The Chickens Come to Elk Creek

24 Friday Jun 2011

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My mom, the Ponderosa Queen, had chickens when I was younger. I was still in elementary school and my feeling towards those chickens was that of love… and hate. They smelled, they had to be fed, they had to be locked up at night and let out first thing in the morning. Being the only kid around, chicken care, it seemed, was always my job.  The chicken coop was located a couple hundred yards from our old white farmhouse. It was a ancient coop, small with peeling white paint. The attached yard was hardly predator proof so eventually Mom’s chickens had free range of our spread.  I can’t remember the details of their arrival of course, but I do recall that there were two roosters, one large regal rooster that matched the rest of the hens and one orange fuzzy headed rooster that matched no one and was clearly an outcast. What do you do with a orange, fuzzy headed rooster that none of the other fowl likes? Why, you name him, of course. Fufu, the Ponderosa Queen dubbed him, or I should same damned him. As a recall, Fufu stuck around for less than 24 hours after being harnessed with his new name. The last time I ever saw Fufu, he was cruising up a dry irrigation ditch either to find a new set of hens or to outrun his name. I’m guessing he found a raccoon or a dog up that irrigation ditch because, either way, we never saw feather nor fluff of Fufu again. This, my friends, is what happens when you name chickens.

That said, Cowboy and I welcomed 10 chickens into our lives on Elk Creek in April. Well, actually I welcomed them and Cowboy tolerated them. Getting and housing these chickens was the single most challenging obstacles for Cowboy and I in our first year of marriage. I insisted on chickens and he resisted on chickens. Check that, he actually only resisted on building me a chicken coop. He knew that if I got a coop, I would definitely get chickens, not just allow my attention to drift onto the next entertaining endeavor. I called his bluff and then his grandpa, and needless to say, my chicken coop was finished the next week. We now have 8 Rhode Island Reds and 2 Ameraucanas — ranging in age from pullets to almost two years old. No chicks, no roosters, no messing around. I needed grown-up, egg-producing survivor chickens that would be able to brave the weather and predator danger that comes with living under a mountain range. And that’s exactly what I got.

“The Girls”, as I call them, have completely taken over our place, and lives. Though chickens are much easier than both Cowboy and I anticipated, there have been a few nights we had to leave friends early to get home and put the chickens in and there is chicken shit on our deck constantly. They have eaten my flowers and we eat their eggs. And now they have taken to watching the livingroom and patio windows. If they see me, they rush the windows, clucking excitedly and waiting for some scraps. Open a door and they are on you like, well, stink on chicken shit. I am being held hostage in my own house by chickens. Originally, they were shy and reserved. Walk towards them and they would move. Now, at a high trot, they follow anyone who dares to enter our yard, sqwacking their case for food, especially any form of cheap, white carbohydrates. They have the dogs completely buffaloed and our cat now believes that she is one of them, and has been seen more than once eating scraps amongst our small flock. They move out of the way of the vehicles only if they feel so inclined and have very little respect for brooms, shovels or water sprayed from a hose.  And while the pheasants that once ate amongst them have moved on and likely been eaten, the Elk Creek Chicken Militia soldiers on, eating anything in sight and producing eggs and chickens poop at an alarming rate.

Maybe I should name them afterall…

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She will smile

14 Monday Mar 2011

Posted by in love, ranch wives

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This weekend we lost Cowboy’s grandmother Roxy. After too many years of fighting cancer, Roxy left us to remember her, miss her and love her. For me, as the new addition to the family, it has been my chance to get to know her as the person she was and the family she leaves behind. It has been an incredible honor.

As a rancher’s wife, Roxy did not just watch ranch life happening from the house, she was in the middle of it, pouring her own share of blood, sweat and tears into the land, cattle and children. Her life was not always fair, rarely easy, and often times, less than beautiful, but it was real and meaningful to her cowboy, her family and her community.

