Yes, winter is quiet. And came quickly in October this year. By November I was pale and ready for a trip away.

We returned after the holidays to a grandfather who’s health had all but failed. We were able to see him one more night before he lost consciousness the following evening, finally passing away in the middle of the night. Sadly, I wasn’t able to tell him that the time had come for us to give what he’d been asking for during these months we’ve lived in Wyoming- finally, he was to be a great-grandfather. We didn’t know, or I would have whispered it into his always listening ear that very night.

Grandpa Arno was from North Dakota, a once lonely, now oil-industry-booming little town called Watford City. His wife is buried there in the cemetery alongside his parents, the original family members to homestead on a piece of property that became fields of wheat. In our long-bed, beat up, single cab pick-up truck, Josh, Diego and I followed Josh’s aunt and mom through the winter west, through the state of Wyoming, on into South Dakota, finally reaching the Badlands of North Dakota past dark. And all the while Grandpa rested and waited patiently in the back of our pick-up, laid into a box that would be delivered past midnight to the local Watford City, ND funeral home. Grandpa had never flown before. Transporting his body the 600 miles to his awaiting cemetery plot would have meant many miles of travel by air. Grandpa would have to be driven by our local funeral director the 4.5 hours to Denver for the flight, followed by being picked up in Bismarck, yet another 3 hours from his final resting place. Josh saw no sense in that, believing that Grandpa would have wanted us to take him on that final journey. So, after 24 hours of taking that odd piece of news in, we packed, sent the foster dog to a temporary home for the week, made sure the cows had feed and water, and loaded gramps for the long journey north.

After 12 hours and many miles of sheer ice in the Badlands that had us crawling and almost constantly peering behind at grandpa, we pulled into Watford City for the week of services and saying goodbye.

And now time has passed. We hunker down to ground level, seeing signs of green grass. Spring winds have whipped at an almost everyday 40mph speed (and a not unusual speed of 60+ mph), drifting the bits of remaining snow and knocking the migrating birds off balance. Life is good as I move through the second trimester of baby growing, Spring opens it’s sleepy eyes anew, and Josh moves forward with Art ambitions and house building.

We expect calves in May and look forward to a second season of calving, only this time our herd has grown to include eight new mamas. We’ll have 14 calves on the ground in the next 8 weeks. Our family grows, and we look forward to the craziness and unknowns to come. Embracing creativity. Living authentically and transparently. Breathing in the knocking wind- well, not really. But trying to manipulate the brain into knowing there is good in the wind. It’s a never dying battle, tricking the mind to embrace something so volatile and abrasive. Ah, but it is, and this is, and life continues. Sometimes we think we should be in San Francisco. But we continue on, hugging each other and waking each day to bigger hopes… high tunnels, a growing family, and grandpa’s being seeming to look down on us in the brilliant night-time star drenched skies.

(more…)

Waking to 37 degrees this morning, summer is walking on down the Continental Divide to South America, leaving me trembling… not in cold, but in fear of the swiftly approaching winter! I best get grooving on some branding thoughts before they disappear as well.

This year was my first for branding. Part of me almost thought that I would be able to avoid the process. I hadn’t been looking forward to the idea of wrestling our (rapidly growing) calves and doctoring them with tattoos, branding irons, and vaccines. And to be honest, that feeling hasn’t changed for next year. I’m already again not looking forward to inhaling that rank burn smell, to seeing the calves move their way around the corral in fleeting movements of anti-surrender. But enough on what I’m NOT looking forward to… this year was smooth and there were many stellar performances by all involved.

Meet our cast of characters:

DonRay, J’s dad, a lifetime brander, wielder of stories, and master of all things metal. He basically filled in all the holes on this day, directing as he muscled his way in on the heads.

Brenda, my extremely flexible, willing & wonderful aunt who married my Uncle Joel back when I was in 4th grade or something. We’re glad she’s in the family. She keeps things level. A Chicago native. She was designated nurse. Handed over the branding iron, the tattoo stamp, the ink, and the vaccines. Way to stay level-headed, Brenda.

Joel, number 6 of 7 kids in my dad’s family. He’s hilarious, a gifted graphic designer, and really you just never know what to expect with him. He drinks good beer and wine with us. Also, born and raised in Chicago, he took these photos.

Carl, my 18 year old cousin, lifelong resident of Chicago. He’s an Illinois State Champion in high jump. He’s also tried a brief one month stint as a vegetarian. Good thing that was over in time to brand. Carl handled the tightening of the rope some, as well as held down a heel in the back.

Zach, a new friend that does research on hawks out here in Wyoming. His mom is one of our greatest friends from Ann Arbor, director of the Gallery Project. As it turns out, you’d never guess Zach isn’t a native of Wyoming and that this was his first branding. He really pulled through. He’s job was basically to manhandle the back end of the calves. He learned the technique real well by the second calf.

Josh, my husband who has rested his roping wrists for about 15 or so years. He came back strong… he did all the dirty work.

Sarah, that’s me, the one that locked herself in the bathroom after it was all said and done to cry away the intensity of it all.

