High cotton

This is a tale of flagrant flirtation.

We have two giant cottonwood trees behind our house. Their names are Steve and Georgia, after the people who moved them from their lonely spot as the only trees in a thousand acres across the highway to be the only trees on that side of the road. That was 35 years ago. 

Every year, they do the same dance; beforehand Georgia gets all fluffed up to impress Steve. This year, though, he wasn't having it.

She began with jewelry. Pretty dangly gems. 

Then she really began to put on a show with her fluffy coat.

She flirted, blowing him kisses in the sunshine and tossing come hither looks at him from every angle.

He was having none of it.

He turned his back and looked to the horizon. 

Still no other tree, Steve. Sorry.

Bomb, you were a dear

Someone took Mater's favorite toy.

With apologies for destroying your illusions, little ranch work is done on horseback anymore. Most of it is done with four-wheelers. We have a few here; Jack's favorite was an ancient Bombadier workhorse. As soon as he heard it start, Mater was on the scene and clambering on. He rode and rode and rode, chasing cows, irrigating, checking heifers - whatever. He sat or laid on the back as happy as could be.

It was always parked in this spot, just outside our door. When we got home one afternoon last week it was simply gone. Someone had come up the long driveway, removed the toolboxes (aka milk crates) from the back and driven away. We're perplexed. If only Mater were a bloodhound.

And the worst news is that the one Jack rides now doesn't have room for Mater.

Calving out heifers

First, let me say that both the word "calving" and the word "heifer" are new additions to my vocabulary. Calf, I knew. Turning it into a verb seemed a bit of a stretch of proper grammar. In case you, too, are new to this vernacular, let me help.

Heifer: a female bovine who has yet to have a calf.
To calve: Giving birth, or assisting in the labor.

I have no I idea why it is called calving out heifers. It just is. I'd say I don't ask, but I do. I'm a librarian. I ask a lot of questions, but they don't all have answers.

Calving heifers is Jack's absolute favorite thing in the world. Better than German chocolate cake, even. He spends every Spring babysitting them every hour all night and checking them all day, pulling, nursing and doctoring as needed. And need is the word. The cows (after they've calved once they get promoted) are left to calve on their own out in the big pasture, but these girls would never make it.

For some, nature kicks in and they instinctively nurture and care for their young. For an alarming number, however, they are stunned at what is happening to them and not at all sure how or interested in caring for their babies. Jack convinces them being a mom is a good idea. He is the perfect midwife; he knows when they need help and when they just need to be left alone.

 I just like to watch all the babies.

Why did the bull cross the road?

One side of the highway we have cows and calves. On the other side, the bulls. 

On my way home the other night I encountered this:

Luckily, right behind was this:

And this is what ensued:

Turns out, Jack can move a bull with just about anything, including a F350.

Gives new meaning to the word "Drover" (DROVER: One who drives cattle or sheep ), don't you think?

At least one car had pulled up behind me and this was all happening on the slope of a hill where drivers coming at 70 mph down the hill would not be expecting a bull nor an oddly placed truck. The Highway Patrol came to help.

Jack knew exactly where to steer this errant youngun.

He went back in the way he came out, under the wire stretching across a ditch.

But he is NOT happy about it.

Ten minutes later, Jack caught him sneaking under AGAIN and had to stretch more wire across that span. 

Sorry, Bud, no cows for you yet!

Sit, Mariah, Sit. Stay.

Spring is windy season in Wyoming. For days Jack has been doing his best Harve Presnell impression, walking around the house singing "They Called The Wind Mariah."

Yesterday he had to take his act on the road when the wind helped fan some spark and began blackening a stretch of sage between us and the highway. We don't know for sure, but assume a cigarette butt was the culprit.

Luckily, our house sits over a third of a mile from the road, so we weren't in any real danger. Especially because Ms. Mariah decided about then to have a nice rest.

A lady passing by on the highway called in the fire and Jack and Colonel went at it with shovels. 

 Before I made it even halfway down the driveway (with extra camera batteries in my pocket) I saw this:

 The firemen were amazing. So fast! I come from a long line of firemen so I realize the sacrifice and commitment they and their families make. It was strange, though, to be on the receiving end. They are the line between us and destruction.

Colonel was still going at it when they arrived:

 Traffic slowed a bit for a few minutes, but they made quick work of the smoldering flames. Which was very, very good since on my way back to the house the wind came up and was so fierce I had to wear two hoods to keep it from coming in one ear and going out the other.

All in all, we are very grateful for the wind stopping, for the lady who called the fire department, for Colonel and his shovel and most of all for our unknown neighbors who gave their Sunday afternoon up to save our fields.

Snack bar

Before:

After:

Good news, bad news

I'll give you the bad news first:

The frost is leaving the ground faster than we thought and Jack got stuck while feeding the bulls today (note how much they minded).

We couldn't even pull the truck out with the other 4x4 truck. Good thing there is a tractor around!

And now for the good news:

We have greenery! I tried to prune the lilacs today but I was already too late. When I went to prune some leftover hollyhock stalks I noticed a flash of something not brown. Yes! Green! Spring is coming!!

Pardonnez-moi, avez-vous la viande bovine congelée?

Another consequence of living in this beautiful land far away from “civilization” is that it is well, far away. Generally we like living apart, but what we enjoy being apart from is the congestion, strip malls and claustrophobic homogeneity. It is less fun to be so far from friends and family.
Last week I realized today was a holiday and that meant a three-day weekend – one with enough time to visit a friend I hadn’t seen in many months. It is a six-hour drive in good weather and snow was forecast but I went anyway.
I drove for six hours Saturday, spent the night and drove seven hours home on Sunday in and out of snowstorms. But it was worth it to see them and spend time with their baby girl.
And what did I bring as a thank-you for hosting me? A plant? A nice box sweets? A basket of decorative goodies? A book?
Nope.
A cooler full of beef.
Maybe I do need to spend some more time in civilized society after all.

Molecular redistribution

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

Goodnight, moon

Hungry Heifers

You've heard of hungry hippos? Here are some hungry (and thirsty) heifers.

Traffic jam

We want what they're having (the oxen calves were eating grain just inside the fence.)

Why we lose water during the middle of the day - they drank it all!

Ok, fine. Can we have what they're having? (that's the chicken house, where the corn lives)

You feed us, you get to go home. Capiche?

Finally! Breakfast on the run.