POWER STEER
By MICHAEL POLLAN
From The New York Times March 31, 2002
You can read the entire article online at Mindfully.org

Alderspring cattle live their entire lives on pasture, both during the growing season and in the winter.

Excerpts   The Blair brothers ranch occupies 11,500 acres of short-grass prairie a few miles outside Sturgis, S.D., directly in the shadow of Bear Butte. In November, when I visited, the turf forms a luxuriant pelt of grass oscillating yellow and gold in the constant wind and sprinkled with perambulating black dots: Angus cows and calves grazing.
Ed and Rich Blair run what’s called a “cow-calf” operation, the first stage of beef production, and the stage least changed by the modern industrialization of meat. While the pork and chicken industries have consolidated the entire life cycles of those animals under a single roof, beef cattle are still born on thousands of independently owned ranches. Although four giant meatpacking companies (Tyson’s subsidiary IBP, Monfort, Excel and National) now slaughter and market more than 80 percent of the beef cattle born in this country, that concentration represents the narrow end of a funnel that starts out as wide as the great plains…

…Although the modern cattle industry all but ignores it, the reciprocal relationship between cows and grass is one of nature’s underappreciated wonders. For the grasses, the cow maintains their habitat by preventing trees and shrubs from gaining a foothold; the animal also spreads grass seed, planting it with its hoofs and fertilizing it. In exchange for these services, the grasses offer the ruminants a plentiful, exclusive meal. For cows, sheep and other grazers have the unique ability to convert grass-which single-stomached creatures like us can’t digest-intohigh-quality protein. They can do this because they possess a rumen, a 45-gallon fermentation tank in which a resident population of bacteria turns grass into metabolically useful organic acids and protein…

…I started my tour at the feed mill, the yard’s thundering hub, where three meals a day for 37,000 animals are designed and mixed by computer. A million pounds of feed passes through the mill each day. Every hour of every day, a tractor-trailer pulls up to disgorge another 25 tons of corn. Around the other side of the mill, tanker trucks back up to silo-shaped tanks, into which they pump thousands of gallons of liquefied fat and protein supplement. In a shed attached to the mill sit vats of liquid vitamins and synthetic estrogen; next to these are pallets stacked with 50-pound sacks of Rumensin and tylosin, another antibiotic. Along with alfalfa hay and corn silage for roughage, all these ingredients are blended and then piped into the dump trucks that keep Poky’s eight and a half miles of trough filled.

…We have come to think of “cornfed” as some kind of old-fashioned virtue; we shouldn’t. Granted, a cornfed cow develops well-marbled flesh, giving it a taste and texture American consumers have learned to like. Yet this meat is demonstrably less healthy to eat, since it contains more saturated fat. A recent study in The European Journal of Clinical Nutrition found that the meat of grass-fed livestock not only had substantially less fat than grain-fed meat but that the type of fats found in grass-fed meat were much healthier. (Grass-fed meat has more omega 3 fatty acids and fewer omega 6, which is believed to promote heart disease; it also contains betacarotine and CLA, another “good” fat.) A growing body of research suggests that many of the health problems associated with eating beef are really problems with cornfed beef. In the same way ruminants have not evolved to eat grain, humans may not be well adapted to eating grain-fed animals. Yet the U.S.D.A.’s grading system continues to reward marbling-that is, intermuscular fat-and thus the feeding of corn to cows.

…What keeps a feedlot animal healthy-or healthy enough-are antibiotics. Rumensin inhibits gas production in the rumen, helping to prevent bloat; tylosin reduces the incidence of liver infection. Most of the antibiotics sold in America end up in animal feed-a practice that, it is now generally acknowledged, leads directly to the evolution of new antibiotic-resistant “superbugs.” In the debate over the use of antibiotics in agriculture, a distinction is usually made between clinical and nonclinical uses. Public-health advocates don’t object to treating sick animals with antibiotics; they just don’t want to see the drugs lose their efficacy because factory farms are feeding them to healthy animals to promote growth. But the use of antibiotics in feedlot cattle confounds this distinction. Here the drugs are plainly being used to treat sick animals, yet the animals probably wouldn’t be sick if not for what we feed them.

