Tightrope of Drought

I’ve been selling cows and cow-calf pairs all spring.

I don’t have grass to feed them.

I keep checking my pastures, hoping somehow grass has popped up.

Pastures I haven’t grazed for 18 months have as much grass growing as pastures where I fed hay all winter.

Hills of some pastures never even greened up, much less grew.

Even most of the dandelions took a vacation this year.

I’ve been counting raindrops since February.

So far, I’ve used all of my fingers and some of my toes.

I find myself seeking out patches of green, attempting to convince myself that 100 yards of green grass at the bottom of a coulee will feed my cows and sheep.

Then I slap myself upside the head and catch my horse to corral more pairs for the sale.

Either I sell them fat now or sell them skinny later.

Selecting which cows and how many to sell is like walking a tightrope of balancing genetic qualities and the chance of rain.

I look at each cow, remembering the calving seasons we have shared and whether her calves outperformed others.

I listen to my new best friend, Eric Snodgrass.

Eric is a meteorologist hired by Northwest Farm Credit Services to chat about weather updates each week.

In January, he said La Nina would dissipate.

And February.

And March.

He was wrong.

Now Eric says La Nina might stick around all summer and possibly next winter.

I sort more pairs to sell based on Eric’s models, hoping he is wrong again, yet knowing I don’t have any wiggle room if he is right.

Selling sheep will have to wait.

Trucking young lambs to the auction is dicey on the best day.

While I wait to sell a bunch of ewes, I enjoy one of the best lamb crops I’ve ever had. The twin lambs bounce across the crunchy grass like pogo sticks, not knowing what they are missing and growing right before my eyes.

The ewes feed those lambs well while they lose weight.

Last weekend, I needed to move the cattle to the other end of the ranch.

I could have herded them straight through the pastures, but I decided to detour.

All of that lush green grass on the side of the road was going to waste.

In fact, without my help, the county would need to mow it soon.

I took it upon myself to save taxpayer dollars.

I turned the cows through my driveway gate and on to the county road.

For a mile, the cows munched contentedly as they meandered to the new pasture.

The calves tested that unusual flavor, too.

I broke a cardinal rule and even let my horse join in.

My neighbor stopped to chat, wishing all of our pastures looked like the road ditches.

As the cattle strolled up the road, moving barely enough to make it look as if I was actually herding them instead of just feeding them on the county road, dark storm clouds gathered.

I watched heavy rain pour down about 15 miles west of me and I celebrated for my neighbors.

Then I felt a drop.

And another.

I used the last of my toes as I counted raindrops.

My horse turned her tail to the wind and rain so the drops didn’t hurt her eyes.

The cows and calves kept munching, oblivious.

I wondered if my buddy Eric Snodgrass might be wrong.

The rain didn’t last, but the two-tenths of an inch gave the grass a drink.

As the cows filled their bellies, I tightroped once again between memories with each one and picking out another load to haul to the auction.