Pulling Our Weight

I had only a few cull ewes to take to the auction.

This was a good problem – the vast majority of my flock is healthy and productive. Only a few ewes didn’t contribute lambs to my bottom line this year.

But having only a few ewes – plus one ornery ram – meant that my trailer would not be full.

I planned to haul these culls 250 miles to Billings so the fuel bill alone would eat up a chunk of their sale price.

I called three other sheep producers to see if they had culls to fill my trailer, hoping to save them from hauling a half-loaded trailer, too.

No takers.

Some had already culled their flock and some planned to take a bigger load later.

Theoretically, I could give these cull ewes another chance at raising lambs, but they had already proven that they had some kind of production problem. Their one single job is to contribute income to the ranch.

This year, they would contribute by trotting through the auction ring.

So I loaded my trailer and pointed my truck southeast.

As soon as I got cell service, a message popped up.

An acquaintance – I only knew him through the grapevine – had heard of my trip to Billings. He and his wife had five horses that needed a ride from Billings back to Great Falls.

They had been on their way to a big horse sale when they had a bad tire.

Even worse, the wheel bearings on their trailer were worn out.

Just last spring, I had watched one of my trailer tires sail off the axle and down a busy street. I could imagine that horrific scenario with five horses in a trailer.

It would take a few days to replace their wheel bearings.

Meanwhile, their new-to-them horses were sitting in a corral at an auction yard. They needed to be moved before the next sale a few days away.

Of course I could haul their horses back to Great Falls.

He offered to buy my fuel for the trip home.

This deal was getting better by the minute.

I dropped off my ewes at one auction and drove 10 minutes to another yard.

Barely out of my way.

As I cruised along, I thought about the times I helped someone and the times other people helped me.

Once, I spotted a car along the side of the Loneliest Road in America, about 75 miles from the nearest stoplight.

When I pulled up, a Black man and white woman crawled out of the stalled Corvette.

They said four cars had slowed, looked and sped past.

I gave them a ride.

Another time, I dropped off a hitchhiker at the nearest town.

Two days later, the local police report noted a crime spree.

I’m not sure I feel good about that one.

Once, I had a flat tire on a loaded trailer on I-15.

I removed all but one stripped lug nut so I chiseled at the bolt until my hands looked like ground meat.

Finally, someone stopped to take a turn with the chisel and hammer, then my friends suddenly appeared with a portable welder.

But those times were different from this situation.

My new friends bought my fuel – even offered to pay me for my time.

No, thank you.

As we loaded my trailer, we found commonalities in our appreciation for good horses, worn wheel bearings and our neighbor network that connected us.

I have no idea how they feel about politics or religion.

I don’t need to know.

This was rural America functioning as it always has.

This was everyone pulling their weight.

Because this is what rural communities do.