…While waiting for my box of meat to arrive from Kansas, I’ve explored some alternatives to the industrial product. Nowadays you can find hormone- and antibiotic-free beef as well as organic beef, fed only grain grown without chemicals. This meat, which is often quite good, is typically produced using more grass and less grain (and so makes for healthier animals). Yet it doesn’t fundamentally challenge the corn-feedlot system, and I’m not sure that an “organic feedlot” isn’t, ecologically speaking, an oxymoron. What I really wanted to taste is the sort of preindustrial beef my grandparents ate-from animals that have lived most of their full-length lives on grass.

Eventually I found a farmer in the Hudson Valley who sold me a quarter of a grass-fed Angus steer that is now occupying most of my freezer. I also found ranchers selling grass-fed beef on the Web; Eatwild.com is a clearinghouse of information on grass-fed livestock, which is emerging as one of the livelier movements in sustainable agriculture.

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It looked like Mount Everest.

Granted, May’s 11,000 some feet are a pittance compared to Everest’s 29,000, but it looked just as inhospitable to me as that highest Himalaya.  Its rocky summit ridge was caked with snow and ice, shining in the setting winter alpenglow sun.  From the chill wind blowing around me, I knew it was howling bitter up there.

But I felt warm inside, despite the night chill creeping in.

And I was grateful.  As I listened to the cows tearing at the green grass hay and watched the warm vapor coming off their breath, I was struck with thankfulness for the life we lead here, the work we do, and for the sights we see every day.

I made a skating pond for the kids the other day.  We had enough $5 garage sale skates that every kid had skates (albeit with different colored laces).  Even the 5-year-old had a great afternoon, all bundled up and skate-pushing a folding chair around our pond with wild abandon.

We are getting ready to harness up our little-bit-wild draft horse teams to feed cattle with.  They need the work and the practice, as the kids and I are hoping to compete at the county fair next August in the draft horse driving and hay feeding competition.

Sure, it is cold, and there is always more work than I have hours for (the worst of which is that danged office work), but there is fun too and a lot of the work is fun!

Until one takes time to read the local paper.

The Challis Messenger had a legal notice about a Sheriff’s sale to take place on the courthouse steps sometime in March.  It was my neighbor’s place.  The slow wheel of foreclosure is bearing down on all that a family has worked on the land in this valley for several generations.

I know they worked hard; they are not slackers.  Whatever the reason, they are not the first ranch to be under threat of foreclosure that I’ve heard of, and they will be far from the last.  Cattle prices are high, folks say…hay is even going higher, maybe higher than ever.  So why can’t a ranching family make it these days?

The fact of the matter is that hay and beef prices haven’t changed very significantly for some 60 years.  I’ve heard of cattle prices being around a buck in the 1950’s.  Now, they are a little over a buck. But everything else is changed.  Fuel was 20 cents in those days; land was $100-200 per acre.  A fellow could build a house for $10,000 (nice).  A nice pickup truck: $1,500.

And here we have these rancher folks still on the same acreage, trying to stuff more cows on the same ground, waiting for the one year that it is going to all come together.  A neighbor of mine told me that his dad always used to say that the Pahsimeroi Valley is some of the best ‘next year’ country he knew of.

Caryl and I tried everything to try to make this thing work.  We raised beautiful horse hay.  We sold eggs.  We sold old cows.  We sold young cows.  We tried to follow the markets.  We tried to ignore the markets.  We tried every cowman trick we could figure out to make money…sometimes we did.  Most times we didn’t.

