Living in a Country Town

"September 10, 11:51 pm
While on routine patrol in the 100 block of South Grand Mesa Drive, an officer observed two horses walking down the middle of the roadway. The officer was able to catch the horses and within a few minutes the man who owned the horses arrived on the scene. The man explained that he had the horses tied up at the Blu Sky Saloon and that somehow they had gotten loose. The officer stated the man needed to keep a better eye on his horses, and warned him not to ride the horses while he was intoxicated."

This is a reprint from the local newspaper police blotter from the town next door. Now, my town is even more country than this one, since it doesn't even have its own police force! Vigilante law is the way to go.

"She's not just a cover model... she can ride, too!"

This is a reprint from April, posted on the Smith Fork Ranch blog:

Here at Smith Fork Ranch, we've got a wide variety of "characters" on staff-- one of us used to be a farm wife, driving big rigs during the harvest; one of us has built multi-million dollar log homes; one of us spent a season in Antarctica; one of us is now a cover model!

Joanne Kennedy's new book, Cowboy Trouble, might feature a familiar face for some of you: our very own Head Wrangler, Ciara Pares! Ciara has been a wrangler for seven years, but in a past life, often modeled for fashion designers, corporate marketing, events and conventions.

Ciara said the photo on the cover of the book was taken about three years ago, when she was working on a ranch in Montana and sidelining as a model for a photographer and videographer in Bozeman. "I knew there was a possibility of my photos showing up anywhere-- advertising, promotional materials, magazines. But a romance novel? I never expected that!"

Harvest, or My Eternal Quest to Become a Pioneer

The harvest season has been industrious this year, which has coincided delightfully with my increased workload at the ranch. With new management duties comes 80-hour work weeks. Alternatively, with plenty of rain comes innumerable bounty! Ten pounds of chantrelle, porcini and puffball mushrooms dried, acres of apricot fruit leather dehydrating on the porch (and gallons more cored and waiting to be jellied), chokecherry and serviceberry jams lining the pantry shelves... and now a huge bull elk to butcher! With the salsa garden just beginning to truly ripen, you'll find me in the kitchen with a sharp knife in my hand and a big 'ol canner boiling until sometime next January, thank you very much.

Making the Connection

The two harnesses were mismatched, as were the two horses. With Dixie (Belgian) and Lilly (Percheron) out with abscesses, I figured I'd put the two geldings together instead. Ted is a huge grey Percheron, around 20 years old, who has seen it all and goes right to work when you ask it of him. Yankee is a Belgian, about ten, who hasn't been handled in two years. Of course, I am a teamster with only five years of teamstering behind her... make that four, since I didn't drive at all last year. If it takes a lifetime to be a good teamster, I sure hope I was a pioneer who drove mules and not oxen in a past life...

Yankee tossed me around some upon bridling. We got the job done, but it's something he and I will have to work on. It sure made me feel dopey to be swinging around in the air up there. Yankee's harness is a fine, nearly new parade harness, covered in brass. Ted's is an ancient work harness, covered in grease. It took me four hours of scrubbing to get it as clean as it is today, and I still come away blackened every time I use it. Never the less, I savored it. Pushing conway buckles and pulling straps, making slight adjustments to each fitting to see the horses standing quietly, but most of all, standing back and sipping a cup of tea and just looking at them. I re-read Lynn Miller's books again (Work Horse Handbook/ Training Workhorses, Training Teamsters)and really attempted to be present, notice every detail that could cause a potential problem, and be good partners to my horses, and it really helped me appreciate every step of the process and of this subtle form of communication that is handling a team. Then it was hook up the lines, and here we go!

Ted is used to being on the left, and Yankee isn't used to anything, so there was quite a bit of head tossing and awkward bouncing off one another as we made our first few circles. We looped figure eights and whoa'd and backed and gee'd and haw'd... I have to admit, I'm still learning that part. I know "come" and "get"-- the head teamster at my old place preferred something a little different, and I can't decide if I'll be doing my wranglers an injustice by teaching them something different from the mainstream. At this point, if I'm not thinking, I'll call out, "Come, boys" instead of gee every time. I suppose I'll have to make a decision and stick with it. I have grown a manly, booming "whoa" however, since my old teams wouldn't respond to a high-pitched ladies voice, and these two seemed to understand right off.

