Prairie Ponderings
Pondering Abby’s Walk
Just for fun, 4-year-old Abby and I took a walk the other day. This is a simple activity, but somehow one that we don’t make time to enjoy frequently.
Abby is about 3 feet tall, and she notices things that disappear in that zone between the top of her head and the bottom of my eyes. Her world looks and feels different from mine.
When I’m focused on a job to do, I usually step across the clods and rocks at my feet, but Abby and I picked up pretty rocks until her hands were full. As she dumped them into my pants pocket, we talked about the glaciers that left these pink, purple, green and striped rocks scattered across our field.
She noticed the larger rocks that formed a circle so we talked about the people who used to live in teepees on this land. We calculated how far they must have walked to bring water back to their campfire and guessed at the roots and berries they might have cooked for food.
Abby picked up ribbons and stakes left by the seismic crew that spent a month here. I viewed those as trash, but not Abby. The stakes with long ribbons became girls and the stakes with short ribbons were boys. Next, they became crutches that “helped” her walk. Then they turned into spears that could protect our sheep from coyotes.
The grass crunched under our feet. As our steps laid the leaves on the soil, we talked about how the grass would turn into dirt so more grass could grow. We remembered last winter when we tried to walk through this pasture, and how hard we struggled to step through the ice-caked snow that kept collapsing. Abby shivered.
Grasshoppers jumped, landing on our arms and clothes when the dogs trotted around us. I brushed them off of me, but Abby caught one in both hands, curious and creeped out at the same time.
We talked about how grasshoppers might startle us, but we were fortunate that no one had ever seen a rattlesnake on the Graham Ranch, as far as the old-timers could remember.
Rattlesnakes were at the forefront Abby’s mind. Earlier that day, Abby, 13-year-old Will and I had picnicked with friends on a butte that, it turns out, had plenty of rattlesnakes. As soon as we arrived, the kids ran to play on the sandstone rocks, only to be startled by that distinctive rattle. No problem, though. The snake gave them plenty of warning.
The next one seemed as surprised as we were. Four of us strolled through the calf-high grass, chatting and teasing, when the grass began to slither. That green grass morphed into a 3-foot long serpent with a body as big as my fist. The rattles hissed. We jumped and screamed. Loudly. No doubt, someone standing in a backyard 30 miles away looked up at that very moment, wondering who just shouted.
We decided we had enough exploring and hot dogs sounded good. S’mores were even better. Will and Abby ended up with so much sugar coursing through their bodies that I sent them down the dirt road while the rest of us waited for the coals to burn out. On their way, a third rattlesnake crossed the road ahead of them.
By the time we made it home, we all were glad to return to those terrifying grasshoppers.
The warm sun began to set as Abby and I reached the east end of the ranch. The air cooled and the sky turned orange, crimson and purple. The deer watched us from afar and waited — intending to spend the night in the protected green bottom near the creek. We kept the dogs nearby.
We slipped on our sweaters and turned north to bushwack our way through the bottom and the creek. Then we heard the welcome purr of the Jeep. Abby’s dad had come to pick us up. Abby related all she had seen to Poor Dad, who had missed her adventure, and then sleepily snuggled into my lap. Her pocketful of rocks pressed into my thigh.
We need to take a walk more often. Maybe I can bring back more souvenirs from her world.
Lisa Schmidt and her husband, Steve Hutton, raise natural, grassfed beef and lamb at the Graham Ranch near Conrad.
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Montana’s BMW
The mountains are addicting. Maybe it is the adrenaline rush that comes with knowing that the mountains offer immediate, direct consequences to a person‘s actions — right or wrong — sparing no one. Maybe it is the endorphins that come with the rugged grandeur and power of vastness that invite a person to shed all extraneous thoughts and mis-ranked priorities.
Last week, my husband, Steve, and I finally had the chance to spend three days in the Bob Marshall Wilderness. My mom is kind enough to schedule time each September to take care of the kids and the ranch so Steve and I can get away together. He and I have been looking forward to these few days since our trip together last year.