So we subsidized it.  Caryl and I both worked off the ranch.  Then we came home at night and weekends and ranched.  I remember falling asleep in fields in the middle of the night while spreading ditch water out to keep our fields green.  We fed cows in the dark.  We baled hay in the dark.  We slept in the truck out in the cow pasture on wintry subzero nights catching a few uncomfortable winks between checking calvy cows.

I remember the last year I worked my day job I had cattle on 14 different places.  I often would get calls while at work because our cows were heading down US Highway 93 in the Salmon River Canyon- a road with nothing but blind curves.  (The old boy we were leasing from imbibed a little too much and left his gates open pretty regularly.)  I’d often park our 1959 Chevy Viking truck at work next to the Toyotas and Subarus.  It was loaded with several tons of hay that I would deliver in the evening to persnickity horse hay people (each bale had to be hand-picked perfect).

It was a lot of work and not much money (or negative money).

Finally, we figured out how to subsidize our ranching, land, and livestock passion with itself by marketing our beef directly to our customers (they soon became what we call our partners).  It meant more long days.  Now I could sleep in cars year round- in the fields in the winter babysitting pregnant cows and in the marketing car the rest of the year on the way back home from farmers’ markets.  I often will point out to Caryl an out-of-the-way sagebrush pull-off while driving around Idaho and Montana: “Slept there once.”

But the direct marketing was working, and still is.  We enjoy it, because we are as passionate about the land and our animals as ever.

But not everyone in the ranch world is cut out for this, and so they subsidize their ranching passion with town jobs, equity, or government subsidies. Unfortunately, this low economy dries up town jobs, equity erodes, and government purses tighten.

Through all of these economic woes, I hope, we will still be selling beef for the long haul to our friends, our partners, because this is what we believe in: connection between the eaters of food and the growers of food. Because I believe that there is a rightness to growing food for people in this pure and beautiful place.  And I also believe that we were meant to forge that connection between folks and the land, particularly in this time of industrial mega-agricultural interests whose only mission seems to be to sever it.

Sometimes it’s like Mt Everest up here, though: frigid, cold and lonely.  We get short on oxygen. But then one of our “partners” gives us a call and says that was the very best steak they ever had, or better yet, they just tell us that they believe in what we do.  They see the pics on the site, read some of the copy, maybe talk to Caryl or I on the phone, and try the steak or burger and the whole thing comes together for them; the connection to the land has been made.

And that makes it all worth it.

The post So You Wanna Be A Rancher? appeared first on Organic Beef Matters.

Our two female Great Pyrenees guard dogs (and family friends) recently had a total of 21 puppies!  These purebred Pyrenees are wonderful dogs, serving well as guardians of both young animals and young children.  We will be selling these puppies through a new website our oldest daughter put together: IdahoPyrenees.com

Sophie protecting a newborn calf.

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They are pretty cute tho.

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What about on Alderspring?

This year we had Christmas dinner at our older friends, Gordon and Auntie Em on their spread up the Lemhi Valley. Their house is a very cozy log home, handcrafted some 40 years ago by Gordon himself. It is an octagonal home built of local lodgepole pine and weathered boards salvaged from an old gold mine in the nearby mountains. The floor is paved with multicolored flagstones gathered by Gordon all over the adjacent mountains. A wood fire’s heat permeated the house, overwhelming the zero degree chill trying to creep in from outside.

It was in this setting that we sat down to dinner. Auntie Em always takes great care to make us very comfortable while setting us down to a beautifully placed table.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

It really all started the night before when I pulled a 7 lb beef brisket that we raised out of its vacuum pack and introduced it to the world. Auntie Em had a huge steel pan that looked as if it was made for brisket. I plopped it in there, and then we looked at it.

“What now?” Asked Em. “Any water?”

Caryl thought we should add some. “No more than half the height of the beef.”

I agreed. Otherwise we would end up with boiled beef. I had barbeque ideas. Not barbeque sauce type like in Aisle 6 of Wal-Mart, but ‘Cue Joint ‘BB Cue. The real live smokin’ Joe southern backwoods ‘Cue Joint brisket, with the bark on.

