Our latest experience with the health care system leaves me surprised by the similarities between our country’s health care finances and the commodity livestock industry.

Traditional cattle producers work hard all year to grow their calves, and then haul them to the auction where they take whatever the highest bidder offers. Commodity producers are price-takers from a top-down oligopoly where prices are dictated by a few beef packers. That’s the simplified version and lots of details create various strategies to increase profit, but essentially three global beef packers establish prices with very little transparency.

As several health care billing executives explained to me, our federal health insurance — Medicare — along with a few private health insurance companies establish what hospitals will receive for various procedures with very little transparency. Hospitals, like commodity livestock producers, use various strategies to increase profit.

Before Christmas, the doctor recommended that my husband, Steve, receive a pacemaker. His surgery was scheduled for mid-January. We self-insure so I was more than curious about how much this simple procedure would cost.

Just before Christmas, I asked the hospital billing center. They did not know, but would get back to me. Their best estimate at the time was somewhere around $50,000, if everything went okay.

Just after New Year’s, the billing person called back with a better estimate, but it did not include the doctor’s bill or the price increases that went into effect Jan. 1: $93,000 and change. The pacemaker would cost $35,000, the procedure would be $38,000 and they would need about $20,000 for miscellaneous supplies “like gloves and things.”

But the billing person emphasized that this was a low-ball estimate.

“Medicare reduced its rates so we do not know how our prices will increase,” she explained.

“Why don’t you just charge whatever it costs. Every good business manager knows costs. Don’t you?” I replied.

“The costs vary based on what Medicare reimburses,” she answered.

I think we must have gone to very different business schools. The cost of pacemakers, leads, hourly wages for staff, electricity, plastic gloves and beds do not change based on what someone will pay just like the cost of harvesting hay, grazing land payments, taxes, fuel and minerals do not change based on what somebody offers to pay for our calves.

“How much will Blue Cross/Blue Shield pay?” I continued.

“It depends on your policy. Each policy pays a different amount,” she explained.

“How do you budget?”

“We don’t. We send a bill for the full amount to the insurance company and they tell us what percentage of the bill they will pay us,” she replied.

Steve and I decided to shop around. The billing person helped us immensely by providing the codes for Steve’s particular procedure.

Steve started with the internet and found the exact same procedure cost $13,000 in India. Doctors who graduated from U.S. medical schools would implant the exact same pacemaker. The doctor would receive $1,000, the pacemaker cost $8,000 and the hospital would get $4,000.

For the $80,000 difference, we could afford to fly to India. Maybe my mom would come to the ranch to take care of the kids while we were gone. Heck, we could load up the kids and take them, too. Maybe one of our good neighbors would feed the animals for us while we engaged in medical tourism.

I shopped some more.

Medicare would reimburse $30,000 for Steve’s procedure at the new 2012 reduced rates. I found their 2012 reimbursement rates on the internet.

A friend who works in the insurance industry recommended adding 20% to the Medicare rates to estimate private insurance reimbursements.

I called another regional hospital. The helpful billing person had a hard and fast cost for me within an hour: $40,000 plus the doctor’s charge.

By then, we needed to make a decision. Steve was scheduled for surgery at 6:30 the next morning.

I called the first hospital.

“Will you match $40,000?”

Within 30 minutes, financial officers had matched the competing hospital’s bid.

To understand the commodity cattle industry, review the preceding conversations, only substitute high quality beef for high quality medical care, and substitute price bids from beef packers for price estimates from insurance companies. Substitute cattle producers for hospitals. Instead choosing to fly to India for health care, cattle producers choose to haul their cattle to various auctions.

Steve received excellent, compassionate care from the hospital staff and is back to being his normal, Energizer Bunny self. Knowing we self-insure, Steve’s doctor did not send a bill to us. The hospital billing people tried hard to find answers for me.

But our health financing system, much like the commodity livestock system, is broken. The people on the ground of both industries continue to fight an uphill battle because they care. Thank goodness. We provide the best beef and receive the best medical care in the world. We just don’t know how much we will be paid.

Lisa Schmidt and her husband, Steve Hutton, raise natural, grassfed beef and lamb at the Graham Ranch near Conrad.

Helga calved! I realize the entire world did not pause to celebrate this amazing feat, but I did.

Helga is our brown Swiss-Jersey milk cow so now that she calved, our family gets to share sweet, thick cream and tasty milk with her calf, Louis L’Amour.

Only Helga and Louis never learned to share.