I got to know Roxy best in the last few weeks of her life with family and friends gathered and telling stories of her life. This is a lady that could run any piece machinery and back up a cattle truck for loading effortlessly. I laugh as I imagine Jim’s reaction when neighbors started calling to ask if Roxy could help them haul cows the next weekend. What about him? And I will always remember that Roxy and friends once decided that they girls wanted to go to town too one evening but the cowboy husbands had left them without a vehicle, or so they thought. Roxy fired up the tractor and off they went to town. I bet they surprised the hell out of their men. Sounds like something my girlfriends and I would do. The truth is that this ranch life isn’t just about calving, branding, haying, shipping, feeding, and repeat. It’s about family. And life. And mostly, love. It takes love to get out of bed every morning to get chores done. It takes love to work tirelessly for something that may never earn you the respect, admiration or paycheck you deserve. It takes love to face a disease like cancer head on, not once but twice. And it takes love to leave this life with the courage and dignity that Roxy showed us all in her last weeks.

Like all great matriarchs, Roxy was the steady force in her children’s lives, in her husband’s life, in the ranch’s life. She was their rock, the glue that held everything together – in good times and bad, during feast and famine. For my part, I was not finished learning from Roxy. Besides being married to very similar cowboys, I like to think that Roxy and I shared similar artistic inspiration. Roxy painted ranch scenes, many of the same scenes I write about. There are many stories left to tell and many scenes left to paint, but I know that Roxy will still hear my stories and I know that she will still paint.

Roxy said she would live long enough to see our wedding. And she did. We were so happy and grateful for that blessing on our big day. And although we hoped she would be there to see our children born, we know that she will be watching all of us, and she will be smiling. The last time I saw Roxy and we talked, I wanted to tell her all of this but I simply could not get the words out. I wrote them down later to share with her and God in prayer.

Dear Roxy,
Thank you for this incredible family. Thank you for your strength, courage and love. Thank you for fighting as hard as you have so that we would have time to prepare ourselves and learn the lessons we need to in order to carry on. Thank you for the inspiration and memories – I will take good care of them. Thank you for your life and love. I will remember you, our children will know who you were, and I will think of you often.

All of my love,

Sophi

Why so quiet MC?

01 Tuesday Mar 2011

Posted by in Cowboys, love, Montana

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Hello all,

You may have noticed that my posts have been few and far between lately. Not too worry, I’m not going anywhere. Currently I am working on a few projects:

1. Site redesign that is clean and crisp, easier to navigate and fun! Here’s a sneak peek.

2. I am testing out and looking for new products to feature and review for my Style and Cowboy section. Please let me know if there is anything you think would be a good match for MC!

3. Calving season is swiftly approaching, followed by branding season, followed by summer craziness. Keep checking back for updates.

4. I am way behind on editing and posting pictures so expects to see a whole lotta pictures in the next few weeks.

5. Exciting development in the MC Wedding section coming very soon! Stay tuned.

To everyone who has been soooo supportive, thank you! There are some very exciting plans in work right now.

Life. Love. Wild Times. –MC

Why I Ride A Paint Horse…

14 Monday Feb 2011

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Cowboy: Why were the indians so angry by the time the reached the battlefield?

Me (glaring): I don’t know. Why?

Cowboy: ‘Cause they had to ride paints the whole way there! (Hysterical laughter)

Me: That’s hilarious… (Sarcastic. Kidney punch Cowboy.)

 

People, there is an epidemic in Cowboy America and it’s even in my own household: discrimination and prejudice towards and about Paint horses in this country. But in all seriousness, my love affair with Paints goes back twenty years and is much deeper than even Cowboy knows. One of the most influential people in my life has been my stepdad, LJ. He is equally parts rodeo hero, artist, and horseman – which is a dynamic and dangerous combination. No wonder my mother has been deeply in love with him for nearly 20 years, no wonder I picked a man than shares his charisma and class. If there are two things I know about LJ, it his ability to talk to anyone and his impeccable taste in horses. LJ has introduced many things into my life over the years but none more influential than horses, especially paint horses.

