July snowstorms are unusual. Cowboys Josh and Patchin rode through the white stuff for a day or two, and the top of ‘ol Taylor Peak, the highest point on our summer grass range, was white with wet mashed potatoes. The beeves loved it. Soils yielded nicely to their feet, and the grass and forbs softened like cooked semolina pasta. And the fragrance of the sage”¦it is almost overwhelming when wet snow and rain hits it. It is hard to describe”¦it is almost savory mixed with sweet, with a tinge of fall leaves in the woods smell. It is one of those scents to be inhaled deeply time and time again, as if you may never enjoy it again.
We moved to a new camp yesterday. It was Moose Creek”¦even more remote than Texarkana. And rugged. I sent 2 cowgirls and Josh out with the herd after sunup in the morning, leaving camp Texarkana for the last time. We’ve been there for 30 days now, and the place really grew on all of us (probably the beeves, too). Only the elk and wild horses will have it now. I met part of the wild stallion bunch on a knoll out about a thousand feet above camp. It was like they were watching the beeves move out. Would they miss the critters they shared the country with? One never really knows what animals think. I often wish we could sit down for an interview, especially when trauma hits, like when we had a steer that showed up with the jagged ripples of long claw marks all the way down its back from its neck. What the heck happened? We thought mountain lion. But something different perhaps? Sasquatch, the kids like to say.
The Moose Creek move went absolutely flawlessly for the cow crew with beeves. It was a peaceful day for them. Beeves like exploring new territory—new forests to check out, and beautiful Moose Creek itself”¦nicer water than they have seen for a while, as Texarkana’s creeks are running low as is usual for this time of year. All the muster had to do was summit a very high windswept ridge (incredible 80 mile views) and drop off and follow gravity all the way to distant Moose bottoms.
The problem came for me with the logistics of camp move. I planned to just hook up chuck wagon (old suburban) and light stock trailer (home to corral panels, horse hay and water tanks), and follow up with a second trip back to hook up camp trailer (home to bedding, cook gear, spare tack, horse care supplies and foodstuffs for the crew). We hooked up everything, and cleaned every trace of our existence in that spot. That meant raking (yes we had a camp rake for this purpose) nearly every blade of hay our horses left on the ground and any mark, footprint, or piece of debris left by us. It is imperative to all of us that we leave the gift of pristine for anyone else tenacious enough to find their way out to this wild landscape.
I drove off, and started the climb on the ridiculously perilous two-track that led to Moose Camp. I had driven it years ago, and in 4 wheel drive super low and judicious braking, I made it then. It couldn’t have changed that much since, could it? It was steep enough that anything you had in the front seat made its way to the back seat on the way up. On the way down, the reverse happens. You have to have things tied down well!
I knew that the route was strewn with rocks from billiard ball size to bowling ball size, but I had good clearance and good tires (buckle up, anyway, said I). But I knew it was steeper than San Fran’s hills, and longer. I gambled”¦and lost.
The 4 wheel drive failed immediately on the first hill. Rats. Hours later after a trip to the valley and a vehicle switch, my pickup got much further, but broke traction in a 3 foot deep gulley that I tried to pilot wheels on both sides of, but when the 16’ stock trailer hit it, it would not behave. I wiped out, going precariously sideways with the potential to roll. I carefully regrouped and straightened out after several more attempts, and then began the arduous back up of trailer and truck down winding jeep trail for over a half a mile. I think I may have said some things I shouldn’t have said”¦but I was livid”¦about machines.
I love horses, cattle and most people. I hate machines.
So remote Moose camp got there without trailers, and I was to build a camp the way herders have built it for some 8000 years previous to us. I still beat the crew and cattle to the camp spot—a beautiful, tucked away quiet canyon shaded with stately fir trees. I set up a rain tarp lean-to (no tent), put up a camp kitchen and built a fire. I didn’t tell the exhausted crew later that the firestones I used had already been recently turned over, large though they were, by bears looking for ants and grubs.
After I set up a night pen for cattle and horses in some beautiful waist high grass and sage, the crew came in with the cattle and put them down for the night. By the light of a rising moon, latticed through the firs, we cooked a lovely feed of stir fry veggies and Lava Lake garlic rosemary lamb sausages (you have got to try these when we have them in stock again!).
The beeves were settled and bedded down with a full belly of some of the wildest wellness in the world, thanks to the guiding hands of Melanie, Linnaea, and Josh on their mounts in training (Melanie and Josh are putting some very early and challenging rides on green horses while Linnaea formed the anchor on the back of experienced April, our wizened though slightly bitchy Morgan/ Arab cross mare.
I spoke to an older and very experienced cowboy today in town, at our monthly Central Idaho Rangelands Network meeting (we were founding members of this group of forward-thinking, innovative ranchers from around Idaho). He smiled quietly at the stories we related on our herding journey. He is no hobby horse cowboy: he grew up in this wild country and now runs a 2000 cow outfit to the south of us next to some of the largest wilderness areas in Idaho. He too, believes based on incidental observation that the hard and wild grass of the high mountains builds healthier, thrifty beeves in spite of the jagged peak and valley terrain that comes with it.
Now, recent scientific research supports these observations that herders in the old world have known for thousands of years. The wellness of those cattle and sheep that graze in that country is legendary. Doesn’t it follow that our own wellness would be legendary as well when we eat of their nutrient dense production?
We think so. And we think it’s what makes our beef unique in flavor. And it’s one of the reasons why we do what we do, crazy as it sometimes gets.
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