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Posts Tagged ‘Ranch’

The Sandhills are just that, hills of sand and valleys of sand and hollows of sand held in place by a sod formed by the roots and stems of native grasses. If the grass is destroyed by fire or by too much traffic from cattle or vehicles or a myriad of other possibilities, the result is a “blowout”, a spot where the sand is exposed to the wind and occasional rain. A miniature sand dune desert evolves.

In the late 1800 and early 1900’s sections of land, 640 acre plots, in the Sandhills were made available for homesteading. A community of black families settled on portions of what eventually became the Pass Ranch. The new settlers plowed the prairie and were lucky to have abnormally high amounts of rain for a time, but the inevitable happened.  With normal amounts of rain, or less, there were no more crops, just sand dunes. Most of these farms were in dire straights when Don’s great-grandfather showed up and offered what everyone considered a fair price under the circumstances. Putting these properties together with the purchase of adjacent rangelands he put together essentially the same ranch that Don now operates.

We rode in one of the ranch pickups through various pastures checking on the welfare of the cattle that were divided into groups. Groups of young bulls, old bulls, replacement heifers, first calf heifers with their calves, cows with their calves, steers growing to be sold early this coming fall and heifers separated recently to be soon sold were parceled out in various pastures, sometimes in divided groups and scattered to take advantage of what early pasture grass was available.

The ranch is roughly shaped like the state of Kentucky, the fat section, with most of the ranch buildings to the east and narrowing to the west. It is divided into pastures, most taking up roughly six hundred acres some purposely smaller, of hills and small valleys. The flat valley sections are used as hay meadows. We drove slowly. Charlize was loping along side the pickup, her tongue lolling first to one side then the other. Don pointed out the sites of some of the old homesteads. One of them had foundation stones scattered in a small hollow where the house, long gone, had stood. The stones had to have been hauled a long distance by horse and wagon, no place to find stones that big close by. We covered a couple of miles before Charlize started to lag. She was very happy to join us in the cab after refusing to get in when we started out. She should be in shape when we leave if she keeps this up.

A few years ago the relatives of one of the homesteaders showed up tracing their family’s history. Don learned parts of the stories he didn’t know about previously, along with names and family lineage. He showed the seekers the sites he knew that were, after many years, reclaimed by the native grasses. There are a lot of stories to be told about those intrepid settlers and what happened to those families. If I live long enough maybe I’ll get to them, if someone else doesn’t do it first.

Don and I spent a couple of long days in the far west pastures filling in eroded places at barbed wire gates between pastures and around windmills and water tanks where cattle traffic had done the job of removing all the grasses and other plant life and the sand was eroding. It is another of those maintenance tasks that never seem to be completed. Don drove a large tractor with a blade in front and an excavator/mover implement behind. He scrapped out sod from a nearby site and filled the eroded spots. My job was to follow him in a pickup to the next pasture that needed work, open gates for him to drive the tractor through then close the gate behind us. We took the pickup to bring shovels and other tools that might be needed and because he was planning to leave the tractor in those far pastures, probably fifteen or more miles from the ranch houses, until all the necessary work was done. We needed the four-wheel-drive pickup to get back to the house, an hour’s drive away, on dirt tracks and across the pastures and hills.

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Here’s Don working on one of the gates. There was about two feet of open space from the bottom wire to the ground where the ground (sand) had eroded. Now it’s fixed:

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Here’s a tank that needed work. Behind it is a blowout.

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Last year only a little over seven inches of rain fell on the ranch, the driest year since Don’s great granddad put the property together and they started keeping records. This past winter there was not as much moisture as usual although a blizzard in late April added some but it came during calving season and some calves were lost. Don just shrugs recounting this, normal in the long list of things to just deal with in the ranching life.

“There is no such thing as an average year,” Don tells me. “Every year brings a different set of problems to cope with. May is supposed to be cold and wet but this year it’s warm and dry.” Again he shrugs.

Today the forecast, the early morning start is always with the TV turned to the weather, is for temperatures in the nineties, possible record highs. All the pastures are brown and dry, even the meadows in the valleys are late to green and grow.

Don and his crew cut out forty heifers from the two hundred he saved as replacements to be bred this year. It was necessary because he’s not certain if there will be enough rain this year to provide enough good quality hay and pasture to take all of his animals through next winter. He has several hundred yearling steers and heifers to be sold late this summer and will cull any cows and heifers not pregnant after the breeding season. He can’t feed cattle over the winter if they are not going to produce a calf next spring.

