Calving Has Begun
Calving has begun and Mother Nature is on our side. It is a glorious sight to see healthy young uns bucking and playing. Midst unusually balmy early spring weather, the cows are busy finding secluded places for birthing. My bulky Carhartt coat has been replaced by a lined shirt jacket and gloves are left on the floorboards.
At early morning light we bounce the pickup along a side hill to see who can spot the first one. It is a race. Born and raised on this ranch, Rick knows every nook and cranny of the creek bottom and the sloping hillside pasture. Just like his daddy did before him, he has the ranch topography memorized and that gives him undue advantage. However, today I win, pointing first to the sleek black profile nestled at the foot of the willow brush. He complains, “I have to look where I’m driving, you get to do nothing but look for calves.” The truth is, Rick left his glasses home and that gave me the edge.
The bulls were turned out the 26th of May and 280 days have gone by signaling the beginning of calving. In weather like this, we do not lock them up in the lot by the calving sheds; they are able to be out on the clean calving pasture reserved for this purpose. Six cows this morning standing guard, they have newborns in out of the way places. Some of these old cows can be pretty protective. Tagging is actually not a safe thing for one person to do. While Rick knows the cows and can usually stay this side of trouble, he welcomes my help. So far according to the already dog-eared log, nineteen have calved. I pen the mother cow’s number on to an ear tag: yellow to the right ear for heifers and orange for bulls. While he tags the calf I keep the cow at bay, swinging a stick to discourage the mommas who want to wear Rick as a head ornament.
The hundred first time calvers are up by the house where we can keep an eye on them. No action in that bunch today. Rick teases, “Maybe these heifers don’t think they are going to calve this year…maybe they are just putting on a show.” By this time next week we should have a better idea how all that is going to shake out. Did we buy the right bulls, what we call heifer bulls, to produce smaller shoulders on their calves? With only 4 unassisted births logged in the heifer book, we cannot say. But they sure look good. Curious, they stand around us in a semi-circle, coming as close to the yard as Rascal-dog will tolerate.
The long term weather forecast on Yahoo promises this unseasonably warm weather to continue for at least another week. We’re hoping that the weatherman guessed right. It is a joy not to struggle against the below zero weather that we battled the last two years. One night last year the thermometer settled in at twenty below and with the wind howling the chill factor hit 48 below. Calves are frozen stiff in a matter of minutes if they are left on the ground with those conditions. Rick would roll them into a tall sided sled and run for the barn with the excited mother following along. It took superhuman effort to keep 24 hour watch on the cattle, taking turns with the hired man snatching bits of sleep here and there. Thankfully, all of those nights are in the past.
This year is nothing like the last. Calving has begun and Mother Nature is on our side.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Karen’s Ranch Report February 20, 2007
Karen’s Ranch Report February 20, 2007
MeiMei emailed from Taiwan in advance of Mr. Chin’s visit to Montana as guests of Montana Bunkhouses Working Ranch Vacations and the Sanders Ranch. She explained to me that Dennis was a well renowned photographer and from her I learned he was technically brilliant. What I learned first hand was how compassionate he is and how interested he is in every person he meets. We all hold value to him and he makes conversation with us in a way that puts us at ease even in the face of his big lens camera.
We folded him in to our lives and he warmed our hearts. We introduced him to our friends and neighbors--took him along to be part of the seemingly endless feeding and tending of livestock that keeps a rancher busy during cold winter days. At day’s end, we played old time western music with him in the center of the group clapping his hands and keeping time with the rancher-musicians. Eyes shining with appreciation, he said “these are the songs of my childhood memories!”
He recorded the cowboys gathering the cows and sorting the heavies, their horses anticipating every move and eager to please. The newborn calf getting his first nourishment put Dennis flat on his stomach so he could get just the right angle of the life-sustaining suckle. He photographed the barren forest fire ravaged mountain top and the horses lined up for their hay, listening as we told heroic tales of those who lived the Darby Fire. And he paid attention to detail everywhere we went: the whiskers of the barn cat, the jingle bob on grandpa’s spurs, and the patterns in the wind-sculpted snow.
Big Timber was once known as the Wool Capital of the World. We visited sheep men feeding their flock. Everywhere we went Dennis asks questions. How do the sheep and cattle get along and what about the cowboys and sheepherders? Nothing passed him by whether it was matters of economics or matters of the heart.
We joked about keeping him longer – and we explained justice Montana Vigilante style. However, it was Dennis in the end that took matters into his own hands and decided to stay an extra day rather than go to Yellowstone Park. He said, Mammoth will always be there, but this [way of life is vanishing] and it is more important to be here and now. And we loved him for it.
The extra day was well spent. Armed with Julie’s freshly baked cinnamon rolls we headed to the neighbors where 4 generations of Valgamores work together raising cattle. Grandson Corby caught a sick calf with a lucky loop, as he called it, and doctored it while Dennis watched. Once again, detail was not overlooked and the tops of cowboy boots sticking out above the muddy overshoes were captured along with Grandpa Henry’s approving smile.
