February 10, 2016, 75°, big calves, great crew. Thank you, Earl!
The Roadrunner’s cry like a hawk
has changed to deep flute songs
calling spring like Kokopelli
in poppies on Sulphur Ridge,
wildfires spread across the green
where snows have lain.
Always his drawing in my mind,
these golden slopes he climbed—
the poem wrote before he died
too young, thirty-five years ago.
Sulphur sings his song today,
remembering all we can’t forget.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged California Golden Poppies, Earl A. McKee III, Kokopelli, roadrunner, Sulphur Ridge
JEG:
Despite January rains and El Nino prognostications, we’ve hit a typical winter dry stretch. Instead of 2 weeks warm and 2 weeks cold sometime in February,
the month has been warm, half the days thus far over 70 degrees. Relative perhaps, the trend is dry with expectations of an early and short spring. Stock water resources have nearly recovered, with more grass than cattle after four years dry, we should survive the coming summer and fall well, a familiar concern more normal than not for spring. Our country looks good, wildflowers spreading like wildfire upon the green, snow in the Sierras 1,000-1,500’ higher than we’d like to see. It will change quickly if the mid-70s, without rain for the next ten days, come to pass.
Garnered from branding photos, my ‘looking spry’ has connotations reserved for the old, the aging and antique that startle me, yet somewhat gratified that I can
still rope and ride. I was the old man in the branding pen yesterday with Brent Huntington’s uniformly big calves. Once untracked, I roped well, probably better than when I was younger worrying about how my horse and I would perform in the corral. Nowadays, the challenge is to be some help. On the way off the hill looking down on Three Rivers, Robbin and Terri compared my ‘style’ to that of the old timers, the generation before me, a compliment. To have an effective ‘style’ is beyond any expectations of the last forty-five years of branding calves, what has become more of a mindset apart from just catching that favors first the horse and calf.
Now sorted-off with the elders in this business, what did I have to impart over steak sandwiches and beer instead of politics yesterday? Be grateful that you don’t have to punch someone’s time clock in town, or commute to work, or have to listen to the noise of human neighbors, sirens, traffic. How much of the politics of the world actually touch us here in these hills, change how we have lived and worked over the years? This is another world, a forgotten world we adapt to, and no matter what the majority decides, what laws it passes, it has to eat.
So yes, I have been granted a little luck, to ‘look pretty spry whether tossing a loop or wielding an iron’.
J
Posted in Photographs, Ranch Journal
Tagged age, branding pen, John Grant, politics, spring, Three Rivers, weather
How many years have I
to wait for spring’s deep green,
the damp and dew, tender cotyledons
fresh as nested bird beaks open
drinking sun before they rise
in waves upon a breeze—
and flowers, like bright paint spilled
upon them. Ubiquitous Fiddleneck,
molten brass between the oak trees,
white skiffs of popcorn flowers,
splashes of red wine mallow,
the purple haze of lupine
and wild onion to rise like steam
on the horizons, colonies of poppies
in pockets out of reach to burn
like wildfire blind the eye
at a distance. The pale and delicate
families of Pretty Faces pose
for photographs, petals and stamen
of pink and purple mountain garland
twist in ecstasy before they fade.
Younger, I yearned for everlasting
spring, something almost heavenly—
yet nothing without the dry.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged Paregien Ranch, spring, wildflowers
We grow wild beneath
the Red Tail’s cry
for company, beside
the dragging sound
of snake bellies
on well-drained dirt.
We fold our petals, sleep
to insistent tree frog songs
as the moon dances
upon the rippling creek,
mumbling constantly
of where it comes from.
And when we bloom,
we draw bugs as lovers
to inspire seed, clusters
of small town colors
beneath the Red Tail’s cry
for company.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged Red Tail, Ridenhour Canyon, seed, tree frogs, white lupine, wild
We, all of you with me,
travel miles of spring saved
by a thunderstorm—Jeffers’
old violence not too old
to beget new values—
blinding splotches of gold,
bright pancake poppies
a squinted eye can’t absorb.
We are rich, wealthy in places
we cannot spend away
from here, yet want to take,
steal with a camera
to share with the poor
punching clocks, chasing dollars
in corrals they have built.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged "The Bloody Sire", Ridenhour Canyon, Robinson Jeffers, wildflowers
Somewhere upstream it rained hard on clay ground early Thursday morning, rainfall amounts varied drastically. We received 0.44” at the house. Two miles downstream received only 0.22”. Rain and hail three miles upstream amounted to 1.2” in this latest storm event. When the photo was taken around noon yesterday, Dry Creek was flowing at 28 cfs, a far cry from 542 cfs on January 31, 2016. No rain in the forecast until the end of this month.
According to El Niño experts, all the elements for a wet spring are still in place despite our dry and warmer than average February. Parts of California have fallen behind average rainfall amounts as the state hasn’t quite shaken the pattern set by four years of drought. Most of the Sierra snow below 7,000 feet that came at the end of January is gone with temperatures ranging in the mid-to-upper 70s this month.
What March and April will bring is anyone’s guess, but the current trend is dry. For those of us in the business of harvesting grass with cattle, it’s not so much about how much it rains, but when—timing is everything. Any accumulation of snow for Valley agricultural surface water users diminishes as we go forward with little or no significant increase in groundwater recharge.
At this point in time, El Niño has kept us alive, but hasn’t erased the impacts of four years of drought.