Prairie Spring - Part Two

I apologize for the delay in getting this posted. We are well into our own "Prairie Spring" and calving adventures. 

Last week, we happened upon a heifer in obvious distress. At first, we thought she was already deceased, along with her partially emerged calf, but when we got closer, we saw her blink. And the calf was wiggling his protruding tongue.

We pulled the calf and the heifer had a total prolapse. That is, she expelled her calf bed. I'll spare you the details, but it took two men, four long arms, and a tractor to get the mass inside again. (That sounds terrible, and not how it sounds. If you're familiar with the writings of George MacDonald, you might remember a midwife in one of his novels employing a similar concept for an ailing new mother. Don't quote me on it being George MacDonald that wrote it, though. My memory, you know . . .) 


Sadly, the heifer did eventually expire, but the last I heard, the calf was still alive. As the rest of the story will reveal, spring is full of contradictions . . .

The rest of the story . . .

We headed back to the main herd, the cow following and bawling her displeasure. Then, Dad saw another smudge in the middle of the field, and we veered towards it. This time, there was no calf, just twisted bits of membrane and smears of blood. The cow looked at us with baleful eyes, as if demanding an explanation. How could we explain the she-wolf that had likely killed the calf to feed her own young, the same instinct driving both mothers.

We turned homeward. The cow still followed, mooing loudly, the calf responding with weak bleats. 

At the barn, Dad threw the reins over the saddle, leaving me on the horse while he carried the calf to the house. It was Sam’s job to herd the cow into a holding corral. I scooted forward into the saddle and tightly held the horn. The cow was intent on finding her baby, bawling frantically, but Sam countered her every move, lurching this way and that. I was jolted about, until it felt as though my arms would be wrenched from their sockets. I couldn’t hold on and fell off into a puddle of icy, filthy water.

I yelped and leaped up. With a quick glance at the cow, now in the corral and bellowing with rage, I ran for the house.

Dad was by the woodstove, rubbing the calf with sacking. He laughed when he saw me and pulled me close, dragging off my sopping clothes. He rubbed me dry with the same piece of sacking. I was soon warm, and so Dad left, taking with him the revived calf, to reunite it with its mournful mama.

I dozed, warmed by the stove’s heat and the love in my dad’s eyes. As I drifted off, I thought of the contrariness and contradictions of spring. Birth and death. Storms and sunshine. Mothers . . . and fathers. I couldn’t have spoken the words yet, but I had already learned that for each new life, a seed must die. And with hardship, there comes renewal. 

Deep thoughts for such a little boy, yet they would carry me through every season of my life.

* * * * *

Prairie Spring - Part One

I wrote this story over six years ago, after being inspired by a friend as he described a similar experience with his own father. These days, this is "everyday" life on the ranch; even as I write this, The Cowboy is out on his horse riding through several herds of cows. There are 3000 cows and first-time calvers due between now and mid-June, so it's a full time job checking. 

As in the story, there are mishaps. Calves coming breech. Over-sized calves. Twins. Some can be helped, and for others, as in the case of opportunistic predators, it's too late. And last night, after a day of wind and rain, we had late winter snow flurries, adding to the mix of dangers to newborns.

As always, I hope you enjoy the glimpse of ranch life.

* * * * *

“Rob, wake up.”

I opened my eyes and tried to focus on Dad’s face, inches from my own.

“Let’s go, Cowboy. Time to check the cows.”

In the gray dawn, I could see the wisps of Dad’s breath. I burrowed my six-year old self deeper under the blankets, reluctant to leave the warm bed. I stuck out a foot and knew there was nothing for it but to leap out all at once. I jerked my stiff jeans on over my long johns and buttoned my shirt with uncooperative fingers.

Dad was stoking the woodstove, firelight flickering on his face as he shoved in pitchy chunks of spruce. I huddled beside him, watching sparks and flames dancing together. I wanted to stay for a few more moments, absorbing the heat, but it was time to go. 

Morning was a crimson flush on the horizon. I followed Dad to the barn, avoiding dirty slush and ice-crusted puddles. While Dad saddled Sam, his big bay gelding, I tried to keep warm by hopping from one foot to the other. Then, he hoisted himself into the saddle and pulled me up behind. 

It was springtime, but spring is a fickle season on the northern prairie. New grass creates a green blush on the far meadows, and poplar twigs bulge with the promise of leaves, but a sudden snow squall can obliterate a barb wire fence ten paces away. A late freeze can prove deadly, especially for calves born on the open prairie. On this spring morning, we were going to see how our cows had fared during the night.

The cows were huddled together on the lower end of the calving pasture. We moved among them, Dad murmuring gently. A few cows got to their feet, and others milled about, lowing softly. Nothing was amiss, so Dad scanned the field for loners, a sign of pending or recent birth. 

Sure enough, there was a shadow halfway up the field. We approached the cow carefully, not wanting to disturb her if she was labouring well. 

