The poem has been ricocheting inside my head as we reconstructed a portion of the Paregien corrals last week to accommodate a calf table to brand our calves. Roads impassable for a crew, we were unable to brand our calves last year due to last winter’s Atmospheric Rivers, so we borrowed a calf table to try.
I grew up with a calf table, pushing calves up the chute at six or seven to my Dad and one other man to cut, brand and vaccinate. Part of the poem is how I’ve come full circle in a 70-year span, with lots of branding pen bravado in between. There is no substitute to be a horseback and roping calves to brand, but I’ve outlived my dependable horses and my hands have slowed with age.
Part of the poem would be my excitement as a boy to be asked to help brand, even though my shins would be kicked with calf shit up the front of my pants. Details like my Dad’s red bone Case carbon steel stockman’s he constantly sharpened on a small whetstone that he carried in his pocket. The one he thought he left at the corrals after cleaning it, only to find it on the running board of the old International pickup after driving 20 miles to the corrals and back.
Thanks to the Fry family for their essential help with the reconstruction, and with yesterday’s branding—just before, we hope, will be our first taste of El Niño.
drycrikjournal 