I expected Helga to have a calf in October. The days passed, Helga waddled across the pasture. November came. Helga spent some time with the rest of the cattle, but chose to graze by herself a lot of the time. Cows meander away from the rest of the herd when they are ready to calve so we hoped her time was close. Of course, this was Helga so we weren’t sure.

Helga is not your ordinary doe-eyed, docile milk cow. She doesn’t stand quietly as I milk and she doesn’t chew her cud.

Helga bellows, kicks and drools.

Even the other cattle don’t particularly like Helga. They tolerate her, like an older brother tolerates his little sister, but they don’t like her.

So when Helga stood off to the edge of the pasture, we didn’t know whether we were observing social ostrasization or prepartum preparations.

Finally, one day after a chilling snowstorm, a small black being wobbled to his feet beside Helga. My husband, Steve, and I walked out to check on the little fellow. Helga allowed us near and we considered the possibility that she might have mellowed.

Then Helga charged straight over the top of her calf at Steve, shaking her head and bawling her motherhood.

Apparently, Helga’s personality is permanent.

We gave the new pair a day to bond, and then put both of them in the corral.

Time to milk. I was elated. Milking offers a rhythm to my life and provides the most sumptuous addition to my morning coffee that I’ve ever tasted. I’m addicted.

I stepped into the corral.

Helga put me over the fence.

I finally managed to put her in the milking chute by using my stick. I didn’t need to hit her, just wave it in front of her. In a previous life, Helga must have been beaten because she respects sticks.

Most of the time.

The next day, I brought my stick with me to strengthen my argument. Helga argued me up into the feed manger with her horns.

After a week or so, Helga, Louis and I had a production agreement, but Louis collected almost all the profits, leaving me a pint for our land and labor investments. This was not a long-term, sustainable plan.

Now, I milk in the morning and let Louis have the daytime production. He and his mother separate in the evening, leaving the nighttime manufacturing for my family. I think Helga enjoys the relief from Louis’ continual demands for food, too. At least, she trots right in to the adjoining corral each evening.

By morning, she is ready to mother again. I turn her into Louis’s corral, let him nurse for a couple of minutes and then coax Helga into the milking chute. Louis can suck out in two minutes what takes me 15 minutes to strip from Helga. I’m pretty sure that Steve and I could make a million dollars if we could turn Louis’s sucking talents into a shop-vac.

Meanwhile, I’ll add a little more cream to my coffee and raise a toast to my Helga.

Lisa Schmidt and her husband, Steve Hutton, raise natural, grassfed beef and lamb at the Graham Ranch near Conrad.

My husband, Steve, and I stepped out the door, noticed a bit of a breeze and picked up a few rocks to carry in our pockets. In fact, we have been stepping out the door and picking up rocks to carry for the last three weeks. We were not sure everyone would notice our gentle breeze so we jotted down a few of the events that we’ve seen on blustery days.

You Know It Might Be a Breezy Day in Montana if:

1. The used tractor tires that hold down the barn roof go flying.

2. A 1500-pound round bale clears three barbed-wire fences, only coming to rest at a post on the fourth fence.

3. Fence staples that hold all four-strands of wire pop from the posts.

4. A horse standing with his face to the wind has a shadow that looks like he is running.

5. You are traveling 70 mph on the county road and a tumbleweed passes you.

6. A rock cracks your windshield, even though you did not pass a car.

7. You stack a pyramid of round bales around your house so your roof stays on.

8. You wear ski goggles to feed your livestock to keep the hay out of your eyes.

9. The anemometer at the airport blows away.

10. Your hat blows off and you find it two coulees to the east.

11. You strap a bungee cord to your tractor seat and set a log chain on the floor mat to hold them down.

12. The barbed-wire cuts a fencepost in half.

13. Three cows and one wheel line sprinkler line up in a row. The cows spray like the sprinkler is on in January.

14. The barn roof shingles look like snowfall.

15. The wire gate in the west pasture is shaped like a C.

16. You find a grain bin tangled up about ¼-mile from the road and you don’t own a grain bin.

17. Your neighbors look out at their garage and find only the concrete foundation left.

18. You parked the concession trailer next to the shop, but find its siding sliding down the driveway.

19. Horse biscuits are piled on the leeward side of the barn.

20. You need to stake down your heavy wooden mangers so they don‘t blow over and smash lambs.

21. News reports that would bring FEMA running to southern and eastern states only provide interesting conversation at the local café.

Lisa Schmidt and her husband, Steve Hutton, raise natural, grassfed beef and lamb at the Graham Ranch near Conrad.