We both worked furiously to get ready. Mom and I sorted cull ewes on Monday. On Tuesday, I needed to pick up meat from our processor and attempt to fix the dishwasher before the kids had soccer photos while Steve finished stacking hay. We both fell into bed exhausted Tuesday night, but ready to pack up on Wednesday.
By early afternoon, we loaded four horses into the trailer and headed out. Steve rode Abby’s horse, Mooney, and packed one of our best horses, Freckles. I rode old Day-Glo, who has been a fine horse and one of my favorites, but is a bit past his prime, and packed Amarillo Skye, my sweet young mare who needs some more back country experience.
The sun warmed our backs and the canvas of Montana’s blue sky behind the still-summer-green mountains beckoned. Neither of us could feel it yet, but we hoped we would: That feeling of every unimportant aspect of life falling aside so the things that really matter surround and encompass a person. We knew thoughts of mortgages, deadlines and appointments would disappear. Our conversation would shift from politics and worldly events to the natural wonders of the colors, creeks and country around us. That feeling is like a drug and both of us are addicted. We were desperate for a dose.
The horses relaxed, too, as they picked their way along the trail, pulling into camp at dusk.
Steve is one of the finest horse trainers I‘ve ever seen. I’ve learned a lot since I started hanging out with that man, but sometimes I still mess up.
I let Day-Glo and Skye graze for a minute while we lifted Freckles’ heavy packs off his back. No hobbles necessary, or so I thought.
Skye blew.
She circled the camp site twice while we could only stand and watch as paniers, the top pack and supplies scattered.
“She’s an athlete,” Steve commented as Skye’s heels kept clearing her hips by a couple of feet.
Everything except her pack saddle and the knotted ropes fell off before Skye bucked to the creek. She dove off the 5-foot bank, bucked across 3-foot deep water and bounded up boulders on the other side. I held the other horses and picked up various bags of oats, horse brushes and a sleeping bag while Steve followed her on Mooney. Skye’s halter rope tangled in a bush and she stopped, waiting calmly for Steve.
We worried about our new aluminum Dutch oven, but nothing was broken. Eventually, we found all of Skye‘s load, even the axe, laying in some rocks near the creek.
The next morning, we explored some country that neither of us had been in before. The horses climbed steep hills, skidded down narrow trails and offered to do everything we asked of them. We talked of the seasons, evidence of black bears and the rugged beauty surrounding us. No politics, mortgages or controversy.
We were not ready to come down from our Rocky Mountain High by Friday morning, but we packed up camp anyway.
Skye seemed relaxed with her packs, but still we tied everything down as tight as we could. One never knows what one might suddenly face on a narrow trail, with no time to cinch down loose luggage.
Wind often makes horses nervous, but ours ignored the gusts on the way out. Then we met a couple of hikers with backpacks, often another spooky monster in a horse’s mind. One of them waved a greeting with his floppy fishermen’s hat, but the horses passed without a flinch.
Maybe our too-short time in the mountains allowed our horses to dose their addictions, too.
Lisa Schmidt and her husband, Steve Hutton, raise natural, grassfed beef and lamb at the Graham Ranch near Conrad.
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Pondering Where Does Beef Come From
I take cuts of our beef and lamb to the Great Falls Farmers Market almost every Saturday. I toss steaks, burger, lamb chops and other cuts into a freezer and plug it in to an inverter connected to the truck’s battery so everything stays frozen. When I get to Great Falls, I hang our big sign that proclaims Grassfed Beef & Lamb under an awning and hope people stop by to try our meat.
The farmers market attracts all kinds of people, and almost all of them support local farmers and ranchers. They believe in eating real food, like to know where it comes from and enjoy the carnival atmosphere of a relaxed Saturday morning.
People smile and stop to visit. Whether they buy meat or not, often we become friends. I genuinely like most of the people who stop by and, frankly, I think agriculture needs as many friends as it can get. After all, at just 3% of the country’s population and shrinking, it’s nice to have some support from town. I try to do my small part as an ambassador for agriculture and if I peddle some beef or lamb, too, that’s good.
Many people ask if they can visit the Graham Ranch sometime. “Of course,” I say. “Just let me know when you want to come.” I know that 99% of them will not find their way an hour and a half north, but they know they are welcome.
