The waning light was casting spectacular shadows on the creek bank that runs between our property and Scott Christensen’s studio, but I just couldn’t quite get the shot I was looking for.
Everywhere I put myself, there was something between me and the pristine early spring evening of my imagination.
Yes, in addition to crocuses, daffodils, and tulips, other things emerge in spring.
It’s called “crud you forgot to put away last fall.”
I found this on the pathway to the wood pile. It doesn’t bode well for the iris bed out front.
In our defense, some of it was sort of organized crud. Not all, of course. That rake should definitely have been put away in the garage with the mice where it belonged. But note the careful placement of the gas container under the table…
… as opposed to being left in the middle of the lawn beside the bird bath.
I suppose it’s part of the delight of spring in a snow-bound country, this re-discovery of precious treasures not seen for six months or so. But as much as I love this little jar, I’m really looking forward to those irises.
I didn’t know I wanted a pet elk before Saturday, but it turns out, I do.
Really, it’s not surprising. I have a long history of enjoying the company of pronged critters. But it’s been a while and I had forgotten how darned endearing and intriguing they are.
In the first place, any animal who can grow a new tree out of its noggin every year has got my respect right off the bat. Even the ugly ones, like, say, a North American moose.
Oh, don’t even pretend that a moose is an attractive animal. Impressive, yes. Maybe even regal, in an Abe Vigoda kind of way, but attractive? Compared to this?
If I was an elk sitting in a plastic surgeon’s office discussing possibilities for a nose job, I’d have this photo with me and just slap it on the desk and say, “This. This is what I want. And while you’re at it, I’d like the chin too, please.”
Those gorgeous noses aren’t just for looks, either.
Steve had mentioned before we got in their compound that elk are very curious. And sure enough, as soon as we got within range, every head went up and they sniffed us up one side and down the other, all from 20 yards away. They were so intent on this sniffing business that I found myself wondering if I’d forgotten my deodorant.
Nothing like being around an animal with a good sniffer to remind you that, in spite of all our Ban roll-on and Ivory Snow and Old Spice efforts, we still stink like humans.
In our previous post about Teton Mountain Ranch, I mentioned that Steve and Greg train their trail horses by having them tag along on the feeding runs they make.
Part of that training apparently involves being sniffed. Up close.
The horse seemed mildly disconcerted by this situation.
But when a dozen elk bulls in full foliage joined in the fun, the training entered the advanced phase.
He looks worried to me. Does he look worried to you?
Steve and Greg had the situation well under control, though, and the elk all had a good chuckle about the whole thing.
Those elk… such kidders.
Rick, I think I’ve changed my mind about the poodle puppy. Can we have an elk instead?
Greg told us that the breed at Teton Mountain Ranch is a hybrid strain of Angus and Semolina. Or Emmental. Or Something.
I think he also said there was something else that snuck in over the fence at some point, but I’m going to stop now before I hurt myself.
What I can say with confidence is how delightful it was to discover that a few of the cows were no longer pregnant.
This little dude had been born the day before, too soon to even have been tagged yet. As it made its drunken way towards the business end of the maternal unit, I had one of those life epiphanies that shock me when they land, both in how obvious they are and how long they take to show up.
Ready?
Cows are maternal critters.
Sigh. Sheesh. It’s udderly ridiculous that it never occurred to me before.
She kept a keen eye on us as we pulled closer.
As well she should. If I were a calf thief, Sweet Cheeks here would be at the top of my nab list.
The Bagleys tag the calves with numbers that match their moms. We didn’t discuss this, but I’m guessing this is for the Bagley’s sake. The cows seemed pretty clear on who was responsible for who’s college fund.
Even though this calf was about a week old already, it still didn’t have a tag. Apparently, Mamma #41 is SO maternal, they couldn’t risk getting close enough to give the calf its shots. According to Greg, he had to drive the tractor over top of the calf and then crawl underneath to get the job done. It was the only way to keep 1500 lbs of hormonally motivated maternal outrage at arm’s length.
I renewed my grip on the wagon.
While there were a few calves around, most of them won’t be born for another couple of weeks.
Meanwhile, there is nothing to be done but enjoy the peace, eat, wait, and be beautiful.
Maybe play with styling the bangs a bit.
‘Cause once Junior shows up and starts hollering, life gets busy.
Greg is Steve’s brother, and together with their dad, Kent, they run a real live elk, buffalo, and beef, trail riding, sleigh riding and mountain packing adventure enterprise.
This is Steve Bagley, our wonderful neighbor. While Greg is driving, Steve does fence duty. Greg says it’s important for Steve to keep up his skills. “Use it or lose it… that’s what we say around here.”
These guys are the real article. They don’t buy their mountain man mystique from REI or LL Bean. They just wake up every morning in God’s country to the relaxed yet hard-working rhythms that only fourth-generation residents of the Valley and operators of their family farm can understand.
This trip out on the wagon was to lay out a little heavier layer of straw for the soon-to-be-calving cows.
Did you know that straw dust is itchy and gets up your nose? While there is much good-natured joshing between Steve and Greg about which one is better looking, I’m guessing the one with the mask on to keep the dust out is maybe just a tad smarter.
