Drudgery of Ranching

I call them chores, implying foot-dragging drudgery; the must-do, twice-daily, insistent duties of ranch life.

But really, feeding and watering the animals who temporarily live at the barn is a live-in-the-moment meditation.

The chickens run from their roosts to greet me.

The little orphan lambs who still need supplements bleat their welcome from behind the woven wire.

The livestock guard dogs wag their tails as they lean into my hip.

It’s a twice-daily affirmation of my partnership with my non-verbal colleagues.

Sometimes I look up to see Venus watching over all of us.

Venus reminds me that the universe knows everything will work out the way it should.

When I’m at the barn, I don’t think about anything else.

My time at the barn contrasts sharply with the rest of my day.

I spent an inordinate amount of time planning and prioritizing the seasonal events on the ranch – weaning the lambs soon is on my mind now.

I need to mitigate the worst of the consequences of separating lambs from their ewes.

I’ll reinforce the pen where I will feed the lambs so they can’t slip through and rejoin their mothers.

Round bales kill lambs almost as effectively as coyotes so I’ll place large square bales that lambs won’t undercut in the weaning pen before I sort off the lambs.

Ewes that are liberated from maternal duties like to discover new adventures just across the fence so I’ll work my way around the pasture, seeking potential holes and barricading them with yellow twine before the ewes start their annual fence-test.

The biggest contrast comes with business planning.

Nothing about finances, marketing or strategizing can be touched, smelled or heard.

No chickens run out to help me predict the uncertain days, months and years ahead.

No dogs bark their agreement with my personal crystal ball.

Predicting and planning for the future is important, but it certainly isn’t tactile and does not focus on the moment at hand.

Until it turns topsy-turvy.

Last weekend when a windstorm blew in from the southwest, I quickly rearranged my top priorities.

The ranch has endured winds as high as 80- to 100-mph from the north, east and west many times over the years, but winds from the southwest are unusual.

I was at the barn when gusts of rain began singing on the tin roof.

Dust blew sideways with the rain, coating the bales, chickens and my eyes in mud.

Normally, my working dog is not allowed in the barn, but I made an exception so he could dodge flying detritus.

This storm spun through a gap in the west wall of my barn, ripping off an old half-wall that hung from the roof.

Replacing and reinforcing those old boards was already on my to-do list, but seeing it splintered in a heap moved it to the top.

After all, a huge opening is vulnerable to west winds coming under the roof and raising it entirely off the barn.

A roofless barn isn’t much protection for those animals I feed every day.

The same storm pushed my cattle through the fence at my summer pasture and into my neighbor’s unharvested grain crop.

The barn would have to wait.

The cows need to stay home.

Fixing fence is tactile, even though chickens and dogs are not involved.

My back, arms and knees feel every hit of the post pounder.

My ears ring.

My fingers feel the snag of barbed wire.

I get to think as I fix the fence.

In fact, some of my best ideas appear as I twist wires.

Fencing, like chores, keeps me in the moment, yet allows my mind to explore.

Neither one qualifies as drudgery, at least for me.