Auntie Em pushed us over that edge. “How ‘bout some dill pickle juice?”

Now this wasn’t ordinary pickle juice. Auntie Em and my girls made these pickles last August from home grown and picked spices, dill and cukes. And garlic. This juice was the real dilly garlic deal. And not some cheesy white vinegar, either. Pure apple cider. Just one step down from apple jack.

So in went the Mason jar of juice and up went the oven and in went the brisket. No lid. Five hundred degrees. Nine-thirty-five PM. After it browned nicely, Em popped the lid on and turned the oven down to 200 and said nighty-night. And then Caryl and I and 7 girls wandered off in the cold along the candlelit trail through the aspen grove to the Honeymoon Cabin for a wonderful nights rest.

Next morning around 11 AM, Caryl, Em and I couldn’t stand it: we had to look. It was beautiful; nicely browned. I poured about ¾ of the liquid off for gravy. I pulled the lid off and poured the sauce all over the brisket: ground tomatoes, garlic, sea salt, olive oil, oregano, basil, and black pepper. Caryl came in with the honey and put enough on it that it began to drip off into the water. Then in again, now up to 350, until the top was well browned and the bark was set.

I checked again in about an hour. Very dark brown; time to put the lid on and turn the oven down…this makes a nice chewy bark (but edible)—otherwise, it dries out too much.

One P.M.. The table is set. All the trimmings are ready. Red spuds and cole slaw from their own root cellar (slaw made with thick cream, not mayo), beets (grown by Em), an assortment of homemade pickles (including a nice hot pickled pepper, glowing redder and greener than they did on the vine), fruit salad, corn muffins (gluten-free by daughter Binner).

The brisket comes out. I slice it. All the fat and collagen is broken down nicely. A very nice sweet and sour bark graces the fall-to pieces beef. I know already while sampling it that it will be hard to quit at just seconds. There will be much grazing…

And the sauce that Caryl makes even makes it better. And the cole slaw, well, lets just say that I found myself in a Christmas ‘cue joint of dreams…

Back to reality. The major problem now at hand was that I knew I had to stop grazing the BBQ and save room for Binner’s cheesecake (nice and dry and flaky and handcrafted from scratch) and Auntie Em’s garden raspberry pie (no sugar or filler—just raspberries, whip cream and a wonderful flaky crust).

Thank God for time, cause there was just enough. I had room.

Complemented with a nice strong pressed cup of coffee, I think it was time to nap while the kids went sledding. They did and I did.

And I picked the guest room in the octagon house-a little cooler, and a nice firm bed. I pulled a wonderful hand-knitted afgan over me and drifted off to the sound of the kids outside in the snow, where the sun was casting long shadows on the waning day.

Life’s good.

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Glenn, a kid, and Amos prepare to feed cattle with “Red” and “Snap”. 

Hope you all had a wonderful Holiday season, however you celebrate it. We celebrate a pretty traditional Christmas here on Alderspring.

It starts with the tree, about a week before Christmas Day. We get ours high up in the mountain forests that surround our remote valley. We just drive up one of the canyons that enter the flats of the Pahsimeroi from the quiet and wild peaks. Only the valleys in our country have homes and ranches in them—pretty much all of the mountain country is uninhabited, and public land.

Usually, there is pretty deep snow that forces us to walk up into the timber. In your mind’s eye, you could probably imagine us, walking single file in the powdery snow into the fir trees, with me (Glenn), breaking trail up front, packing the bow saw, and 7 girls trailing behind. Caryl usually brings up the rear, helping the little girls over the now well broken trail. At least one dog runs back and forth over the trail, sniffing fresh tracks of the elk, deer, mountain sheep, and wolves who live there.

Glenn and kids selecting the perfect tree.