There’s a strange culture to branding, one that has a celebratory nature. People seem to like the festivities of branding day, a day that signifies real work. A day where you walk away dirty, beer can in hand, and realize that you’ve done a real day’s work. We only have 6 calves, but I think overall there was that same feeling to the day. The exhaustion category was definitely had by all, but there was also a feeling that we did the best job we could, and that was pretty darn well for two ranchers working with five urbanites. We figured out the system and worked terribly well together. Things to change for next year… BRAND EARLIER! These babies were enormous for wrestling.

DonRay would brand 100 head of calves each year. Large ranches will brand a 100 at a time out in the field, and have multiple days of it. To think of our experience, I realize just how unique it is in this context of Wyoming. As we grow, this day will change. Never will I enjoy the idea, but I know it will get easier.

And now the question of why, why, why must you burn the skin of these cows. The answer is complicated (or maybe it’s simple?) but involves western ranches that utilize public lands. There is no better way to identify an animal. The range is full of black angus these days, and regardless of breed, livestock have always been a loved item for thievery. So branding is legally required for running livestock on public lands. Many ranchers run their herd on miles and miles of land, leaving room for cattle to wander, or stock trailers to come and load up without being seen. Animals can’t be sold at market or processed at a slaughter facility without being inspected by brand. So that’s why. I haven’t figured out a better system yet, but when I do, we’ll spread the word. And pass it by the feds.

The calves have all recovered nicely, two of the bulls are now steers, and the mamas still allow us to scratch behind their ears occasionally. As much as it seems like these animals would be traumatized, as soon as they were reunited with their moms, it seemed like life was pretty much back to normal. I’d see a wince of pain when the mom would try and lick the brand, but it didn’t take long for that to all just subside and for the eating of grass and milk to commence. It’s good to experience this on a small scale, and we’re oh-so-grateful for the support of family and friends who were willing to come and spend the day doing something down right dirty.

Now…. on to building the log house. Every morning wakes me, the cold warning us of winter to come (though I swear it was only just here….).

Well, this place doesn’t seem to lose any of it’s oddity with length of time here. Things are still strange. It didn’t turn summer here until July, and now in early August our nights leave us wanting to cuddle under the down comforter until mid-morning. The County Fair is on, and to be honest, being there last night had me sending text messages to my sister with panicky moments of judgment, using words like “frizzle”, “jitters” and “anxiety”. I felt surrounded by an awkward mingling of roughnecks and delinquent juveniles. And the worst part about it is that probably it’s likely nothing more than me feeling odd in a sea of Rawlins normal. How’s that gonna work, anyway? Well, it’ll either work or it won’t, right? But most important right now is to be in the moment and find that true happiness outside of the absurdity of County Fair (again- it’s not as absurd as I am just out of my element).

Tonight I take a moment to be without rushing until dark. We are living in a dual setting here at the ranch- partially in the barn and partially in a camper trailer. Ha! Odd, I tell you. I’m laying under my down comforter in the trailer right now, watching the span of remaining color from the sun setting on the Continental Divide. The width of the space around me is 8′, the length is 24′. We’ve been talking about wanting to live in small spaces. I dare say- it’s pretty much all it’s cracked up to be. You can’t have too much stuff, you live off of a couple of the same plates and flatware that you continuously wash. All those old Arbor Brewing Company sweatshirts I own… well, let’s just say they are in storage rotation. There’s just no room for 8 hoodies. So I make due (with complete satisfaction) with two. You know that rumor about simplicity and lightening your soul? I think it’s true….

It’s been awhile since we’ve had our own space and it is sure grand. We have a bathroom sink. A teeny, plastic, punching sink that I’m grateful for each and every time I spit into its magical disappearing hole. We’ve finally pulled out our heavy copper bottomed pans and that purple dish towel my friend Benny passed on to me a couple years ago. My favorite cookbooks are stacked sardine-style into the corner cabinet of the trailer living space. We even bought a used front-loading washer and dryer set that is mint green. Those live in the barn along with our full size fridge. Luxury.

There’s a shower in the barn that Josh installed. When you look north out of the shower through the expanse of steel surrounded space, a view of pronghorn antelopes having their morning munch is your shower view. It’s amazing to be standing there with delicious rain pouring on you, pronghorns oblivious to your staring. Of course, you’re also sharing a shower with a bat or two, thousands of moths, a few friendly spiders and perhaps a feral cat or two, but it’s still positively divine. Today, it’s a treat that can’t be replicated with common day comforts. Tomorrow, it’s a frozen tundra sucking the life from my summer soul. But that’s a different day, a different story.

Life is not college bound alone
In your trendy town of trees
Or out of there, for that matter
But in the souls that caravan
In a snaking path of the four-legged mammals
Past the bone pit
and the trash hole on public lands
Chasing the rabbits
or mimicking the peoples’ oddities
over and over again-
we talk, contriving the means
by which we don’t understand the actions
Yet constantly contribute.

Looking below, above and beyond
at life outside our weak bodies and strong minds
Perched on rocks, slippery sand, tripping sagebrush
We obsess over: how to get where we know
We are supposed to be
And acquiesce- this is something we still aren’t sure of entirely.
Attention is needed, acknowledgement smuttily surrendered
In a balanced manner, you to me and me to you
A balancing act
Of your slippery city streets
And my gaping gopher holes.
Quiet bowing respect to those with
The strong bodies and simpler minds.

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…