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….).

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…

Well, it’s the last week of April- obvious by the layer of snow, cold days with cold nights, and green tips of grass peeping out from the cracked Wyoming earth.
Here are some highlights:

1. Franny Anne was born. I love her.

2. Josh’s shop floor is officially cured. We have a concrete floor that will hold his equipment steady and still.

3. We are moving into the barn. Literally. We’re going to be living in a steel barn. Josh promises to install a wood stove and a toilet before the end of this week, and a fridge and a stove top by the end of next week.

4. Emma Gates has successfully NOT killed either Josh or myself- picture below is Emma and her calf (a heifer) Ypsi Gates.

5. Diego and I explored a new part of town, a beautiful crevasse up the Rawlins Uplift where we viewed not only the breadth of the town, but all parts north and south including the ranch. We sat on rocks, chased rabbits, and watched a buzzing world below. Typically, I don’t love being licked by my dog. I’m not sure why I look so content here…

6. We picked up a mortgage application from the bank with hopes that the yurt will be built by the end of July. Not that I don’t love barns and all, but I’m kind of looking forward to the yurt.

We haven’t quite reached what I would describe as a world of Spring here, but there truly are little tufts of random green grass coming up. I can’t wait for the cows to get there nozzles into it.

There is one heifer still needing to calve. She looks a bit bewildered at the little ones bucking and bawling around her, not quite sure what it means to be standing around without her own. Soon, very soon she too will have a teeny furry critter to play with the other five. It’s funny to watch the babies stand around, trying to snack on the alfalfa hay. The look a bit like I would munching on grass, like a goofy guy not sure how to say what’s actually brewing in the mind, straw hanging from the corner of the lips like a partially spoken statement.

Off to build a space in the barn to lay our heads….

I figure that if you were really interested in hearing about what it’s like to see for the first time tiny hooves, with the bottoms splayed white, coming out of the ass-end of a cow, you would be out here braving the wind and seeing it yourself. It is, after all, not all that interesting. There can’t possibly be that many reasons you’d want to hunch around, your knees creaking, brushing your hand up against dog shit, breathing as silently as humanly possible, all to stare through a grey and dilapidated fence. Your hushed caution comes from straight up fear that the nervous cow will just buck up and refuse to give birth because she knows that you are creepily stalking her during this sort of normal yet odd show. How would that feel, knowing that you are responsible for the hooves that perpetually peep past her tailbone, all because she’d rather not give birth with an audience? But again, if you really wanted to see these things, you’d find a way to live amongst it yourself, right?

As it turns out, cows aren’t so hot on the idea of company during childbirth. In fact, despite the fact that they are herd animals, when the time comes that a cow’s body tells her the baby is going to be arriving shortly, she quietly and stealthily excuses herself to head towards the hills. If that plan is thwarted, the cow becomes anxious and distracted and, as it turns out, pretty much lethal. That momma cow knows that she wants to have the baby in privacy, on a clean patch of ground, protected from both wind and predators. You quickly learn that in that cow’s sight, you are no longer the blessed alfalfa and apple angel, you are a predatory and stalking creature deserving a speedy death- the sooner you can be gotten rid of, the sooner that squirmy little squealer can come out of her abdomen.

So it just seems natural to let them do their thing.

The first pair to awaken to our Meadow Ranch, Wyoming (pathetic) interpretation of spring was discovered after the heifer was missing in the morning count. A cow missing in the “spring” means you might as well put on a helmet and shield before you go investigating the meadows. If you stumble upon her and her calf, you might be in for a scurry of a muddy run back to shelter. Or it might be just fine. All could be calm and the mother might just bellow at you a bit to keep your distance. That seems to be the case when you mostly stay out of the way of the whole birthing process and give the mother her space. Go figure. Our first pair was a sight to see, cuddling together against the sage brush, snow brushed on the long hair of the mother but the baby dry as a desert day. That was the first calf I have ever really had a chance to notice. And geez almighty was he a black beauty.

The next two, well, we are still bruised and battered. If only the two ladies knew our intentions were for the best- that we only stood between them and the isolated hills in case they were to need assistance during their first calving experience. Not their idea of a good idea. And they haven’t been the same since.

But wait, really, if you were at all interested in these things, you’d be out in the Wyoming wind, wading through the spring mud. You don’t need someone to tell you what it’s like to see a cow first learn of her baby… to watch her lick and caress and beg with her voice for that baby to rise and suck. And to see them the next day, together, the mama a bit slow and happy and seemingly satisfied to be curled in with her little one. I don’t think I ever even remotely fathomed what this experience would be like, or how deeply in love I would fall with this intimate connection to animals.

