Drought and Neighbors

The signs were there last spring.

Drought was on the horizon.

I made a plan, decided which cows to cull if it didn’t rain by a specific date, knew I would sell a couple of horses.

My stomach churned at these plans, but I was ahead of the curve and would be fine in the long run.

Then it rained.

The grass grew. I had plenty.

I relaxed. I could raise my head up, look around and reach out to others who weren’t as fortunate.

Then June got hot and the grasshoppers moved in.

My grass shrank.

By then drought was rampant, the auctions had no buyers for cow-calf pairs and my calves were too young to wean from their mothers.

I bit my lip and watched my surplus grass crinkle into the wind.

Now I’m behind the 8-ball.

The worst part is that I know better than to let this happen. I had a plan and let it slide.

This drought that just keeps getting worse is messing with my head.

I duck my eyes, watch the dust billow with every step, feel my world shrink.

I think my neighbors are feeling the same way.

We all are on edge.

I brought my cows home from summer pasture in August, but when I checked the pasture the other day, about 60 head of cattle without my brand grazed peacefully on what was left of my grass.

I called my neighbor and asked him to take them home.

Later, I wished he would have asked to graze them there. My next thought: I should have offered.

I knew his reservoir had dried up so he was spending hours hauling water to his cows.

I knew he needed to bring his other cattle home from the mountains.

His time spent hauling water prevented him from caring for his other cattle.

Offering a few days of grazing would have been neighborly.

But I didn’t offer.

My next-door farmer neighbors were more generous. In past years, I have grazed their crop aftermath. This year, they offered double the acreage.

Lots of green regrowth was coming up and this grazing area would help me a lot.

So I strung electric fence around a huge area.

My cows avoid electricity, but it works better when tempting crops are not right across the fence.

This year, winter wheat was sprouting right across the fence.

After a week, the sheep found the winter wheat and decided green grass was no longer on the menu.

The winter wheat farmers were not happy and rightfully so.

They yelled at me. Loudly.

Justifiably.

I began spending most of each day herding the sheep – allowing them to graze on the crop aftermath, but turning them back from the winter wheat.

But my fall jobs were calling.

I locked the sheep away from the crop regrowth.

A week later, my cattle found the winter wheat.

The soil was so dry that the electric fence did not ground. The cattle walked right through that wire on their way to dessert.

The winter wheat farmers were really mad, even though peer-reviewed research shows that winter wheat sends more tillers and develops a better crop after fall grazing.

They didn’t want cattle or sheep on their crop and I couldn’t blame them.

They emphasized this point.

Justifiably.

I brought the cows home.

Then I reinforced my barbed wire fence and hoped the cattle would forget about winter wheat. They stood by my gate, waiting for it to fall down.

So far, the gate stands and so do I.

But drought doesn’t just dry out the plants and soil.

Drought shrivels kindness and our sense of community.

Drought makes us all a little crazy.