Then we headed to the little country school in Springdale where a half dozen little buckaroos were lined up in front of the school’s computers…cowboy hats tipped back on their heads as they continued their studies. “Everything is a circle” said Dennis, as he reflected on the generational family ranch, “and that is how it should be!” Here where the spirit is rich in tradition and hearty in hospitality.
And he told us he will be back for branding in the Spring. That makes us smile.
MeiMei emailed from Taiwan in advance of Mr. Chin’s visit to Montana as guests of Montana Bunkhouses Working Ranch Vacations and the Sanders Ranch. She explained to me that Dennis was a well renowned photographer and from her I learned he was technically brilliant. What I learned first hand was how compassionate he is and how interested he is in every person he meets. We all hold value to him and he makes conversation with us in a way that puts us at ease even in the face of his big lens camera.
We folded him in to our lives and he warmed our hearts. We introduced him to our friends and neighbors--took him along to be part of the seemingly endless feeding and tending of livestock that keeps a rancher busy during cold winter days. At day’s end, we played old time western music with him in the center of the group clapping his hands and keeping time with the rancher-musicians. Eyes shining with appreciation, he said “these are the songs of my childhood memories!”
He recorded the cowboys gathering the cows and sorting the heavies, their horses anticipating every move and eager to please. The newborn calf getting his first nourishment put Dennis flat on his stomach so he could get just the right angle of the life-sustaining suckle. He photographed the barren forest fire ravaged mountain top and the horses lined up for their hay, listening as we told heroic tales of those who lived the Darby Fire. And he paid attention to detail everywhere we went: the whiskers of the barn cat, the jingle bob on grandpa’s spurs, and the patterns in the wind-sculpted snow.
Big Timber was once known as the Wool Capital of the World. We visited sheep men feeding their flock. Everywhere we went Dennis asks questions. How do the sheep and cattle get along and what about the cowboys and sheepherders? Nothing passed him by whether it was matters of economics or matters of the heart.
We joked about keeping him longer – and we explained justice Montana Vigilante style. However, it was Dennis in the end that took matters into his own hands and decided to stay an extra day rather than go to Yellowstone Park. He said, Mammoth will always be there, but this [way of life is vanishing] and it is more important to be here and now. And we loved him for it.
The extra day was well spent. Armed with Julie’s freshly baked cinnamon rolls we headed to the neighbors where 4 generations of Valgamores work together raising cattle. Grandson Corby caught a sick calf with a lucky loop, as he called it, and doctored it while Dennis watched. Once again, detail was not overlooked and the tops of cowboy boots sticking out above the muddy overshoes were captured along with Grandpa Henry’s approving smile.
Then we headed to the little country school in Springdale where a half dozen little buckaroos were lined up in front of the school’s computers…cowboy hats tipped back on their heads as they continued their studies. “Everything is a circle” said Dennis, as he reflected on the generational family ranch, “and that is how it should be!” Here where the spirit is rich in tradition and hearty in hospitality.
And he told us he will be back for branding in the Spring. That makes us smile.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Winter Cattle Drive
Winter Cattle Drive
Ah, the good life. Just imagine you are trailing cattle down the Old West trail with mountains looming on the horizon. You expect it to be hot and dusty? Hello!!! Instead there is a refreshing breeze and on occasion you are riding on snowbanks so hard that your horse does not even sink in. Dressed in Carhartt coat and bibs and face mask under your scotch cap…you’re authentic western all right. And that breeze is more like a gale and it is blowing dirt and hair …and when that cow peed in the wind; you made mental note not to ride so close next time. It is fifteen miles to Big Timber door to door from the ranch…. And then another couple of miles the other side of town to the Boulder River Ranch. Temperature was right at freezing and throughout the day we cussed and discussed the weather … mostly remarked on the wind which blew hard in the morning and then leveled off right into our face at about 25 mph all afternoon.
Welcome to the winter cattle drive. This is ranch life. That’s how it is. Often the weather dictates what we can do but this time it was not like we could just wait for a warm day; we settled for a do-able day. Dictated by gestation tables and feed and family schedules… it was time to trail the cattle to the home place before calving begins in earnest. Officially calving begins the day after Valentines, however the first set of lively twins was born last night…it was time. “Look on the bright side,” Grandpa remarked, “no mosquitoes when we trail in February!”
OK… so …maybe not your typical cattle drive. Certainly not the kind you would invite guests to join…but we enjoyed the camaraderie of friends and family. I drove the pickup pulling the stock trailer and kept the heater going for anyone who wanted to trailer their horse and warm up in the cab for a while. I can not ride yet because I still have the “siraloP” imprint on my leg. [My spell checker does not know that “siraloP” is Polaris 4-wheeler spelled backward.]
My job was to drive and be a “story listener” as the grandkids rode with me in the cab and spun yarns. Jordan (7) showed me the exact spot on the trail where she had her first sip of coffee as a three year old and she said never told a soul because she thought it was something to keep secret like your first sip of beer. Jess (5) confided how his friend Sam said a bad word; he watched for my reaction and predictably, I disapproved. Well, Jess continued, he had said that bad word too…after all, he heard his dad and his grandpa say it…so he just had to say it “to get it out of my system!”
