Nothing like a year full of hopes and ambitions smashed in one single weekend afternoon to ruin a girl’s Monday. Here’s me, trying to focus in my office at work, shaking my fist at the rapidly changing sky (sleet-snow-rain-sun-clouds-constant wind)… got it? We drove 6 hours south in Colorado on the Western side of the range to see wrinkly and eye clashing sheets. Sheets that hang by open hardware and crossing lattice that create an instant headache to the beholder. Oh yurts, why must you so disappoint?

There’s nothing at all inherently wrong with a yurt. We spent the night in one on Saturday and it was really lovely. Like you are camping out, you might say. But I don’t need total rustic. I need sturdy, solid, built on a rock “home”, and the yurt is just not going to cut it. You see, we live in a land of average 40mph wind in February. That’s average. But standing in the middle of this 30 foot beast, loft just barely overhead, windows you must sit down to look out of, brought me to quivers. The prospect of Josh and I continuing to be homeless for an indefinite amount of time left me dreary and down for a whole day on Monday. There is always the barn, and his parents are oh so kind as to openly embrace our blood sucking beings, but sometimes you just want to request a home. But a specific home, like one at the ranch, with windows and a root cellar, and maybe space to hang our pots and all our spices. Yeah, that’s more like it.

On the return trip from Colorado we brainstormed all the different homes we really could build, from strawbale to rammed earth. But this week it’s all about renovating the barn into a classic living space. Wait. Maybe classic is the wrong word?

Monday evening the last calf was born. I discovered mama Estelle and babe being circled by a coyote. After this Monday, it seemed appropriate to bring on the tears, but dreaded the wind whipping the wetness from my sockets. So I contained myself, then called my father-in-law who basically said no animal, person or bug in their right mind would try to bother that calf with the hovering horned mother. I relaxed and went to find my husband who was arguing with a water barrel.

After heading out to get some water to the boys, we started filling the tank and realized that the boys were nowhere in eyesight. No worries, though, it’s a big pasture and there are lots of pockets. This wouldn’t be the first time they’ve hunkered down in some secret spot. With dark placidly approaching, we capped the water barrel and decided to bounce around the pasture seeking these three wily red critters. After no luck, we took the high and rocky road to the Uplift. And we go, and go and go… nothing like a beautiful sunset in freezing temperatures on rocky terrain with the boys gone astray. Again, no luck. We turn around and head back down, and just as the last bit of light was drifting out of the sky we spot the renegade Highlands, journeyed over a mile from where we stood. Grateful to have found them but slightly pissed to have to go recover them before even having a chance to eat dinner, we wind our way back down and around, strategizing the wisest route we can plan for their return. Turns out, we have some work to do in the wisdom category.

We decided to use the age-old Highland calling trick of “Come Cow”, where you bellow in a slightly comical tone to the cows, whispering in between bellows that by the grace of god they will listen to you. They listened… for a quarter of a mile before they decided the water barrel on the back of the truck really couldn’t be alfalfa. At this point you start putting thoughts in the cows mind, and instead of trying to converse with your spouse, you converse as though you are the cows: “Wow. Super lame. We’re following a truck that totally doesn’t have alfalfa.” It’s ridiculous. Ranching might be tough on the conversational practices of married couples… I’m not sure about this one yet, but I would be willing to gamble.

One of the biggest chores that Josh and I face are century old fences in desperate need of repair. Fences with holes equate to late nights with no dinner, chasing cows that really prefer to be left alone. No one wins in this situation. These three boys at some point decided that going where we requested just did not make sense. Plus, the girls and the new babies were just one pasture over by this point. Who can pass up to the opportunity to become a reunited family? Certainly not these guys, they’re just so chivalrous. I’m on foot with a sprained ankle, dealing with a very exuberant dog that is happy to have a reason to work yet doesn’t know what she’s doing yet, trying to direct these confused beings to a spot in the fence they haven’t ever had to go through before. They’d rather go towards the girls and the babies, and they do. Straight for them. Josh, our fearless leader, guns the truck straight down and out through a pile of muddy earth. Stuck. Stuck as gum on your shoe on an ancient European museum floor. Terrible timing. He throws himself out of the driver’s seat and books it like I’ve never seen the boy book it before. The last thing we need is a mixing of this herd. I’m walking next to the quick-footed boys to try and keep them calm, Josh is flailing through darkness and mud trying to beat them to the open pasture gate, the direct path to the soon to be in heat again girls. They beat him. And their return to the girls was joyous and, honestly, a bit beautiful.

But good lord, trying to cut the boys from the girls in the dark is really just a royal ache in the side. The way Josh worked these cows to separate them without anyone spearing us in the gut was absolutely respectable. I was impressed. Eventually we were able to separate the bull, and after some rumbling around and head butting between the boys and girls, we were able to finagle boys through gates and separate girls and babies in the back pasture.

And by 11:30 at night we had the boys sequestered, the girls were calm, the babies were confused and the truck was pulled out of the mud. We went to Josh’s parents home and made brown rice, kale and carrots, thanking our lucky stars that mommas protect their babies from coyotes, fences can be mended, and Detroit the bull did not successfully mount any of the ladies. I don’t think so, at least. Oh geez, I hope not. It could be a long baby season next year…