While we were driving across a pasture Don called the sale barn in Valentine, sixty miles from the ranch, to arrange for their sale. We are in one of his three-quarter ton flatbed pickups with a large hopper on the bed filled with “cake”. The cake is a pellet form of protein supplement made from corn and soybeans with minerals and vitamins and other ingredients. He has a small calculator in the cab that he programs to run an electric motor attached to the hopper that turns a conveyer belt and meters out the cake. We are going to feed the culled heifers to put some additional weight on them before they are sold. The hot weather that is forecast for today and tomorrow should help them shed their patches of rough winter coat. He thinks they’ll do well at the sale and on the phone is helping the sale barn manager flesh out the sales pitch. Pass Ranch has a good reputation for quality commercial cattle and he’s confident that whomsoever wins the bidding will get good value.

Yesterday, Sunday, I went with Don to do “chores”, feeding cake. We went to three different pastures. My job was to get out of the truck at each barbed-wire gate we came to and to open the gate. Don drove through and waited until I closed and secured the gate then we continued. He has the cattle divided into several groups scattered in various pastures.

We pulled into the pasture holding several recently purchased young bulls. He pulled a knob on the dash and a siren wailed, telling the animals he is here with “treats”. He got out of the cab to open the trap door so the cake could be released then we sat and waited until all the bulls ambled over. When they all arrived, some rubbed themselves on the truck, giving us a ride resembling one of those mechanical devices outside the grocery store. After they were all in attendance he drove in a circle metering and spreading the cake on the ground. When the prescribed amount was deposited he got out, closed the trap door and we were off to the next group to be fed. He alternates feeding the groups so the cake is fed to about half the animals on the place each day. The groups not fed cake are still fed hay that day because of the lateness of the grass this spring.

The first time I visited the Pass Ranch, Thanksgiving holiday in 1954, we loaded large sacks, probably sixty or seventy pounds each, maybe more, into the bed of a pickup then drove to the pastures, honked the horn to call the cattle then had to open each sack and walk with it to meter out the cake. Some of the cattle would push and shove the person with the sack, difficult to maintain balance when it was still full. This way is a lot easier.

For those unfamiliar with barbed-wire gates this is what they look like:

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Sunday afternoon we did upkeep and maintenance chores on Don and Susie’s house, originally built in the early 1900’s and remodeled several times. I never thought much about it previously but think of how much work it takes to maintain your own home. The ranch has two nice, but old houses their son’s widow lives in the newer one about a hundred yards away. There are two manufactured homes about a mile away that the families of the hired help live in, there is a old bunkhouse, now unused except for storage, two large metal barns for equipment and workshops, an old frame barn, a three-car garage with a woodshop, a large calving barn, untold miles of barbed-wire fencing, cattle guards, pens for working the cattle, corrals. All the buildings except the equipment barns are wood siding and in the extreme weather of the Sandhills need repainting on a regular basis.

Oh yes, all the pastures and meadows have at least one windmill and stock tank, the large ones more. The newest innovation is to pipe water to tanks, no windmill or well needed. I have no idea how they get it all done on top of working and caring for the livestock, including a dozen or more horses. The same place that Don’s grandfather operated with as many as twenty-five or thirty cowhands, depending on the season, he now runs with a man and wife team and one other hired man. Huge expenditures for equipment make this possible, but equipment also needs to be maintained and repaired. His newest tractor is about twenty years old.

This afternoon Don is working a large tractor with a blade in front and an earthmover behind.

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I met Don in 1954 in Green Hall where all freshmen at what was then Colorado A & M were housed. He had a room across the hall from mine and neither of us cared much for our assigned roommates. I have no recollection of how we managed it but by the second term we were rooming together.

The short, slight rancher’s son, who grew up in the wilds of the Sandhills of Nebraska and the tall Jewish swimmer from Phoenix, Arizona were an unlikely pair. We were nicknamed Mutt and Jeff, of course. However, we found an abundance of common interest. We both grew up with fathers who rarely talked unless they were giving instruction or needed to say something important. We both loved our dads and were comfortable being with them all day without talking. With that background Don and I were never uncomfortable being together without talking and that persists to this day.

After that first year we shared an apartment with two other friends and the third year, my first in veterinary school, we shared a small house with two third year veterinary students. In all that time together I cannot recall a single argument between us.

