There is little moisture here. The average annual rainfall is around seven inches. Right now, moisture mostly comes in the form of snow and this week we had some warming days that melted the snow into pure liquid water. The problem is the ground here doesn't know what to do with it.
I tested this theory once by pouring water on to the ground. The balls of moisture curled up and sat, rejected by the dirt beneath, and waited to evaporate. Eventually - minutes later - chemistry had begun to work and the patch of dirt was indeed stained wet, but it was absorbed molecule by molecule, not with the kind of thirst I expected of dirt in the desert.
So imagine that writ large into snowmelt. Slick. Water on top of Gortex dirt; not unlike an oily road surface, really. When the water pools it eventually sinks in whether the dirt likes it or not and creates mud. My car and this mud are not friends. It sucks the car around and spits it out in inopportune places. The car responds by splattering mud as far as it can.
Last year, we reached a detente in this war and resorted to leaving my car at the end of the driveway, close to the safety of asphalt, and using more appropriate vehicles to ferry me back and forth. Jack collects me in his truck, a ranch truck, or other vehicles that may have once been ranch trucks but which are now missing critical parts (like floors).
He collected me at the end of the driveway the other day and we relayed the stories of our daily activities on the way back to the house. I chattered about meetings and my aerobics class. He was sober; emotion caught in his voice.
"I lost a calf today."
"What happened? I thought they weren't supposed to start until next week."
"I know, but it didn't look premature. I found the heifer standing over it, nudging it, but it was already
dead. She would have been a good mama."
The next morning, dressed for my office job, I head for the ranch truck. On the flatbed is the calf, still looking like the newborn it was, exhausted and waiting to be licked back to life.
Sometimes I wish I could return to the world of blissful ignorance of buying packaged food at the grocery store and not giving a thought about where it came from, about the people who endure such stress and strain and the animals who sacrifice so much just so I can have a meal.
Maybe I am the water, curled up and sitting on this Wyoming dirt until I evaporate on to the next phase of life. Or maybe I am the dirt into which the Wyoming lifestyle is melting. I've come to accept a lot about life here, but sometimes I still find dry patches.
“Adapt yourself to the things among which your lot has been cast and love sincerely the fellow creatures with whom destiny has ordained that you shall live.” - Marcus Aurelius
I tested this theory once by pouring water on to the ground. The balls of moisture curled up and sat, rejected by the dirt beneath, and waited to evaporate. Eventually - minutes later - chemistry had begun to work and the patch of dirt was indeed stained wet, but it was absorbed molecule by molecule, not with the kind of thirst I expected of dirt in the desert.
So imagine that writ large into snowmelt. Slick. Water on top of Gortex dirt; not unlike an oily road surface, really. When the water pools it eventually sinks in whether the dirt likes it or not and creates mud. My car and this mud are not friends. It sucks the car around and spits it out in inopportune places. The car responds by splattering mud as far as it can.
Last year, we reached a detente in this war and resorted to leaving my car at the end of the driveway, close to the safety of asphalt, and using more appropriate vehicles to ferry me back and forth. Jack collects me in his truck, a ranch truck, or other vehicles that may have once been ranch trucks but which are now missing critical parts (like floors).
He collected me at the end of the driveway the other day and we relayed the stories of our daily activities on the way back to the house. I chattered about meetings and my aerobics class. He was sober; emotion caught in his voice.
"I lost a calf today."
"What happened? I thought they weren't supposed to start until next week."
"I know, but it didn't look premature. I found the heifer standing over it, nudging it, but it was already
dead. She would have been a good mama."
The next morning, dressed for my office job, I head for the ranch truck. On the flatbed is the calf, still looking like the newborn it was, exhausted and waiting to be licked back to life.
Sometimes I wish I could return to the world of blissful ignorance of buying packaged food at the grocery store and not giving a thought about where it came from, about the people who endure such stress and strain and the animals who sacrifice so much just so I can have a meal.
Maybe I am the water, curled up and sitting on this Wyoming dirt until I evaporate on to the next phase of life. Or maybe I am the dirt into which the Wyoming lifestyle is melting. I've come to accept a lot about life here, but sometimes I still find dry patches.
“Adapt yourself to the things among which your lot has been cast and love sincerely the fellow creatures with whom destiny has ordained that you shall live.” - Marcus Aurelius
4 comments:
Beautifully written, Cory. And I see you more as water than dirt.
Lovely, indeed, Cory.
As an aside, the slickness of the Wyoming dirt roads with even a spattering of moisture is really something to see. There is a lot of bentonite mining up near Shell, and with even just a spitting of rain, we were unable to do any field work because of the roads. "Slicker 'n snot on a porcelain doorknob" as a friend of mine would say.
Meaghan
I remember thinking the ground in PA was like a SPONGE because it just absorbed the water like it was no big deal.
We keep talking about buying a half a cow directly from the source but are never sure what we'd do with so much meat...
Thanks, Jackie.
Meaghan, I know EXACTLY what you mean. Not that I would have phrased it so well. :)
Cathy, you should have a CSA in Denver that could point you in the right direction. Heck, we could probably bring you some next time we're down there.
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