Buck Season Survivor
Paregien Ranch
October 26, 2009
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Paregien Ranch
October 26, 2009
Skirts sewn with low roads, parallel trails with grass
up the middle, first glance is never quite the same –
her bare steep slope south, one long ridge, high post
to peak, patch of laurels on her decomposing flesh –
north falls into buckeye, manzanita, live and poison oak
too thick to stand afoot, for man to approach.
Sprinkled with cattle grazing the grip of boney fingers
digging west into the creek or east into Mankins
where generations stayed before the homesteaders
quit their rock chimneys – high-pressure fold,
magma thrust upwards, pockets of crystal and quartz
set in granite, cracked seams leaking springs, she wears
little grass with her winter cap of snow. She does not
blink at my impatience and frustration with the world –
with the wet or dry years – she doesn’t really care.
I come prepared to edit, to cut and slash
hoping for refinement, some hope
for us all in that illusive space
where events unfurl from easy dreams –
that middle ground of pastoral song,
of grass and animals, legs deep in green.
The poem comes to me in the shower,
in the steam, line after lyric line
I must have read, I must have written
in my sleep – you all were there
and we breathed sweet harmony.
Too quick to remember, the words
streamed in banner lines I tried
to memorize, each ricochet leading
me away from the song still floating
somewhere in my mind. I could see it
happening, the real possibility that
with a little good luck we will survive.
- for Linda Hussa
Greasy Creek
October 20, 2009
On the southern edge of the October 13th rain event that brought 2 inches and broke the .88” record set in 1968, we have green. Temperatures were in the mid-80s for the next four days, humid and muggy as the earth and dry feed steamed under broken clouds, resulting in a quick and thick germination of native grass. All grins at the sale barn yesterday, I’m told, consensus being that no one has ever seen the grass start so dramatically.
Cotyledons were evident by the 14th and by the end of the week the first-calf heifers had lost interest in alfalfa, opting up the hill with their calves instead. Mostly washy with little strength at this stage, they were ready for some hay by Monday, though not enough to clean-up half-rations. All quite remarkable for those that depend on weather and grass - we’ll see where it goes.
Flat - Yearling heifers
October 20, 2009
Belle Point - "BB" ('Brahma B--ch') & calf
October 20, 2009
Lower Field - JCD afoot
October 20, 2009
Lower Field - Hereford calf
October 20, 2009
Once again we're here to choose one man,
Picked to hold our banner high.
He's a tried and tested cattleman,
Watching close as the years roll by.
He's seen the good and bad years,
As he's ridden along the way.
He's shed laughter and some sad tears,
When his friends were called away.
But through it all he's kept his goals,
While culling his cow herd deep.
With replacement heifers that he controls,
That were tagged as the ones to keep.
With cows like his, havin' early calves,
Who as weaners may top the sales.
With steers weighin' eight and their heifer mates,
They'll sure as hell mash down the scales.
His Granddad came to this ranching game,
about four generations back.
Then came his Dad who rode this range,
And his son never lost the knack.
Now the fourth generation is coming in view,
And he's startin' to pick up the reins.
This is what we’re about, this is what cowmen do,
We're the ones left protecting the range.
Well it's time to divulge who this welcomed choice is,
This man wasn't selected by chance.
Lately we roamed together ore' this great place of his,
My most memorable part of his ranch.
May he keep up the good fight and up the hill climb,
And his future with cattle climb higher.
The recipient cattleman of two thousand nine
Is none other than John Dofflemyer.
- Earl A. Mckee, October 16, 2009
Earl McKee & Plenty Valentine
February 28, 2008
http://www.bar-o-ranch.com/history.html
Quite an honor and quite a surprise to be introduced with a poem by Earl at the Tulare County Cattlemens' Fall Banquet last Friday night.
[see the September 30, 2009 poem "Greasy Creek" in 'Recent Posts']
A man should (once a year
to get his head straight)
pack deep into the mountains up
tumbling rivers to the timberlines –
to the granite and the tamarack
to cook by. Damn few people
on the trails, damn little sign
of progress but for the night jets
and sputniks dodging stars,
or the sun glint of a bullet load
of humans crammed at the head
of fading contrails. A man needs
to breathe thin air and thunderstorms,
keep his counsel round a fire -
white hot coals feeding flames
reducing time to cold gray ash –
a place to be aware and go neutral.
A man should gooseneck the horses
to the trailhead – pack saddles, food
and gear and go a couple of days in
and stay awhile – get small, get
perspective, watch time roll
downcanyon with the river
doing nothing, but
there’s no space
on my calendar
for sanity.
Keeping distance and space
like unemployed bulls
pastured together is tricky business
moving from water to shade tree –
lots of postured grumbling, deep
silt holes pawed upon wide backs
stirring black clouds of flies.
But when it rains the air clean,
they can bellow for miles –
heads caked with mud,
they’ve whipped the earth
ready to inhale the moon.
A remnant of typhoon Melor left 1.82” of rain since yesterday morning, settling the dust and enough to begin our grass season. Low clouds hanging in the canyon, chance of showers left today. Nice clean air, good time to take a deep breath.
Somewhere you are dying, a path crossed
remembered and lost – sweet moments sculpted,
an innocence now seasoned with perspective
from other places. We did not know it,
did not believe the obvious,
and did not care what others thought.
More like fish than the mast lights of ships
passing on an empty sea, more like swimming
parallel for awhile in a current of our own
making. Will you remember when you wonder
on your death bed, when you are tired of life,
and will you smile at all the things we said?
Not every face has a name anymore, some
I’ll never forget. But we stirred the waters
with words, wild words, for a moment.
Fumbling with early morning laces
the kittens have left in unequal lengths,
always loosening the wrong one first
to make them right to tie,
I realize that it is our devices
that don’t always work well,
that frustrate our day, and nights –
our genius that is not perfect.
The float on the trough leaks
where the horses played last night
and the cows in a dust cloud
impatient for hay don’t know
it’s Sunday. There will be more
before the sun breaks the ridge –
Hallelujah, the brilliance of it all!
It turned substantially cooler at the end of September, dropping away from the string of 100 degree days and into the 70s with a few large raindrops as the tailend of a northern storm passed over central California. No complaints from man or beast! Most of our energies are still focused on pumping water for cattle, keeping the tanks full and feeding bulls and heifers.
Over half of our first-calf heifers have calved, as we begin their second cycle. Calving, thus far, has been easy on the coming two year-olds and their Wagyu X calves are active and healthy. Along the road, we’re pleased as to how much they look like the Angus at this stage.
Two year-old First-calf heifers
October 4, 2009
Wagyu X Calves
September 11, 2009
Our coming three year-old first-calf heifers were bred to Angus bulls. Quite a luxury to have them parade by the office window every morning anticipating a little hay.
3 year-old First-calf Heifers
September 29, 2009
Angus Calves
September 29, 2009
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