How I Already Did That Once

The forecast for our first real winter weather of 2026 predicted 2 to 4 inches of blowing snow at the ranch beginning Tuesday, with more wind and snow in the mountains.

I was supposed to deliver a trailer load of steers and lambs over the winding, narrow mountain pass to Kalispell on Tuesday.

Snapshots flashed through my mind – a return trip on the snow-packed road in pitch black darkness, the pickup thermometer registering -40 degrees, bumper car snowdrifts keeping my empty truck and trailer from careening off the steep bank, peering through blowing snow to find the road, then a sudden blackout.

I realized the truck was still.

I couldn’t open my door.

Snow piled over top of the cab.

The car that been following me came to rest next to my passenger door.

Before I could shovel us out of the drift, an Amtrak van and snowplow materialized through the blinding snow and picked up all of us and our dogs.

They dropped me and my dog at a nearby hotel for the night.

By the time I got to my pickup the next day, a tow truck driver and highway patrol officer were searching for the pickup keys.

I took them out of my pocket, turned the ignition and was stunned when my old diesel started.

A hard pull from the tow truck and a check for $700 put me back on the highway.

I crossed that experience off my bucket list – I didn’t need to tempt the odds twice in one life.

Yet now I faced the potential for a repeat.

I had a hard-won appointment with my processor so I needed to get my livestock over the hill on time.

I called them.

Yes, they could manage if I brought my load early, by Monday evening.

By Monday at 2 p.m., my livestock was loaded.

By 6 p.m., I unloaded at the processor.

By 10 p.m., I was cozy, snuggled in my own bed.

By 2 a.m., the northwest wind blew snow into drifts and the temperature dropped precipitously.

By 11 a.m., I found my flock of sheep crowded into the southeast corner of the pasture.

The bitter wind had bunched them into a tight ball.

If a ewe slipped, she would be crushed by others stepping on top of her.

I know this because that particular pasture corner had turned into a crushing plant once before.

One Thanksgiving several years ago a sudden – much worse – snowstorm had pushed my sheep into that corner.

I searched for them in the blinding, blowing storm, but became disoriented as I stumbled through the snowdrifts after my truck got stuck.

The next morning when the wind died down a little, my kids and I discovered a mountain of dead sheep in that corner.

While the snow blew down our collars, our toes froze and the turkey waited, we pawed, shoveled, pulled and rolled out a few survivors and hauled them to the barn.

Some of them even lived for a few more days.

My complete failure to protect my sheep still haunts me.

Never on my bucket list in the first place, I would not allow a repeat if I had any way to avoid it.

Fortunately, at 11 a.m. on Tuesday, I had two dogs and a less intense storm.

The sheep, eyes blown closed with crusted snow, did not willingly turn into the wind.

The dogs had more fun encouraging the sheep than a 10-year-old with unlimited tickets at the county fair carnival.

Thirty minutes later, the sheep found the barn.

The dogs smiled as only happy dogs can.

I dodged yet another rerun.

Apparently, an old rancher really can learn new tricks.