ride, I put my saddle on my gelding. Sable stood for the saddling, and, since I had worked previously on a little weight in the stirrups, I faced him toward a fence and mounted him. My sister was nearby and she led him around with me sitting proudly in my new saddle (I had bought it not long before) on my new saddle horse.

As soon as I had taken the first short ride, I dismounted and ran up to the house to tell my parents. I was so proud. There was only one thing that dampened my spirits a little. The next day we were leaving for a two week trip to my grandparents’ house.

When I returned from the trip I found a strange horse waiting for me. This horse looked like my little gelding, but he was pushy on the end of a lead rope and spooked. He was nothing like the horse I had left behind. I don’t know if I cried, but now that I think about it, I am pretty sure that I must have. I had a miserable day with him.

I began to look for a way to improve my horse.

I heard about round-penning techniques and one day, I tried them. I worked the him in a corral, running him around and around. I watched for the signs of submission, like licking his lips or dropping his head until it hovered a few inches above the dust. I waited. Eventually, and to my great relief, I saw the things I wanted to see. I turned my back to him and let him stop. Soon, I had him coming to me when my back was turned, and soon after, he was following me around the corral.

Since this was my first horse that I had trained, I didn’t understand the gravity of working with him nearly every day. I worked with him when I felt like it. Because of this short-coming, I made slow progress. Whatever things that I taught him one session were soon forgotten.

One day, long after I rode him the first time, I got up the courage to put a foot in the stirrup once again. He shifted his weight to stay under me, but other than that, he stayed where he was, held by my dad. I mounted him all of the way, throwing my leg across his back. Then Dad led him around with me on him. We repeated this procedure fairly often, but still not every day.

Then disaster struck.

Sable suddenly got it into his head that he didn’t want me on his back. He would jump away when I tried to mount, and began to crow-hop a little. I decided that it was time for a do-over. I began to educate him with the saddle over again.

About this time, although I don’t know what possessed me, I began to shop around for another horse. I wanted a Quarter Horse, big enough for jobs that required more than endurance. A local rancher raised some very nice stock, so Dad and I went down there to see what he had. He had a young filly, three years old. She was built solid as a rock, with near perfect conformation. She was shy of people, having never been around them much. We brought her home. I nearly had my heart set on a Palomino, but she was a bay. I didn’t like her at first; my initial plan was to sell her after I had her broke and finished. I don’t think that will work out now…she really grew on me.

Dad and I had agreed that I would work with the horse at least five days a week. He helped me build a corral in our barn for working the critters, since it was winter and cold, and I started. Since the filly wasn’t broke to lead (you could hardly touch her), I would lead Sable in and the filly would follow along. Then, quickly, I would take the Sable out and tie him outside the barn where the other horse couldn’t see him.

It went very well. Really, there isn’t much left to this story, since this is where I am right now. I am beginning to like working with them almost every day, and they have already made amazing progress. Sable is becoming more and more comfortable with the saddle, and the filly is trusting me enough to let me touch her.

I realize now that although I thought I was teaching the horses, they really were giving back all that they took. I have learned a lot just working with them both. I enjoy working with my two horses, and I am thankful to God and my parents for giving me so much help with them both.

Anyway, look for more posts and pictures on this blog soon. I haven’t totally figured the software out yet, hence the lack of photos. I hope to have some up soon!

I will tell the tale as I remember it.

I was eight years old when our neighbor’s son came to sell us two horses:  Shippie and April. I think it was even my eighth birthday, and I had just received a horse blanket.

Dad tried her out first. Then he let me try her. My older sister got Shippie and I got Ape (our nickname for April).

One day, some time later, I was riding April on a cattle drive. Along came our neighbor,and she asked me, “Do you think that you can handle her?” I was not sure what she meant, but I replied, “Yes.”

I found out later, what our neighbor meant.

It was a wintry day, and dad needed us to follow on horse back and trail the cows while he led them in the feed-truck. April started acting up, and bucking. ( I was only quite little then, and I may have just thought that it was bucking, but dad told me she was.) Dad took off her bridle and saddle. I got in the feed truck. I remember watching her run around the feed truck stealing bits of hay, and wondering if I would ever ride her again.

