Category Archives: Ranch Journal

ENCORE

 

 

Dark theater, gentle applause
spreads from roof to balcony
beginning the Gig of the Decade

                    Janis Joplin at the Shrine,
                    all-electric, deafening wails
                    of agony and fury released

to storm the canyon, swell the creek
with memories: every rig hip-deep
in a frappé of clay, a daisy chain
of pickups and winches leapfrogging,
churning chocolate pudding
to the asphalt, warm woodstove
and loud whiskey replays
of how we learned the hard way.

                    Big Brother’s tuning-up
                    behind the black curtain,
                    yellow and green stage left
                    on the radar as we wait.

 

YouTube: ‘Maybe’

 

Rain & Flood Advisory

 

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With ample warnings from various sources, we’ve been preparing for more rain. Wednesday and Thursday brought 1.5” here on Dry Creek which peaked @ 233 cfs Wednesday night—all quite tame—so far. The ground was saturated after 5” of rain in December, a third of our average annual rainfall, and most all of what may be coming our way will end up as runoff.

The byword all week has been ‘atmospheric river’ with various amounts of rain forecast for the next ten days that range from 5-15”. Low snow levels in our Sierra Nevada mountains down to 4,000’ from the last storm, now await a large warm storm slated to arrive tomorrow morning and last through Monday with rain up to an elevation of 9,000’, bringing the real risk of some downstream flooding.

Though the high-end rainfall projections may be hearsay from the local doughnut shop, they spark memories of past years when we weren’t able to cross Dry Creek for weeks. Speculating beyond that is unnecessary, but the beekeeper who parks his hives along the creek for the winter moved them all to higher ground last night.

What we do know is that the Dry Creek channel is laden with deadfall since the last four years of drought, with many dead-standing oaks and sycamores along its banks. The last channel-cleaning was in 1997 when Dry Creek peaked near 7,000 cfs and tipped the brush catchers over across from the house. We can be sure that every barbwire watergap between neighbors and pastures will be gone, cattle free to graze the canyon from Badger to Lemon Cove and points beyond.

This morning we’ll be cleaning gutters and culverts, testing the backup generator, and ensuring that our cows and calves, that have yet to be branded, won’t be trapped on the wrong side of the creek. It may be one of those years when the calves are big and help from the neighbors hard to come by, but we’re all in the same boat—launching tomorrow.

 

Tenugui

 

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Appropriately, my hand-dyed ‘tenugui’ arrived just ahead of a string of storms from Japan to California that are predicted to deliver five inches of rain beginning this evening through January 9th. A gift from Evelynne Matsumoto that “seems to bring rain in Japan” depicts Raijin, the mythical deity of thunder and lightening and Fujin, the deity of the wind. Having the rain and the Raijin tenugui arrive at the same time is no more inexplicable and astonishing than reconnecting with Evelynne, my babysitter of sixty-five years ago—just full of magic.

As followers of my poetry know, I am easily susceptible to the notions of special gods and goddesses for rain, and subsequently intrigued by the 100s of deities that are revered and recognized in traditional Japanese culture. By comparison our culture today will never be as rich or lasting.

 

Gesundheit!!

 

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Living where we work, our exposure and resistance to ever-evolving, human contagions is limited. And though our immune systems may be naïve, we’re seldom sick. But since a busy Christmas here with family, kids and grandkids, Robbin and I remained sequestered at home to ring in the New Year by counting our blessings after each barrage of consecutive sneezes.

 

 

NEW YEAR’S EVE 2017

Self-medicating between bouts
of consecutive sneezes
and my repeated gesundheits,

your eyes raised to invisible lines
of poetry you’ve been writing
in the kitchen that you squint

to read, and then erase,
edit with a fingertip:
family gifts at Christmas

multiplied as germs exchanged
from big box malls to stockings full
all-across America—and more

you couldn’t decipher
or I can’t remember, trying
anything to get better.

 

CHRISTMAS 2016

 

photo: Jaro Spichalova

photo: Jaro Spichal

 

                    Wherever the mind dwells apart is itself
                    a distant place.

