DRY CRIK Journal

            you can usually be free some of the time
                if you wake up before other people.
                             - William Stafford (“Freedom”)

One must be free to follow a river
like mountain men, fishermen – like
children, first or last time, remembering

the smell of bear clover in the cedars
that hasn’t moved in fifty years, or the
velvet moss, mist and roar, the translucent

cave you hid within that still churns
at Soda Springs – your huge, flood-worn
rock awaits another string of rainbows.

Otherwise, we forget where we come from,
forget the fine details of dreams, forget
to rewrite our stories in the mirror, or find

connections where there seemed none.
It can be a quiet time, or not, but when
it’s black outside, no one else knows.

Posted by John Dofflemyer at 7:47 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

The little rain stalled off the coast for days arrived before 11:00 p.m. and been here since with gusty winds, electricity’s been off twice - lit the candles, waiting for daylight to see
how much a little is. Regardless, it's just right for the new grass.

Posted by John Dofflemyer at 5:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Robbin and I called a handfall of cows from the far ridge and out of the canyon in Greasy Cove, part of Lake Kaweah when full. Seven expectant mothers chugged up the mountain for some hay. Normally, we wouldn't pull these cows from where they're obviously doing well, but this bunch was breaching fences a month ago to graze new Bermuda grass in the main lake bottom not far from the highway to Three Rivers. We'd like to have them a little closer to home when they have their calves.

Ambushed by most of the cows in the bottom of Sulphur, we had a helluva time getting the truck in a position to feed.

Hereford X calf in Sulphur

Railroad on Top - Blue Heron in an oak tree you can't see.

A few gray roan calves are showing up this year in different pastures. Some strange alignment of the stars and the genetics from our Hereford bulls on Angus cows. But they are cute and will grow into some nice, big calves.

From Rabbit Flat on Top looking down the mouth of Dry Creek Canyon and the Valley beyond as promised showers approach. We cut a little manwood (manzanita) before coming off the mountain, feeling pretty good about living a dream.

Posted by John Dofflemyer at 7:03 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

We must be certain, it seems, of certain things –

to have a map of where we’ve been, photographic
evidence that we opened the shutters to let the light in.
Everybody’s got a camera on them – given-up

the lease on that open range in the brain
where we branded the extraordinary action,
the irreplaceable peace to become subjects –

given-up our memories to become one
star in the universe, light years away calling,
drawing us closer like moth to flame.

Posted by John Dofflemyer at 7:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Not quite like sheep,
our leaders are decoys
dressed like us, agile
with words that taste good,
but lack the seasoning
that gives feed strength

and we are grazing.
They all have that
same look in their eyes,
showing shallow puddles
like children telling lies
and we want to believe

them. We turn to face
ourselves, wander off
in twos and threes, get
small from the herd
and all the clichéd calls
for a better tomorrow.

My protest poem with six more days to go. Ad campaigns that all say the same thing: NOTHING! I'm afraid my absentee ballot is going to have a lot of blank boxes - so disappointing when times are tough.

Posted by John Dofflemyer at 6:07 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

The same naked trek into first light
as you sleep, my sound of heel upon
a wooden floor for fresh shirt and socks –

all the possibilities of a day’s work align
with the necessity of trying to stay ahead
of trouble, breaking trail for tomorrow.

We paint by day, small strokes now, details
that can be washed away in a heartbeat,
in a storm, in the unlikely – despite the joy

of being able. How I wish I’d known
when I was young and hard that this
was it – that we could make it true.

Posted by John Dofflemyer at 6:39 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

A slow, overnight rain left .44" in the gauge this a.m. that should finish germinating our new feed, green that is spotty, at best, as a result of the inconsistent thundershowers earlier this month. Forecast temperatures for the remainder of the week range from the high 60s to low 70s that ought to get our grass season underway with more rain slated for Thursday & Friday.

With some calves nearly two months old, some cows are noticebaly thinner despite increased hay rations. We will continue feeding for a couple of more weeks at least, until the new feed gets established. Big sigh to know our season has finally started.

Posted by John Dofflemyer at 7:05 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Lighting, wind and thunder was a wonderful change yesterday, but only amounted to six hundredths rain, showers possible later today. Last rain on the 10th wasn’t quite enough to get the grass started, so we’re still feeding hay.

Posted by John Dofflemyer at 8:59 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Unseasonably warm this past week, the first lone ships floated-in from over the Pacific on Friday, near 90 degrees. With more of the fleet docked atop the Sierras last evening, temperatures dropped on a steady southern breeze. This morning’s dark smells like rain, but no showers yet. Significant weather change, it ought to be a nice day.

Posted by John Dofflemyer at 5:19 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

It’s another cartoon where the canon booms
a perfect hole in the character’s chest – healed
and forgotten by the next pane. Grief is not

like that. We are alone a long time, adrift
as we should be, taking inventory of what’s left
of who we are. We feel around the jagged cavity,

tie-off the severed arteries, sew-up the flesh –
try to make something of living, or not.
But we’re never the same character again.