I was far from home and the ranch was only a long days drive from Fort Collins. Don had a car and he invited me to spend Thanksgiving at the ranch. His folks were warm and welcoming, especially his mom. The holiday was memorable as my first experience on a working commercial ranch. I was invited and returned for several years and always felt welcome. I felt then and still do today that it is my second home.

Years past and we stayed in sporadic touch. Don graduated with a degree in agricultural economics and returned to the same ranch his great-grandfather started and his grandfather and then his dad continued to operate. He gradually took over the operation of the ranch from his dad. He got married, I got married and miracle of miracles Susie and Rosalie became close friends.

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The first of the ranch houses are in the distance, top left.

When we lived in Montana they visited us, and after we moved to Phoenix several times, then in Illinois. We visited them at the ranch or sometimes met someplace convenient to all of us. Each time we got together we picked up as though we had been together the day before, despite the passage of years.

Charlize is in heaven. She stays close to me in the house but outside has thousands of acres to roam and hundreds of wild critters and cows, calves, steers and bulls to discover. She hasn’t wandered far as yet, keeps looking back to make certain I haven’t left without her.

Here’s a view from the house, mother cows with their calves on the hill pasture. They were brought downs to the hay meadow in the foreground the next day prior to being moved to another pasture.

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It was my first weekend on the job. The middle of June 1960 and I told my new boss that I would be happy to handle the Saturday calls and any emergencies that weekend.

I was on the last scheduled call of the day when Dick Mathes, our office manager/ receptionist/call scheduler, reached me on the mobile radio.

“John Jones is bringing in his cow dog, got caught by the mowing machine. His ranch is about thirty miles from here, in the badlands. He called about three so he should be here soon.”

A petite, young woman, blonde hair, dressed in clean but worn Levi’s, a denim shirt, and cowboy boots jumped to the ground from the passenger side of the pickup. She turned to lift down a young girl, her blonde hair almost white. An older boy, another towhead, jumped out unassisted.

The way the rancher carried the dog into the hospital told of his gentle nature. I noted his weathered face, thickly callused hands, and massive chest.     I held the door open and directed the Jones family into the exam room. Skipper, a two-year old Border collie bitch, black and white with wide set, expressive brown eyes thumped her tail on the stainless steel of the examination table.

Skipper raised her head, the rancher patted it and the dog lay back down on the table with a sigh. Both front legs and the left hind leg were lacerated, it appeared that metacarpal and metatarsal bones were broken. The upper portion of the left hind leg looked strange. When I palpated it the dog flinched. There was dried blood, dirt, and hair contaminating all the wounds.  I detailed all the damage to the family and explained what it would take to repair it.

“How much Doc?”

“Three dollars to put her to sleep, probably at least a hundred if we try to save her but here’s the deal, I’m new. I’m anxious to prove what I can do and I want the challenge of trying to save this dog,” I glanced at the two children. “It appears to me that Skipper is pretty special.”

The boy couldn’t stay quiet any longer. “Please Dad,” then he clenched his mouth shut.

The little girl chimed in. “Yeah, pleath Dad, we have to.” She was missing front teeth.

The rancher sighed. “OK . . . you guys understand this means no Christmas or birthday gifts this year?”

I called my new bride and convinced her to come and help with the surgery. I needed a “go-fer” since I was all alone. Several hours later, we finished. Skipper had her fractured hind leg in a Thomas splint and both front legs in casts. The next morning she was frantically banging around in the cage, but calmed down immediately after I took her out to treat her. When I tried to put her back in the cage, she became frantic again. I finally realized she was a ranch dog that had probably never seen the inside of a house, let alone been in a cage.

She was happy as could be in a stall in the barn and there she stayed, content, for almost two weeks recovering. Then on a very hot evening, we left the barn door open for ventilation. Somehow, Skipper got out of the stall and was gone. While out on farm calls I searched the sides of the road for the next week and a half, hoping to see her, nothing. The Jones family also searched, put up posters, called into the radio. The radio station made numerous announcements about Skipper and the newspaper ran an article about her, nobody reported seeing her.

As I walked through the door to the clinic, the phone rang. It was John Jones announcing Skipper had arrived home, a thirty-mile trek on one good leg, the previous evening. He brought her in and I was able to repair the casts and Thomas splint and dress all her wounds. She was terribly thin but happy to see me and eventually made a full recovery.

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