Mares exhibit great distress at the loss of a colt, much like what you see and hear about elephants upon the death of a family member in the herd. That is what came to mind as I observed the hoof churned soil around the silent prone body. Coco perplexed and distraught started her nervous head swaying from side to side, once in awhile making a full arching circle as we loaded the corpse into the back of a truck.

Each wished we had checked her just one more time during the night.

Scootin N Bootin and her new foal. We might call him Roller Derby if we can get the name. He had a stomach ache and rolled like a big horse on his back side to side, trying to relieve the discomfort. That is what told us he needed some help.

There is a story behind this mare. While living at Fort Campbell, Kentucky our son Nathan made friends with the matriarch of an old established family in the Nashville area. They met at the dog pound; it was a common bond in dogs, horses and Confederate geneology that led to Nathan spending weekends at their home riding horses for the family.

To make a long story short, Nathan came home with two pound puppies, and two Thoroughbred mares rescued off the race track. So, we are in the race horse business. We have one fancy colt that we named Contact Sport that is a year old. His daddy was second in the Preakness, his mother is probably the fanciest mare that has ever set a hoof on this place. Scootin lost her colt last year, so we are excited that she has a live and healthy foal on the ground. There is nothing like a bred-up Thoroughbred, they are a thing of beauty.

Mother nature wants to keep us on our toes here at the Vineyard Ranch just south of Contact, Nevada. It wasn't too bad until the breeze came up; the earth's early morning deep breathing exercises before getting about the business of the day. Animal and man will wait for the sun to return which will probably take a big wind to roll the storm on out toward the plains states.

Since the Gathering in Elko in late January I have spent considerable time contemplating how we slice and dice this man made invention called time. Our relationships, jobs, mornings, afternoons and nights are digested by the minutes and seconds that tick away as we go through our lives.

She taught me how to do things right, not fast. That is one of Bud William’s messages that when working with cattle, an extra half an hour on the front end can save you hours in the end. Mom was like that. She wasn’t big on short cuts. She could work me into the ground up until her life’s work caught up with her.

Over the past few years as we traveled through the labyrinth of hospitals, rehab facilities, and care centers, her physically demanding life became more and more apparent. The knotty knuckled liver spotted hands that struggled to hold a coffee cup steadily became a symbol of her life. They were not the hands of idleness, manicured and pristine in their old age, they told a story of outdoors, hard work and activity.

As I look at my own hands I see Mom. I see a long strong line with the beginnings of knots and spots and old scars that tell of my life. Seeing, I know it is not just a genetic code that I pass on, but the choice to watch baby calves being born renewing us after a long winter sojourn, and the privilege to listen for the blue herons return to the meadows in spring. It is a gift to pass on to my children, her grandchildren, a way of life and work that she lived and loved.

As the cold dreariness of winter passes with the teasing and ticklish pleasure of sunshine, the ranch New Year begins with a new calf crop that starts to drop with the lengthening days. A hint of green grass, and the growing strength in the afternoon sun heralds the beginning of a newness and freshness. It is a cycle of endings and beginnings, of rebirth and death as old as time itself: a mysterious drama at the center of man’s creativity that is reassuring.

Betty Johnson and grandson, Nathan Boies

In the beginning I wondered why Blunt called the book Breaking Clean instead of Clean Break. After contemplating, breaking clean is a longer more painful and messy process than making a clean break. The image of a jagged-edged piece of broken glass, compared to a scored edge of cut glass came to mind. The jagged edge has the potential to inflict more damage, but if held up to the light the edges reflect more colors.

My experience marrying into another ranching family has been a much more positive one than that described in Breaking Clean. But one point that really struck home was the articulation that our generation of women are caught in a world of corporate ownership versus the partnership model of our parents. In contrast, we watched our parents participate as partners on the ranch, even if there were gender issues within that relationship.

While reading Blunt’s book I realized that the issue of ownership paralleled another experience. Early on in life, I had the opportunity to learn that owning something did not necessarily mean a greater appreciation of the object of ownership, perhaps just the opposite. I don’t have to own a great work of art to appreciate and love it.

This led me to realize that this might be likened to the relationship the “interested public” has with federal lands of the West. This sense of communal ownership is evidenced by the growth of NGO’s like the Nature Conservancy, Sierra Club etc. and the demand for growing participation in public policy governing federal lands.

Understanding that sense of love and appreciation without ownership could get us a long way in understanding the motivation of the public. Many friends who have been shut out of the family circle on the family ranch can perhaps take some comfort in knowing that to cultivate that caring beyond ownership is perhaps a higher calling. It presents an opportunity for great personal growth, and perhaps an understanding that leads to a better future for all in the western agricultural industry.

Breaking Clean helped to clarify an issue that I could never quite identify in my life and the lives of friends who struggle traversing the minefield of business and family. I am also grateful for identifying with all those strangers who appreciate western lands. Despite the controversy that so often consumes us, we have a common ingredient in loving the land, whether we want to admit it or not.

May the peace and purity of a cold Nevada morning be with you today and throughout the year. Merry Christmas from the Vineyard Bunch

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Since September we have been shipping cattle, yearling steers and heifers that were either sold over the video auction or are being sent to the local sale yard. If not working yearlings, we have been gathering up the cowherd. Most wander home on their own but there are always those that prefer to stay out. They are the valuable ones, but we have to locate them and give them a push home with horse and dog.

Today though is a reprieve from the weather and the work. It is a beautiful clear warm winter day. To take advantage of the weather we went after a group of colts that were up country and needed to come home. We still have a horse permit which allows us to run a portion of our horses out on the BLM.

After the colts were run in to the Dry Creek corral, I decided to stay and wait while Steve and Sam hauled the saddle horses home and came back for the load of colts. After protests of “What if,” I convinced them I would not freeze to death or fall prey to a mountain lion. What they didn’t know is that I had a thermos of coffee and a few goodies packed with my camera and notebook. What a great day to be away and by my self, away from phone, computer, balance sheet, and cook stove.

Either curious or hungry, just like a bunch of teenage boys.

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The last few years have been pretty chaotic. Our son Nate was in Iraq for a year, shortly after his return to the states, my mother had a debilitating stroke and after a solid year of traveling through hospitals, rehab facilities and nursing homes our youngest son graduated from high school and we moved home to the ranch full time, selling the house in town. This was followed by another year with more time spent away from the ranch negotiating the labyrinth of the Medicare system and trying to make things as good as they could be.

It hasn’t been until this fall that I’ve felt a settling down and an awareness that the pace has slackened. Instead of a full-extended trot out in the morning because I know there won’t be enough daylight, it is beginning to feel more like a Western Pleasure shuffle, slow, head down, the sl-o-o-o-w trot.

My husband Steve has been generous and intuitive about this. After summer cooking, he took over preparing breakfast at the cookhouse. Steve, Sam our son, and Dan, one of the ranch hands, take turns with the cooking. This seems like quite a miracle and how liberating for them, or so I encourage.

Looking east down the Dry Creek drainage.