Category Archives: Ranch Journal

BULLS

 

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                                        They kinda put themselves out.
                                             – Art Tarbell

All the barbed wire,
tight fences, gates
and management plans

sag under the weight
of errant bulls.
It’s in the air

come December:
canyon bellows
dusk and dawn.

Latest genetic
work assignments
on paper only.

                    ~

Any notion we may have had about putting our bulls out two weeks later is coming undone, under pressure of habit. A building crescendo of primal bellows in the canyon for the past three weeks has grown from chuckles to fixing fence and relocating errant bulls. Rather than fight nature and fix fence we’ve acquiesced to putting some bulls out now with the cows.

Two weeks ago one of our young bulls found the neighbor’s virgin heifers waiting for a Wagyu bull arriving mid-December. Rather then fix fence twice, we put him with some cows across the road. Monday, one of our older bulls crawled through two fences to find some cows and calves. We removed him and the temptation for the other bulls to another pasture. He then found our virgin heifers waiting for a Wagyu bull, mid-December.

Far from heifers, we put four older bulls out yesterday, four more today. What’s a couple of weeks, anyway?

 

Happy Thanksgiving!!

 

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With much to be thankful for, not the least of which is ample rain to get the grass started, Robbin and I wish everyone a good-sized portion of our gratefulness.

 

MONUMENTS

 

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The storms line up
like diesel trucks
in the slow lane,

hills green
and scattered cattle
graze ridgetops.

I had forgotten how
heaven looked,
learning to live

with dust and smoke,
all shades of brown—
years without water.

We cannot reduce
all the ghoulish skeletons
to cordwood, clear

these monuments of oak
from mind or eye.
They will remind us

of who we came to be
to survive
what they could not.

 

IDES OF NOVEMBER

 

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Beneath dark skies
cold up-canyon gusts
strip leaves in showers

of yellows, reds and browns
at provocative angles,
stirring the wild within

to escape dry flesh—
become wet winds
between each limb

and naked twig
to greet the rain’s
drum upon the roof

until we are drunk with it—
blessed and blurry-eyed
to grin with grass.

 

DUCKWEED

 

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Last Sunday, Robbin and I interrupted a Mallard hen and drake feeding on one of our stockwater ponds completely covered with duckweed. On her way out of the pond, the hen seems to be looking for direction from the drake, whether to stay or fly. No bibs in the wild.

 

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Some interesting facts about Duckweed.

 

THE BURROWING OWL

 

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This is the rock
you claimed last winter
beside the dusty road I traveled
with bales of hay—
your hole, your home

though I may own it
and all the ground around
the living wage you make
of bugs, beetles and mice.
This is your rock.

 

 

Burrowing Owl

 

San Joaquin Valley Quail

 

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Four years of drought have reduced the quail population on the ranch by at least half, but the covey around the house has fared much better than most. There’s ample cover here from bobcats and Cooper’s Hawks, and they don’t seem concerned with our strain of half-feral cats. But it’s been the regular irrigation of the garden that holds them here most summers.

The Valley Oak that we planted years ago and a resident Blue Oak have also benefited from the regular irrigation, both with good crops of acorns, most of which have fallen to the ground now. Whether crushed underfoot or decayed and rotting, they attract the quail, much to the displeasure of the woodpeckers who dive and try to drive them away from the Valley Oak, their tree of choice.

For the past month or so, the morning routine of the covey is to leave the Palo Verde tree where they spent the night, to go through the garden and stop beneath the Blue Oak for a snack, then parade across the yard to the Valley Oak, their tree of choice, for their main course. They seem to be coming to breakfast earlier, or perhaps the woodpeckers are sleeping in, but they haven’t been harassed lately as our temperatures drop to around 40°.

A little cold now for coffee outside, I finally went for the camera yesterday, having chastised myself for weeks for too many missed opportunities. Overcast after a light rain overnight, photographing quail and maintaining any depth of field was a challenge. Constantly moving and pecking, manual focus was out of the question and auto focus limited me to a single bird or two. My philosophy is to shoot lots of photos, especially with a digital camera, to sort out later. The photo above has survived some severe cropping yet maintained its unique feeling thanks to a good lens.

Trivia: Quail were among the messengers in native Yokuts folklore.

 

Ranch Journal: November 8, 2015

 

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A crisp and beautiful Sunday ahead of a storm, Robbin and I checked the cows and calves in Greasy, as well as the condition of our grass and water after the 1.5” of rain last week. We hauled a Kubota-load of extra hay up the hill for the cows in Section 17, most all with early calves.

 

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Not all came in to hay: 6 cows choosing to stay atop the ridge, telling us what we came to find out. A few cows with larger calves show normal stress, but it’s a great start to a new season.

Though numbers are down substantially, cows were scattered everywhere we went, our stockwater ponds all holding some water now. With over 4 inches of rain to date, almost half of the rainfall we got during the whole of the 2013-14 season, and over a third of last season by the first week in November, we’re in disbelief, happy and relived.

 

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MOJAVE GREENS

 

From the bunkhouse,
a thin ribbon of light glows
upon the Animas Mountains
hours before sunrise—
men snoring inside.

Long ways from home
I can’t sleep and wait
to make coffee before
the others stir themselves
awake before leaving

for the airport in Tucson
where I leave my keys
in the basket,
pockets empty in Phoenix,
pickup parked in Fresno.

Looking back
I should have known
I had nothing in common
with people who play
with Mojave Greens

sunning themselves,
absorbing warmth
like long flat tires
swapping ends to strike
right after they inflate.

 

POT OF GOLD

 

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No longer children
chasing rainbows,
we want to believe

the drought is over—
look to the mountains
to shield our souls

from insistent cities
and a world at war.
Like native Yokuts

we want to believe
the ground can hold us
before we leave.

               ~

 

A trace of rain up-canyon yesterday afternoon as I looked up from my desk, inside after an 1.5” of rain, sorting poetry for another collection—working title: “The Best of the Dry Years”, 2013, 2014, 2015. A formidable task, like sorting 90 head from 900, it will take many more rainy days to complete.

The photo has that postcard-look of not quite real, a reminder of what a little rain can bring. Yet, I harbor some skepticism, not ready to say the drought is over, to set ourselves up for disappointment. But it sure feels good, nonetheless.

 

Weekly Photo Challenge(3): “Treat”