And then besides the predictable yarns of remember when we came to this spot last year, there was the unpredictable. Although bucking broncos are not unusual when taking young horses on their first big ride outside. The wind gets them frazzled. When it happened, (all four legs up…all four legs down, hard,) Jami dusted herself off and got back on. Then for the rest of the ride, her colt took an interest in the cattle and went along like nothing ever happened. [Hint: don’t ask to ride Ben until he gets a little older and more sure of himself!] But the cattle drive is sure good for young horses and it is a darn side better for the cows than the stress of trucking them.
When the colt lit into crow-hopping, the cows went the wrong dang way and they headed for McLeod instead of Big Timber. But it was cold enough that Grandpa could ride right across the frozen swamp and head them back toward our destination… on to the overpass where we had to cross over the Interstate. That was a little tricky because we had six cars from each direction not wanting to wait for the ponderous mother cows who were taking their time deciding when to cross over the highway traffic noise.
Friends and family strategically parked their vehicles and helped encourage the cows to stay the course until we could get through town. Cort flagged from Indian Rings Subdivision. He showed me the spurs he was making and I admired the sleek Calvary styling and coveted the jinglebobs he had fashioned. Great Grandma Betty, at age 83, was parked at the Fishing Access when we trailed over the Boulder River Bridge. She had baked fresh cinnamon rolls and made strong coffee which she served up along the trail midmorning. Tom Ivey ate his cinnamon roll from his car while parked in a lane near the golf course. Sure would not have wanted those cows to take a romp through the golf greens.
It did not take long before the old cows were “trail broke” and they plodded their way down the streets through the edge of town, behind the Frosty Freeze and then along the railroad tracks to the frontage road. These older cows kinda know the way but Grandpa recalled earlier years when there were stampedes because a train came through town a blowin’ their horn. Would have been some “wrecks” this year if we had been behind those hundred heifers …old cows are a real joy. We had two trains and no troubles either time.
With these first two “town” miles behind us and fifteen more to go, we just had to watch for haystacks and country lanes, navigate the Yellowstone River Bridge at Grey Bear Fishing Access and then on home. We loaded our horses in the trailer by mid-afternoon and for the last 5 miles, the cows were on the honor system. They know where their hay is going to be in the morning and after they took a little rest, they continued on their own. Twelve hours from the time we saddled up, the last of the 200 cows made it to the ranch.
Soaking in the hot tub that night, Grandpa said he had enjoyed riding his Foxie mare and bragged on how quickly she turned after a cow that tried to double back. He likes to brag on Foxie. And since no one was hurt, he could chuckle at how daughter Jami “rode to the buzzer” and how she would not think of missing a cattle drive regardless of the weather.
Then before the inevitable nap …Grandpa crooked one arm over the edge so he did not slide into the hot tub and drown. Happy as a lark and overcome with love he said “I love you guys…love you very much.” And midst the splashing came the reply “We love you too Grandpa!”
Life is good.
And…The cows are home.
Ah, the good life. Just imagine you are trailing cattle down the Old West trail with mountains looming on the horizon. You expect it to be hot and dusty? Hello!!! Instead there is a refreshing breeze and on occasion you are riding on snowbanks so hard that your horse does not even sink in. Dressed in Carhartt coat and bibs and face mask under your scotch cap…you’re authentic western all right. And that breeze is more like a gale and it is blowing dirt and hair …and when that cow peed in the wind; you made mental note not to ride so close next time. It is fifteen miles to Big Timber door to door from the ranch…. And then another couple of miles the other side of town to the Boulder River Ranch. Temperature was right at freezing and throughout the day we cussed and discussed the weather … mostly remarked on the wind which blew hard in the morning and then leveled off right into our face at about 25 mph all afternoon.
Welcome to the winter cattle drive. This is ranch life. That’s how it is. Often the weather dictates what we can do but this time it was not like we could just wait for a warm day; we settled for a do-able day. Dictated by gestation tables and feed and family schedules… it was time to trail the cattle to the home place before calving begins in earnest. Officially calving begins the day after Valentines, however the first set of lively twins was born last night…it was time. “Look on the bright side,” Grandpa remarked, “no mosquitoes when we trail in February!”
OK… so …maybe not your typical cattle drive. Certainly not the kind you would invite guests to join…but we enjoyed the camaraderie of friends and family. I drove the pickup pulling the stock trailer and kept the heater going for anyone who wanted to trailer their horse and warm up in the cab for a while. I can not ride yet because I still have the “siraloP” imprint on my leg. [My spell checker does not know that “siraloP” is Polaris 4-wheeler spelled backward.]
My job was to drive and be a “story listener” as the grandkids rode with me in the cab and spun yarns. Jordan (7) showed me the exact spot on the trail where she had her first sip of coffee as a three year old and she said never told a soul because she thought it was something to keep secret like your first sip of beer. Jess (5) confided how his friend Sam said a bad word; he watched for my reaction and predictably, I disapproved. Well, Jess continued, he had said that bad word too…after all, he heard his dad and his grandpa say it…so he just had to say it “to get it out of my system!”
