An Evolving Tradition

May arrives with a bustle of activity every year.  Calving season is winding down and crops are going in to the ground.  Inevitably, a rain storm hits and puts the brakes on the tractors for a few days.  With field work grinding to a halt (not that there has been much of that anyway with this extraordinarily wet spring),  a good day for a branding of the calves arises.  Branding is the same from year to year:  the herd is rounded up, calves are sorted off and tended to, and the pairs are parceled off to their respective pastures for the summer.

Yes, while the end result was the same and many of the sights and sounds were the same as they've been for the last 100 years of modern life in the west, some things for our family were different.  For Danish Cowboy, it started off with his mode of transportation.  Red Feather still had a bit of spring in his belly and rounding up the cattle was a bit more of an adventure with his new mount.  Joe, his pensioned horse who has racked up 27 years of life, seemed to enjoy watching the events from the sidelines.

Green horses and enthusiastic dogs don't mix, however.  Poor Tucker got in trouble and was sent home for a brief cool down period.

Argo also had to stay home because he tends to act more like a jackass than a horse when other horses that he is unfamiliar with are around.

So the kids, dogs, extra horses, and I hung out in our yard to watch the roundup festivities.  We had work to do anyway, what with all the equipment that mysteriously got stuck in the mud while I wasn't looking.

The cattle did eventually get rounded up and sorted off and the branding began.  (Note the oddball face in this crowd.  Even cattle have fidelity issues:  the neighboring hereford bull must have been visiting for a few days.)  Manpower requirements were significantly reduced this year as a crowding tub had been installed and a branding table had been purchased.  The crowding tub works well with the cattle psyche as the animals are constantly moving in a circular direction, allowing  us to get them where they need to be safely and quietly.

The branding table also helps to reduce the stress.  As far back as Danish Cowboy can remember, the calves were wrestled to the ground in small pens to get the tasks associated with branding accomplished.  The branding table/miniature squeeze chute was a major change for us.  While it took away from the traditional atmosphere of branding since a large crowd was not required to get the job done, it made life a little less stressful for everyone involved.

Of course, there were a few calves that were too small to successfully hold them on the table so they were caught and branded the traditional way.  It was a good refresher for Danish Cowboy to have to wrestle a calf to the ground:  it's usually a sport for high school boys but even the young at heart an play once in a while.

Some things never change, though.  The mama cows still voiced their disapproval and worry.

And the babies quickly found their comfort with mama after the job was done.

No one knows how life will change and traditions such as branding will evolve over the next few years.  But if my little people have anything to do with it, they'll be right in the mix trying to do their part.  It was pretty tough explaining to a three year old that he couldn't round cows up on his bike.  "Give it a few years, little buddy," we told him.  Then we can all mount up together.

Tall Tales and Fort Peck Whales

Much to the dismay of our mothers, Danish Cowboy and I decided to forego the Easter dinner of ham and chocolate that our families traditionally have and head to the Fort Peck reservoir with granola bars and fruit snacks for a few hours this past Sunday to try our hand at some springtime fishing.

We decided early on that anyone with a hook and worm can catch large walleye and northern pike so we set our sights on a much more challenging target: miniature fish.  That's right.  You've probably never heard of the elusive miniature walleye that are known to exist on the Big Dry Arm of Fort Peck Lake.  It takes patience and skill to find them.  Danish Cowboy has been fishing these waters since before he can remember and he knows all the favorite hideouts of the miniature walleye.

It takes miniature minnows that flop in your hand and look at you with eyes of horror after you have put them on your hook.  It apparently does not take a coffee can full of worms that I spent hours digging up from the garden only to have Danish Cowboy comment on how small and apparently useless they were.

It also helps if you know where there are some salt cedar trees that have become submerged with the recent rising level of the lake.  Salt cedar trees are most excellent for hook snagging and are known to be the preferred hideouts for the elusive miniature walleye.

