Tag Archives: Dry Creek

Cattleman of the Year

 

 

At the Fall Banquet of the Tulare County Cattlemen’s Association last night, our dear neighbor Jody Fuller (2nd from the right) was awarded Cattleman of the Year. Usually a poorly kept secret, she was totally surprised. In an insightful and humorous presentation, Craig Ainley (far right) highlighted Jody’s history and accomplishments on Dry Creek. In addition to a beautiful belt buckle, she received commendations from County Supervisor Mike Ennis and Clarissa Henderson (far left), representing Congressman Devin Nunes.

Our “Thank You” for a wonderful dinner and evening provided by all the usual suspects, both in front and behind the scenes.

 

So Far, So Good

 

 

Last Friday, I underwent knee replacement surgery. I was able to walk with a walker by Saturday. Rehabilitation will undoubtedly be slow and posts to the blog may be less frequent.

 

ANOTHER BRANDING

 

 

Silt and sediment have settled
with the senses, clear water calm
in the canyon, low whispers

of the Solstice among the cobbles,
the easy pulse of our lifeblood
returns the churned edges

of the creek to house-hunting
killdeer pairs, not quite ready
to commit to gravelly real estate,

not quite sure of the shoreline
as we gather for another branding:
little bunch of big calves, slow

dance of old people and horses,
buck and bawl of calves before
the fiery altar of yesteryear.

 

IN SYCAMORELAND

 

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Winter’s long-entangled dance
carefree of leaves for centuries
beckons partners of the flesh—

a mood rooted in this ground
of fortitude that rules the air
we breathe, the space between

the touch of branches. Slow
gather of cattle among them—
graceful rhythm for a branding.

 

MY SYCAMORE GIRLS

 

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Each appendage strives for grace
angling its long reach for the light
dressed within summer green

canopies that shade the pools
along the creek. But some trees
drink too much, consume

more weight than limbs can hold
before snapping like rifle shots
that echo in the canyon.

Gray chorus line of winter nymphs
locking hands, dancing naked
at a distance, up close show

the scars of younger appetites
for growth, blueprints for bigness
that challenged gravity—yet

decomposed broken bones
leave open holes for nests
to incubate a clan of Wood Ducks.

 

DAYLIGHT

 

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Clouds cling low,
I tend the fire:
stir red coals—dry
branch of manzanita
alongside oak,
crack of air
to the woodstove—

play solitaire
and wait for words
that hide behind
naked sycamores
along the creek
too deep to cross,

the flood of news
too much
for pleasant poetry.

 

Just Back from Elko

 

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Dry Creek – 1,675 cfs @ 4:00 p.m.

Dry Creek – 2,520 cfs @ 5:00 p.m.

Dry Creek – 2,951 cfs @ 6:00 p.m.

 

Upstream

 

Across Dry Creek

 

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I thought it appropriate to offer a ‘before and after’ photo of the same hillside that’s on the cover of my ‘Best of the Dry Years’ (at the top of the column on the right) taken in September 2013. There was no improvement in feed conditions until the spring of 2016.

 

Paregian Rain Gauge

 

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With her iPhone, Terri caught me measuring and ciphering 9.25” of rain since December 24th on the Paregien Ranch. That’s how long it’s been since we’ve seen our cattle, since the rains began in earnest at the 1st of the year. With 16.70” here on Dry Creek thus far, we have already surpassed our average annual rainfall for the season that generally ends on April 30th.

WINTER PICTURES

 

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High cold wet fog after rain
puts a lid on summer’s cauldron
earth wet to rock, each crease
leaks rivulets into the canyon
to join a muddy creek.

Curiosity burns in his belly,
lone winter coyote edging closer
by different approaches
                    mid-day or night—
                    dogs hold him at bay
                    until he leaves the edge
                    of our territory.

Young downstream cowboys try
clay flat, pickup, gooseneck
just inside the gate, diggings
piled behind the drive wheels
as I pass by.
                    Twenty years ago
                    I’d have stopped to help
                    got stuck
                    and they learn nothing.
                    Two hours back from town
                    with a burn permit,
                    they’re hooking up
                    on muddy asphalt.

High cold wet fog after rain
creek too high to cross
I clear my desk, bag years
of paper files for proof
                    of our busyness
                    for the burn pile:
                    dry summer prunings
                    up in smoke
                    lost in fog.