Rancher's Gold

      An early morning rainbow in the east may mean good luck. The same rainbow in the west means you’re about to get wet. The front swept down the slopes of the Rockies and met me a mile from the house. I tugged the brim of my cap lower over my face. Nico bowed his neck, slitting his eyes against raindrops that felt like miniature ice picks as we loped square into the wind.
     So much for the fifty-five degrees and sunny the weatherman had promised for shipping day.
     Didn’t help that we were on what I knew was probably a fool’s errand. Chances that any cattle would be in the west pasture were slim. But I didn’t dare assume. First time I didn’t bother to check would be the time a couple of cows were lounging down in the coulee with their big steer calves at their sides.
     So Nico and I fought the wind and the rain across the flat, down through the coulee, up the other side to the top of the rise, so I could see clear to the north fence.
     Nothing.

     We wasted no time swapping directions and putting the wind at our backs. As we trotted along the fence, skirted a bog, and jogged through the gate into the east pasture, the rain buckled down and got serious. I yanked up the hood on my Carhartt jacket and cinched it under my chin. There was nothing I could do about the icy water pooling on the back of my saddle and trickling down into the seat to soak my butt. My thighs were already wet clear through my jeans and long underwear.
     I hadn’t even chased a cow yet.
     The John Deere tractor rumbled over the hill from the house, lugging a round bale. My husband, no doubt chuckling and patting himself of the back for agreeing the night before to let me ride instead of driving the tractor. He would lead the way, hoping the cows would follow breakfast right to the corral.

     Nico and I started east, toward where I’d seen a cluster of cows clear up on the ridge. Mom was there ahead of me. When I spotted the four wheeler bouncing up the incline through the buck brush, I swung south instead. I should go clear to the road, but the cousins who lived west of us would have driven past on the way to help us, and I figured they’d have unloaded a rider or two to bring anything they saw clear out there. So once I’d reached the point where I could see there was nothing at the far reservoir, I turned north.

     Four more riders had arrived while I was making my loop, the cousins from the east. They’d already pushed the cows down out of the draw and onto the meadow. The rain did bring one perk. The band of horses that generally did their best to cause as much trouble as possible was huddled behind the calf shelter, tails to the wind. They weren’t budging.  

      I circled up the hillside and helped Mom push her little herd down to the gate and across the meadow. We caught up with the main bunch as they hit the barley fields. Water beaded on Nico’s ears and trickled down to plaster his mane against his neck. He pushed at the bit, annoyed at having to slow his pace to match the cows. I had to guess the identities of the other riders from their general sizes and shapes, bundled up and hunkered down against the rain. Like me, they’d all dressed for cold, but no one had expected the rain.

      The cows moved along pretty good until we hit the corner and tried to turn west. They took three steps into the teeth of the wind and mutinied. By then, my gloves were soaked clear through. My hands turned to cramped popsicles as we all trotted back and forth, shouting and coaxing and cursing at the reluctant herd.
      And the rain stopped.
     A patch of sky cleared, golden sunlight streamed through. The cows turned, suddenly cooperative. As we topped the last hill, the rainbow reappeared, curving ahead of us, right to the corral where we would sort of the calves to sell.
     Despite the wind cutting through my wet clothes, I had to smile. It seemed fitting. Shipping day is as close to a pot of gold as a rancher ever gets.

Hauling a load to the scales.

A snow squall hit as I pulled out with my second load.

Trucks waiting at my aunt's scales, lined up and ready to head for Nebraska.

Cowgirl's Guide to Literary Agent Feedback

I recently submitted what I considered to be a finished novel to my literary agent. She made suggestions and gave it back. I made some major changes and resubmitted. She made a few more suggestions, and sent it back. I fixed it some more, and resubmitted. As I type these words, she is once again reading the same book for the third time, this time doing line by line edits for things like typos and unnecessary words and stuff that makes her go ‘huh?’.

Have I mentioned that I’ve never paid this woman a dime? And never will, if she doesn’t persuade a publisher to buy this book?

Those of us out here in the West hear all the time about how people in New York City are rude and pushy and don’t care if they hurt your feelings. I can’t say for sure because I’ve never been there. But my agent hangs her hat in downtown Manhattan, and she has developed an entire vocabulary intended to keep the sensitive writerly types on her roster from doing physical harm to ourselves when she tells us what she thinks of our latest effort. I, however, have learned to decipher her secret language. Here’s what she says—and what she really means.

Perfect! – Of course, we both know it’s not perfect. Nothing ever printed or conceived by a human being has ever been perfect. But it’s finally close enough to be seen by a real live editor. Who, should she purchase the manuscript in question, will promptly write up thirty-two pages of edits to be completed prior to publishing. See? Perfect.

Almost perfect – Other than the two hundred and fifty-three extraneous uses of the word ‘just’ and eighty-five sentences that start with ‘And’, plus maybe you could give the climactic scene a touch more oomph?