I was afraid, but I felt a bit guilty for not riding her, and it made me feel like a coward. Dad told me to carry a stick and remind her I was boss when she started acting up by giving her a little smack on her withers. We would pray before the ride, that April, “would be good today.” I never fell off, but I was still scared, and when we would go on rides, I would ask everyone who was riding, “You guys, can we please walk?” because I was afraid to go fast.

Not long after, a new ranch-hand came to our ranch. He rode April and loved her.

That young man rode April on the range all summer, sometimes 30 miles or more, and got most of the fight out of her. At his wedding, later, the guests had to write poems to make the bride and groom kiss (rather than tinkling glasses). Dad wrote an epic poem. It talked about the other “girl” that the young man had met at our ranch.

April was better, or maybe I was just older. One day I joked to My older sister, “As I grow up, and can handle more horse, April gives me more challenge.” Also, we joke that April has a large, “personal space.” Sometimes she kicks and bites other horses that get too close. This sometimes comes in useful when chasing cows: Moving too slow? Snap! She’ll bite the rump of the straggler.

I still ride her, and she is one of the main range horses on our ranch. She can go all day over rough country. She can still be a brat, but something over rules that: my love for her.

The real reason that we bought them is so they could pull our hay wagon with a few tons of alfalfa on it. The problem with this seemingly perfect and rustic idea is that those trouble-makers have nothing to keep them occupied… okay, constructively occupied during the summer. We are somewhat lacking in the need of plowed fields.

So getting them up and working in the winter is not only a chore, but a real rodeo. The first few minutes under harness each year are fast minutes. And I don’t mean because it was so fun, time flew. The earth shakes when they run like that. And whoever is crazy (or brave?) enough to be driving them better have a way of holding onto the reins and the hay wagon itself.

Actually, the worst part of that first run around the pasture is not the speed. The initial hitching up has got to be the most dangerous part of the whole extravaganza. When you go to hitch up a horse, you have to stand between the horses and the wagon. If you have the horses partially hitched, and something spooks them, the wagon is going to be coming right after them pretty fast. If you don’t get out of there in a hurry, you don’t get out. A guy who was working for us almost got run over doing that.

We haven’t used them this year because we have no way of getting the hay on our wagon. Our backhoe needs some welding. Anyway, the hay wagon is mounted on a few barrels instead of wheels. Don’t ask what happened to the wheels; I have no idea. Their harness is still hanging in the tack room, though, complete with enormous collars that we went to great lengths to get for them. Their necks are not large; they are gigantic.

Right now, we are just using our boring old truck and trailer, but most of us on the ranch are eager to get the team going. I just don’t want to be the one to hitch them up. I have no inclination whatsoever to get in between a ton of horse multiplied by two and a hay wagon.

As far as riding for the brand, I guess that you could say we do. We might not ride every single day of our lives (sometimes it seems like we do), or mend fences for months on end (although we have ridden quite a few fences), or starve while a bunch of cows are eating in front of you (actually, some  days on the range are done on an empty stomach, until we have the time to eat lunch), but we’re all helping out on Alderspring ranch.

Most of what I do that would be considered real “cowboying” is breaking horses (so far, I’m working my first one), riding on the range, and sorting cows. I’ve been the one really into the horse thing, but my sisters have been looking at getting some of their own to ride. Every other week, we have to go over to the “other side” (about half of our ranch in on the opposite side of the river from where we live) and get the our beef cattle over to our corral set up. Sorting comes in there, because Dad and I have to work through about 180 yearlings (some of the smaller ones have been moved to a certified organic ranch just outside of Salmon, Idaho for the winter) and find the most finished, with fat and muscle in the right places.

Our range is probably what I enjoy doing most, but don’t ask me how I like it at the end of a ten hour day. When we first moved here, both my younger sibling and I were pretty skittish about the rough country up there, and we didn’t go very often. My sister doesn’t ride as much as me now; she enjoys some other things, but we both go up there pretty regular as we are both older and braver. There is so much country up there (80 square miles), that now, three years after we bought the ranch and began leasing the range from the government, I still cross places I’ve never been before.

Anyway, I hope that you enjoyed my ramblings, and check back often for posts and pictures from Alderspring ranch!