And then besides the predictable yarns of remember when we came to this spot last year, there was the unpredictable. Although bucking broncos are not unusual when taking young horses on their first big ride outside. The wind gets them frazzled. When it happened, (all four legs up…all four legs down, hard,) Jami dusted herself off and got back on. Then for the rest of the ride, her colt took an interest in the cattle and went along like nothing ever happened. [Hint: don’t ask to ride Ben until he gets a little older and more sure of himself!] But the cattle drive is sure good for young horses and it is a darn side better for the cows than the stress of trucking them.
When the colt lit into crow-hopping, the cows went the wrong dang way and they headed for McLeod instead of Big Timber. But it was cold enough that Grandpa could ride right across the frozen swamp and head them back toward our destination… on to the overpass where we had to cross over the Interstate. That was a little tricky because we had six cars from each direction not wanting to wait for the ponderous mother cows who were taking their time deciding when to cross over the highway traffic noise.
Friends and family strategically parked their vehicles and helped encourage the cows to stay the course until we could get through town. Cort flagged from Indian Rings Subdivision. He showed me the spurs he was making and I admired the sleek Calvary styling and coveted the jinglebobs he had fashioned. Great Grandma Betty, at age 83, was parked at the Fishing Access when we trailed over the Boulder River Bridge. She had baked fresh cinnamon rolls and made strong coffee which she served up along the trail midmorning. Tom Ivey ate his cinnamon roll from his car while parked in a lane near the golf course. Sure would not have wanted those cows to take a romp through the golf greens.
It did not take long before the old cows were “trail broke” and they plodded their way down the streets through the edge of town, behind the Frosty Freeze and then along the railroad tracks to the frontage road. These older cows kinda know the way but Grandpa recalled earlier years when there were stampedes because a train came through town a blowin’ their horn. Would have been some “wrecks” this year if we had been behind those hundred heifers …old cows are a real joy. We had two trains and no troubles either time.
With these first two “town” miles behind us and fifteen more to go, we just had to watch for haystacks and country lanes, navigate the Yellowstone River Bridge at Grey Bear Fishing Access and then on home. We loaded our horses in the trailer by mid-afternoon and for the last 5 miles, the cows were on the honor system. They know where their hay is going to be in the morning and after they took a little rest, they continued on their own. Twelve hours from the time we saddled up, the last of the 200 cows made it to the ranch.
Soaking in the hot tub that night, Grandpa said he had enjoyed riding his Foxie mare and bragged on how quickly she turned after a cow that tried to double back. He likes to brag on Foxie. And since no one was hurt, he could chuckle at how daughter Jami “rode to the buzzer” and how she would not think of missing a cattle drive regardless of the weather.
Then before the inevitable nap …Grandpa crooked one arm over the edge so he did not slide into the hot tub and drown. Happy as a lark and overcome with love he said “I love you guys…love you very much.” And midst the splashing came the reply “We love you too Grandpa!”
Life is good.
And…The cows are home.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Montana Ranch Christmas Message
MONTANA RANCH CHRISTMAS MESSAGE
Written by Scott Wiley of Wiley Ranch.
The sun was just trying, to start up another day
There was a bunch of clouds up there, floating in the way.
Course that’s the way I like it, makes one wonder what to say
The prettiest of the all the colors, put up there on display.
The air had crispness, frost covering up the ground
Time to take care of the animals, start up another round.
The calm was almost deafening, the wind at last was still
I was in no hurry, seems I have time to kill.
All of God’s creatures, the small and mostly the big
Heard what I was doing, as I started up the diesel rig.
Calls were coming from all directions; it’s a good thing to hear
What I found on this day though, was music to my ear.
For once all of God’s creatures, were very fond of me
I even let that coyote go, thought best to let him be.
This is the day we celebrate, a very special birth
The day we should take stock in, our very own wealth and worth.
On this day many years ago, they experienced the coming of the Lord
It now has turned into presents and decorations, things we can’t afford.
The meaning of the sacrifice, and the hardships they endured
They are now all but forgotten, replaced by the advertiser’s word.
As I’m looking out and feeding, some of His amazing creatures
Too many are in their world, watching football double features.
If more people would just be thankful for the simplest of things
More of them would forget about the stuff, that ol’ Santa brings.
From working with the animals, a few things I have learned
To most people nowadays, these thoughts they will be spurned.
More time has been wasted, looking for the perfect present to buy
Time is what matters cause things change, with the blink of an eye.
I know my kids will remember, when I am grey and old
Times I spent doing things with them, not presents made of gold.
The hours I’ve spent working, the money I have earned
Is but a mere pittance, to what the kids have returned.
It’s just too bad that Santa can’t package time, and put it under our tree
That is what I’d wish for, with ribbons and bows just for me.
Cause I know that if there’s a beginning, there has to be an end
And you spend most of your life not knowing, what’s up around the bend.
