Rancher Of The Year
A Story Where I Am Heroic
Just before we moved from Connecticut to Montana, we had a tag sale to put a dent in the number of possessions we were going to haul across the country. We laughed at that notion once we were faced with moving everything into our new home. How could all this stuff come out of one mid-sized moving truck? After much unboxing, sorting, discussion, and wild gesticulation, things were starting to take shape, but we were tired. A break was in order, so we decided to take a walk around the ranch to explore.
To the west of the house was a hayfield that had a creek running down the south border. On the north side was the county road that headed up into the Crazy mountains. Butch, our landlord, had moved his cows across the county road to an area called Ten Mile named after the creek that runs through it. We could now give the boys, who were 3 and 5 at the time, lessons on how to not step into cow patties. You can laugh if you want but it’s an essential lesson to be learned if you are going to live on a cattle ranch and be allowed to have your shoes kept indoors. It’s almost as essential a lesson as how to stay away from rattlesnakes. Well, that’s not quite right. The boys needed to learn to identify rattlesnakes and not pick them up because they were never going to stay away from them. What boy on a ranch would?
As we walked, we marveled at how beautiful everything was. The grass was emerald green. The snow in the mountains was bright white. The sky an intense blue without a cloud to be seen anywhere. That same year, a rancher told me that you can’t eat the scenery. I thought about it for days. The man was right but, admiring it doesn’t cost anything. As a bonus, looking at the scenery allows you to take a break from your work and stand up straight. Not a small thing when you spend so much of your day bent over like me.
We found a tumbled down shed at the end of the hay field. It contained the remains of an old truck frame along with rusty barbed wire, tin cans and worn-out tires. It seemed like a strange place for a truck to be. It was so far away from the house. Maybe originally the house was out here. I would have to ask Butch if he knew anything about it. Old places like the shed fascinate me. Someone worked very hard building the darn thing. The least I can do is look around while trying to understand what its purpose was. You never know what you can learn from a tumbled down shed.
We were in no hurry to get back to the house for more unpacking, so, after combing the wreckage of the shed, we walked at the three-year-old’s pace which meant stopping every five steps to look at bugs or deer poop.
“What’s that?” Jack asked pointing straight ahead. I couldn’t see what he was pointing at, but Kerry could.
“John, I think it’s a calf.”
It was indeed a small Black Angus heifer all curled up fast asleep. This wasn’t normal. Without her mother she was defenseless, a pack of coyotes could take a calf. She must be hungry. Her mom was miles away by now and had been gone for a couple days.
“What are we going to do?” Jack asked. Good question.
“Ok. You guys stay here and make sure junior doesn’t wander off. I’m going to walk back to get my rope and the wheelbarrow. We’ll catch her then take her back to the corrals and call Butch. Make sense?”
Everyone agreed except Michael who was silent. He had a concerned look on his face. It was almost like the three-year-old doubted we knew what we were doing. He hasn’t changed thirty some odd years later. After a quick walk, I retrieved my lariat from behind my truck’s bench seat then went in the shop to get the wheel barrow.
This is where you can tell how new we were to Montana. Today, I would have driven the truck out to the calf. It was still early in the year and irrigation hadn’t begun making the fields muddy so driving on the grass wasn’t going to hurt anything. We would grab the calf and put her on the floor of the cab tied up with some baling twine and bring her home. Instead, I pushed the wheelbarrow out to find my three rookie cowboys where I left them.
“She hasn’t moved,” Kerry said.
“Maybe I can just sneak up and get ahold of her leg,” I said. Creeping up on my intended victim, I made sure her eyes were closed. She was out like a light. The boys and Kerry moved in for a closer look. I bent over and grabbed the nearest hind leg.
You need to remember that I had been holding up horses by their legs for years. I had become very confident in my ability to hold on to struggling animals who were much larger and stronger than myself. This, however, was a tiny calf. She was no match for my super strong muscles and manly grip.