The calf born just this evening makes five total out of six. The last baby doesn’t look to be wanting to come anytime soon. We know that of the first four, three are bull calves and one is a heifer calf. Strangely, the heifer calf is from our wild Emma Gates with the unruly horns (you know, the one that had us climbing the fences to escape from her lovely motherly instincts?). The baby is named Franny Gates, after my mother and hers. Girl calves are named in a heritage breeding scenario like ours, and boy calves are simply numbered. They’ll live a shorter yet substantial life out here with us for about two years. Then they will become part of our cyclical life cycle. They are here with us to die- and quite honestly, they wouldn’t be alive right now if they didn’t have a food purpose. Maybe we all need to realize that that is a cycle that will keep happening long after we are dust again. And none of us would be here if we weren’t meant to only pass through this world, not to stay.

Garrison Keillor with The Writer’s Almanac appropriately sent this to his email subscribers today, a Shakespeare poem. Quite lovely and appropriate I’d say:
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

And of Vladimir Nobokov:
“The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.”

You have to remind yourself that you are here with a mission for a reason. And you must find ways to re-inspire. And you must make art: as sculpture, pictures, words, dirt drawings, or flashes of beauty as form. Anyway, all that just to say that we did a little exercise tonight in remembering the naivete that we knew we would lose! We were always honest with ourselves about that, and perhaps a little too honest. The fall has been a little less far, but I feel like we are a tad out of gear because of it. But oh well. We are where we are, doing the best we can and it’s not too shabby at that. Our list, that hopefully will take shape into a concise mission that a bank will want to fund (even if it does take us months to try)!!

MISSION (seemingly impossible)

▪ lightly tred, heal the lands scars, and conserve the integrity of the land
▪ protect the work of those that cared for this land in its modern history
▪ don’t live so isolated
▪ see clearer, more openly, with hope in what we can actually do
▪ live a life that we believe in
▪ work as a laborer as humans have done in the past
▪ integrate within the cycles, working together with animals in a synergetic relationship
▪ produce that which we use, survive because of, and eat
▪ build a space to exist that is comforting and spatially aware (not self-centered)
▪ choose to live as healthy a life as possible: food, water use, animal protection, stress reduction, reality of that which is important, emphasis on community and learning and teaching and accepting and countering
▪ use less plastic
▪ share with others a whole foods system based on living with and on the land, outside of a commodity market without losing the integrity of our time, family, and interests (we can’t just give the shit away)
▪ fight with experience and kindness the industrial food system
▪ become a resource
▪ spend our time on that which we love or at least find it to be worth the effort
▪ balance. keep art in the picture. make a system of producing food… Art. The communication of that which is life’s reason, is time spent daily, spelled out letter by letter through art. In whatever form we feel completes our wavy and crazy heads.
▪ this is why we live with gramma. in a pink room with shag carpet.
▪ and the stars are pretty great.
▪ and the 9 bovines out there are pretty darn happy.
▪ i just don’t want to have to kill coyotes. or prairie dogs. or rattlesnakes. but who keeps the balance? learning the balance of the land…. a feat worth pursuing. a reality worth keeping our eyes wide open to, a travesty that we choose to not pretend away.
▪ partnerships with animals is another study worth pursuing
▪ thanking the land on a daily basis for existing. Just as it is.
▪ better knowing our native peoples who lived before the extermination of buffalo.
▪ accepting that which is not understood in nature and trusting that it just might know best.

Before we came to Wyoming, in the midst of saying goodbye to what we had learned to know so well, we came up with this original mission statement (to be edited soon due to a heavy emphasis on one topic):

“To live in a world without acknowledging that which makes us human- food, water, and shelter- is to choose to scar the earth and selfishly live until we die. We live once, and in this living we impact all life, be it bug, plant, micro or macro. Our interaction with food links us to an earth that has embraced our beings, creating us as humans until maternally absorbing us back into the earth once our hearts no longer beat.

The food we eat spiritually grounds us as humans into the cyclical earth rotation. We embrace this concept by choosing to simplify our lives with a focus on food, antithetically opposing the profit-driven and consumption-fueled cultural mindset of conventional factory farming. In the life and death of animals, we choose a project that will consume us as consumers nurturing both art and food, seeing eating as art and knowledge; to be stewards and not excavating capitalists of the land. Changing the definition of profit, we will not be foreign to these cycles. We will know what we put into our bodies, into the bodies of animals in our care, and the food that feeds the earth we borrow. In this, art and food will remind us of what it is to be human.”

I think it might behoove most people to occasionally write a mission statement based on goals. It’s good to be able to see it evolve and then learn to say you’re still okay, even if you are unstable.