Monthly Archives: July 2023

GETTING SHORTER

 

I don’t recall Dry Creek ever flowing into August, as springs continue to feed this morning’s 9 cfs (cubic feet/second).  March’s atmospheric river estimated 8,000 cfs, that scoured the channel and undermined the gauging station, left few places to cross the resultant boulder fields and cutbanks. Only now, as our cattle work winds down, do we have time to address some of the impacts of last spring’s rains.

Both for vehicles and cattle, I had to move our crossing downstream.  Moving the big rocks was rough work for the skid steer, but I had all the materials I needed in the high water drifts of sand and gravel to smooth the crossing this morning—less than a three hour job.  On the way to the corrals, hoof action of our replacement heifers will smooth it a little more.

We’re looking forward to September when the cows begin to calve, another month of a hundred degree weather that often extends into October, but the hot summer days are getting shorter.

IN THE COMPANY OF COWS

 

It’s a dirty trick

not to bring ‘hello hay’

by flake or bale,

 

to show empty-handed

with a cluttered mind

from another world.

 

If I had the time

I’d stay the day among them,

forget myself

 

and lie down and learn

to chew my cud

without thinking.

 

ON THE MARCH

We train our young replacement heifers to be gentle and to follow the Kubota or feed truck when we feed so when they go up the hill in the next year or two, we can gather them and their calves easily.  Having been through the same process, their mothers and grandmothers have imprinted this same calmness on their calves.

Due to the atmospheric rivers, we were unable to see our cattle for 3 months, but the calves gentled down quickly in the weaning pen on alfalfa hay.  Now weaned about 30 days, they’ve been turned out along the creek on native feed and a little extra green due to the spring rains.  We’ve been supplementing them once-a -week. While I was photographing the floods’ ensuing boulder fields and patches of cockleburs, they heard the Kubota and followed me, on the march, towards the feed ground, hoping it was the right day.

ACORNS

   

            One by one off trucks,

            hooked or boomed into the barn

            banked for the unknown.

 

Sweaty, sleeveless shirt, Dusty

Bohannon, until he died, unloaded

thousands of bob-tailed trucks

 

before the booms pitched bales inside,

before the squeezes stacked dumps up

for unknown winter times

 

like grounded vermin store

in tunneled chambers, or cackling birds

in fenceposts pecked with holes.

 

AFTER ATMOSPHERIC RIVERS

 

The magic remains along the creek

spread wide with naked cobbles pressed

together, exposed by flooding sheets

 

that ripped its sandy banks before

leaving the channel changed—

a landscape rearranged for the moment!

 

A summer gurgle, herons and egrets come

to wade abandoned pools of pollywogs

shrinking into moss-covered gravel.

 

Green cockleburs rise-up from ribbons

of sand, high-water veins bleached white

until colored or carried away with the burrs.

 

The truth is endless here—it will keep

saying the same thing in different ways

well after we are gone.

 

HIGH RISK FIRE AREA

We are among the many home and ranch owners whose insurance policies have been canceled because they were located in the revised California’s High Risk Fire Area that includes almost half of the state.

Drought conditions in 2017, 2018, 2020 and 2021 combined with poorly maintained PGE transmission lines in Northern California charred over 8 million acres that left insurance companies holding the bag for losses and fire suppression costs. After a month-long process, we found one other carrier with less coverage at twice the cost.

A decade or so ago, Tulare County used to spray the weeds on the shoulders of Dry Creek Road to reduce fire danger from catalytic converters, hot brakes and dragging safety chains. Currently, 4-foot tall dry weeds encroach on the eroding asphalt adding to our risk of fire.

An independent onsite inspection was necessary to establish baseline conditions for home, barns, tack room and shop. I waited at the end of the driveway for the inspector from the Bay Area who had become lost.  Up the drive in a cloud of dust she parked in the shade of a redbud as I followed in the Kubota. As she stepped out of her 2017 Chevy Volt, it began to roll down the slope, as she grabbed the door trying both to hold it and to get back in, towards our 500 gallon fire-fighting water wagon to veer at the last moment into the skid steer. She could have been seriously injured.

Though the hybrid rocked the skid steer upon impact, it survived unscathed. After assessing the damages to her car, we tied the plastic together with duct tape and hay string and tested the brake and turn signal lights. Drivable and legal, she went about her business of asking questions and photographing the structures while I showed her our firebreaks, plumbing for filling fire trucks and water wagon from our wells, while explaining that I had even stopped one fire myself with the skid steer.  

Having made it home safely, she conducted the remainder of her inspection with questions over the phone and texts over the next two days.  I repeated many of the photographs she had taken because of the glare from her cell phone, plus additional pictures of electrical service boxes and their manufacturers with interiors of all structures. In order not to have to dedicate another afternoon for another inspection, I essentially accomplished the onsite portion of her inspection.

I recount this calamitous and ill-advised process from a 75 year-old’s perspective, dumbfounded by the inefficient technological progress in that span of years.  Frankly, she had no more business navigating and assessing rural California than we would be navigating and judging San Francisco, the ironic culture clash between us resounding loudly.