Author Archives: John

MOTHER NATURE 101

 

 

1.

 

Thrum upon the roof,

the creek stretches loudly now,

rain streams day and night

 

from heaven’s dark skies—

a decade of dreams and prayers

descend upon us.

 

 

2.

 

Our totems come and go to rest

before our eyes, eagles and herons

inspect our souls without asking,

 

families of quail titter at our feet,

antlers tilt to consider our hunger

in places we mark in our memories.

 

 

3.

 

She doesn’t care, has no compassion

for our self-indulgence, shapes her track

of least resistance embracing landscapes,

 

rearranging the gravity of facts

we must endure when she leaves us

with fresh metaphors into the future.

 

 

SULPHUR PEAK 3,448′

 

Your robe’s frozen sleeve

reaches the creek once again,

my unending friend,

 

you carry both storm

and heaven on your shoulders

when I reflect up—

 

face unwavering

beneath sun and starlit night

always in the morning.

 

______________________________________

 

It’s been interesting weather, now half-way through our rainy season, over 18 inches of rain after a decade of drought.  Already whispers from the loudest drought complainers for relief as these hills leak crystal rivulets again. 

 

We lost a month in time in January to the Atmospheric River during branding season, and now with nearly 3 inches in the past 3 days and 3 inches more forecast for the next three, it will be at least a week before we can get to our upper country to brand the last bunch, putting us close to the middle of March.  These calves will be big, a handful.

 

The Paregien Ranch ranges from 2,000 to 2,600 with its own light blanket of snow now, time-released moisture soaking into the clay and granite ground that leaks down the smooth rock waterfalls of Ridenhour Canyon, adding to Dry Creek that peaked at 684 cfs last night, that probably washed out some of our watergaps replaced after January’s peak flow over 3,500 cfs.

Job security, but patience until we can get there—you can’t fight Mother Nature, just try to adapt and face the consequences—fully enjoy her luxuriant and persistent presence after so much needed moisture.

 

WINDMILL SPRING

 

How many jillion rains have washed away

the rodent digs from these exposed intrusions,

lichen-stained, fractured magma rockpiles

 

changing shape in the sun’s daylight and shadow

to appear to be alive for eons, like a trout

breaching a clay wave, free to see the sky?

 

Some have seen so much that they have souls.

 

 

Weathermaker

 

The foothill poppies are beginning to show on our south slopes as temperatures hover near 70 degrees.  The white popcorn flowers and orange fiddlenecks have begun to claim the gentler ground in what appears to be the beginning of a colorful wildflower year with the ample moisture (Atmospheric River) we received last month.

 

Beginning this evening, forecasts vary as temperatures drop into the low thirties with a cold front that will engulf California.  Weathermen are predicting snow down to 1,000 feet, nearly 1,000 feet below this photograph.  There is even some talk of fourteen inches of snow in Three Rivers.  Furthermore, Weather Underground predicts rain on all but one day for the next two weeks.

 

The road to the Paregien ranch has just dried out and cleared of fallen trees, but we still haven’t been able to get to the calves to brand up there.  We lost a month in time to the Atmospheric River in January, but two weeks of predicted rain with a week to dry out puts that branding into the middle of March at the soonest and our calves are almost too BIG to handle.

 

Nothing is certain in this business, but as a weather dependent livelihood we’ll have to be ready to adapt. (Cut another load of dead-standing Manzanita and Blue Oak yesterday, at least we should be warm).

 

 

 

 

COMING ALIVE

 

 

After ten dry years, the drought-killed,

dead-standing oaks have shed their limbs

in piles, like clothes at their feet—some

 

centuries claiming space, offering summer

shade to cows, acorns to a host of hungry

mouths, hidden homes to hawks and lesser

 

feathered flocks—and have begun to tip

over as the rain-soaked earth lets go

of their decomposing roots to rest

 

on fences or across the dirt tracks

between us and our children grazing

the ridgetops: like emerald thighs, toes

 

reaching for the flats along the creek.

Despite the disassembled skeletons

of a generation passing that litters

 

and melts into the ground, lush canyon

and slope come alive to welcome and beckon

to embrace me for the first time

 

in a decade—and I overwhelmed, submissive

having spent my penance on unknown sins

I will confess just to prolong this moment.

 

 

EAST BEQUETTE BRANDING 2023

 

As great (for us) as the three-week Atmospheric River was, it put everyone’s branding schedules behind, most roads too wet to get to our cattle.  Normally, we’d be at Elko this time of year, but with travel and time away from business, we needed to stay at home before our calves got too big to handle easily.

 

When I look around our community’s branding pens I realize now that most of the old timers are gone, that we have taken their places going ‘old-people slow’, and we prefer it.  Fortunately we have some young muscle to work the ground.

 

Robbin and I have scaled our operation down, in part due to our heavy culling to adapt to consecutive years of drought and also by selling half of our cows to my son Bob.  Branding pasture by pasture, our bunches are now small enough to get by with three ropers, one calf stretched at a time.  Our relaxed pace has become even more conducive for old friends to visit while we get the work done.  These photos from our second branding of the season, it’s been great!

 

We head to Tony Rabb’s next week to brand after he assesses the rain forecast for this weekend.

 

ROOTED IN DIRT

 

 

Seed to grain

on a whim of the weather

watched constantly

 

from space

and here on planet Earth

swirling with tempests

 

beyond the hands

of politicians—

try as they might.

 

Rooted in dirt

we search the habits

of our wild totems

 

for miracles

and pray to God as well

for luck.

 

 

CONFESSION ONGOING

March 10, 2011

 

Once the invincible gambler,

I was weaned on cowboy heroics

to wear the scrapes and scars

 

of chance and circumstance

stiffly—my bones now groan

ground under the pressure

 

of time, worn smooth as cobbles

in a creekbed.  Stride shortened,

my feet slide searching for stability,

 

having danced this earth as one

in my collected dreams aboard

four great horses I’ve outlived—

 

I am learning to change my mind,

to find the flavor in a moment

I’ll not savor another time.

 

 

RIBBON OF ROAD

 

RIBBON OF ROAD

 

                     Not the least hurt by this ribbon of road carved on their sea-foot.

                                          – Robinson Jeffers (“The Coast-Road”)

 

Fridays bring the caravans of Christians,

SUVs freeway-spaced and paced at sixty

up this snaky road to the pines and cedars

                                                                                    to pray

 

and low-snow weekends, the growl of mud grips

on decomposing asphalt, armies of colored jeeps

and shiny four-wheel drives drone up-canyon

                                                                                    to play

 

do not see these hills leaking with pleasure,

every wrinkle running with crystal streams

of rain, three weeks of storms rushing to

 

a rising, chocolate creek with foam, nor

the naked sycamores, leaves undressed,

white limbs dancing, rosy fingers reaching

 

for steamy clouds afloat upon the green

oak-studded slopes, black dots of cattle

scattered with all the legends gone before me.

 

RECHARGING THE BATTERY AS IT RAINS

 

The fine dust upon old tools I have forgotten

as I clean the shop: my brace and bits, some

long-enough to chew through creosoted

 

railroad ties while scraping granite gravel. Mighty

hugs to my shoulder in long, youthful spurts

that warmed the birdshot bearings out-of-round

 

where there was no electricity to hang a gate

miles from the asphalt. It was my third.

I wore them out. I knew no other way.  

 

I recognize the dead scent of time as mine

on the shelves, in wooden boxes no one makes

anymore, protecting stiff-leather headstalls

 

and rusty bits we’ll never use again. I must make

room for the cordless handyman, especially

since this old battery has begun to run down.