Last week, my husband, Steve, and I hosted a family from the other 1%.
A young couple with a 4-year-old son and 1-year-old daughter had been buying ground beef, stew meat and top sirloins from my farmers market booth all summer and they wanted to come to the ranch. The husband and wife sincerely want to “live sustainably,” as they call it — grow as much of their own food as they can, buy locally, and pay as they go instead of on credit. Their dream, they told me, is to own a ranch someday.
More power to them.
I was inside, putting the last touches on lunch, when they pulled up so Steve greeted them.
“How many acres do you own?” the husband asked as he stepped from his Isuzu.
I would have taken the opportunity to explain a bit of ag-culture at that moment, but Steve gulped and and gave him the answer.
“Do you have good hunting here?” was the next question.
Steve swallowed another snide response, understanding the innocence of this snafu.
I rescued Steve with a lunch of beef stew and then we went out for a “ranch tour.”
Earlier that morning, Steve and I had corralled a few steers to take to the processor after our company left so I knew I had one-stop-shopping at the barn: steers, bum lambs, barn cats and even a newly -hatchedchick to show off.
The 4-year-old chased the chickens around and pet one of the orphan lambs while the steers peered over the fence, curious about all this activity. Finally, the husband turned around, jumped startled, and said “I didn’t know you have cattle, too!”
I was dumbfounded. Speechless.
Finally, I mustered “That’s where your beef comes from.”
“Oh.”
They left about an hour later.
As they pulled out the driveway, I still was not sure whether they made the cattle-to-beef connection.
Lisa Schmidt and her husband, Steve Hutton, raise natural, grassfed beef and lamb at the Graham Ranch near Conrad.
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Pondering Energy and Respect
Montana’s schools are working hard to reduce bullying incidents, but energy companies that profit from Montana’s natural resources are flunking out.
My husband, Steve, and I own the surface rights of the Graham Ranch, but we do not own the mineral rights. We tried to buy them, but that was not an option.
So we went about caring for our land and building our lives, hoping no oil companies would ever wonder whether black gold rests under our piece of prairie.
This spring — right at the beginning of lambing season — we were put on notice that a company wants to find out whether they can make a profit here.
Montana’s split estate law dictates that mineral rights have dominance over surface rights. Steve and I are not the first to be dismayed by the possibility of large trucks, drill rigs and careless people ruining our land and our water so courts have upheld this law that was passed back when Anaconda Copper Mining Company so conscientiously cared for the land and people of Montana.
Today’s energy companies use ACM’s gracious diplomacy to attempt to flatten landowners into the nearest badger hole.
Steve and I asked the seismic exploration company to provide assurances that our land and the nine springs at the heart of the Graham Ranch would not be harmed.
The oil company representative promised the workers would take care of everything, but would not write down specifics.
“Oil companies today care about landowners,” the permit agent told us.
Oh, that must be why the oil industry claimed more than $20 billion in profits for the first three months of 2011.
Steve and I asked more specifically for potential financial payments for specific damages so the oil company would have significant incentives to avoid damage. After all, if oil companies care about the land, such an agreement would cost them nothing because they would do no damage.
The reply from the oil company: a single payment to be made prior to the exploration that would cover any and all potential damages, limiting their maximum liability.
In other words, they wanted to buy us off and then treat our home as if it were a dump site.
If Steve and I only wanted to make a lot of money, we would not be ranching. Instead, we might be oil company executives.
We rejected their offer.
The company’s attorney filed a restraining order against us.
We hired an attorney.
Their attorney told me that the oil company would not use such a heavy hand if we had hired an attorney sooner.
I said we would not be in this situation if the oil company had ever, even once, acknowledged our needs and concerns.
As Aretha would spell it, we would like to be treated with R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
Not all energy companies bully for big bucks. We know an oil executive who treats people fairly, the way he wants to be treated. He lives here in Montana.
But many, if not most, sacrifice human decency to profit. Steve and I are only a single example of this bullying mentality that our society allows to continue.
In July alone, Montana suffered not one, but two broken oil pipelines that the oil companies have discounted as no big deal. Nobody yet knows the full impact of the Yellowstone River oil spill and the broken pipe near Cut Bank hardly made the news.