I grabbed the calf’s hind leg just above her foot. The little animal woke up while simultaneously going ballistic. She was bawling and kicking for all she was worth. We were doing a circular dance with me in the middle as the pivot while our calf danced around me.
“How can I help?” Kerry yelled.
“Ummmm,” was all I managed to say when that little wench kicked me right on the wrist and I let go. Not Kerry. The calf. The calf kicked me. Kerry wanted me to be very clear about that.
The calf, who was still young enough to be not very coordinated, was trying to run away. The boys didn’t know what to do when she ran at them, so they ran towards us. Young calves follow movement until their eyes focus so she chased after them. Jack would later say they were “charged” (I don’t know where he gets his exaggerated story telling abilities from). I picked up my rope, twirled it once over my head then threw a laughably bad loop at her. Somehow, it fell over her head, I tightened up whereupon she collapsed in a heap. The boys cheered. Kerry beamed with pride. I had triumphed over a week-old calf. I was a hero.
We tied up her legs while plopping her into the wheelbarrow for the long push back to the house. I called Butch, explaining what was going on. There was a long silence on his end.
“Are you sure it’s a calf?” He asked in an incredulous tone of voice.
“Butch, I don’t know lots of things, but I do know what a calf looks like. It’s a little black angus heifer. I’ll bet its mom is a first calf heifer.”
“You didn’t happen to see or hear a cow around the place?”
“Nope. It’s been quiet since you moved the herd.”
“That’s strange,” Butch said. “I’ll come on over.”
Butch lived not far away. When he arrived, he got out of his truck staring in disbelief. The boys were petting the calf who we had snuggled down in some straw.
“Hi Butch!” said Jack. “Look what we found!”
We both flanked Butch waiting for his confirmation that indeed, this was a baby bovine. He pushed his cowboy hat up by the brim a little with a sigh.
“I guess I’m not going to win Rancher of the Year again.”
We still laugh about that line all these years later. Butch is gone now. We miss him a great deal. I learned a lot about cows, ranching, even life, from him. His wife, Joan, reminds me of my mother in so many ways. She always thought to invite us over during holidays or parties. Kerry worked for Butch at the place irrigating. He always complimented her on how nice the fields looked.
“Keep on making me look good!” Was his favorite comment to her. I have lots of fun stories to tell about them.
Butch and I took the calf in his truck up Ten Mile to find the herd. They all came running, which surprised me.
“They think we are going to feed them,” he explained.
We then spent the next hour putting that calf out on the ground for the cows to inspect hoping mom would claim it, but no one did. They came in for a sniff, then walked away.
“Here’s a lesson about cows for you, John. Nature’s way is not always the best way. Assuming mom isn’t dead somewhere, sometimes something clicks in a cow’s head, and they abandon a calf, or kick them off so they can’t suck or even try to kill it. Hormones are funny things. Too much or too little and things happen you can’t explain.”
“So, what do we do now?”
“I’ll bring her home. I’ve got a cow whose calf died the other day and Ill graft this one on to her. I don’t think it will take much to persuade her to accept it. In the meantime, if you would keep an eye out for a bawling cow at the fence line or birds gathered on a carcass, I would appreciate it. I would like to know who abandoned her calf because she needs to go down the road to the sale barn. I don’t need cows who are trouble. Just get a number off the ear tag and let me know.
We drove back to the house where Butch dropped me off after shaking my hand to thank me.
“Tell Kerry and the boys I said thank you as well. Sorry I didn’t believe you. We haven’t had the chance to get to know one another yet. I’m glad we have you folks here to help out. I know this is going to work out for all of us.”
I stood on the deck in front of the house watching Butch drive away. He waved goodbye out his window. I waved back. Kerry came out and waved. I put my arm around her waist and drew her in tight while keeping an eye on Butch’s dust trail in the distance.
“Something wrong?” She asked with a concerned look on her face. We are not ones for public displays of affection.
“No. Not at all. In fact, everything seems to be right.”