Thousands of cattle on a braided network of well-worn trails were weaving their way out of the high mountains of the Hat Creek country. Around 30 to 40 leather and flannel-clad dirt cowboys on horseback rode with them, and when their wide brimmed hats failed to block the setting sun, a pillar-cloud of volcanic ash trail-dust did. They had begun the long trail to Mackay on the path of cattle highway known as the Beef Road.
Pick a year anywhere from 1880 to 1935; the month was usually September. Green grass was over for the year and the cattle had reached the maximum that grass-cattle could get. It was like this every year; the Beef Road originated in a place still known today as Bear Basin. Its bowl-like expanse was the perfect place to sort through the thousands-of-head mob of cattle. The ones that would hit the trail were the fattest and most of them were 2 or 3 years old. Mothers, their calves, and the small part of yearlings would stay up on the open range backcountry for another month or two before heading back to the Pahsimeroi Valley, where grass and hay along the river would sustain them through the winter.
The trail was about 80 miles. It was in the day before paved highways and 63-foot cattle trucks. There were corrals in Mackay, a small town squeezed tight between two of Idaho’s highest mountain ranges: the 12,000 foot Lost River Range and the 11,000 foot White-Knob/Pioneers. The peaks were already white with September snow.
The snow in the high country contrasted abruptly with the black smoke that belched from the coal fires of steam locomotives. They were there to rendezvous with the tens of thousands of sheep and cattle, brought in cross-country by horseback cowboys on trails that converged on this one mountain-country outpost called Mackay. The animals would be loaded and rail-carried to stockyards in places like Chicago and Kansas City. There they would be processed right off the ranges. There would be no corn or silage feedlots along the way. Most trains would yard the cattle overnight on the way to feed them hay and water, but their final destination was to feed a nation hungry for protein.
The beef was not great. Ribeyes were poorly marbled and often tough. Cattle genetics was rarely about creating a quality eating experience; rather, the focus was to raise a cow that would simply survive in the brutal conditions cattlemen often dished out to them. For most range cattle in the intermountain west, death loss hovered around 15 to 25%. Some years those numbers went as high as 80 to 90%, when unexpected poor grass years were followed by brutally cold and deep-snow winters.
Part of the problem was that early Northern Rockies range cattle originated in Texas. In turn, those originated in Mexico. And those originated in the mild Mediterranean moist climate of Spain. The bloodlines found in those range cattle had great tolerance for heat, but very little for cold. It wasn’t until the early 1900s that industrious cattlemen began to import northern bloodlines from Scotland and England in the form of bulls to cross with the Southern breeds. The hybrid vigor helped, as did their insulative and more abundant fat cover that the fells and dales of Scotland and England required to thrive.
And so, cattle began to change. Meat quality began to improve, but it was absolutely inconsistent and all over the board. Producers in today’s “grass fed beef” world tend to represent their product as a new thing, but that is untrue. For millennia, and into the turn of the 20th century, all cattle, excepting those fed to the elite or royalty, were 100% grass-fed.
Farmers knew that animals could get fat on grain. They just didn’t practice it. Why would they? There was no reason to. None of the packinghouses cared a whit whether or not beeves were fat, and wouldn’t pay any different if it was. Farmers had no incentive.
All that changed when the government got involved. The USDA was tinkering with beef carcass grading systems for years in the early 1900s, but it wasn’t until 1949 that they created regulations that codified a beef grading system. Beef purveyors from stores to restaurants glommed onto the new quality grades instantaneously. They found that they could charge more for beef that performed better at the table. Marbled and young beef carried more flavor and tenderness with it. Customers were happier and they returned for more, telling their friends.
And farmers soon found a reason to feed corn to those otherwise 100% grass fed cattle. They could get more money. It started a revolution in corn farming and feedlots all over the country. Farmers could now “finish” cattle on corn and other carbohydrate rich grains for the last months of their lives, put on the shine and convert grain and fat directly into greenbacks.
And the idea of grass-fed and finished beef almost died from lack of interest. There were other things that died at the altar of corn finishing. The wild plant nutrient diversity that the cattle no longer grazed to the end of their lives was now lost, diluted by the carbs of corn. With those compounds went most of the flavor inherent to grazing cattle.
Beef with lackluster flavor was soon repaired by the soon-to-be-formed aisles of flavorings and steak sauces in supermarkets. And flavor would be added from then on.
Or not?
Hat Creek. July 2020. From the summit of Big Deer Mountain.
When the sun drops over the horizon to the West, beneath the glow of a painted sky there’s a tiny speck of light emanating from an outpost in the expanse of Bear Basin. It’s the only light despite a 50 mile view of an endless tangle of valleys, ridges and snow streaked peaks. It’s light from a Coleman lantern, hanging from the largest of several canvas tent poles. Nearby, there’s a pen with about 25 horses in it, and near them, there’s 400 head of yearling and two-year old cattle.
It’s Alderspring’s remote cow camp of cowhands and the herd they manage. They are grass fed beeves, as they were 100 years ago, in the exact same place. The range is different now; wild plants have regained a foothold on the stretch of 70 square miles that Alderspring grazes on.
But we graze it differently. We’ve hacked into how wild bison used to graze the country, and as a result, the plants are doing far better and our cattle are as well.
Our genetics are completely different. They are predominantly Black Angus, a Scottish breed well known for its cold hardiness and ability to marble on grass. We breed our cows to Hereford, another British breed, different enough that we now see our cattle manifesting hybrid vigor that a black on black breeding system didn’t have.
Grass fed for us was a tough road with a steep learning curve. Caryl and I survived on wild game for years early in our marriage. We were the new owners of a starvation cow outfit in Idaho, and couldn’t afford to eat our own beef. So we hunted elk and deer. The meat was passable, but not great.
We missed the fatty beef we found on our dinner table as we grew up. Feedlot beef. Corn fed. Marbled. With plenty of A-1 and ketchup on the side.
I wanted the wild flavor that the game provided with the fat that the feedlot provided. There had to be a way. Now, after 30 years, I think we are finally beginning to nail it. Certainly, we could get them to marble by keeping them for 3 years, but when we did that, we usually sacrificed tenderness.
It took breaking some paradigms. First, we started crossbreeding with Herefords. Those cattle, because of a differing genetic infusion grew more healthy and faster. Second, we stopped weaning until they turned one year old, or nearly so. The loss of stress from weaning, and the added nutrition from their mom’s lactation changed everything. Neighbors still look at us as though we are weird. Strange bulls and calves still on the cow in March at nearly a year old.
And now, our beeves have begun to marble almost as fast as corn-fed cattle do. It’s been a game changer for us, and I’m certain it will be for the eaters of our beef as well.
Tender and tasty are starting to partner on the plate. Without Stubb’s Steak Sauce.
These are exciting times. Especially when looking at the progress over 30 years, and realizing that the learning of how to grow great protein will never stop. It keeps it fun. And I’ll always be happy to share what we found with you.
The most fun: to enjoy beef like it was meant to be. Wild flavor with fat. So good.
Happy Trails.
Glenn
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