The Montana-Alberta Tie Line (MATL) apparently took lessons from Exxon. When landowners asked for reasonable requests for the placement of the electrical transmission line, instead of respectfully considering those requests, MATL executives asked Montana legislators to give them the power to flatten those property owners into a badger hole, too.
The eminent domain law passed by the 2011 legislature is wrong.
When I discussed this with a legislator, his response was that Montana would be without jobs if the legislators had not passed that law, that potential companies would look to other states for business.
I disagree.
If legislators had not passed a law that allows out-of-state companies to intimidate and disrespect Montana citizens, the companies would have to offer some respect.
I’m disgusted. The bullies should be ashamed.
Lisa Schmidt and her husband, Steve Hutton, raise natural, grassfed beef and lamb at the Graham Ranch near Conrad.
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Pondering Good Impressions
Visitors tend to avoid the Graham Ranch from the end of November through the end of May so we are delighted when family and friends come to see us during the milder months.
But I need to stop trying to impress them.
I was thrilled when I received a note from my cousin saying he and his wife would ride their motorcycle out West and stop by for a couple of days. Now I wonder if they will ever come back.
My husband, Steve, and I like to cook in Dutch ovens so it was pizza over charcoal for the first supper. Only the pizza turned to charcoal. Oops. Oh well, nobody starved.
The next morning, I proudly showed off all the wonders at the corral. Only a lamb had died for some unknown reason. Not what I want visitors to see, but sometimes ranch life is harsh. No problem; we could tour the ranch while we made a dead run. Only the wet spring left a new bog hole that sucked three of the four truck tires completely out of sight. Oh well, we needed a two-mile walk back to the house anyway.
Then antifreeze started to drip on Brian’s shoes as we made our way to a concession commitment in Choteau. No worries; we hooked up to another truck and went on. On the way back to the ranch, gears started slipping in the automatic transmission. I hoped my cousins would take no notice. Wrong. We made it home, though, only to find out that the dishwasher had completely quit working. Now we had a problem. Fortunately, my cousins are good sports and we managed to get the dishes done the old fashioned way.
The next morning, as my cousins pulled away on their brand-new, fully-functioning Harley, I assured them that things on the ranch don’t break down every day. I don’t think they believed me. I don’t think we impressed them with the beauty and romance of ranch life either.
Thinking that maybe we had worked our way through our share of calamities for a few days, Steve headed to the hay field while I worked on other ranch business. Steve has had his share of minor breakdowns in the field, but nothing out of the ordinary. He hasn’t had anyone to impress so he has fixed the problem and moved on.
Then we had more company.
My dad brought some construction material to the ranch, along with his brother who had never visited before. I really wanted to impress my uncle with the grandeur of the Graham Ranch because it is so different from where he lives and because we love this life so much. At the same time, Steve’s brother, Rodney, was visiting and he is always worth impressing.
But I had to get home first.
My four-year-old daughter, Abby, an orphan lamb that needed intensive care and I had been teaching range management at the Montana Natural Resources Youth Camp near Missoula for three days. We hoped to pull in the driveway about an hour after our family was scheduled to arrive.
We were making good time until I passed a semi-truck. Suddenly, gray smoke filled my rearview mirror and the temperature gauge pegged the top of the red.
I pulled over near a slough about half way up the west side of Roger’s Pass and checked my cell phone. No service. Of course.
I popped the hood. Antifreeze had sprayed the entire engine. The gray smoke had actually been steam. The engine cooled for a few minutes before I unscrewed the radiator cap: Empty.
I trekked down the steep incline, filled a jug with slough water, and poured it into the radiator. Three trips to the slough took care of the radiator, at least until I turned on the motor. That’s when I found the blown-out heater hose.
Backcountry packers often recommend carrying a pocket knife on your belt so it can quickly be reached to cut a cinch, rope or rein during an emergency. However, I carry only one implement and I prefer multi-use tools. My Leatherman is purple so I can find it in a snow bank, on the range or in the corral. As I climbed up on the bumper of the overheated pickup, I found it on my belt. The screwdriver loosened the hose clamps. The straight edge trimmed the hose. The screwdriver again tightened clamps and the three of us could ease on for another 120 miles.