After a few more turns, the boys were starting to get in rhythm. Ted wouldn't put up with Yankee's shenanigans, and would calmly whoa while Yankee danced. Yankee is the starter, who moves off quickly at a cluck, while Ted has to consider the possibilities before moving his big feet. We walked a half mile down the road and back, and the horses and I started to breathe.

At the barn, the snow was falling a little harder and the sky had turned black. I tied their lead ropes and started unhooking lines, moving slowly and consciously so as to re-train my body to its way of going.

Suddenly, all three of us jumped: a big snap echoed in the metal roof of the hay barn, and a ball of spark rolled down a metal roof brace! Did the breakers go? Did the lightbulbs burst? I stood momentarily stunned as thunder rattled the air, then grabbed the horses' leads. Two more snaps, and flashes of light lit up high in the eaves, under the metal roof! Rattled now, all three of us moved off to the shelter of the wooden barn. I radioed a warning, but my radio beeped and buzzed uselessly-- it was fried. We stood nervously together, but no more thunder echoed through the valley.

Later, I walked up to the office and explained the story to the boss. It was some kind of electrical discharge, I guessed, not lightning but certainly related to it. "Oh that's awful!" she said. "Someone needs to take a look at that. It must be fixed!" Fixed? I thought. We're going to try and fix a thunderstorm? I'll leave that up to her. I've got more important things on my mind-- how to practice with Yankee to help him bridle easier, remembering the difference between gee and haw, figuring out the proper length for my check straps... I sure do miss being surrounded by good teamsters who can offer me the Cliffs Notes version of the "lifetime of learning" I haven't gotten yet!

Managing a Drunken Dinosaur... or Lilly's Journey to Recovery

I went to pick up Lilly from Doc Sue's on Saturday morning. It took me a few minutes to carefully back the trailer up her driveway, then gather my things and get out... as soon as I got out I wished I'd been in a hurry! Here's poor Doc Sue propped up on the top rail of a pipe pen, trying to reach a bag of IV fluids over the barn rafter, while using her other foot to nudge a drugged up sorrel and keep him from falling over and pulling out the IV! I took ahold of the lead rope-- the poor two-year-old was one of Doc Sue's own horses, and he was in bad shape. He was in a lot of pain, and hadn't passed anything since the night before. Doc Sue said, "You got here just in time! When I saw him this morning I thought, should I just go get the .38? But I decided with enough drugs I'd try tackling it myself. You can see how well that's going."

We spent about an hour pushing fluids, but no change. The only signs he showed of recovery were simply signs of waking up, at which point he'd receive another dose of drugs and go back to sleep. Doc Sue decided she'd go change Lilly's dressing while I kept an eye on the little boy.

Lilly has been at the vet now for over a week. For a 2,000 lb Percheron, she's taking all this doctoring pretty well! But she is obviously getting tired of it. She doesn't want to let Doc Sue have her foot, and she certainly doesn't want to take any more medicine. Poor Doc Sue, she is really ginger about getting in there and insisting Lilly behave. I am sure I am only so confident because I've never really been hurt, but I felt really lame standing there holding the lead rope of a snoring, overgrown yearling while here the vet struggled with my own mare.

Finally, after about twenty minutes, another patient showed up! "I'm just here to pick up some drugs," she said, looking at me warily. I passed her the lead rope, and went to relieve Doc Sue. I wrestled Lilly's big foot into a diaper to keep it clean. Then Doc Sue and I led the big mare off to my trailer, leaving New Patient wearing a confused look and trying not to let the sleeping horse bonk his nose on the corral fence. So it goes: the constant adventure of horse-ownership!

Nearly Losing Lilly

Yesterday I went to feed the drafts at 6 pm, and Lilly did not want to move at all. This made me very sad. I concluded her week-long lameness had probably been a tiny fracture, and her walking on it just made it much much worse and now we were going to have to put her down... I went in and called Dr Sue and her first appt was at 11:30 the next day. So I told Levi, and he got out and cleaned his gun. Together we planned a place to put Lilly down after we got the condemning X-Rays.

This morning it was hell to get her on the trailer. I gave her bute two hours before we left, but we had to get after her to get her out of the pasture. I put her in the front compartment of the trailer with Dixie (the Belgian)mashed in there to hold her up, and we drove very s-l-o-w-l-y to the vet to spare her whatever stress we could. Doc Sue saw her and immediately agreed with my analysis. We got her drugged up right away, and then we got her positioned for x-rays...which was pretty much like trying to maneuver a drunken Tyrannosaurus Rex. There were several close calls, which involved me heaving on drunken dinosaur's head while Doc Sue hollared at her assistant, "Get the X-Ray machine out of there!" and Levi leaned on Lilly's hip or hopped out of danger. Two more ladies appeared with their horse, and alternately cooed at poor doomed Lilly, or tried to calm Dixie the Belgian, who was getting bored.

After a lot of poking and prodding, the tenderness seemed to be in her pastern, and not so much in her cannon bone. So we x-rayed that, and it came up clear. So we X-rayed the cannon bone, and it also came up clear. This took much longer than it sounds, of course, as Lilly still wasn't really moving around, didn't want to put ANY weight on that leg, etc. Finally we got her positioned to do an anterior x-ray of her pastern again, but she didn't want to let her foot down for us. Several minutes of tugging and prodding was just the thing! Doc Sue suddenly stood up and said, "It popped! It's an abscess!" We all cheered, and I put my arms around Lilly's head and kissed her, and the ladies and I got all teary since Lilly wasn't going to have to be put down. It was quite a moment! In reflection, this is the first time I've EVER taken a horse to the vet and had GOOD news! (Shows what kind of horses I always take to the vet, I guess).

The abscess is a quitter-- the first I've ever had. It is leaking out the top four or five inches of her coronet band! Quite large, to say the least. We left Lilly with Doc Sue, as she is hoping she can have the farrier out on Monday to help her open it from the bottom to let the remaining pressure out. While Lilly was still VERY lame, she walked without encouragement to her pen. Doc Sue is hopeful she won't slough the hoof wall, but we'll take it a day at a time. I am VERY relieved. I fully expected to bring her home and put her down, and this was the 1-in-a-million chance I thought she might have (which is why we took her for x-rays and didn't just put her down!). Quite an emotional day. Ted (the other Percheron) is beside himself at missing his partner, but that's probably because I told him to say goodbye to her this morning. I've reassured him she's coming back, but I'm not sure he believes me... he's known her many years longer than he's known me, after all.

Another piece of interesting news... we were told she was near 30, and Doc Sue looked at her teeth and said she's about 17!

Oh, those crazy pioneers...

"Alice also had a habit of running off, for which her mother tied her to a doorknob for a while."

The Big Heart of a Horse

"Most horses pass from one human to another. Some horsemen and women are patient and forgiving, others are rigorous and demanding, others are cruel, others are ignorant. Horses have to learn how to, at the minimum, walk, trot, canter, gallop, go on trails and maybe jump, to be treated by the vet with sense and good manners. Talented Thoroughbreds must learn how to win races, and if they can't do that, they must learn how to negotiate courses and jump over strange obstacles without touching them, or do complicated dance-like movements or control cattle or accommodate severely handicapped children and adults in therapy stables. Many horses learn all of these things in the course of a single lifetime.

"Besides this, they learn to understand and fit into the successive social systems of other horses they meet along the way. A horse's life is rather like twenty years in foster care, in and out of prison, while at the same time changing schools over and over and discovering that not only to the other students already have their own social groups, but that what you learned at the old school hasn't much application at the new one. We do not require as much of any other species, including humans. That horses frequently excel, that they exceed the expectations of their owners and trainers in such circumstances, is as much a testament to their intelligence and adaptability as to their relationship skills or their natural generosity or their inborn nature.

"That they sometimes manifest the same symptoms as Romanian orphans-- distress, strange behaviors, anger, fear-- is less surprising than that they usually don't. No one expects a child, or even a dog to develop its intellectual capacities living in a box 23 hours a day and then doing controlled exercises the remaining one. Mammal minds develop through social interaction and stimulation. A horse that seems stupid might just have not gotten the chance to learn!"
-Jane Smiley, "A Year at the Races"

Obituary for an Absurd Bird

Henny Penny passed away unexpectedly in the early hours of March 6. In lieu of flowers, donations can be sent to Smith Fork Ranch, where they will be used in the construction of a luxury high rise chicken coop in Henny’s memory. She is survived by her nemesis Scotty the cat, Nick, Nick Jr., Bea, CC, the half-tame fawn, and the five misfit horses and ponies she called her friends.