Getting there – The plot mostly makes sense, none of the minor characters’ names change from Frank to Joe midway through the book, and I don’t have a burning desire to shoot either of the major characters. We are definitely on the right track.

You’ve got a great start here – Holy crap, do we have a lot of work to do.

Hmmm – Hello, recycle bin.

The Wanderer

We have tried to teach our kid manners. Honest. We did not train him to rifle your cupboards when we come to visit. It must have been the daycare lady. We also wish he was slightly less inclined to wander off on his own. For those of you who get exasperated because your kids are afraid of the dark? It’s also not so great having one that has no qualms about going for a stroll at eleven at night…by himself.

He’s been this way for as long as he’s been mobile. And yes, he has scared us to the point of someone sleeping on the couch on more than one occasion. (Come on, parents, admit it. You've all had the "I thought you were watching him!" fight.) At least it’s better now that we live on the ranch, away from traffic and abduction-minded strangers and the big irrigation ditch that ran right in front of our house in Oregon.

Not long before we moved back to Montana, my husband and Logan were home alone. Greg was shoeing a horse. Logan was playing with his tractors in the sand nearby. Nice thing about Hermiston, the whole place is one big sandbox. Greg hammered in the last two nails, set the horse’s foot down, and turned to check on Logan.

Gone.

He had sixty seconds head start, max. The pickup and trailer were parked between the barn and the house. Greg zipped around it to check the other side. No Logan. He hustled into the house, figuring Logan had gone for snacks. Not there.

Uh-oh. The irrigation ditch.

He sprinted outside and through the twenty yards of sagebrush to the ditch. No boy in sight. By now, Greg was in a panic, yelling for Logan, for all the good it did, because he didn’t ever feel the need to answer. Greg dashed back toward the house--just in time to see Logan come strolling out of the neighbor’s driveway, munching a strawberry Pop-Tart. Definitely one of those if-I-weren’t-so-happy-to-see-you-I’d-kill-you moments.

Especially when Greg realized the neighbor wasn’t even home.

Milk Cow Blues

When my mother was very young, they had a milk cow named Blue. Her older brother and sister, Ronald and Hazel, were in charge of milking chores. Twice a day, every day. Blue was a good old cow who kept their icebox overflowing with milk and thick, rich cream for several years.

One sad day, Blue ran out of milk.

A dry milk cow is of no use on a ranch. My grandmother cried as my grandfather put the wooden stock rack on the back of the pickup, loaded Blue up and hauled her off to the auction. He came home with a washing machine.

Until that point, my grandmother had done all of her laundry by hand, with a galvanized tub and washboard. The washing machine was a minor miracle. Ronald and Hazel were so excited, they hustled down to the well, hauled up water, heated it, and washed every piece of laundry in the house. Then they rode over to their grandmother’s house, collected her laundry, and washed it too.

Eventually, of course, the novelty wore off, and hauling water and washing clothes became just another chore for the kids. But my grandmother?

She shed a few tears for ol’ Blue every time she used that washing machine.

(Photo courtesy of Answers . com)

Wild Women and Fuzzy Men

Two days of fifty degrees with forty and fifty mile an hour winds can get rid of a lot of snow in a hurry. Today we moved the Longhorns east, out of the way of all the sorting and shuffling that will be going on over the next week as we ship most of the calves, wean the replacement heifers and decide which cows we'll be keeping and which will be culled. There are also the baby Angus bulls to wean and put on feed. Hopefully by Friday the six inches of sloppy mud in the corrals will be dry.

The Longhorns

Vegas in his fuzzy winter clothes.

The Long and Winding (icy, muddy, snowy) Road

There's an old joke that says behind every successful rancher is a wife with a town job. That would be me. Our ranch is 55 miles from the town in question. The first three miles is my driveway. The next nine are gravel county road. Then I finally get to a highway. But since Highway 207 ends at a border crossing that is only open from 9am to 6pm in the winter, it is essentially a dead end road during my morning and evening commute. It's me and the school bus out there most days.

Needless to say, the drive can be a bit of a challenge when we get snow, or even lots of rain. And since our ranch is higher in altitude and much closer to the mountains than town, conditions can vary dramatically from one end of my commute to the other. It's not unusual to get a foot of snow at our house while my co-workers get only a light dusting.

So I thought I'd invite you all to ride along on the drive home:

Yeah, the guy who cleans the parking lot LOVES my gravel roads.

This highway was clear, except for some slow moving traffic. (Or slow moo-ving, as one of my readers pointed out)

Getting closer to home, snow on the gravel road.

This section of the driveway is a little tricky. Took me three tries to get through it on Wednesday morning.

The last quarter mile of the road is drifted deeper than my bumper, but the hayfield blew clear, so this is where we cut down through the ditch and go cross country.

And finally...home.

As If You Had to Ask

Yes, it has been snowing at our house. I'm sure those of you who read this blog regularly aren't exactly shocked. Here's what the front lawn looks like: