Orphan No More

I felt his eyes watching me before I spotted him. I quit fumbling with the padlock on the gate and looked into the brush along the valley bottom. Then, I heard the plaintive voice of a calf–by the sound, a few months old–emanating from the willows about 100 feet away.

That call was what I needed to lock eyes with him. A steer, probably weighing around 300 lbs, stood stock still, staring at me through the brush as I opened the gate.

He called out again, and I responded with a a quiet cow call. He advanced out of the brush a few feet. I think he was stepping out into the hope that I, a mere human, often perceived as a predator, could possibly meet his all-consuming quest: to find his mother.

It had all started at first light the day before. We had gathered nearly 210 cows and their calves from lush organic pastures on the Madsen lease place, and separated cows from calves. It was a pretty simple procedure; we used a makeshift “cow filtering” device that consisted of 3 parallel bars of steel pipe across a gate opening- high enough for a calf to pass under, but too low for a cow. The crew and I just trickled the entire herd down the corral alleyway past the filter, and calves went under, and cows went by. It took minutes, and no stress whatsoever. 

Then, we backed up the semi-truck, and commenced to loading the cows. They were bound for abundant grasses, well over the height of their noses that we had been “stockpiling” for the entire summer. Their destination was our North Unit Ranch (also certified organic) in the next valley along the Continental Divide. The forage there was deep and thick enough that it would likely last the cowherd well into the winter. 

It was too far to simply trail them there; it was about 40 miles over the imposing massif of the 11,000 foot Lemhi Mountain range, and 4 days journey on foot. So we opted for the all day affair of putting wheels under them, and hauling them, semi load after semi load, 80 highway miles thereby going around the mountain range instead.

The only trick was that we had to separate cows from calves to prevent the young from being trampled in transit. Putting a crowd together of 1200 lb mothers with 2-300 lb calves in a standing room only semi truck almost always ends up in someone getting hurt. So the calves would ship with calves, and the cows with cows. 

I knew that in the herd we had some cows that were still without a baby. They were our latest calvers, and would calve within the next month or so. So I had Annie and Jed sort them out after I cut the calves off. They could tell they were “dry” or non-lactating by just looking at their udders as they went by. A “wet” cow would have a fully developed, milk carrying udder, and would have “waxen” looking or shiny and clean teats. She also might have a little curly hair around the top of her teat. Both of these indicated that her baby had “sucked,” or nursed on her that morning. 

Inevitably, we misidentify a few in the process. Sometimes, it can be dang hard to tell. We’ll intentionally leave all the “drys” in the corral overnight, in case we miss one that has a calf. Inevitably, the cow will tell us, as she’ll miss her offspring and begin to call out. Annie and crew separated 6 head from the herd on their sort.

It was the equal of 7 semi loads of cattle we trailered to the grass ranch. It was a long day. I pulled into our home ranch in the dark with the last empty truck, exhausted. Today was Saturday, and tomorrow, we were planning on heading to church–and then fishing on a remote alpine lake with the entire family for the afternoon. 

It would be short night of sleep after finishing chores. My phone buzzed with a text message from Aaron, my main hand on the Madsen Ranch. “Looks like B31 here in the corral dry bunch is missing her baby. She’s been calling out for her.”

I knew what I was doing before heading into church. I wanted to make it because two of my girls were singing. I would just have to leave early with the cow, and was hoping it was obvious she was missing her calf.

The next morning, I grabbed truck and trailer, and headed down to the Madsen corrals and backed up to the loading chute. As I jumped out, one cow broke from the small herd of dry cows Annie sorted yesterday and walked up to me as I headed to open the trailer gate. It was a little unsettling: our cows are fairly wild cows, and almost never come right up to us, except to maybe attack when  protecting their baby. It was a behaviour I was proud of because that protectionism translated into the same cow standing her ground against a wolf, mountain lion or bear. We actually encouraged it. 

I turned to face her, and she stopped 5 feet away, raising her nose to me and sniffing me to determine my status as friend or foe. And then she let out a low, heartfelt bawl. She recognized me, and I think she knew that I alone was her hope. 

Her eartag was B31. Aaron was right. Her baby had got on the bus to tallgrass without her.

I simply said “C’mon, girl,” and she followed me to the trailer gate as I opened it. I stepped aside, and she jumped in. It was easy as that. No coaxing, pushing or cajoling to load, as was often the case with wild cows. She simply trusted me that this “bus” was heading to her lost baby.

I checked fuel and tires, and set out. It was one of those beautiful watercolor coming-of-autumn mornings in high mountain Idaho. The air was fresh and clear from the recent rains we’d had, and the persistent cool reminded of the fact that fall was full on its way.

About an hour and a half later, I pulled the trailer along the Lemhi Valley back road to a lonesome gate along the extreme North boundary of our grazing ranch. The backbone of the high Continental Divide shone in the early morning sun as I stepped over to the cow gate. 

It’s where we released all the cows yesterday. They knew the trail up to the big pastures (from years prior) on the hills above us, and it was an easy unload with the semi where we simply dumped loads of mama cows on the county roadway. 

The calves were a different story. We had to haul them another 20 minutes to the middle of the current pasture the cows grazed in. They wouldn’t know the way–they had never been here before. They would likely get lost on the trail up to the hills where the cows were.

I checked the cow in the long trailer before getting the gates ready. She was sniffing the air–she knew the place by smell, I was certain, and was eager with the anticipation that her kid might be here. She lowed at me as she paced back and forth, hurrying me to let her out.

I walked toward the big backroad gate, and that’s where I started this story. That one calf stood and now emerged from the brush. By himself, that steer had come down to this corner of the ranch. He’d never been there, and he had absolutely no way of knowing that this was where the cows all were unloaded yesterday. It was a good quarter to half a mile from the herd. 

I opened the gate, and ran to the side of the trailer, opening the side door. I didn’t even worry about backing the trailer in; I knew that the cow knew.

And I could trust her.

She jumped out immediately, and ran through the gate, calling out for her steer which she spotted immediately through the lattice of the trailer frame when he first called out. 

Calf ran to Mama. Mama sniffed calf. Calf went to sucking on the milk bar immediately, wagging tail. Mama sniffed and licked her 300 lb baby as he sucked. They stood there, and looked at me, unmoving, a picture of perfection and some semblance of bovine gratitude if it were possible, I thought.

I stood there in absolute wonder. I long knew that I could trust the cow, but had never trusted the calf. But yet, here was a steer who showed up at the exact place on the planet earth where his mother was most likely turn up. He walked from the herd on his own—absolutely unthinkable for a wilderness raised prey animal–and showed up alone to meet mother. 

At the bus stop. When no one told him that one even existed.

I would have never guessed it possible, and it is because there are some things (many?) about animal intellect and intution we will never understand. 

But I am learning. And cows are patient teachers.

And that is why my relationship with the lowly cow is one of the utmost respect. Truly one of God’s creatures; they never cease to amaze. Those who abuse and mistreat cows as a commodity I will never understand.

And after closing the gate behind them (they’d wander up to the rest of the herd by midafternoon), I slipped the truck in gear and pondered about the wonder of it all. I rolled into Salmon, Idaho, in a half hour, late for church. I missed the sermon but got there in time to hear my lovely daughters sing the closing song. 

Now that I think of it, I didn’t miss the sermon. I had witnessed one in what The Maker showed me today.

Happy Trails.