Henny Penny was never one to follow convention. When Henny and her three sisters arrived on the ranch, they immediately deemed their coop “unhabitable,” and moved instead into the saddle barn. Answering the call of their “inner cowgirls,” three slept snuggled on a suede saddle seat on the ground floor. Henny, shucking familial obligation, perched precariously on the top-floor saddle rack, featuring the bird’s eye view she preferred. A gap in the barn doors one night allowed a raccoon intruder access to their homes. One sister was brutally murdered, while the other two were terrorized and fled. Despite Henny’s protests, the remaining two sisters refused to roost near the scene of the tragedy, and made their home outdoors. Both disappeared shortly afterward. Although foul play has been suspected, no leads have surfaced, and the raccoon murderer has never been brought to justice.

Although deeply affected by the sad circumstances, Henny’s greater IQ prevailed, and she continued her customary habitation high above the reaches of potential predators.

As an “only child,” Henny flourished. When lonely, she would find a ranch hand to follow around, clucking away gaily at the barn gossip. She often spent time in Ciara’s office, sleeping soundly on Ciara’s lap, or pecking away at the phone or the pencil erasers. But Henny wasn’t often lonely. She spent the majority of her days expanding her horizons, trying new and gourmet foods, and assimilating flawlessly with the other animals on the ranch.

When the weather cooled, Henny moved into a large nesting box on the remodeled third-tier saddle rack she had previously inhabited, complete with fresh hay and a heat lamp. She truly loved her new home, and showed her contentment by continuing to lay eggs long after the days had shortened. She laid her last in February, just before deciding to move house. In typical Henny fashion, she bypassed the available saddle blankets, window sills and hay mangers for the relative luxury of a restored 1964 Land Rover, parked in the barn for the winter. In memorial of her sudden passing, this final home has been draped in black since her disappearance.

Although I am sad to have lost a friend, here was a chicken who lived life courageously, who knew no enemies, and who enjoyed every seed she pecked up to the fullest. Yes, Henny Penny knew the comfort of a heat lamp above her nest, but she also knew the excitement of challenging the ranch cats (and the half-tame fawn, the horses, Sadie, and any innocent bystanders) for control of the food supply. While most chickens find themselves content behind wire fences, Henny pushed the boundaries of her existence daily. True to her explorer roots, her disappearance in a blizzard, though tragic, is a fitting end to the life of this unconventional chicken. We’ll miss you, Henny Penny.

RIP Henny Penny

I've never even really liked chickens, but this one was special.

Fractured Compass

I dislike flying. Perhaps if I were zooming around in a Piper Cub for fun, it would be different, but flying to a destination robs me of all sense of place. I arrive, and am startled to see the license plates. The air is heavy with humidity, hurricane-ruined abandoned buildings line the freeway, and great tangled up expanses of kudzu vine overtake the forest undergrowth. Where am I? Florida? Mississippi? Texas? I have missed out on the gradual change of seasons, the moisture that rises, the subtle turn of brown to yellow to green. I am in Texas, but it is nameless, undifferentiated from the rest of the south, brutally robbed of identity by a cold flight through grey skies filled with white noise.

Fall

The horses have been whinnying at me every time I step out the door. I reassure them, "relax, my loves, vacation is nearly here." They watch me intently and follow me along the pasture fence as I do my daily chores. They crowd the gate as they hear the trailer approach. They crane their necks so I don't even have to enter the catch pen to halter them-- I just hold out the rope, and they drop their noses right in. They know what the trailer means.

When we pull off the side of the road, they nicker from inside the trailer. Their nostrils fill and flare with the smell of grass, and they shift back and forth, eager, skin itching to roll in the dry dirt, legs yearning to run through fields knee-high in heaven. Untying their halters, Levi and I watch our toes.

Turned loose, they buck and lope and nip at one another, teasing and daring. The smell of green settles them quickly though; temptation is too strong and they snuffle their noses in thick timothy and marsh grass. They hardly notice when the trailer rumbles away; they deserve their rest.