First Gophers

My brother, Roger, and I hiked in the bright sunshine.

Our first attempt at the trailhead to the mountains had been foiled by deep snowdrifts and hard-packed slopes. We could have tackled that trail, but the chances of sliding down into unforgiving tree trunks and scratchy brambles made us reconsider.

We headed back to one of my favorite parts of the ranch, where intermittent snowdrifts telegraphed grizzlies awakening from hibernation.

On the way, a gopher ran across the road.

The first sign of spring.

We have yet to see even a sprig of green grass so we decided the gopher must be starving.

Gophers announce spring is coming, but curlews declare spring has sprung.

Migrating curlews usually wait until the chances are higher that the soil will be soft enough for them to find bugs.

I haven’t spotted a curlew yet, but the gophers tell me they will be here soon.

Other signs of spring confirm what the gophers know.

Roger and I watched a massive porcupine strip bark from the top of a Russian olive tree.

He wobbled in on the thin branch, gripping it tightly, spending more of his time balancing than eating.

He had already stripped the bark from many treetops in the grove.

I didn’t shoot the porcupine even though he probably will cause problems for me later this summer when cows graze that pasture.

I might regret that choice.

Later in the week, I watched a bald eagle perch stock-still on a post for 10 minutes, camouflaged and waiting for a meal of delectable gopher.

A golden eagle flew high over the calves.

One brand new calf tried to follow his mama across an ice floe.

Five minutes before, he had yet to stand on those stilts connected to himself. Now he looked like Bambi on ice, scrambling, slipping, doing the splits.

The cow came to him, slipped and landed sprattle-legged, too.

I tagged and banded him, then dragged him to dry ground, where he had better footing.

My milk cow, Maija, has declared the arrival of springtime, too.

She gives enough warm, frothy milk to fill my bucket every morning and evening.

Sipping the sweet froth straight from the bucket feels more decadent than stopping for a latte at the local coffeeshop.

The barn cat has never enjoyed a cappuccino, but she knows the utter joy of warm frothy milk.

It can’t get any better than this.

That froth somehow alleviates my aching feet that have slipped into muck boots every single day for the past six months.

Someone should invent better arch supports for those boots.

Still, I appreciate my boots as I step into the creek filled with water between sheets of ice. I know those boots will keep me dry no matter what.

But I slip in slow motion, setting the full bucket of milk on the ice next to me as I splash down, not spilling a drop.

I laugh at myself, then trudge to the house in dripping jeans.

On the way, my phone rings.

The sheep shearers will be here tomorrow morning.

Panic fills my throat.

I need to find six more people willing to push sheep up the chute and into the shearing trailer.

On a weekday.

Then I need to figure out a meal for the shearing crew and deserving help.

My chef-of-the-year award goes missing as I consider what to serve that won’t kill my guests.

Like the ranch waking from winter to new life, I vacillate between resting on the tried-and-true roast beef and the hustle and bustle of an experiment.

Most people don’t die from one meal.

Maybe I can find a recipe that is spring green.