I could be wrong. I’m not from around here.
I forgot to introduce someone. See the horse in the background? He’s a trail horse in training. They bring them along just for the ride and to get used to the farm animals, people, stopping, starting, noise, etc. I think people should haul their babies with them everywhere for the same reason.
Speaking of offspring, I forgot someone else. See the pink mitt above?
It belongs to Kennedy, Steve’s seven-year old daughter. Kennedy is the first real live cowgirl I’ve ever met. I don’t know if she even knows she is a real live cowgirl, that’s how much a real live cowgirl she is.
I’d trust Kennedy with my car, or to watch the house for a week or two.
This is Lily.
As vigilant a “round ’em up, head ’em out” farm dog as she may be, she’s not above hitching a ride on the wagon and a cuddle with Kennedy, at least when she thinks no one is watching.
Everything appears to happen in teams in this gig.
This is Hank, the senior member of the border control department.
Don’t let the straw fool you… Hank is a scholar and a gentleman.
He runs a tight team. There’s Lily again, with big black Bear and dainty red Lady, waiting to be told what’s next on the agenda.
Of course, a horse-drawn sleigh isn’t worth its weight in straw without the gentle giants to pull it.
Meet Greta and Faith, one of three teams of Clydesdales the Bagleys rotate into drawing duties. I never heard Faith addressed once during the hour we spent on the wagon. Greta, on the other hand, was called gently by name every once in a while to remind her to keep her brain in the game. Rick has to do the same thing with me every once in a while in the grocery store. I tend to get bogged down in the shampoo section.
I like Greta.
So, the team is all in place, and we’re here to deliver straw.
Steve NEVER stops smiling. Greg might take a break once in a while behind that mask, but I doubt it. These are happy people.
And together they’re raising a happy fifth generation, with more on the way any day now.
The humans aren’t the only ones producing the next generation. This pup, “Red Dog,” couldn’t have been more insistent that he is SO ready to join the team. Come on, already! Let me outta this trailer and on to the dang trail!
Yup… even the pups around here seem wise beyond their years, and willing to share what they know with a grace and dignity that I wish I could bottle and slip into the double-mocha decaf lattes of some the adults I have known.
They know both the safety and freedom of good fences, of listening before you speak, and of the value of deep roots and hard work.
And fun. Lots, and lots, and lots of fun.
Tomorrow’s post? What’s on the other side of those fences.
I personally know people who claim to like mustard and honey sandwiches, or Brussels sprouts, or country music, but I don’t know a single person who likes dirty snowbanks.
Let’s face it: in snow country, there are some parts of the journey towards spring that are just butt ugly.
But if you look just beyond the gray and grit, it’s delightful to watch winter soften around the edges.
People start peeling off the layers under pressure from a warming sun on their late afternoon walks, and the dust hasn’t yet started to kick up every time a truck rumbles by.
That not-yet-spring-but-thinking-about-it season gives you double the sky coverage, if you remember to look at the puddles and not the ick.
The willows vibrate yellow against the desaturated landscape, and all around you can hear the snow melting off the roof tops and the robins scolding everything.
The piles left behind by the plow are transformed into sculpted inukshuks.
I’ve always wanted to use “inukshuk” in a sentence but never had the chance before.
Inukshuk. Inukshuk. Inukshuk.
There… I’ve said it.
Patience is in the air. Buds are biding their time, but if you put your ear really close, you can hear their little biological clocks ticking.
Hints of green are starting to appear in the corners, and everything, and everyone, knows the time for new development, personal growth, and expansion is near.
Alfred Lord Tennyson had it right: “In spring, a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of love.”
And the thoughts of middle-aged men?
They turn to “Waddya think of adding another porch on the west side of the house?”
People ask me how I think up weird things to photograph.
Most of the time, they just land right in my lap.
Occasionally they sneak up and hang mysteriously to the smooth side of my mug.
This photo op took place last September. I was having mid-afternoon refreshments on the north porch with my Mom and almost had a grasshopper instead. Now, I’m as adventurous an eater as the next gal, but sipping live insects isn’t my cup of tea.
How do they do that? Do they have suction cups on the bottom of those tiny paws? (This would explain the finale of “OVO,” at any rate.)
I invited him to dismount. (I figured it was a “him”: no eyelashes, hella muscular thighs, and a cocky disposition.) After a pause just long enough to let me know who the head locust was in this negotiation, he complied.
He was border-line cute, in a bug-eyed sort of way, so I got a little closer. Did those knees bend backward? Were they knees at all? Is that how chicken drumsticks work?
I don’t know what was scrutinizing me and my big fat camera lens more closely: those strangely matte eyeballs or the non-stop waggle of the antennae. I got closer.
Wow… was that just one big eyeball, or a bunch of tiny ones, like they showed on “The Fly”?
On the basis of our growing intimacy, I let it crawl on to my hand so I could have an even closer look.
That’s when he scrutinized me with his chompers.
He scrutinized me good and hard.
Was it a bite? A pinch? Can he flick with those things?
In any case, I know one thing for sure: the next time he shows up on my tea cup, I’m gonna bite first and ask my questions later.