It took a while for us to have any sign of fish activity.  Miniature fish, after all, don't exactly cause the bobber to go crazy as those boring 15 pound fish do.  I repeat, skill and a keen sense of awareness come in to play.  It's why most people don't fish for miniature fish.  It's just too complicated.  But the kids waited patiently.  They played in the water, ate sugar, and asked if they could go lay down in the camper that we do not have.  With the camper idea not panning out like they had hoped it would, they were ready to go home.  Danish Cowboy and I stayed strong, fed them more sugar, and continued to believe that a miniature walleye would soon show itself.

Then it happened.  There was an ever so slight tilt of the pole and a bit of tension on the line.  The youngest member of our fishing expedition reeled in his first fish.

A miniature walleye!

Being conservation minded people, the designated fish un-hooker of our crew decided to practice catch-and-release.  Catch-and-release is not a concept that fits well inside a three year old mind.  The little guy was still grumbling about it the next morning.

Having fulfilled our goal of catching a miniature walleye, we packed up the troops and headed home to eat chicken strips.  We were supposed to have fish that night, but the miniature walleye proved to be too much for even the skill of a seasoned fisherman. 

Nice Snoopy pole, dude.

The Expert

Having grown up on the prairie, all that Danish Cowboy really knows of sledding consists of short hills and pulling a sled behind a four wheeler or a snowmobile.  Having grown up in central Pennsylvania, I know more.  A lot more.

I know so much in fact, that I would consider myself an expert.  I've always wanted to be the awesomest at something and now I've figured out what that is.  I am an expert sledder.

I've been downhill sledding since I can remember.  It started out with long treks to the water tower at the top of the highest hill in our neighborhood and then progressed to really long runs down the hill behind our church.  In late elementary school and middle school, my friend Becky and I (along with our dogs) would spend hours sledding.  We stayed out until the ice collected in such huge balls on our dogs' legs that guilt would force us inside.

There were no snowmobiles to pull us up to the top of the hill back then and we could read a run or build a snow jump with the best of them.  So when Danish Cowboy suggested we trade in our farm yard snow piles for the challenge of the rock hills, I was all in.  He (of course) snowmobiled out there with the kids.  I snowshoed.

Let's just observe right now that there were no pictures taken on Sunday.  There was no time when my expert knowledge had to be relied upon.

When I got to the site that Danish Cowboy chose for the kids' first real sledding experience, I looked up.  Straight up.  Honest.  Here was my husband about to send my children over a 10 foot cliff.  So maybe it wasn't 90 degrees, but the drift was very close to near vertical.  I didn't say a word.  'Tis best to keep your mouth shut and let the lesson teach itself in these sensitive situations.

He sent the little guy over the first time with great success, great luck and a cheer at the end.  He sent him over again and there was a minor wrist injury that was easily healed with a little sympathy and a quick kiss from Mom.  He sent the little girl over and she went cheek first into the snow that had by now developed an icy crust due to the warm weather.  I gently suggested that maybe we should find another hill.

He gently reminded me that we were on the prairie and hills were in short supply.  Both kids refused to go down the hill again.  I refused to go down the hill.  It was so steep that even an expert was wary of it.

The rock hills that no doubt marked the spot for so many homesteaders before us are thankfully composed of multiple hills, so we loaded up the snowmobile and snowshoes and moved south.  He drove straight towards another steep hill, this one with rocks strewn about and then I proceeded to regale him with my sledding knowledge and we opted for the gentler hill, the one without rocks for them to hit, the one that might be fun for a three year old.  And what fun they did have.  They caught a little air, the run was pretty long and there were no major spills caused by cliff-diving off of snow drifts.   I might be useless at tractor driving and cattle-whispering, but sledding is where it's at.  The expert is on duty.

The Farmer and the Cowboy

Harvest time is upon us.  The hay has been cut and baled and the winter wheat and forage pea crops have been combined and placed in the bin. Rain showers visited us for the weekend and the combines are at a momentary rest before the spring wheat and hay barley will be ready for harvest.

So, finally, I had time to deal with pictures.  And discovered a story in photographs from last week.  As the combine rolls down the row, it has the ability to leave behind a lot of straw that can be baled.  While we ordinarily chop the straw as it leaves the combine, we do reserve a few passes on the wheat field for our friend and neighbor to bale. 

