Dear Friends,
We have sheep. This is our 6th year. This past week, Abby and Ethan closed a deal on 200 more. It looks like sheep are set to be in the future of Alderspring. There are jobs for them to do; the war on weeds is real; sheep like them. In addition, they are complementary grazers to cattle, meaning that they eat most things that cattle don’t.
I feel like there’s a destiny for us in more sheep, because the meat we’ve raised from them in our small herd has been incredible. But it’s always a little intimidating to go “whole hog” (or sheep?) into something new, because we when we get up close and personal to animals like cows and sheep, they end up sending us straight and firmly into the land of humble. We eat humble pie for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Case in point: We shipped the last of our summer sheep back in September. They were fat from summer grass and ready to go. They looked beautiful, and had reached the prime of sheep-dom. Many of you have imbibed on their sweet and wholesome goodness over the last few months. They were the best Katahdin lambs we have ever raised; full flavored (not mild), and not a hint of mutton or gamey.
It was sad to see them go. They lived about four miles down valley at our lease ranch. We gathered them off green pastures and loaded them quietly on a deep bed of certified organic hay, bound for our family run processor in Montana. We shut the trailer gate, forever separating them from their sole protector and caregiver: Tumbo, the great white dog.
He stood there in the tail-light glow, watching them pull away. There was no slow wag; only an almost imperceptible lowering of his tail. Otherwise, he was motionless. The wolf-like white canine and I stood in the dark, watching, hoping somehow that the last load of the sheep would return. It was the end of them for the summer. I knew it.
And somehow he did too.
I left him. He was not about to follow, because I wasn’t his. He only stuck with his charges, and they were the sheep. He was born with the sheep, lived with the sheep, protected the sheep, and guided the sheep. Humans only brought him something to eat. After all, in his mind, we were servants of his. All great white dogs we’ve owned shared this maxim. As a result, we humans had never touched him. We had never been allowed to. He always stood a safe distance of 20 feet away when we brought him the food dish.
Never closer.
Exception: Summer range rider Rose had touched him. She had a way with animals uncommon for one of our riders. Certainly, many of them loved the horses, the cows, and dogs. They lived to see elk and deer, and when the lions yowled around camp, they were thrilled in a guarded sort of way. But few of the range riders have immediate respect from the sheep, cattle, or guard dogs. But Rose, and only Rose, petted him once.
Early the next morning I got a text from Dede, a rancher neighbor about 15 miles up the valley. That may seem like it’s a non-neighborly distance, but in the high Pahsimeroi, where a mere smattering of people live (about 4/10 of a human per square mile), someone 40 miles away is still a neighbor.
“Glenn—saw your sheepdog coming up valley, almost to Dowton Lane.” Dowton was the 2nd of 5 crossroads that connect via river bridges one side of the valley to another. At least it was still our part of the valley. Melanie and I grabbed a pickup. We both knew Dede recognized that it was our specific dog, out of the 500 dogs owned by the 300 humans that occupy our valley.
We turned on the Farm to Market Road, and immediately spotted a white speck on the miles-long straightaway that typified the broad part of the valley. As we pulled up, it was Tumbo. He recognized us, and after we talked to him, seemed to halt his relentless search for sheep. He was following scent; indeed, the trailer had passed this way on the journey to Montana the day before.
We called to him. I offered the truck tailgate. He slowly wagged but declined our offer. Melanie convinced him to turn back, and after he started his 3-mile journey, we called and sent Rose to encourage him to go home. In his personal declaration of humans, Rose couldn’t touch him today, but she was able to slowly drive down the highway with him walking next to her to get back to his home. After that, he stayed there, albeit morose and dejected looking. He hardly touched his food.
I felt horrible. Dogs are our partners. Most of the ranch work we do would be difficult without them. I got home after seeing his situation and told Caryl we needed to do something.
“Don’t you know anybody who has some sheep?”
“There’s Dan, the guy who runs the auto parts store, in Salmon. He might have some weaner ewes.”
“Call him.”
Dan had eight he was willing to part with. Ironically, they were pure Katahdins, the same breed as Tumbo’s last charges. I was hoping it would work. I was to pick them up the next morning right after sunrise, and Dan and his boys helped me load them.
After an hour-long gooseneck ride in some sweet-smelling hay, I pulled up into the sheep pasture and got ready to unload. Rose and Annie had a nice web-wire pen set up in their pasture to acclimate the 8 lambs to their new surroundings. Tumbo was nowhere in sight. “Was it too late?” I thought. I called his name several times.
Nothing.
I turned to open the trailer door to let the sheep on to their new green pasture. They tentatively stood at the gate, and then one launched herself high in the air, and bounded like an antelope onto the new green grass. As the rest unloaded, I called for Tumbo again. Nothing at first, but then, in my periphery, I saw a flash of white from beyond the close corral fence, down by the Pahsimeroi River.
And then, he came into full view. Great Pyrenees Akbash Maremma cross guard dog came first tentatively into the meadow, and as he recognized the familiar white bounding form of his young would-be proteges, he broke into a full run, sprinting, now wide open, focused on the near impossibility of sheep.
Once again.
And he sort of tumbled and piled up into a laying down prone stop along the woven net twine fabric of the holding pen. He raised his nose to let scent verify the unbelievable truth. The lambs jumped back in shock; not grazing now but staring at the wonder of who this might be. Somehow their twitching noses regaled the matter of this would be terrible predator and tendered the conclusion that he may be friend and not a foe. I’ll never know how they knew.
And in that moment in time, all three of us humans stood speechless as we perceived together an unexpected and otherworldly animal drama. And an unforgettable thing happened.
Tumbo wept.
He simply cried and wailed inconsolably while laying on the ground just 8 feet away from those ewes, wagging his tail, slowly and certainly.
After just standing there in silent awe, I looked at the ranch-hands, and locked eyes with Annie’s own wet eyes. She knew and knew that I knew.
We had seen dogs cry in pain, sadness or anguish, but never for sheer happiness and joy. But in Tumbo, we were seeing exactly that manifested. His life, his passion, his sole reason for existence was resolved in those eight sheep.
And he was made whole. Canine redemption was complete.
And in us, I learned another thing that I never knew: that an animal itself could be so passionate about purpose that it is life-defining, and without it, life wasn’t worth living. I know only a few humans that are this afire with that sense; and now we were learning it from a lowly dog.
On Alderspring, we do have purpose for what we do. It’s a purpose bent on healing. We want to see the land healed, animal’s lives healed, and humans healed. I, too, have had tears in my eyes, and Tumbo’s example resonates deep within me.
Happy Trails
Glenn
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