When I got home, I commented that nobody had stopped to offer help during the entire 45 minutes that I was bent over the truck bumper with the hood up. Our ranch visitors reminded me that I am no longer 23-years-old so the view from the highway might not have been as impressive as it once was. But when Steve saw the back of the pickup, he knew the most likely answer: Nobody, but nobody he said, would be impressed by the Beverly Hillbillies look of a stock rack in the pickup bed, with a bale of hay, five plastic fencing panels and one hungry lamb.
So much for good impressions. Maybe I should quit trying so hard.
Lisa Schmidt and her husband, Steve Hutton, raise natural, grassfed beef and lamb at the Graham Ranch near Conrad.
Pondering Cell Phones
With the two-for-one days of summertime, my husband, Steve, and I often head in different directions, trying to accomplish all we need to do during Montana’s short warm season.
Those different directions intensify our love-hate relationship with technology. We use cell phones to stay in touch, but sometimes we wonder whether we would be better off with a different communication tool. Like maybe smoke signals.
We were on our way to serve concessions at Choteau’s July 3 concert in the park. Steve and my cousin were pulling the concession trailer while the kids, another cousin and I planned to bird-dog a route into the tree-lined park and a prime set-up spot.
This was our cell phone conversation:
Steve: “Scritch, scritch… antifreeze pouring… scritch…don’t know…scritch”
“What? I can’t hear you!” I yell into my phone, as if higher volume will clear the airways.
“Scritch.. passenger side…scritch…”
“Where are you?”
“Almost to … scritch.”
“I’ll turn around and find you.”
“No, keep going.”
So we kept driving toward Choteau. Until the cell phone rang again.
“Scritch… heating up…scritch…heater core….scritch… get the … scritch… truck.”
“I’ll go back to the ranch and get the red and white truck, okay?”
I turn my truck around and head home, knowing I can unhook the horse trailer from the red and white Ford and be ready to switch trucks before Steve limps home with the heavy concession trailer. We would be late, but could still make it to the concert.
“Scritch.. meet you…scritch… teau. We’ll keep .. scritch, scritch… ranch.”
“I’m going back to the ranch.”
“No, go to Choteau.”
He must have topped a hill and received service right there. The cell service didn’t last long. His phone disconnected before we could make a viable plan. I turned around again to drive to Choteau.
Then my phone rang again.
“Scritch… have to cancel…scritch.”
“I’m not cancelling. I’m going back to get the red and white truck,” I yelled into that black metal unreliable link to my husband and our enterprise.
We met back at the ranch, switched trucks, and pulled into Choteau’s city park only an hour and a half later than we had planned, just in time for the music to start. We had a great time, with no long-term negative consequences from interrupted communication.
Unlike a couple of summers ago.
I still deal with the repercussions of a cell phone conversation between Steve and me that will probably haunt our marriage for the rest of our lives.
Steve was driving to the hay field while I was coordinating a plan for something that I don’t even recall now. Steve tends to focus on one job at a time while I juggle several at once. Together, our different to-do styles create a pretty efficient team, but sometimes those styles collide.
“You’re single-minded,” I yelled into the phone just as Steve found non-coverage in our phone plan.
“Wha…” he hollered.
“Single-minded,” I hoped he could catch my message if I spoke shorthand.
“I’m not simple-minded!” his voice came through loud and clear. Then the call was lost.
To this day, he still thinks I insulted him.
And then messages – or the lack thereof – come into play. Several times, Steve has left a message that I need to receive immediately. Three days later, I find out that he needed a ride from town. Oops. Darn cell phone.
Still, we keep using those black metal boxes that link us to each other when we are physically apart. We even buy new ones when we lose the old ones – one in a bale of wool plus two out on the prairie. Sometimes we call one another just to chat.
But we try to stand in an island of decent cell coverage when we do. Otherwise, I would have to learn how to say “I love you” in puffs of smoke.
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Pondering Wolves
It was that face.
That face, full of anguish and despair and frustration and anger and sadness and determination. All of it rolled into the grim line of his mouth and his eyes that would barely glance at me, hoping I might not see.
