Days of Rain

Some people can feel springtime in their bones.

I feel spring all the way down to my toes.

It mashes on my toenails and cracks the skin of my heels.

It wakes me in the night with aching arches.

Or maybe I feel the results of my muck boots slipping around in the mud.

Glorious mud, swelling up from spectacular rain.

And snow.

Two weeks ago, we were sweating in t-shirts and 80 degrees -- Montana spring at its finest.

Last week, I dug out my wool longjohns.

More than 8 inches of snow mixed with rain dumped on the ranch, changing my priorities and narrowing my plans.

I rediscover all of the forgotten mounds of hay that snow turns to mush when I bog down the pickup and can’t get out.

But my roads are better than some.

About a month ago, the county road crew decided to fix the gravel county road. They still are not done.

The greasy ruts and soft edges kept the school bus – and my daughter, Abby – home for two days.

I called the county commissioners.

So did most of my neighbors.

The commissioners declared they used regular pit run rock to resurface the road. I suggested they use a different pit next time -- one with gravel in it.

This relentless, five-day soaker comes at the perfect time.

The heartless hawk of drought had been perched on my shoulder, ready to soar.

I had to protect my land from predatory drought.

If we didn’t get two inches of rain by May 20, 25 percent of my animals would leave the ranch.

A full third would disappear in the auction ring if the grass were still thirsty by June 10.

This plan would devastate my income stream for the next four years – I worried about how I would bite the bullet even harder – but it would protect my grass from being trampled into the dust at its most vulnerable stage.

My drought plan was buried in this snow drift.

This area typically receives 10 to 12 inches of moisture in a year.

We received more than 4 inches last week.

In dry weather, even below freezing, newborn calves and lambs curl up to stay warm. During drenching summer thunderstorms, they bounce across wet pastures.

But 34 degrees and snow chills them to the bone, their natural insulation soaked into ineffectiveness.

I rolled out straw for the month-old calves, but the lambs will die in this weather.

Fortunately, I can tuck them into my dry barn each night so they have a reprieve.

Unfortunately, they are crowded in the barn so they can easily lose their mamas.

The barn chaos gets even more complicated.

Three bunches of ewes and lambs are easier to care for if they are separate.

The healthy, older lambs can go out to the pasture each day.

I want to keep a closer eye on the younger, tiny lambs so I feed those families in the corral where they won’t get lost.

The intensive care unit holds teenage mothers, limpy lambs and an assortment of problems that I’m still trying to solve.

All of these groups stay in the barn at night, separated.

Theoretically.

Panicked lambs crawl through fences in search of their mamas.

Panicked mamas jump panels in their search for their babies.

Pandemonium reigns.

But they stay dry.

Each morning, my toes get mashed into my boots as I pair up families.

As my tires throw mud over the truck cab, I celebrate the deep ruts filled with water in my driveway.

And I realize that the best part of the rain and snow is that I get to celebrate spring twice.