If people just took the time, to spread a little cheer
Why then we could have Santa come, every day of the year.
Then we wouldn’t be confusing Jesus, with all this material stuff
We could then just celebrate Christmas, without the presents and fluff.
So this is what I ask of you, my advice you don’t have to heed
Go out and give some time this Christmas, to someone that is in need.
Spend some of it on children; their faces will start to glow
Take the time to say Merry Christmas, to someone you don’t know.
Write a letter to a soldier, serving and alone in a foreign land
Call up your good neighbor, and offer a helping hand.
Go visit with an old friend, even if you have little to say
Just giving someone some time makes it a special day.
Don’t forget your parents, and all those many relatives
Time is passing quickly, who knows how long someone lives.
Hold the door open, help the mother with her young
And when you have bitter thoughts, be sure and bite your tongue.
Time is the one thing, gold and millions can never buy
How you spend it is how you’re remembered, when you lay down and die.
A daily dose of being Santa, should be coming from our hearts
Giving time to others, is where the feelings start.
The cows and horses are now all fed; I better get back into the house,
I had better go spend some time, with the kids and the spouse.
Before I go, I’m going to stop and take the time to say
Merry Christmas to you all, have yourselves a wonderful day.
Scott Wiley 2006
Written by Scott Wiley of Wiley Ranch.
The sun was just trying, to start up another day
There was a bunch of clouds up there, floating in the way.
Course that’s the way I like it, makes one wonder what to say
The prettiest of the all the colors, put up there on display.
The air had crispness, frost covering up the ground
Time to take care of the animals, start up another round.
The calm was almost deafening, the wind at last was still
I was in no hurry, seems I have time to kill.
All of God’s creatures, the small and mostly the big
Heard what I was doing, as I started up the diesel rig.
Calls were coming from all directions; it’s a good thing to hear
What I found on this day though, was music to my ear.
For once all of God’s creatures, were very fond of me
I even let that coyote go, thought best to let him be.
This is the day we celebrate, a very special birth
The day we should take stock in, our very own wealth and worth.
On this day many years ago, they experienced the coming of the Lord
It now has turned into presents and decorations, things we can’t afford.
The meaning of the sacrifice, and the hardships they endured
They are now all but forgotten, replaced by the advertiser’s word.
As I’m looking out and feeding, some of His amazing creatures
Too many are in their world, watching football double features.
If more people would just be thankful for the simplest of things
More of them would forget about the stuff, that ol’ Santa brings.
From working with the animals, a few things I have learned
To most people nowadays, these thoughts they will be spurned.
More time has been wasted, looking for the perfect present to buy
Time is what matters cause things change, with the blink of an eye.
I know my kids will remember, when I am grey and old
Times I spent doing things with them, not presents made of gold.
The hours I’ve spent working, the money I have earned
Is but a mere pittance, to what the kids have returned.
It’s just too bad that Santa can’t package time, and put it under our tree
That is what I’d wish for, with ribbons and bows just for me.
Cause I know that if there’s a beginning, there has to be an end
And you spend most of your life not knowing, what’s up around the bend.
If people just took the time, to spread a little cheer
Why then we could have Santa come, every day of the year.
Then we wouldn’t be confusing Jesus, with all this material stuff
We could then just celebrate Christmas, without the presents and fluff.
So this is what I ask of you, my advice you don’t have to heed
Go out and give some time this Christmas, to someone that is in need.
Spend some of it on children; their faces will start to glow
Take the time to say Merry Christmas, to someone you don’t know.
Write a letter to a soldier, serving and alone in a foreign land
Call up your good neighbor, and offer a helping hand.
Go visit with an old friend, even if you have little to say
Just giving someone some time makes it a special day.
Don’t forget your parents, and all those many relatives
Time is passing quickly, who knows how long someone lives.
Hold the door open, help the mother with her young
And when you have bitter thoughts, be sure and bite your tongue.
Time is the one thing, gold and millions can never buy
How you spend it is how you’re remembered, when you lay down and die.
A daily dose of being Santa, should be coming from our hearts
Giving time to others, is where the feelings start.
The cows and horses are now all fed; I better get back into the house,
I had better go spend some time, with the kids and the spouse.
Before I go, I’m going to stop and take the time to say
Merry Christmas to you all, have yourselves a wonderful day.
Scott Wiley 2006
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Sheep Shearing Crew
Sheep Shearing Crew
The Chapel brothers, Travis and Wes, came to the ranch to shear our 240 sheep yesterday. It is earlier in the season than we usually shear but the weather was pretty good and they were available--working around the crew’s other full time jobs of teaching, driving wrecker and working concrete. They bring their own shearing plant with its four stations and back it up to our chute. Loud country music plays above the din of the electric clippers. The long accurate cuts of the shearers maintain the integrity of the three inch wool fibers. We raise Targhee sheep and they have wool graded as 62 and categorized as fine wool as compared to the coarse wool of crossbreds.
