Shearing Sheep in the Sunshine

A sheep shearer called me the other day.

He had a long way to go and a short time to get there.

He needed a favor.

The crew would be here on Sunday, but they had the day off on Saturday. One of them asked if he could leave his camper at the ranch while he drove home to Livingston, 260 miles away.

He pulled in Friday night about 7 p.m., letting the jacks down and propping the camper on sawhorses.

He planned to be back by 8:30 Sunday morning, new time.

He was part of a five-person crew who gets paid by the head. He pays all of his living expenses and travels six days a week during shearing season, vagabond-style.

This year, because Covid has closed the borders to sheep shearers from other countries, he has been busy since January.

So when the crew boss called to ask if he could bring a crew on a Sunday, I did not hesitate.

Theoretically, I save Sundays for catching up, puttering and taking a deep breath, but if the shearing crew could shear my sheep on Sunday, I would do my best to make it happen.

Actually, this is good timing for me.

The weather has been warm – we could use some moisture, but the sheep won’t get chilled.

A strand of wool is hollow so when it is clipped, the sheep is vulnerable to wet and cold for about three days until the strand seals and provides insulation once again.

My ewes will begin lambing at the end of April so they are not heavy with lambs yet.

Few sheep producers sold wool last year and wool prices are still in the tank so I am likely to hold on to my wool until prices rise a bit, but it is nice to have it baled and dry in my barn.

I gathered helpers.

My daughter, Abby, kept the sheep moving up the shearing trailer chute so the shearers would not have to wait even a second for their next sheep.

My friend, Mary, and my new apprentice, Jennifer, vaccinated each ewe.

Four friends wrangled sheep into the alley, single file.

My brother, Roger, and I floated along the alley, pushing and helping where we were needed most.

My mom gave the shearers a huge gift by relieving me of the responsibility to provide lunch for everyone.

I’m not sure they understood the risk they avoided, but I did.

This experience was far different from past shearing adventures.

It turns out, I can learn.

Last year, the 25-foot shearing trailer with five stations inside was difficult to maneuver between the muddy sink hole and the towering manure pile.

I overheard the shearing boss muttering about not coming back ever again.

I made the manure pile disappear and drained the muddy hole.

Two years ago, my alley that fed sheep into the trailer was constructed of rickety wooden panels low enough that even a pregnant ewe could clear them in an easy hop.

With every hop, the panels disintegrated a bit more while my embarrassment and frustration escalated.

I could shear sheep far better than I could accommodate a shearing crew.

And I’m not a good sheep shearer.

My husband, Steve, and I used to shear our sheep without the help of a crew.

We would separate 20 or 30 ewes each sunny, spring day, shear them, check their teeth and toes, vaccinate and send them out to graze.

By the end of May, we would be finished.

Sometime years, we finished on May 37th.

But we lost our wintertime padding in time for bikini season.

On Sunday, each ewe lost about 15 pounds and I now have wool ready for socks and quilts.

Life is good.