This fall has offered up some difficult events at the Graham Ranch. Nothing dire like some of my extended family has faced and my kids are healthy, but difficult none the less. My husband, Steve, and I have no control over these events. Our only choice is how we react to them.

I thought long and hard about my reaction. I decided I have four choices.

I could become a victim, choosing to lay down and whine, like a dog offering her belly in submission.

I could become a hypocrite. I could benefit from others’ accepting these events while I insist on NIMBY — Not In My Back Yard.

I could strike with bitter revenge. The prime example of this choice is Jon Marvel, the founder of Western Watersheds Project. For more than 40 years, Marvel has sought revenge on the cattle industry because one rancher’s cattle trespassed on Marvel’s land and the rancher explained the fence-out law instead of addressing Marvel’s concerns. Western Watersheds Project has filed millions of dollars of lawsuits since that day, all in an attempt to retaliate against the rancher who followed the law and cause as much pain as possible to the entire industry.

Bitter revenge seems sweetest at first and I’ve spent many moments dreaming of the possibilities. But at the end of the day, I’m exhausted and disgusted with myself. The bitterness eats at me, turning me into a mean-spirited soapbox preacher who can not look in the mirror.

I don’t tolerate whiners or hypocrites either.

Choosing one of these three choices would eat at me until my soul would disappear.

My fourth choice is to treat others with respect and expect them to respect me. Steve and I need to stand up for all that we believe and we need to protect our family and resources. We respect the law — which leaves out all of those vengeful daydreams — and respect others’ rights to disagree with us. We must act civilly and speak clearly.

These difficulties have weighed heavily on my shoulders throughout the fall. I have renewed my choice to respect and be respected every day — sometimes I’ve wavered many times during the day so I had to make my choice over and over.

The holidays snuck up on me during all of this. I had a hard time finding that Christmas Spirit.

Then I realized that my choice epitomizes the Christmas Spirit.

What is Christmas but the celebration of our newfound choice to treat others as we would like to be treated? No more eye-for-an-eye or sons paying for their fathers’ sins. Instead, we can choose love. It might be tough love or it might be sympathetic love or even somewhere in between, but Christmas celebrates a new choice.

What is Christmas but the celebration of maintaining our self-respect by insisting on respectful actions from others?

We celebrate our individual choice to treat others as we would like to be treated when we wish one another Merry Christmas; when we reach out to those we love even if we haven’t spoken since last year; when we offer gifts, smiles and hugs.

Merry Christmas!

Lisa Schmidt and her husband, Steve Hutton, raise natural, grassfed beef and lamb at the Graham Ranch near Conrad.

Recently, I finished reading Wolfer, By Carter Neimeyer. Neimeyer’s direct, no-holds-barred writing related vivid stories of his 30 years as a government trapper. He spent many of those years involved with reintroducing wolves to the U.S. and capturing those that preyed on livestock, and his stories illuminate the inside mechanics of that project.

But Niemeyer’s focus is narrow. In 355 pages, he never once looks beyond the jaws of a trap to the broader context of unlimited wolves in our society.

Bison relocation — moving Yellowstone National Park bison to other areas of Montana — hit the news recently, too. A person has to wonder whether the wolf reintroduction proponents and the bison relocation proponents meet at an undisclosed office to frame their arguments because the bison relocation proponents have the same problem: They forget to look at the broad context for the reasons to resist unlimited populations of wildlife.

Proponents of unlimited populations of both wolves and bison demand livestock producers to bear the full brunt of the consequences of these wildlife, along with other species that live on productive private land.

Generally, I tend to live and let live. I enjoy spotting a wolf or grizzly in the mountains and I agree that diverse wildlife populations stabilize ecosystems. My husband, Steve, and I contribute our share of feed, clean water and cover to many wildlife species. The habitat we contribute to those species reduces the number of livestock we are able to raise on our land — not much, but some. That is okay with us; we like to do our part.

But livestock producers are limited much more by federal policies that create cheap food for all Americans. Those policies have created few commodity markets and severely limited opportunities for value-added markets. In the end, a livestock producer’s long-term profit margin is zero at best. In fact, only the best business managers will break even over the course of 20 years. That’s why conventional wisdom dictates that a person can not buy a ranch in this day and age.

Yet wolf and bison proponents demand that those species have a right to unlimited propagation and livestock producers should accept this unalienable right as a natural cost of doing business. They state these claims while eating a hamburger from McDonald’s Value Menu that sells for $1, including the meat, the meat’s additives, the bun and the ketchup and mustard, as well as the building, utilities and teenager who bags the burger and hands it through the window. If wolf and bison hosting livestock producers were allowed to make a minimum 7% profit margin like other industries expect, that Value Menu burger would be a bargain at $10.

