Thanksgiving Storm

I stepped inside out of the darkness, pulled off my face mask and saw my kids’ eyes reflect my personal horror.

“We can’t do any more tonight, but I’m going to need your help tomorrow,” I said.

I had just spent three hours in the dark, standing on dead sheep to pull live ones out of snow drifts.

I didn’t know how many were dead.

I wanted to throw up.

I had made a huge mistake, one that caused pain, suffering and disappointment.

This was not the Thanksgiving I had envisioned.

My son will graduate from college in a couple of weeks, then leave for pilot training in Oklahoma. Time with him is precious.

My plan held all of the hallmarks for the perfect holiday – a clean bathroom, several side dishes in the oven, and friends and family on their way.

Wednesday morning, the radio told me to prepare for snow. The cows and sheep were on pasture, but I rolled out a few bales so they would be as warm and well-fed as I planned to be.

By noon, I turned the tractor and could not see where I was. This was not just snow, but an instant whiteout.

I hoped the sheep and cattle that I could no longer see would come to the sound of the tractor.

By 4 p.m., snowdrifts touched the windows and the north wind howled. I would not see the 50 feet across my yard for another two days.

I postponed our party. The kids and I dug into a pie. We still held tight to plans for our traditional Black Friday movie in Great Falls.

The snow on my porch touched the eaves.

By Thursday afternoon, 18 inches on the flats and four head-high drifts hid my driveway. I rolled out more bales. The cattle found me and I thought I spotted the flock of sheep huddled out of the wind.

I was wrong.

My good neighbor sent a photo of a small bunch of sheep cornered up, some tangled in the fence wire.

I jumped in my pickup to bring them home, picking my way across ridges as the sun set.

The truck found a drift.

I walked.

Pitch black darkness fell as I tugged at legs and lifted hind ends out of drifts. Most of the sheep could walk, but seven could not stand.

At some point, I had wondered why my fingers didn’t feel cold, why I didn’t feel the ice pelting my cheeks, but it didn’t matter.

Coulees, creeks and snowdrifts lay between me and the barn. I couldn’t see more than 20 feet in front of me. If I got hurt, I would freeze to death.

I walked the mobile sheep back to the barn, with a plan to dig out to the lame ones in the morning light.

Instead of Friday family time, my son moved drifts while my daughter and I fed the survivors and dug out various buried machinery.

We loaded crippled sheep and took them to the barn. I still had no idea where the rest of the flock was, but I suspected all of my sheep might be buried under that 10-acre drift in the corner of my pasture. My stomach turned upside down.

By Sunday morning, I found most of my flock. I stood at the epicenter of Conrad’s social scene, the co-op parking lot.

I was embarrassed to admit my horrific mistake, my failure to take care of my sheep, but two friends knew exactly what to say.

We waxed philosophical.

One friend told his kids that nobody likes their job all the time, but the best thing to do is buckle down, get the nasty job done as well as you can so you can enjoy the benefits of ranching.

He is right.

We love sitting low in the saddle of a horse dancing on air.

We love the companionship of a dog who only wants to be by our side.

We love the sunshine warm on our backs and watching a wobbly new calf nuzzle his mother’s bag for the first time.

That’s why we all ranch.

So I’ll haul off the dead sheep and feed the survivors.

I’ll wait for the warm sun on my back and revel in the wonders of ranching. And, while I will make others, I won’t make that same mistake again.