The cow was nosing at a shadow on the ground. Inadvertently, she had birthed the calf into a pool of meltwater. Dad dismounted and squatted, drawing the calf out of the water. It was limp and cold but breathing. Dad slung the calf across Sam’s withers and remounted. 

. . . to be continued . . . 

Spring is Sprung . . .

. . . the grass is riz,

I wonder where dem boidies is.

De boid is on the wing.

Now isn't that absoid?

De wing is on de boid!

I learned that poem in another century and have yet to learn the poet's name. But there's no wondering where "dem boidies is" or any other evidence that spring has finally sprung, for the signs, besides the robins and crows, are everywhere. Even the snow drifts from what we hope was the "sting in winter's tail" last weekend are melting.

Tree buds are fat, the catkins have burst, and along the edge of the walkway, a few shy green blades of grass are poking up. My perennials are faithfully returning, but I'm going resist the temptation to pull away the dead, dry trash matted from around the sprouts for a few more days, because I know from experience that's a sure invitation for a late frost to burn away those tender first shoots.

And today marks the Opening Day of Calving Season. We've had a few early arrivals, but today is the official due date of most of the 3000 cows and first-time calvers on the ranch.

I know I'm cute.

As I mentioned before, another of the farm wives (who lives on the ranch, too) and I cut the twines from almost 900 round bales, so the soon-to-be moms wouldn't be disturbed by tractors and fee-wagons during their calving time. This is from last weekend, after that (hopefully) last blast of snow.

Hay, hay!

And finally, and sadly, another sign of spring is increased predator activity. Wolves need to eat, too. And it doesn't take them long to acquire a taste for veal. 

Wolf print. 

Welcome, Spring and her hurried seasons of planting, gardening, cleaning, branding, and mowing. She arrives quickly, as we go to sleep with snow drifts banked against the back door and awaken to dandelions overtaking the lawn. Suddenly, everything will be green, so green that it hurts our colour-starved eyes.

And since it's above 0º today, I'd better go put on a pair of shorts and sandals to enjoy wearing them while spring and summer last, because before we know it, it'll be time to put away the mower and garden hose and batten down the hatches.

Every spring is the only spring, a perpetual astonishment.  Ellis Peters

No Rest for the Weary

Recently, I remarked to several friends who'd encouraged me to update this blog, that the problem with living on a ranch and writing about it, is that you're living on a ranch. It's busy. It's unpredictable. And it's exhausting.

One season turns into another with a new set of challenges and experiences to enjoy and persevere. There is, as the proverbial saying goes, no rest for the weary.

We are on the brink of calving season, due to begin April 20, although there's been a few early arrivals. It seems we've been preparing forever, getting calving supplies ready, making sure there are plenty of hands, and setting out bales in the fields for the cows during their delivery time. Along with another of the farm wives, I've pulled twines from almost 900 round bales, and there's still a few hundred to go. The cows, 3000 in all, and including 1300 or so first-time calvers, all need to be sorted into manageable herds and moved to their prospective birthing grounds.

At the beginning of February, we moved a herd of 750 cows or so to the north end of the ranch. It was a frosty and sunny winter day. 

Frosty mist.

Move along, ladies.

New home.

Saying prayers for a successful and bountiful calving season, strength for all the cowboys, and no wrecks.

Horse Sense

It's become our yearly tradition to take a winter holiday to somewhere warm. This year, we went to San Jose Del Cabo, Mexico. We left Grande Prairie -30C, after being de-iced three times, and landed in sunny Los Cabos with +30C breezes.

It was a wonderful eight days. We were "stuffed and baked" every day, meaning the food was great and we took advantage of every opportunity to bask in the sunshine, reading, sleeping, or visiting with some of the wonderful people we met.

Charros at the lienzo charro

We found the local "lienzo charro" (rodeo grounds) on one of our walks into San Jose and enjoyed watching the "charros" practicing their "charreada" skills. The "charreada" (rodeo) is the national sport of Mexico.




In spite of the language barrier, The Cowboy talked at length with the charros, asking about the ages and breeds of their horses, the price of feed, and if there would be a rodeo anytime soon.

Though the setting is vastly different--there's not a blade of grass to be found in Los Cabos--and facilities were horribly lacking by our standards, it was evident that these charros loved their animals and did their best to care for them.

Small pen for storing feed

       It excites me that no matter how much machinery replaces the horse, the work it can do is still measured in horsepower . . . even in this space age.  And although a riding horse often weighs half a ton, and a big drafter a full ton, either can be led about by a piece of string if he has been wisely trained. This to me is a constant source of wonder and challenge.
                         - Marguerite Henry ~ author of Misty of Chincoteague

Tourists horseback riding on the beach

The love of horses is universal. No matter where we go, if there is man, there are horses. Horses as servants, horses as friends. It has been so through the ages, ever since one of our ancestors decided to throw himself on the back of a horse and felt the wind rushing in his face. Horses have shaped our history.


And for many, horses have given meaning to their lives.