But Americans demand cheap food and unlimited populations of wolves and bison. The obvious answer, in the official mind, is to criminalize livestock producers who do not provide these.

If a person who lives in Billings or Great Falls or Bozeman has her car stolen, she is the victim. If she yells at the perpetrator or even pulls a gun on him, she is justifiably protecting her property. But unless a producer catches a wolf in the act of killing livestock, she is a criminal for protecting her property. If a free-roaming bison wanders through fences scattering horses, cattle and sheep onto the road and other‘s land, a producer is a criminal for protecting her property.

When public officials institute plans for unlimited populations of particular species, livestock producers feel as if they just stepped into a wacky carnival House of Mirrors. They get pulled and twisted and distorted until they don’t know which way to turn. Instead of attacking America’s source of inexpensive, nutritious, safe food, wolf and bison proponents should either find a solution that they can fund and manage or make a choice: feed people or feed wildlife. Livestock producers should not be expected to feed both.

Lisa Schmidt and her husband, Steve Hutton, raise natural, grassfed beef and lamb at the Graham Ranch near Conrad.

The blinking light on the phone beckoned: The elementary school was planning a Harvest Festival and would my husband, Steve, and I give rides with our team of horses and wagon?

Of course we would. Our team had carted giggling fourth- and fifth-graders around Conrad before. I answered the message more than a month ago.

But this time I was anxious.

We had not used our Percherons, Merry and Melody, for a while. The full sisters are strong, and sometimes Melody takes her bit in her teeth, bows her neck and goes just about wherever she wants to go. Steve has always been able to regain control eventually, but usually our passengers are 1700-pound bales of hay, not 65-pound human bouncy balls.

A couple of days before the Harvest Festival, Steve and I drove out to one of our south side pastures to catch Merry and Melody. We stood on the tailgate of the pickup to jump on — I rode Merry while Steve’s long legs split across Melody’s fluffy-not-fat broad back.

Our team did not want to leave the other horses.

I saw it coming. Steve thumped Melody with his heels. A cog in Melody’s brain twisted. Her ears twitched. The muscles in her neck rippled. Her front feet came off the ground. Steve’s legs gripped tighter. Melody’s hind feet cleared a sagebrush. The synapse returned to Melody’s brain, pausing one more time for a mighty thump from her massive front feet.

I laughed so hard that I thought I might fall off Merry. Instead of watching the lightning fast kick-snap of a National Finals Rodeo bareback bronc, I was watching a porch chair rocking in a gentle breeze. Somehow, Steve managed to stay on board.

We hitched the horses to the wagon and drove them around for a couple of miles. They did just what we asked of them.

Harvest Festival morning was dark and chilly. Daylight savings time had yet to buy an hour of morning light. None of us had thought about the need to harness the team in pitch black. Did we get the buckles tight? Were any of the lines twisted? Would our passengers be safe?

Steve played the strong silent role, guiding the team efficiently, stopping periodically to let the students get off the wagon and even, every once in a while, hitting a badger hole to bounce the passengers off their seats. Screams of delight and excited constant chatter kept him entertained.

I was the education committee. How much do these horses weigh? Thoughtful answers ranged from 100 to 100,000 pounds, until someone guessed a ton. How much do they eat in a day? A pound, 10 pounds and 100 pounds of hay were estimates. I hoped that the little girl who guessed one pound was feeding a Chihuahua, not a horse.

Then the kids asked questions.

Why did you name Merry like Christmas? She was born on Christmas morning.

Why do you call her Melody? You might hear her sing.

And the best question of the day, from a boy who looked as if our educational system might not fit all of his needs: How do you control these horses? My first thought — “sometimes we wonder about that, too” — probably wasn’t appropriate so everyone unloaded from the wagon and we looked at how the harness worked. And I took this opportunity to check the traces one more time.

One boy, observing the concho on Melody’s bridle, asked if we nail the bridles to the horses’ heads. At that moment, Steve and I agreed that our efforts were important.

But silence gave us the most reward.

Amid all the chatter and noise, two little girls would not speak. One would not even meet my eyes. But, one at a time, each little girl pet Merry and Melody. Steve and I watched a connection between horse and girl that was stronger than any words could form. One of the girls moved closer, toward Merry’s nose. Merry blew a greeting. The girl softly, slowly stroked Merry’s cheek. Merry blew again.

The girl’s smile lit up the playground, the sky and our whole world.

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.

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.

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.

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.