It was that face, sharpened with time even among a sea of forgotten smiles and twinkling eyes, that made me do it.
That face had seen the result of a cow giving birth while wolves roamed the area. In an early dawn visit, the wolves circled as the calf’s nose appeared. They tightened the circle as its eyes caught its first glimpse of the big wide world. It wouldn’t have many more.
The cow stood up, nervous as the wolves circled ever closer. The calf dropped to the ground. Afterbirth swung from the cow as she faced the ever-circling wolves. The calf shivered in the freezing air, always coldest just before daylight. The cow bellowed, stepping across her calf. The wolves nipped and dodged. The calf wobbled to its hind feet. The cow knocked the calf down as she crossed over it, protecting it from the fangs. The calf laid its head on the frosty ground, wet and shivering. Then it tried to stand again, but the wolves kept at it, wearing down the cow as she stepped over her calf in a dizzying circle.
Until the calf, trampled and bruised, took its last breath.
At daylight, that face found the exhausted cow, the dead calf, the circle of bare ground and the enormous foot prints.
The sadness was the worst. That face knew that just as much as the wolves nipped and snapped at that calf, just as much as that cow trampled her own newborn, that public policy killed that calf.
The anguish and despair came from knowing that his neighbors had betrayed him. Although he only wanted to be left alone to face the challenges of ranching in the mountains, his neighbors had set him up to watch him fail. He knew this would not be the last calf to die and he knew this would not be the last year that his neighbors watched and waited.
This man and his wife had stood alone, working with and against the natural forces of nature for more than 50 years. They worked the rocky, harsh land gently and intelligently, until an aerial view offered ample fenceline evidence of their stewardship. Their verdant green pastures fed deer, elk, wolverines, gophers, mountain lions, wolves and grizzlies.
Meanwhile, others came to save the land that he called home.
The saviors recruited people who had millions of dollars to help them pay more than the land could ever return for property all around this man and woman.
They knocked on his door, opened their checkbook and said “we want to save yours, too.”
“What are you saving my home from?” he asked.
“You,” came the answer. “We want to feed the deer and elk, the wolverines, gophers, mountain lions, wolves and grizzlies.”
The saviors eliminated hunting on all of that surrounding land and sold off most of the livestock. The grass became decadent in some places and eaten bare in others. The man’s land stood out even more. The deer, elk, the wolverines, gophers, mountain lions, wolves and grizzlies spent more time at his place because the grass, shrubs and prey tasted better there.
But the wild animals left when the hunters came. They ran to the sanctuary of his neighbors’ land. They stayed there until calving season, when the hunters were gone and the tastiest morsels were being born on the man’s land.
The man is a private man. He doesn’t want me to see that face, that anguish and despair and frustration and anger and sadness and determination. He doesn’t want to admit that his neighbors betrayed him, killed his calves, hoped that he, too, would sell out so they could save his land from his stewardship.
It was that face that made me do it, compelled me to buy a wolf tag. Alone, that tag whispers, but combined with others it howls across the land, tipping the balance back a little more toward equilibrium and against humanity’s injustice toward one another.
It was that face.
Lisa Schmidt and her husband, Steve Hutton, raise natural, grassfed beef and lamb at the Graham Ranch near Conrad.
Our June Project
My 13-year-old son, Will, and I have been diligently hauling trash out of our barn and organizing all that needs to stay, readying it for a bit of restoration.
This old barn is worth restoring.
A newspaper clipping from Dupuyer noted that this barn and another one just east of the Graham Ranch were built in the 1890’s. The owners brought stonemasons from Scotland to the area to build these barns. Three sides are flat sand rock gathered from the hill that overlooks the site, overlapped to create a solid wall. Parts of the west and north rock walls tipped over — they must have been bumped hard at one time — but the stacks still lay there looking just like miniature vertical slabs of the Rocky Mountain Front.
The south side of the barn boasts a series of sliding panels designed to open and let warm sunshine beam on ewes and new lambs or close to protect them from harsh storms.
This barn measures 180’ by 90’ and holds an amazing amount of history within its walls.
