We ride away from each other, waving our hands,
While our horses neigh softly, softly . . .
Li Po (“Taking Leave of a Friend”)
No Luddite sure, yet technology’s unwanted intrusion
reminds of the woodpecker’s rapid-fire assault
on the eave, on the metal roof, on the smudge pot lids
closed cold in the orchard when I was a boy. I wonder
about their rattled minds, what natural shock absorbers
slide like hydraulic cylinders between bill and brain
to cushion their rat-tat-tat attacks on the world.
Our push button culture saves jillions of steps
that leave invisible trails nonetheless, for invaders
we don’t want to see, don’t care about— yet
tech has allowed me to know you and Chinese poetry
from half-way ‘round this distressed planet.
I am amused with the new vocabulary of weathermen like “hydroclimate whiplash” during the atmospheric rivers a couple of years ago. I just read a new one, we’re on day 21 of our “tule stratus” as we head to Paregien’s to gather for Wednesday’s branding where hopefully we’ll be above the fog.
How nice it was to see the sun above the fog topping out at 1,800 feet, temperature in the high 70s. Down on Dry Creek this a.m. it was 35 degrees.
We went up to the Paregien Ranch to make some repairs to the corrals and cut some dead trees out of our dirt roads and off the fences. The oaks that died during the 2012-2016 drought are really tipping over now. A joy to work in the sunshine before we brand calves next week.
It hasn’t come “on little cat’s feet” (Carl Sandburg), instead a blanket hanging for 10 days straight, a “radiation fog” as it’s now named, 44 degrees high yesterday, 38 degrees this a.m.
Of course, nothing compared to the snow storms elsewhere, but our grass needs sunshine. Other places in the San Joaquin Valley have experienced zero visibility, and often here the low lying fog spills over the ridge clear down to the creek. Perhaps tomorrow we’ll get some sun.
Lots of commentary on the cattle business lately with a focus on the price of beef. But relative to inflation, $20 will buy a cheeseburger, fries and a soda or a USDA Choice New York steak at Costco. What a deal!
Our 4-year drought (2012-2016) doesn’t seem that long ago when we had to cull some older bred cows for slaughter in order to feed the rest of our herd expensive hay. A good part of the reason why producing cow numbers are at a 75 year low. Though the media has its red meat theories, nobody mentions that the US population has more than doubled since 1951. This is simple to understand: supply and demand.
KEEPING SECRETS
How do they know, these old fat cows that read a baggy sadness in my walk among them checking irons as they pull
alfalfa stems apart to tongue green leaf in the corral? The gates are set, waiting for the truck to town. There is nothing
right about the moment, that they know— little consolation in my voice, they eye me suspiciously searching for details
in my muted gestures. If I told them all I know of town, of auction rings and rails, they would all revolt
for the brushy hills, lay fences down to take their chances without water through the summer—that I know.
-JCD (“Best of the Dry Years, 2012-2016”)
The three variables for the cattle business are weather, price and politics, any one which can reduce our once-a-year paycheck to a loss, but two or more can be an economic disaster—none of which have we, nor the government, any control over.
In the photo above, Robbin and I fed a few replacement heifers before the forecast Atmospheric River. The grass geminated last month has become short and spotty and we have to keep them in shape to cycle and breed when we turn the bulls out in two weeks—just part of the business.
I wake with the dream after telling Earl how many cattle of his I saw, ten to twenty cows at a distance in and out of the brush, chemise and manzanita peeling flies off their backs while grazing new green under their protection—
part of a flat mountain pasture claiming space between the rocky slopes of Live Oak with a good spring hidden from mortal eyes— a perfect place for heaven, for the cows and calves I spied that we agreed to gather this morning.
They didn’t seem shy, didn’t lift their heads to see me on the ridge trying to get a count while searching for an overgrown way out as they moved slowly, one step at a time, each leg waiting its turn towards taller grass.
But which horse that has died am I too old to ride, though Earl is young and ready without a plan for the adventure? Panicked, what am I to do? I roll awake relieved from dark saddling, overjoyed to have connected with my neighbor and foster father.
drycrikjournal 