                         – T’ao Ch’ien (“Drinking Wine”)

We have been there, idling across pastures
like cattle to ridgetops with focused eye
turned blurry with the mind’s appeal to wander—

an easy trek in open space, we gravitate
to isolated places where granite rocks
take the shape of animals, where oak trees

dance with sweeping boughs and speak
a language without words we comprehend.
When we come home to flesh, to the clatter

and complicated clutter of more mortal busyness,
our senses shocked and fogged with dismay,
we become the aliens for a moment on this planet

returning with translations, with fresh offerings
of peace and poetry—we nod to all the animals,
leaving little gifts of good-will along the way.

 

Still Life Blessings

 

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Fresh-picked fruit waiting for family, friends and rain to arrive. 1.30″

 

BIRDS OF A FEATHER

 

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Like quail before a rain, like deer
we gather in the granite brush
that yet survives the times and us—

around a fire. Lift a water glass
to the first ones here, a jam jar to
the pioneers that spawned this bond

of swirling smoke we nose at dawn
within our clothes and grin, trying:

                               to remember when
we loved life, or one another more.

 

ZEITGEIST or TOMATO SOUP SKY

 

photo: Bodhi Rouse

photo: Bodhi Rouse

 

Never figured on a sunset,
children, grandchildren around
a smoky Live Oak fire,
the SoCal storm bleeding north

                    above a frost-bitten garden—
                    dry stem tomatoes
                    and peppers hanging
                    like ornamental gifts
                    for Christmas.

I thought I escaped California in 1970
to ride back through time, didn’t think
I’d camp in one place this long.

Never figured on iPhone photos,
satellite dish for shade—
or planning for a future
that depends on water
and obsolescence.

 

Winter Solstice 2016

 

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It’s habitual, looking to the mountains for our future, the Kaweah Peaks over Remy Gap in the southern Sierra Nevada above, not completely dressed in snow from the last storm on December 16th— another forecast for the 23rd. Ideally, the snow is laid in while it’s cold enough to freeze before mid-January, then slow melt to feed our rivers and replenish the groundwater in the San Joaquin Valley, once the most productive agricultural region in the world, or so I was told in college.

Much has changed since the 60s when Visalia was a town of 16,000. Now a city populated by 124,000 people drawing on groundwater resources year-round. The growth of Valley towns has also displaced some of our best agricultural ground in a short span of fifty years. The implementation of flood control structures on nearly every river on the west slope of the Sierras since, regulating surface water flows, have also had a severe impact to groundwater levels in the Valley. Add the wild cards of drought and more deep wells, less low snow as the climate changes, ours is not a hand to bet on long.

Well-meaning, but onerous, water legislation will not create more water. Nor will the monies set aside to build more dams, especially since we haven’t filled the ones we have in years. But for us, and most foothill livestock producers, we look to the Sierra snowpack this time of year for our future summer stockwater, the small leaks in granite cracks that feed our springs providing water for cattle and wildlife.

 

ERRANT BULL

 

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The wire goes cold.
Red tail-hair hangs by a barb in a tangle.
Horned-bull bellowing in the flats
among the heifers close to the Solstice
half-moon waning—mark it somewhere
                    on a mind wall,
                    potential trouble in a poem
                    filed in cyberspace.

The wire goes cold.
A trumpet blares from my buttoned pocket,
beneath a zippered vest and heavy Carhartt
look-a-like advertising Purina Hi-Pro,
coils and split-reins in a gloved left hand,
small loop in the right with a flying U ready
to remind the bull he’s half-way home
and it won’t stop bugling
                    as if nearby
                    the cavalry
                    was just over the rise.

The wire goes cold.
We text and vox from the ridgetops,
from what our eyes have gathered
from the ranch. No emergency—
Cowboy Celtic wants to Facetime.
As we push the heifers another field away,
                    I call them back
                    and we yak
                    and they ride with me,
                    see green country
                    and cattle to the gate
                    just above the ears
                    of my horse.