Rawhide sheep skins hang from the rafters and probably have been there for 60 or 70 years. The fleece is filthy, but the wool is still supremely soft.
Loops of sisal twine hang near the sheep hides, singular evidence of thousands of bales of hay once fed inside the barn. Baling wire, used later, was neatly threaded over another rafter. And a 1918 Montana license plate documents the beginning of the automotive era.
Thigh-high wooden panels are tied together with baling wire, portable alleys for working the sheep. No doubt, those panels were used during shearing, among other times. The counts for each shearer are painted on one of the barn doors. On June 23, 1937, K.V. B sheared sheep and he returned a week earlier in 1938, a week later in 1939 and sheared on July 3, 1940. When my husband, Steve, shears in March and April, he keeps a tally, too, but he marks paper with a pencil instead of paint on wood.
Two sturdy towers that held wool sacks stand about 9 feet tall inside the barn, their iron rings that held the dangling burlap sacks in place lean nearby. I can picture little boys — the little ones always had to pack the wool — climbing up the rungs of the tower and slipping down into the burlap bag. They would not be able to climb back out until they packed enough fleeces to fill the bag.
The dirt in the barn tells a story, too. I’m sure the barn has been scraped out many times in the past 120 years, but sheep manure still measures more than a foot deep. That’s a lot of sheep on that ground.
Will and I hauled off the old sheep hides, twine and rusty tin cans so we can get to the posts. We will dig holes next to each post and place another new one next to it. We’ll raise the roof where the old posts sank a bit and support others that probably will sink soon.
Then we will replace some of the cracked support beams that took a beating in that 180-mile wind last spring. The barn builders were visionaries, placing the barn just right to resist the typical northwest winds and the periodic east winds. That wind last spring came from the southwest, unusual to say the least, but our 120-year-old barn withstood the forces that twisted our neighbors’ irrigation pivots and blew roofs off other farm buildings. The barn creaked and cracked and moaned, but it held its ground. Still, I’m not sure it could withstand another gale force.
We would enjoy far less work if we just started from scratch to build a new barn next to this one, but we think the heritage within this barn’s walls deserves to be celebrated. And, as we clean up debris and dig post holes, Will and I are building just a bit of our own heritage. When we finish, maybe we will paint our names and the date on one of the doors.
Lisa Schmidt and her husband, Steve Hutton, raise natural, grassfed beef and lamb at the Graham Ranch near Conrad.
She has two children; Will, 13, and Abby, 4.
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Pondering Arks
My 4-year-old daughter, Abby, and I almost finished planting our garden last week. So far, we have potatoes, onions, carrots, beets, nasturtiums, marigolds and peas in the ground. We waited on the corn, but we think we will be okay. If the old saying about corn “knee-high by the Fourth of July” applies to all grass species, then our lawn indicates our corn will make huge ears even though we waited.
Abby and I had to press pause on planting our vegetables to build an ark. The skies dumped about 4 inches of rain on our humble abode last week, far less than most of Montana, but enough to start us thinking about fishing as an occupation. And plenty enough to stir up a soupy, sticky mess.
So our family set to work. My husband, Steve, is a genius with fashioning whatever we need from the materials at hand, but one of his former girlfriends once advised me to never heed Steve’s sense of interior design. I recall her words as “He would just as soon sit on a cinder block in the living room as relax in a recliner. Don’t listen to him when he wants to decorate.” I believe her. So Steve built the exterior of our ark. Meanwhile, my son, Will, designed the navigational system while Abby and I selected various species of animals to join us.
We decided that coyotes probably do not need our assistance; no doubt they will survive anything.
About a week into our lambing season, I found the front half of a newborn lamb only 75 yards from the barn. A coyote had stolen the rear half before I even had time to bring the lamb and its mother to the safety of the corral.
Then the other night, while our orphan Icelandic lamb, Dora, slept peacefully in the dog house with our two dogs, coyotes howled below the house. They baited our three pets down to the creek. Dora never returned. Steve found a few tufts of her fleece only a couple of hundred yards from her dog house.
