Branding Day

My eyes felt like I had way too much fun the night before.

My nose still held the stench of burning hair.

Even my feet ached.

But my hair was clean. Finally.

No shower feels better than the one right after branding.

Branding is far from my favorite activity.

Every year, in the days prior, I worry about remembering each preparation detail, getting every calf into the corral, and asking for help.

I’m not very good at asking for help.

The branding crew is seasoned by now. Each person knows his or her critical role. My life is much easier.

This year, I decided to bring the herd to the pasture closest to the corral on the day before we branded.

My friend, Bob, my daughter, Abby, and I stepped into our stirrups, pointed our horses south and groaned as we looked to the west.

A dark cloud loomed over the Rockies, even though the weather forecast predicted only a slight chance of rain.

It looked like Covid-19 coming for the tourist industry.

By the time we were almost a mile from the house, that cloud found us.

Horses don’t like hail.

None of us got bucked off, only because we all stepped off our fresh horses before they started spinning.

Horses and humans alike huddled in a coulee with our tails to the wind, soaked to the skin where our slickers ended.

By the time we changed into dry clothes, the sun warmed the wet grass and the cattle were mostly gathered in bunches, just now venturing out to graze again.

That hail storm made for easy gathering.

The next morning, the whole crew was sitting atop four hooves each, encouraging cows and calves to meander toward the corral gate.

It only takes one to start a riot.

A calf broke back.

Abby and her long-legged horse went after it, across the bridge and up the hill.

The herd turned, took one look and broke for the hills.

I laughed out loud as horses and riders swung wide around the cows, whooping and waving until bovines of all classes put on the brakes.

My cows are fundamentally peaceful beings. After their protest, it didn’t take long to cajole them into the corral.

Sorting the cows and yearlings from the baby calves on an athletic horse is magic -- like dancing with a great partner who knows how to lead.

And just like anyone who dances with me, my horse needed to assert his lead.

He reminded me to give him a break between cutting cows out by tossing my sunglasses to the ground. After that, I just let him dance.

I didn’t ask my 78-year-old mom to push calves up the alley, but she was an integral part of the team.

She cooked. After last year’s almost-catastrophe when I only poisoned myself instead of the entire crew, everyone was relieved to eat her lunch instead of mine.

I don’t ask cowboys to rope and drag each calf. Instead, I use a calf table that tips each one horizontally so we all can get to the areas we need.

Yet, keeping a calf pinned sideways on a calf table is a lot like pinning a person. Holding one down for too long causes permanent damage.

I had banded many of the bull calves at birth, but not all of them. Some were born in a storm and some had ferocious, hormonal mothers.

As my mental clock tick-tocked while my fingers positioned my scalpel, I made a note to try harder with the bander next spring.

By 4 p.m., my brother, Roger, had pushed the last calf to the table.

I watched the friends I depend on stagger to their trucks and on to their other duties for the day.

The biggest single job of the year was complete once again.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

And took that oh-so-satisfying shower.