It's a fairly nice tradeoff. He typically takes some of our wheat straw to use as bedding for his horses and we take some of his small square hay bales for use in the barn during calving.  Danish Cowboy has known this guy for years.  They met in elementary school and have been friends ever since.  I work with his wife, his daughter occasionally watches over our children for us.  It's a good relationship to have.

They don't see each other often anymore as our lives and interests sometimes take different, though complementary, directions.  So, when they see each other, they talk.  A lot.  Their conversation on this particular evening was also apparently in need of some good hand gestures for explanation.

Not really sure what he was gesturing at.  It is not like we live where there is a varied skyline of high rise buildings or even named and knowable mountain peaks.

Was he pointing to a particular cloud hovering over the Big Open on this particular evening, a hay bale, the imaginary gourmet grocery store or mountain glen that would be my idea of Shangri-La?

Time, dwindling sunlight and modern conveniences soon brought an end to this pleasant evening, though. 

And we all returned to our own walk of life for this time of year, although the beauty of a harvest sunset and the pleasantness of seeing friends during the busy harvest season will not soon be forgotten.

The 12 Days of Christmas #6

I'm having a bit of an identity crisis.
I used to consider myself somewhat normal, somewhat modern, somewhat middle class, whatever that might be. In the past few years, however, I've noticed that my activities tend to be more rural in nature.
For example, we lack hills around here so we share the thrill of sledding with our children by pulling them in a calf sled behind a four wheeler.
As we drove/sledded by the outhouse that Danish Cowboy actually has memories of using before running water was invented on the prairie, it hit me. I have become the dreaded R word. 75 percent of my activities wouldd most likely be classified as redneck-ish.
Then, as I was sitting in the sled waiting for the next round of sledding, Danish Cowboy and my little boy shouted over the barn and across the poop-infested corral to our only neighbors (who also happen to be our in-laws) to inquire whether they wanted to get pulled behind a 4-wheeler through the trees, over the frozen cow pies and by the outhouse. They politely declined. I could feel myself slipping even deeper into redneck-dom.

Is it possible for a child this young to be embarrassed by her family?

The Great Providers

Danish Cowboy and his Florida friends went hunting this past weekend for elk in the glorious Missori River Breaks country of Garfield County, Montana. It is a beautiful yet desolate place.

The elk are here in this picture.


What do you mean you can't see them? They're right there. No. There. No, that tree off to the right a little bit. No, no, no. THAT tree. There.

The hunters are in these pictures. Isn't that sunset just gorgeous? That guy really was there. Honest. He's from Florida and this picture is no rival to a sunset over the Gulf. And I'll fight to the end to prove it. The colors of Montana have no rivals.

And here are the great providers toting back their kill. They SAY it was a lot of hard work. I have no doubt that it was. Please note what appears to be a leg in the foreground. Why they didn't pack that out out for me to boil up for supper is beyond my imagination.

This is the Danish Cowboy toting back the head so that we may feast on freshly boiled brains. What's that you say, DC? We don't eat the brains? You plan on boiling the skull and mounting it on the wall of our new house? This house that I'm living in now? Above our bed as a romantic gesture of your love for me?



That's right, dear daughter. That's right. My thoughts exactly.

She was known...

I have this fear that my obit is going to say that someday. You see, my husband, he was raised on a ranch in the good old days. You know - back when women did everything for their men around the house. I, however was not raised in such a time and place. And so the conversations around our house often follow along these lines.

DC: Will I like this homogenized whole milk?

Me: All milk is homogenized.

DC: Well, we're out of milk, so I guess I'll have to.

Me: Yup, I guess so.

DC: Think you could pick up some more milk in town today?

Me: Aren't you going in to town? To gossip at the tractor store? And talk about football at the Ford dealer?

DC: Yeah, but...I won't have time. And also, I'm not sure where they keep the milk at.

Me: It's on the list. 10-4 good buddy.

So I made up that last part about not knowing where the milk's at. Trying to instill a love of grocery shopping in this guy - not gonna' happen.

But hey, with a face like this -- could you really expect him to walk into a grocery store? He should be out fixing fence. Or herding cattle. Or gossiping.