It is so easy on the page, adding color and
filling-in with emphasis. Easy to draw upon
the paper, put words in a balloon and let go.

Posted by John Dofflemyer at 5:31 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

California Buckeye
October 12, 2010
Greasy Creek

I love the Buckeyes this time of year as the leaves turn redder and begin to drip off the branches. The late spring tassels have been transformed to buckeye balls that encase a huge seed, about and inch and a half in diameter. The husks will begin to crack and drop these seeds at their feet - on the slope they roll. If eaten, the seeds can be extremely hallucinogenic to humans.

Posted by John Dofflemyer at 10:50 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

We stand on what God gave us,
what has not worn away with time,
like trees, some better than others –

hillsides of protected acorns awaiting
their trial of light. Some will survive
the droughts, but all will fall eventually.

Do not look to the stars for equity.
Better to grip with what’s left of your roots,
hang-on and try to keep your balance

in the wind. Each slope has old ones,
some for centuries surrounded by progeny
thick as hair on a dog’s back.

Posted by John Dofflemyer at 6:13 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Awaking to steady rain several times before midnight, a little over a quarter inch by this a.m., it may be enough to get our grass started. A few showers forecasted as the clouds clear and temperatures rise to the low-80s by this weekend. Beautiful!

Posted by John Dofflemyer at 5:43 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Very pleasant weather with high temperatures dipping down into the 70s, the low pressure is still stalled and pulling tropical moisture out of the Pacific to inundate Arizona – Central California is getting Gail and Amy’s leftovers that have been cooling over Nevada on their way back into our area – just light showers from all-day clouds stacked against the Sierras.

Unseasonably chilly in the mornings, suddenly it has begun to feel like a colder winter waits ahead.

Posted by John Dofflemyer at 11:28 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

We have options like optometrists, lens upon lens
to look upon the world, within ourselves, and when
the rough edge sounds redundant, I find Stafford

trapped in a cage with a wild woman farmed bare –
and I remember my first jolt, where my eyes fixed,
trying not to stare. Even as the Romantics pine

with illusion, truth with beauty, each detail rises
upon a landscape stirred with passion – where
mountains heave and rivers rumble in our throat.

There are options at the State Fair, every barker
with a crowd gathered ‘round, offering sweet
oddities, peeks into another world we claim as real.

Posted by John Dofflemyer at 5:38 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Follow the shiny track, unroll thoughts
atop the dust dulled by an autumn shower,
after the quail coveys danced the sun down

and left for the trees. She stopped here,
turned, looked back frozen for awhile –
replayed it all until it did not matter,

could not hold her still, then moved on.
She does not know what drives her away
from the others, to a safe and private place

with shade she knows she can ruminate
in peace. The landscape within the print
is delicate, each fragile ridge and valley

erode with every breath of a breeze –
grains of dust like boulders become unstuck
and roll into landslides – she is close.

I see generic possibilities, black silhouettes
against dry, yellow grasses or hidden within
a tangle of faded, fallen limbs – head bent

to the ground or still down struggling. Slow
into the canyon, I search the familiar, look
for the flick of an ear or little one, up sucking.

Posted by John Dofflemyer at 7:08 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Rather unusual weather this past week as a stalled, low pressure system off Baja slowly unwinds, kicking a little moisture, but mostly clouds, over the southern Sierra foothills. Just enough precipitation each afternoon to wipe out the tracks from the day before. Temperatures have eased from 100 degrees into the 90s, making it pretty steamy. We’re expecting mid-80s with a 50% chance of rain today. Sprinkling this a.m. as I write.

Posted by John Dofflemyer at 5:46 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

We had a time along the trail, heaping wood
upon the fire, howling with the coyotes as we
passed the cup, knowing then it would not last

our lifetimes – that vast desert out there
unexplored and unlearned – never to return
to that ignorant moment we loved so,

yet have forgotten over years of chasing
something other than the sun that I await,
even now, for an early start in the dark.

The old bull knows his pasture, plods
at ever-changing angles, measures steps
and waits to make his circles sure despite

the news, those bellows ringing fear. We had
a time and know where we’ve come from –
how luck has let us live to say goodbye

to the flesh and hello to the taunting faces
of ghosts gathering at the finish line.
‘Great day for the race!’ Dad used to say.

Posted by John Dofflemyer at 6:39 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Good year for Turkey Mullein, too!

Turkey Mullein, Dove Weed
Dry Creek
September 30, 2010

Turkey Mullein, Dove Weed
Dry Creek
September 30, 2010

Toxic to animals, crushed plants were used by the natives to stupify fish. Dark, round seeds attract dove, quail and other birds.

Posted by John Dofflemyer at 5:31 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)