It's all in the timing.

We are not even halfway through branding this year's calves, and we've been stalled. Rain, rain, and rain. Wet or muddy calves cannot be branded. It will cause scalding and scarring. A bad brand. Undue pain for the calves.

Not one acre of the 3500 acres to be seeded has been planted. Today is June 18. The seeding can't wait much longer.

We check the forecast on the Weather Channel several times a day, sometimes several times an hour. Plan and re-plan. Watch the skies. And wait.

I'm sure we can all point to times when, if things has been "on time," our lives would have been a little different. Couldn't find our keys or phone. Had to change an untimely wet diaper. The delay, maybe only mere seconds, meant avoiding a calamity. Or meeting someone who arrived at exactly that moment.

A year ago, I wondered if I should go to the FaithWriters Conference in Detroit, MI. It's a long way from here, and not an inexpensive venture. I pondered and wondered and finally made a deal with myself. If I could sell my mini-van, I'd go to the conference. The van had been in storage for two years. I hadn't wanted to deal with the emotional baggage of letting it go. Barely a month before the conference, I lay snuggled in bed, about to open my mouth to ask "the cowboy" if we couldn't get the van out that afternoon, clean it up, and park it out by the highway with a "for sale" sign on it.

I never got a chance to ask him. The phone rang. It was a dear friend. I hadn't spoken to her in nearly two years, and in the middle of our catching up, she asked if I still had my mini-van and was it for sale.

By that afternoon, the van was cleaned, washed, tires changed, and SOLD. For exactly the price of a round trip ticket to Detroit, my friend drove away in the van. I don't know which of us felt more blessed.

Timing is everything.

Will we get the crop in this year? Who knows?
Will we have to go to Plan B for branding? Maybe.
With unwavering confidence, I know this season will pass into the next, with its own challenges and certainties.

In the meantime, I have some inside chores to catch up on. Reading. Writing. Quilting. Baking. Watching my garden grow.

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven. ~ Ecclesiastes 3:1

Branding Day

Today was the third day of our 2012 branding season. So far, 550 babies have been branded, vaxed, tagged, and for the little boy calves, castrated. Just over 2000 calves left to go. Whew!

You might ask why we brand cattle. It's time-consuming, and no doubt it hurts those little duffers. It all seems rather archaic, even primitive. The reason is obvious. Identification of ownership. Yes, we could tattoo them. Or put a chip in them. But, if there's doubt about ownership, that cow, bull, steer, or heifer would have to be roped and wrangled to the ground. Or brought up to the barn and put through the chute. Brands can be easily read from a safe distance and that is paramount to the rancher or brand inspector.

Cattle (livestock) branding has been used to identify domesticated herd animals since Egypt 2700 B.C. But, it was not until A.D. 1541 that the Spaniard Hernado Cortez introduced the idea of branding to Europeans. Spanish brand designs such as those used by Cortez were very elaborate compared to the cowboy-preferred simple branding that took place on cattle ranches as the West was being developed in America. The ability to read the various cattle brands is termed "callin' the brand." Different Kinds of Cattle Brands

Our morning begins with gathering up all the cattle in the pasture designated to be branded that day. Often I go out with the cowboys and spend the hour or so while they gather reading or taking pictures. Enjoying the early morning calm before the rush.

The often despised dandelion, but a sunny, sweet place for the eyes and a bee's quest for nectar.








Once the cattle are in the pen, the fun begins.

You're going to do what? To little innocent us?

The newest cowboy gets ready to throw a loop . . .

. . . and succeeds!

Lunch time - Friends, food, and fellowship.

Let me be. I've had a hard day.

After we finished Field 9 today, my day continued with laundry, baking cookies and an apple crisp, watering the garden, and preparing supper. Now, I'm debating over a time out with a cup of tea or reading my book or just going outside to enjoy the sunshine. I think I can manage all three.

The Redeeming Ranch Woman

I used to harbour a stereotyped image of the ranch woman. She's the one wearing an apron, for she's a genius in the kitchen, and a straw hat, because she's got a knack in the garden. Her pantry shelves are filled with jars of peaches and beet pickles, and she makes the best bread east of the Rockies. Her tomatoes grow big as softballs and her lilacs bloom sooner than any town folks'. She splits her own firewood, can drive a tractor, bottle-feed orphaned calves, and make a rug out of worn jeans.

She could be all that. Or not.

Redeeming Women of Rural Hardiness

communicatingacrossboundariesblog.com

We went to the British Columbia Cattlemen's Association Conference and AGM last week, and I had opportunity to speak to dozens of ranch and farm wives. First observation: none of the women I spoke to fit my stereotyped image. They came in all shapes and sizes, ages and backgrounds, abilities and talents. Some looked like they'd just stepped off a western fashion magazine, with all kinds of bling and their hair done just so. Others wore jeans. And cowboy boots. Some professed to have a job in town; others told me about their gardens or canning adventures.

For the most part, our conversations were about earthy topics, and the pains and joys of ranch life. Getting bucked off a horse. Helping a rancher husband return the uterus of a prolapsed cow to its rightful place, and then having company arrive before she could change her shirt. Helping a doomed orphaned foal. How to get clothes clean that have been saturated in various bovine fluids.

One thing we all had in common. We love the land. We love our lives.

Brian Salmond, cowboy poet and rancher, wrote a poem in tribute to the tough and tender womenfolk of the land. His own sweetheart is every inch a lady, but has had her fair share of late nights and mucky boots.

Ode To The Ranch Lady

While the countryside is stirring, from a restful quiet night

And the smoke swirls from the chimney like the eagle in its flight

The rising sun cast out its rays and heralds a welcome glow

Her busy day got underway about an hour ago

She’s got the coffee brewin’ flippin’ hotcakes in the pan

And once the kids are off to school she’s out to help her man

Feed them chickens and gather the eggs gas up the pickup for sure

Bring out some twine and the grease gun no end to what she’ll endure

She’ll rake hay with the tractor till late afternoon then wobble to go cook a meal

Help the kids with their homework and houseclean just like it was part of the deal

A doctor a lawyer a parts girl and she keeps all the books for the herd

She knows every cow by her color and age and you’d best not be doubt’n her word

She loves flowers those from the garden or growin’ out there in the wild

So pick her some bluebells she’ll squeal in delight her spirit as free as a child

She cries at funerals some weddings sad movies and still born foals

And shoulders the burdens for others as they’re strivin’ at reachin’ their goals

The lady serves council for people in need in politics she does her part

A wizard at patchin’ an old pair of jeans or mendin’ a soul’s broken heart

She’s light hearted a practical jester at times and she tells the odd smutty tale

But well knows her Lord and her master the life lines are delicate and frail

You’ll see her smilin’ come winter down at the Cattleman’s Ball

Her hair all done up and stars in her eyes with a well wish for one and for all

She’s got that same gentle aura that angels possess when they fly

This evenin’ is hers for enjoyin’ and she asks that all others comply

And when they dim the house lights and the old time waltz is played

Take her on your arm old son retrace the miles you’ve made

And trip the lights fantastic you know she dances fine

And buckaroo be proud of yours and know I’m proud of mine

Happy Trails

© Brian Salmond 

That really about sums it up.

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.