A few mornings later, I found a dead lamb, shoulder ripped from its socket, in the Goofy Pen where all the newborns stay with their ewes. Theoretically, the lambs are supposed to be safe in the Goofy Pen, but apparently they are not.
We’re missing more lambs, but have yet to find the evidence of their demise. We probably never will.
Steve and I now have a friendly competition going. If I get five coyotes before he does, he will take me to dinner. If he wins, I will bake a butterscotch pie from his mother’s recipe for him. For five coyotes from our ranch, I might even make two.
Our whole family agreed that we needed lawn chairs on the deck of our ark. That way, as the water recedes, we can watch the grass grow. We are pretty confident that we will be able to hear it growing, too.
We lost four lambs and three ewes to this solid week of bone-chilling, grass-growing rain. Steve and I think that is a small price to pay for all the forage we will have soon. That price does not even register on the grand payment scale when we see all that others are suffering through. The devastation to homes and buildings and roads and crops and livelihoods and family histories makes us so thankful for all that we still have.
Abby will welcome the flood refugees to our ark. They just need to leave their coyotes back home.
Lisa Schmidt and her husband, Steve Hutton, raise natural, grassfed beef and lamb at the Graham Ranch near Conrad.
She has two children; Will, 13, and Abby, 4.
Pondering livestock and wildlife
The curlews are back. The mallards are nesting. The sharptails have been dancing.
Antelope does are loners now, preparing to fawn. The mule deer does and yearlings graze in small bunches. The white tail does and yearlings camp in the bottoms.
And the cattle graze with them.
It has been printed before that livestock and wildlife are incompatible. Pontificators have stated that cows will step on bird nests. Lawsuits have been filed to remove cattle from the range so birds can live there.
The printed pages, pontificators and law suits must have forgotten to sit and watch.
At the Graham Ranch, we rotate our livestock through pastures so we always have at least three pastures that are being rested, with no livestock within those fences. The birds can choose among many locations for their nests, with or without livestock grazing nearby.
Curlews choose nest sites in pastures where the cows graze. My husband, Steve, found a mallard nest, complete with eggs and hovering hen, in the short upland grass, about a quarter of a mile from water. Canada geese and at least five species of ducks are nesting along our reservoir and ponds. The sharptail grouse return to their leks each year.
Of course, the authors of the printed pages, the pontificators and the lawsuit filers can simply discount these observations with excuses. Can you hear them?
“It’s been so wet this year that makes a difference.”
But the birds were here during the past dry years, too.
Or “The grizzlies and wolves are chasing them out of their natural habitat.”
We haven’t seen a wolf on the ranch yet, and the last known grizzly bear was here last June, along with the wildlife. But he ignored the wildlife and selected juicy ewes and lambs to sink his teeth into.
Our observations of compatible livestock and wildlife could be an anomaly, but they are not. I was involved in a study to create Canada goose habitat by using cattle to graze wetlands into suitable nesting sites. The geese flocked to the grazed areas and laid their eggs while we watched.
For a month, we documented every single nest disturbance caused by cattle. We wondered whether a cow would step on a nest, nuzzle Mother Goose, or possibly just invade a goose’s personal space with her enormous presence. Our tally for the nesting season: zero. In fact, they left a buffer of grass and forbs around each nest, never grazing closer than within a couple of feet.
Even when we watched notoriously excitable yearling heifers, we observed no disturbance. Once, a coyote slipped through the tall grass, causing the yearlings to bolt, but even then they avoided trampling the nests. The coyote, however, created a disturbance in the nest.
That goose nesting study did not focus on cattle weight gains or profitability, but we weighed the heifers and calves anyway. They beat the average rate of gain for that herd. The grazing strategy that helped wildlife helped the livestock, too.
Of course, every ranch hosts habitat for different species of wildlife and every ranch manager tweaks a livestock grazing plan, but one species does not have to lose out to another. Not only are cattle compatible with wildlife, they help create wildlife’s living spaces. And when managers target wildlife habitat as a worthy goal, their livestock tend to live better, too.
Lisa Schmidt and her husband, Steve Hutton, raise natural, grassfed beef and lamb at the Graham Ranch near Conrad.
She has two children; Will, 13, and Abby, 4.
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