 There's nothing so good for the inside of a man as the outside of a horse. - Ronald Reagan

Epiphany in the Snow (part two)

 The Dawn's Early Light by Montana Silversmiths 

When the cowboy returned, after what seemed like hours to the reverend, the calf was dry and lifting his head. “You done a good job there, Reverend," encouraged the cowboy. "Let’s get some milk into his belly. Might be a fittin’ time to say a little prayer.” 

It was tedious work, dipping his fingers in the milk and dribbling a drop at a time into the calf’s mouth.

“May I try?” asked Reverend MacGregor.

“Sure.”

He pulled off his collar, and at first, he was awkward. Soon, his trousers and jacket were damp and stained. But eventually, the chalice was empty and the calf dozed. Both men sat back, exhausted.

“With a little learnin’, Reverend, you’d make a good cowman.” 

Pearly dawn was peeking through the windows when the men were awakened by the bunting calf, wobbly, but on his feet. Reverend MacGregor rubbed his eyes, confused and then dismayed when he saw the bloodstained altar cloth and the overturned sticky communion chalice.

“Storm’s over, Reverend. I reckon I better get this fella home for some real grub. May I beg one more favour of you? Would you mind him while I get my horse? I forgot to mention, Reverend, I helped myself to the church’s stable last night, too.”

“It’s quite fine, son.” And suddenly, it was fine, gloriously fine.

Only a moment later and the cowboy returned with his horse. He slung the calf in front of the saddle and turned to shake the Reverend’s hand.

“I’m much obliged for all you done, Reverend.”

“Do you have a name, son?”

“I’m Josh.” He mounted and urged his horse forward.

“Merry Christmas, Josh. The Lord be with you.”

Josh’s eyes shone again. “And also with you, Reverend. And also with you,” he added in a whisper.

Touching his hand to his hat, he wheeled his horse into the pristine, newly fallen snow.

* * * * *

The inspiration for this story came from the bronze shown above and two prints by David R. Stoecklein called "Hero of the Storm" and "Winter Save." 

These are my favourites of all the cowboy art I've seen, for each image represents the determined and courageous spirit of the true cowboy and of the ultimate Good Shepherd, who will risk everything for the safety and well-being of those in His care. 

Merry Christmas!

Epiphany in the Snow

(I wrote this story for a contest, and here it is, in two parts. Jesus appears to us in the most unlikely places, in unlikely ways. It's up to us whether we recognize Him or not.)

The Reverend Simeon MacGregor was about to snuff out the last candle on the altar when a muffled knock thumped on the church door. 

So late? And tonight, of all nights? 

He shuffled to the entry and opened the door to a flurry of icy air, and in the candle’s glimmer, huddled a man, a cowboy, his slicker pulled up around his neck. Icicles hung from his mustache, like gleaming ivory, and he carried a sodden bundle in his arms.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Reverend, for the late hour, but I saw your light still shining. I’d be much obliged if I could warm up this little fella.” Snow slid from his shoulders with wet splats and dripped from his brim onto the heap in his arms. 

“Come in.” Reverend MacGregor was hesitant. A creature in God’s house? And a cowboy, possibly a scoundrel? 

Spurs jingling, the cowboy followed Reverend MacGregor to the potbelly stove that served to heat the tiny, isolated country church. He knelt, settling his burden on the floor and removed his sodden slicker.

“I been followin’ a cow since early mornin’, a late calfer. I found her, ‘bout half mile west, in the bush, strugglin’ to give birth. I pulled this little duffer, but his mama was a goner.” An icicle dropped from his mustache. “I can’t take a dead calf home to the boss.”

While he spoke, the cowboy was rubbing the wet calf with his soaked slicker. Reverend MacGregor peered into the flickering shadows, already knowing the only suitable thing in the church was the linen altar cloth. Setting aside candles, he removed the embroidered fabric from the altar.

“Here, son.” 

“Why, thank you, sir.” Together, they massaged the little beast with the precious cloth. Wisps of steam wreathed the cowboy’s shoulders.

“So, Reverend, what’s kept you at church so late?”

“We had a candlelight service before the storm struck. It’s Christmas Eve, son.”

“So it is.” A light danced in cowboy’s eyes for the briefest moment. “If you don’t mind, Reverend, there’s something I need to do. This little guy’s mama is lyin’ out there, and I need to get some milk ‘fore she stiffens up. Sorry, sir,” he said, seeing the appalled look on Reverend MacGregor’s face. “Could you keep warmin’ him while I’m gone? Oh, and I have nothin’ to fetch the milk in.” 

The Reverend ran his fingers through his silvered hair. He hobbled to the altar.

“This is all I have.” He turned, and the cup in his hands glinted in the candlelight.

“That’s a mighty fancy cup, Reverend.”

“It’s the communion chalice. You’ll take care?”

“You can bet on it.” The cowboy pulled on his slicker, nestled the chalice in a deep pocket, and disappeared into the blizzard.

To be continued . . .