Travis’s girlfriend was conned into coming with him and she swept up the wool and sorted “bellies and dirty wool from fine” and readied the wool for stomping into sacks. They arrived right after breakfast and went through our sheep in time for midday meal at the ranch house. No holding back with a Chapel. These guys are fun loving and outgoing…none of them afraid of work.
It was a treat to see Pat Chapel drive down the bumpy lane to the sheep shed. The youngster with him is Daniel who at three years old is almost 80 years younger than his great grandfather Pat. It is clear that Daniel is a Chapel as he joins the crew of kids working the sheep. Each taking a turn “Mutton Busting” riding the sheep in the holding pens.
The Chapels have shearing in their blood and that is a story that could go on for a real long time. Chapel blood is thick and it doesn’t dilute out over the generations. Pat is 82; you might say he grew up with my folks and with eyes sparkling he gives me a hug. I remember Pat’s smile and some of the pranks he played on my parents when I was a young girl. He recalled the 35 years that he sheared sheep averaging 10,000 sheep a year…Some more, some less but a total of 350,000 in his career.
Our parents and our grandparents were sheep men and women in the 1920’s and 30’s and 40’s when Big Timber, Montana, was known as The Wool Capital of the World. Coming to Sweet Grass County from the old country (Norway), my grandfather Haug made his home in sheep country on Upper Deer Creek just up the road from Rick’s grandfather Halverson. When my father married my mother they spent their honeymoon summer living in a sheep wagon herding sheep on the grassy slopes of Livingston Peak--Shepherds and shepherdesses in a time when the sheep industry was in its heyday.
But those days are long ago and far away. That’s why story telling is so important. It is all about remembering and sharing the ranch family traditions.
The Chapel brothers, Travis and Wes, came to the ranch to shear our 240 sheep yesterday. It is earlier in the season than we usually shear but the weather was pretty good and they were available--working around the crew’s other full time jobs of teaching, driving wrecker and working concrete. They bring their own shearing plant with its four stations and back it up to our chute. Loud country music plays above the din of the electric clippers. The long accurate cuts of the shearers maintain the integrity of the three inch wool fibers. We raise Targhee sheep and they have wool graded as 62 and categorized as fine wool as compared to the coarse wool of crossbreds.
Travis’s girlfriend was conned into coming with him and she swept up the wool and sorted “bellies and dirty wool from fine” and readied the wool for stomping into sacks. They arrived right after breakfast and went through our sheep in time for midday meal at the ranch house. No holding back with a Chapel. These guys are fun loving and outgoing…none of them afraid of work.
It was a treat to see Pat Chapel drive down the bumpy lane to the sheep shed. The youngster with him is Daniel who at three years old is almost 80 years younger than his great grandfather Pat. It is clear that Daniel is a Chapel as he joins the crew of kids working the sheep. Each taking a turn “Mutton Busting” riding the sheep in the holding pens.
The Chapels have shearing in their blood and that is a story that could go on for a real long time. Chapel blood is thick and it doesn’t dilute out over the generations. Pat is 82; you might say he grew up with my folks and with eyes sparkling he gives me a hug. I remember Pat’s smile and some of the pranks he played on my parents when I was a young girl. He recalled the 35 years that he sheared sheep averaging 10,000 sheep a year…Some more, some less but a total of 350,000 in his career.
Our parents and our grandparents were sheep men and women in the 1920’s and 30’s and 40’s when Big Timber, Montana, was known as The Wool Capital of the World. Coming to Sweet Grass County from the old country (Norway), my grandfather Haug made his home in sheep country on Upper Deer Creek just up the road from Rick’s grandfather Halverson. When my father married my mother they spent their honeymoon summer living in a sheep wagon herding sheep on the grassy slopes of Livingston Peak--Shepherds and shepherdesses in a time when the sheep industry was in its heyday.
But those days are long ago and far away. That’s why story telling is so important. It is all about remembering and sharing the ranch family traditions.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Wolf Saga Continues.
Wolf Saga Continues.
When I visit with you all…it is always the same question, “what ever happened with the wolves?’ I’ve left this ranch report unwritten far too long.
Rick and the “wolf guys” from the forest service were able to substantiate Cort (our cowboy’s) story. In fact a pack of wolves had killed a 600 pound calf and all that was left was a little piece of hide and a couple of bones. The lady-trapper came and set traps hoping to catch members of this rogue band and collar them so this wolf pack could be monitored. But they were too smart for the traps or too wary of the grizz in the area to come back for the left overs. (Grizz is spelled Ursus horribilis, but let the record show…Rick has yet to lose a calf to a grizzly.)
Soon it was confirmed. This is a splinter group of wolves that have migrated out of Yellowstone Park, members of the Chief Joseph pack. They were not part of the Taylor’s Fork pack that we have observed for the last year. The rangers tell us that the Park habitat is full…no more room for packs…and they are reproducing at an astonishing rate and so they are moving in to the surrounding areas. These wolves have been on a killing spree. They’ve almost put an upper Yellowstone Valley sheep man named Melin, out of business. Other calves have been killed on the Gallatin range and a mule was killed on the Madison River as well as a number of ranch dogs trying to protect their livestock. Now these rivers are not exactly near to each other. If you look at a map, you get the idea how far this pack travels in a matter of days.