This year, we picked a canyon a little too steep for the wee ones. We proved that early when Binner crashed on the frozen creek and landed hard on her rear. Ow. But Mel, the oldest, roared ahead of us in search of that perfect fir tree. Last year it was a spruce; this year, the kids unanimously decided on a fragrant fir. And not prickly, either, as they had many of their own collected ornaments to hang on it.

Sledding on the way to get a tree.

After what seemed nearly a mile up a steep timbered draw (pretty nice view, too of the surrounding peaks) Mel found a really nice fir in a cluster of other young trees. I always keep the kids from picking a lone tree (though perfect it may be) as there would be no others to regenerate that spot of forest.

We found it!

I pulled out the saw, and captured our prize, and eagerly carried it down the draw to waiting Caryl and the tikes. They were all grins: they would be decorating it tonight!

Then the Caroling, the night before Christmas Eve. Folks in our valley are pretty spread out, with most ranches at least a mile apart. So we loaded up in our beef hauling van and headed out. With us were some friends and most of the hired help we had this summer. We caroled old Christmas songs in the the single-digit air to half a dozen mostly older friends and neighbors down the valley. Some clapped (we aren’t real good, so that surprised us), one nearly cried (she had been lonely), another couple insisted on taking our picture, and another begged us to come in (there was a lot of us) for cookies and hot chocolate. I’m not sure who enjoyed it more—them or us…

Frost and snow on Alderspring Ranch.

On Christmas Eve, we usually head into town to our little church. This year, we did the same. Usually about 50 of us show up that night, and the service is just made up of some readings by congregants, and some real eclectic music (a traditional trumpet solo by Arlene, the little Anderson kids sung ‘Silent Night’ and the Tuck Family Band performed a rockabilly version of ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’—all quite good), and a short but sweet meditation.

And on that moonlit night, we headed off up the Lemhi Valley to some older friends, Gordon and Auntie Em, for some Christmas treats, and unbeknownst to the kids to a remote, lamplit log cabin they had up in the shadowy timber for us. No power or water, but a nice woodfire and oil lamps. Flickering palm oil candles beckoned us along on the trail through the trees. As we led the kids down the trail, the little ones wondered who was staying there on that cold moonlit night in this faraway place (the older ones figured it out!).

When they found it was us, they quickly warmed to the idea of a quiet Christmas Eve snugged in newfound bedding in that quiet cabin in the woods.

We had fed the stock extra the day before, so we would enjoy Christmas dinner with Gord and Em. I’ll tell you what we had for that wonderful meal on our next blog…

What about presents? Well, they do feature in. And there are many. But we also celebrate Christmas with those gifts for the 12 days, and those 12 days of Christmas start on Christmas, so all the way into January we open and share gifts to extend the best of holidays as long as possible.

The Christmas tree in all its splendor.

Caryl says it just gives me an excuse to keep playing Christmas music (I do really love it).

I say it gives the kids an excuse to leave that tree up much longer (they put so much into decorating it).

It really is the best time of year. There is a magic, a spirit in the air that we perceive every year as the Day draws near. A hope for peace on earth. And good will to all men.

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Usually I pay little mind to such talk (if I even happen to stumble upon it), but I was actually paying attention this fall because our entire cow herd was still many miles away on the the high desert ranges.  A freak snowstorm could entrap them up there leaving us with few options to get them out before the full ferocity of winter set in.

A neighbor told me of a time he remembered when cattle were stranded far in isolated valleys in Colorado by an early fall storm.  They actually flew in hay bales, barely keeping them alive until they could dig them out.

Inconceivable.

We had them up there extra long because there was plenty of grazing left, and hay prices had more than doubled.  Feeding that much hay early could take away any profit margins we hoped for this season.  We weaned the calves off long ago, and had been checking on them several times a week, bringing them mineral, checking on grass but that was still some 20 miles away from the home range and across the Salmon River.  Sure, there was a bridge, but after the bridge the 10 foot wide road that led into our 70 square mile range country was perched high above the river and cut into the sheer cliffs that formed the bottom of our desert range.  The problem was that road in the winter.  It was hazardous to say the least.  And it was the only way out.

Several times, we almost lost cattle off the precipice, but the girls (my horseback range riding crew) had learned how to hold back and talk to the herd pups so there was no pressure so the cows could pick their way.

Ice on the road was now my concern.  Not only would we not be able to go up there, but we wouldn’t be able to trail cattle down.

We sharp shoed our horses to prepare for the inevitable ice.  That involved pulling the old shoes off and welding hardfaced dots at four points on the flat shoe, and nailing the new sharp shoes on our steeds.  I picked out 5 horses from our remuda, and prepared them for frozen creeks and hillsides.

It was 3 days before the front was to hit.  We caught horses at first light, and saddled by the lights of the barn and tack room.  Today was clear and crisp.  There was 4 of us horseback today, and the daylight hours were short—what gathering of the herd needed to be done had to be done quick. 

While tacking up, I spoke to the crew about how dangerous riding could be at this time of year.  In spite of the sharp shoes, horses could slip—they could be hurt and the rider could be as well.  In the cold and short daylight (it was getting close to zero at night), a poor decision could easily mean hypothermia and death.  I handed out lighters to each, so they could at least start a warming fire with the abundant dry fuel found in the desert brush in spite of a broken leg or arm.

We loaded the horses, ourselves, and the dogs and we were off.

Eyeing the hills as we crested the first pass after driving for nearly three quarters an hour, we still spotted none of the cows.  They weren’t up high anymore—2 days riding early this fall gathered them.  Besides, the wolves had moved in to the high timber, and it was time to move the herd out of their territory.

So they had to be in the lower hills we call the desert range.  Hills we call them, but they are steep broken mountains with as much as 3000 vertical feet between canyon creek bottom and rim.  The cows could be anywhere on that topography, as there was a little snow everywhere, and they didn’t come down to drink but once every 4 days or so.

We arrived at Hat Creek pass and pulled the gooseneck over.  Hat Creek Pass forms a narrow divide between main Hat Creek and where our other deeded ground is in Little Hat Creek.  The road was good so far, and it was time for some of us to ride.  We let Josiah and Jess out first.  I made it clear that they had to be preferably in eye contact with each other at this time of year.  At minimum they had to have clearly established meeting points so their partner could find them if they had a wreck.  Eye contact could be as much as 10 or 20 miles on ridge tops.  Cell phones don’t work except on the high ridges.  Radios are useless in the broken canyons.  The only way to ensure safety of your partner is by eye or careful planning.

They set out with their dog.  They are riding the high ridge that forms the buttress of Taylor Butte, some 8000 feet in elevation and a 10 mile ride up.  From there they can look in many of the canyons on the way.

My 14 year old daughter, Mel, and I drive the gooseneck back to Little Hat. Our ride will go up through the convoluted canyon on the south side of the range.  We had spotted some tracks on the drive up.

We parked the truck and unloaded the horses.  Mel was riding Puma, a classic bay quarter horse gelding (a little hyper, especially when cutting or roping).  I was riding Ginger, a 5 year old tall buckskin mare I bought green broke from a neighbor.

We had the border collies.  Josiah likes his Kelpie, and the Kelpie doesn’t see eye to eye with the border pups.  Their whole herding psychology differs, so we try to keep them apart.

Arrow was the top dog, but very old.  I hesitated taking her because of her age but she forced her way in and stowawayed aboard that morning.  She didn’t herd aggressively like the young dogs did, but really enjoyed just trailing along keeping the herd bunched by her experienced eye.

We rode a good piece of the morning up Larkspur Canyon following cow sign.  Most of the tracks looked several days old.  They didn’t really head anywhere, but it looked like some 20 or 30 head had spent time in this canyon.  The main water source was a couple of miles up the canyon—I hope to find fresh sign or even cows there, but was disappointed to find nothing.  Just more old tracks.