Everyone offered advice. Shoot rubber bullets. Chase them with 4-wheelers. The advice most often given by locals was “shoot, shovel, and shut up.” Not advice Rick was prepared to take because shooting a wolf could lead to losing the grazing permit and worse…a possible jail sentence. The re-introduction of the wolves has been a success story when read from the point of view of the wolf. The wolf has all the rights on forest service and the rancher just has to get along.
But in the end, it was the lead that dusted their feet from Cort’s pistol when he caught them in the act that taught them to leave our cattle alone. The remainder of the summer was tense but we did not see evidence of further kiling. Cort was reluctant to leave the mountains unless we went up to relieve him. He rode every day; some days his grand daughter went with him. He knew exactly where the older single male wolf crossed the permit and he knew when that wolf found a mate later in the season. He skirted around the grizzley and her cub. He watched and listened.
Nineteen pair of cattle headed over the mountain going south. They trailed right through lush grass and mountain pasture…they didn’t take time to graze. They wanted out of there. We saddled up and trailed them back to the lower pasture. Nothing satisfied them. The calves did not put on their usual weight. The cows looked rougher than usual. Unseasonable high temperatures was not enough to account for the lighter than average calves.
When we went to gather the cows to bring them home the last days of September, it was wild. Cows were scattered in small bunches and when they were spooked, they ran like elk. Normally a cow dog is a big help moving cattle. One sound out of Rascal, our border collie, and the cow’s tails would go up in the air and they were on the fight. They would turn and chase that dog right back where he came from and then some. Then they would head off in a new direction. They were edgy. So were the pistol-packing cowboys.
The cattle were trailed to the corrals and held there while we waited for the 6 cattle trucks to arrive. When we counted we were two pair short. We knew we lost 3 cows to poison and one calf to the wolves, but what about the other 4?
Rick was confident that they would trail down out of the high country with the first bad storm and there was nothing that could be done until that time.
When I visit with you all…it is always the same question, “what ever happened with the wolves?’ I’ve left this ranch report unwritten far too long.
Rick and the “wolf guys” from the forest service were able to substantiate Cort (our cowboy’s) story. In fact a pack of wolves had killed a 600 pound calf and all that was left was a little piece of hide and a couple of bones. The lady-trapper came and set traps hoping to catch members of this rogue band and collar them so this wolf pack could be monitored. But they were too smart for the traps or too wary of the grizz in the area to come back for the left overs. (Grizz is spelled Ursus horribilis, but let the record show…Rick has yet to lose a calf to a grizzly.)
Soon it was confirmed. This is a splinter group of wolves that have migrated out of Yellowstone Park, members of the Chief Joseph pack. They were not part of the Taylor’s Fork pack that we have observed for the last year. The rangers tell us that the Park habitat is full…no more room for packs…and they are reproducing at an astonishing rate and so they are moving in to the surrounding areas. These wolves have been on a killing spree. They’ve almost put an upper Yellowstone Valley sheep man named Melin, out of business. Other calves have been killed on the Gallatin range and a mule was killed on the Madison River as well as a number of ranch dogs trying to protect their livestock. Now these rivers are not exactly near to each other. If you look at a map, you get the idea how far this pack travels in a matter of days.
Everyone offered advice. Shoot rubber bullets. Chase them with 4-wheelers. The advice most often given by locals was “shoot, shovel, and shut up.” Not advice Rick was prepared to take because shooting a wolf could lead to losing the grazing permit and worse…a possible jail sentence. The re-introduction of the wolves has been a success story when read from the point of view of the wolf. The wolf has all the rights on forest service and the rancher just has to get along.
But in the end, it was the lead that dusted their feet from Cort’s pistol when he caught them in the act that taught them to leave our cattle alone. The remainder of the summer was tense but we did not see evidence of further kiling. Cort was reluctant to leave the mountains unless we went up to relieve him. He rode every day; some days his grand daughter went with him. He knew exactly where the older single male wolf crossed the permit and he knew when that wolf found a mate later in the season. He skirted around the grizzley and her cub. He watched and listened.
Nineteen pair of cattle headed over the mountain going south. They trailed right through lush grass and mountain pasture…they didn’t take time to graze. They wanted out of there. We saddled up and trailed them back to the lower pasture. Nothing satisfied them. The calves did not put on their usual weight. The cows looked rougher than usual. Unseasonable high temperatures was not enough to account for the lighter than average calves.
When we went to gather the cows to bring them home the last days of September, it was wild. Cows were scattered in small bunches and when they were spooked, they ran like elk. Normally a cow dog is a big help moving cattle. One sound out of Rascal, our border collie, and the cow’s tails would go up in the air and they were on the fight. They would turn and chase that dog right back where he came from and then some. Then they would head off in a new direction. They were edgy. So were the pistol-packing cowboys.
The cattle were trailed to the corrals and held there while we waited for the 6 cattle trucks to arrive. When we counted we were two pair short. We knew we lost 3 cows to poison and one calf to the wolves, but what about the other 4?