We decided to break out of the canyon to a high ridge where we could look over the other side.  We could see Josiah and Jess up on the far Taylor ridge, a deep gulf of canyon between us.  The wind was right, and we could actually hear them talking, though they couldn’t hear or see us.

It was about then how that I realized how fat Arrow was.  I hadn’t seen the dog for about a week or two (kids chore the dogs), and didn’t notice her in the truck, but from the back of my horse, she looked like she had about swallowed a basketball.

I said to Mel that that dog is either obese, full of cancer (had a dog die that way once), or pregnant (a miracle for a hound that old).  After riding for another mile or two, we got off, snacked, stretched our legs and let our horses grab a bite. 

Mel stooped down to Arrow while I took a look around.

‘”She’s pregnant, Dad, and she is about to pup!”

“How do you know?”

“I milked her!” Mel exclaimed.

I went over and checked her out.  Sure enough, this dog was about to pup.

“We have to get her back to the truck ‘fore she does…” I said.

So we rode out the quickest but most miserable way out.  North Fork of Park Creek.  An extremely rocky canyon with steep walls that could be real dangerous if the dirt on the way down is frozen.  Even the sharp shoes will slip occasionally on ice or hard frozen dirt.

We knew that is was also one of our last hopes for finding cows.  I hoped Josiah and Jess ran into most of the herd, because we hadn’t seen anything yet.  We were about a mile above the forested canyon floor, so we couldn’t see if there were cows down there from above.

Arrow started scratching the ground. 

Nesting.

We moved out. Quickly. 

We couldn’t see a real easy way down.  We knew there were game  and cow trails down, but since I hadn’t been on this side of the canyon before, I didn’t know where to go.  I had trailed cattle several times up and down the canyon bottom, and knew how to move there, but never on this side.

Just then a herd of elk sprinted over the ridge in front of us.  There was about 10 head, clearly headed the same way we were.  They filed out onto a trail that we could have never seen, and picked their way down to the canyon bottom.

Apparently they had ridden this side of the canyon before…

We high tailed it down the trail, Mel in the lead, and me in the rear.  Piece of cake, and ground not frozen…I breathed a sigh of relief. 

Soon enough, we reached the bottom timber.

Arrow still with us.

Panting hard.

The canyon bottom was not as bad as I thought it would be.  The ground on the south facing slopes had the sun to keep it from freezing, and that’s where the trail was.  We picked our way.

So did Arrow.

We rode out the canyon until it became impassable with rockfall and deadfall.  There was one trail out of this place up the huge 3000’ sidehill (read wall) that bounded the creek on the left.  It was no wonder that those bootleggers kept a still down the creek in that jumbled mess back during prohibition (‘tis true, the old boys say, but I’ve never found it—neither did the agents, I’m sure, as it was some 17 miles off the road by horseback).

We picked our way up the trail, off and on horseback (the trail sometimes narrowed to less than a foot wide—one misstep would mean the end on such a side hill (cliff) as this, for both horse and rider. 

I remember several years ago when that nearly happened to both Ginger, my mare and me.  She mis-stepped and rolled some 25 times until some big fir trees finally stopped her.  She was very busted up and bloody and after a year of miracles, I was riding her again.  I came off, right away, thankfully.

Arrow still kept on, but the hill was tough on her.

We crested the ridge and found them.  All 90+ head were in the next creek below us.  I knew that Mel and I would have an easy time now.

We rode back to the truck first to get Arrow a rest.  I loaded her in the back seat, where she immediately began to scatch the cushion for a nest. 

“She might have them right there.” I told Mel.

“Better than out in the the snow and brush.” she said.

We finished the gather just as it was getting dark.  Jess and Josiah came in with a few cows of their own, but we had stumbled on to the mother lode of ‘em.  We were pretty clean, I believed, with what was not eaten by wolves.

It was getting cold.

When we got back to the ranch, we made a wonderful straw nest for Arrow in the back corner of the barn by the tack room.  She burrowed under, as if she knew exactly what she was doing.  And she did.  Cause Mel and some sisters ran out in the cold night to find 2 sausage like pups latched on to her, nestled deep in the straw, all licked off and dry, even though it was 5 degrees below zero by morning.

There were five sausages by morning.  All warm and burrowed and sucking on their really old Arrow-Mom. 

They all graduated to my bathroom by nightfall.  Why is it that Dad’s bathroom always sees the goats, cats, calves and dogs?

Might give a guy a complex about how he smells.

Pups from Arrow’s previous batch last year.  The pups are about 10-12 weeks old.

Gyp- who musta started it all….

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But we finally got a break with some warm weather–nice break from one snow squall after another.  And the wind quit instead of continuing to feel like Kansas (started wanting to call our border pups Toto).  It’s been in the 60s for 3 days now, but the view over the western mountains looks bleak.  The weather guys say snow again by the weekend.

The break has been nice–some time for the calves to get strong and warm in the bright sun.  We have about 20 babies now, and they are all early.  The date we planned to start calving doesn’t come until the tenth.  By the end of our calving season, we should have 140 new critters running around the ranch.

So far, the calving has been real nice–the moms have pretty much handled it without any help from us.  We had a set of tiny twins the other day, and one must have been real glad to get out of his tight quarters, even though he couldn’t walk.  We’ve seen this before where one twin couldn’t get up, and we think it is because there is not a lot of room inside mom for two–so one gets real cramped up and shoved over to one end of the uterus.

All we do about it is bottle feed him with some milk from mom (ever try to milk a wild cow?) and get him enough energy over a few days to get him limber.  As of today, he is doing real well, and will be out of the barn pen by tomorrow.

Spring field work is also starting up – we have about 150 acres of seed to put in the ground.  We’ve also been working hard on all our building projects that will move the ranch to the other side of the Pahsimeroi River.  This is by far the biggest project keeping us busy this spring.

The main reason we are moving all of the home and ranch infrastructure is to get our barn and working and sorting corrals away from the river, eliminating any water quality effects.  Currently, because the barn and corrals are so close to the river, manure-laden runoff during heavy rains and rapid snowmelt can reach the Pahsimeroi–a lovely spring fed river with opalascent gravel bottoms (fish thrive in it) and usually crystal clear water.

The place where we are moving the ranch to is over a half a mile away from the river.  We will attempt to move over the next few months 2 homes, 1 50′ shop building, our 27 foot freezer, our beef packing building, a 130′ barn, and 2 sheds over 200′ long.  Then we’ll build some 2000′ of fence (and take down the same) all the while trying to build a new house for us to live in.

I tried to convince Caryl and the girls that tipis, yurts or wall tents were valid options, but they refused to listen.  Caryl always brings up memories from when we were first married when we moved into a cabin in the Maine woods without power, water or phone and lived there for a year on love until the house burned down (she didn’t light it).   She says she’s getting too old to live on love.

And here’s where most of you readers come in–we still have to raise quality grass fed beef for you all to partake of.  And ship it to you (please don’t stop ordering–the money is still going out faster than going in!).

But we have the best crew ever.  Josiah, solid rock dependable cowman (eligible young man, I might add); Jess, cowhand and mechanic/welder extraordinaire; Dave, new, but full of optimism and can-do-edness; Becca, best hotwire runner in the West, weed grubber, and range rider; and Melanie, horse breaker (she calls it training) and co-grubber and range rider with Bec.

I think we have enough good people hired to pull it all off, but perhaps I’m delusional. I keep telling my ranch hands that half a day is twelve hours (so we just work half days). I guess we’ll see as spring progresses.

Maybe we’ll be more able to enjoy a peaceful springtime in the Rockies next year…we are due for one sometime!

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They’re also beautiful, kind, gentle, and regal.  Can you tell I really like them?  They’re also the cutest thing in the world when they’re puppies.

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