Rick was confident that they would trail down out of the high country with the first bad storm and there was nothing that could be done until that time.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Ranch Response to the Wall Street Journal
Ranch Response to the Wall Street Journal
Sent to Conor Dougherty,
Emailed: July 21, 2006
‘conor.dougherty@wsj.com’
A Big Montana Hello to Conor,
I enjoyed reading your 7-7-06 article in the Wall Street Journal titled The Disappearing Dude Ranch. It was well thought out and carefully researched.
I wanted to let you know that dude ranches are not the only ranches facing the “setting sun;” cattle ranches in Montana and elsewhere are in the same situation. The ranch land is far more valuable than the cattle business it supports. We have bumped up against (and in some cases, neighbor) the Brokaws of the world. Newcomers are not known for being good stewards of the land. Jeff Phillips, of Sunset magazine raised Tom Brokaw’s ire when he reported the local sentiment toward out of state land owners. [Sunset February 2005: Home on the Range.]
We don’t look at the land as something we’ve inherited from our fathers. It’s like a trust—we’re really borrowing it from our children. 4th and 5th generation ranch families hang on in spite of the fact the economics of ranching here in Montana really don’t work anymore. Whether too ornery to admit it or too stubborn to quit, we’ve had to look at ways to pull together. As near as we can tell, we are the only ones doing what we’re doing…the way we’re doing it: as an agri-tourism cooperative. Or at least we’re the only group of cattle ranchers in the U.S. hosting guests cooperatively. It is common place in Europe where we borrowed the idea from their Farm Holidays program.
We call ourselves Montana Bunkhouses Working Ranch Vacations and we would like to think that we will be the option for the next “century of summers” giving people a genuine appreciation of the value of the small Western rancher. We are family owned and family operated generational cattle ranches in Montana (15 to date) working together to host guests for what we call an “authentic” working ranch vacation. As you pointed out in your article, in the late 19th century, working ranches took in guests for extra cash…then evolved to where they existed solely to entertain dudes. A criterion for our group is that the primary focus remains production agriculture while opening our homes to folks who want to learn about our way of life is secondary.
Let me know if you have any questions or if you’d like to have a cup of coffee with me or any of the ranch families on our web site!
We welcome you to experience the traditions of our ranching way of life in Montana, where myth has long been in partnership with reality.
Happy Trails,
Karen Searle
Karen at Montana Bunkhouses
Working Ranch Vacations LLC
P.O. Box 693
Livingston, Montana 59047
Office Phone 406-222-6101
http://www.montanaworkingranches.com/
http://www.montanabunkhouses.com/
Sent to Conor Dougherty,
Emailed: July 21, 2006
‘conor.dougherty@wsj.com’
A Big Montana Hello to Conor,
I enjoyed reading your 7-7-06 article in the Wall Street Journal titled The Disappearing Dude Ranch. It was well thought out and carefully researched.
I wanted to let you know that dude ranches are not the only ranches facing the “setting sun;” cattle ranches in Montana and elsewhere are in the same situation. The ranch land is far more valuable than the cattle business it supports. We have bumped up against (and in some cases, neighbor) the Brokaws of the world. Newcomers are not known for being good stewards of the land. Jeff Phillips, of Sunset magazine raised Tom Brokaw’s ire when he reported the local sentiment toward out of state land owners. [Sunset February 2005: Home on the Range.]
We don’t look at the land as something we’ve inherited from our fathers. It’s like a trust—we’re really borrowing it from our children. 4th and 5th generation ranch families hang on in spite of the fact the economics of ranching here in Montana really don’t work anymore. Whether too ornery to admit it or too stubborn to quit, we’ve had to look at ways to pull together. As near as we can tell, we are the only ones doing what we’re doing…the way we’re doing it: as an agri-tourism cooperative. Or at least we’re the only group of cattle ranchers in the U.S. hosting guests cooperatively. It is common place in Europe where we borrowed the idea from their Farm Holidays program.
We call ourselves Montana Bunkhouses Working Ranch Vacations and we would like to think that we will be the option for the next “century of summers” giving people a genuine appreciation of the value of the small Western rancher. We are family owned and family operated generational cattle ranches in Montana (15 to date) working together to host guests for what we call an “authentic” working ranch vacation. As you pointed out in your article, in the late 19th century, working ranches took in guests for extra cash…then evolved to where they existed solely to entertain dudes. A criterion for our group is that the primary focus remains production agriculture while opening our homes to folks who want to learn about our way of life is secondary.
Let me know if you have any questions or if you’d like to have a cup of coffee with me or any of the ranch families on our web site!
We welcome you to experience the traditions of our ranching way of life in Montana, where myth has long been in partnership with reality.
Happy Trails,
Karen Searle
Karen at Montana Bunkhouses
Working Ranch Vacations LLC
P.O. Box 693
Livingston, Montana 59047
Office Phone 406-222-6101
http://www.montanaworkingranches.com/
http://www.montanabunkhouses.com/
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