LJ’s parents bred and raised Paint horses for decades, for showing, ranch work, and in the later years, for racing. I can’t speak for every single Paint Horse in the world (obliviously) but I can say this about the Paints LJ raises: 1) they are NOT the same thing as Pintos, 2) their conformations and dispositions are equivalent to that of the very best in Quarter Horse racing (because they are Quarter Horses with paint coloring), and 3) if you’re not the type of person who likes attention, don’t ride a good looking Paint. It’s the same argument as to which is better: green tractors versus red tractors, Ford trucks or Dodge trucks, red states or… well, red states.

Same as Cowboy learned how to pull a calf in a blizzard before he could tie his boot laces, LJ taught me the horse business. Bloodlines, dams and sires, speed indexes, conformation and disposition, all those things meant  nothing to my young brain until LJ came around. By age 8, I could recite the pedigrees of all of our 50 head of horses, plus the top 20 racing Quarter Horse stallions in country and in history. I knew more than any one 6th grader should know about hand breeding, heat cycles, AI-ing and embryo transfer, and I could hold my own should a conversation about “hetrozygous vs. homozygous” color traits break out. I was heavily enrolled in the LJ School of Equinomics. There was not a horse that came onto our place that I wasn’t involved with. All of the colts (the correct term is foals but at LJU, all babies are called “colts”, regardless of sex) were heavily handled by yours truly in their first few hours and most eventually made it into my showhorse/4H training and grooming program. As assistant trainer, which was  an unofficial title but LJ had no choice, I was literally on his heel all the time. I was in the middle of the action constantly and sometimes that was an interesting place to be. For the record, my Mom usually objected to most of this stuff due to the risk of being trampled, stomped, kicked, bucked off, etc. – but that didn’t slow me down at all.  Also for the record, I was trampled, stomped, kicked and bucked off a lot, so perhaps Mom did know a thing or two back then. I was driving and lunging two-year-olds long  before I was driving a car, I put first and second rides on more colts than I ever put on a bicycle, and I skipped a lot of sleep overs with friends because I had to get up early to go to a horse show, horse sale or a horse race. My absolute favorite thing about school was when Mom & LJ would pull me out early to go to a horse thing, even if that meant driving all night to New Mexico just so three stud colts could qualify for a Futurity.

Eventually, school, boys, friends, and sports butted in on my horse-obsessed life, but Mom and LJ always made sure I had a horse around. In the last couple of years, I have dabbled in reining, wrangling, and ranch work, mostly on solid colored Quarter Horses. This year is going to be different. After officially retiring my horse Brown to Mom’s use, I declared to my Cowboy that I would be riding a LJ Paint horse from now on – and he would be too, at least part time. And yes, my kids will all be riding Paint horses someday too.

Photos courtesy of my Mama, The Ponderosa Queen.

Montana’s Definition of Winter

03 Thursday Feb 2011

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1win·ter \ˈwin-tər\

1: the season between autumn and spring comprising in the northern hemisphere usually the months of December, January, and February or as reckoned astronomically extending from the December solstice to the March equinox

2: the colder half of the year

3: year <happened many winters ago>
4: a period of inactivity or decay
The above definition is courtesy of Merriam-Webster.  I have decided that Merriam-Webster (MW) must not live in Montana. Afterall, in Montana there are three seasons: winter, hot, and muddy. No spring or autumn to be found ( last fall doesn’t count, weather that amazing goes against all that is natural in the 406 area code). December, January, and February? Yes, I suppose that is true if you can call 2 feet of snow in April “spring”.   
Life on the ranch is exciting, fulfilling, and, well, wonderful. And then winter hits. In Montana, winter seems to never end, at least on our little island under the Crazies. The memory of warm summer days, suntans, and tall green gold is all that keeps me hanging on. Ok, maybe that was a little overdramatic. Actually, I should be enjoying and savoring these last few weeks before the chaos of calving season begins. It won’t be long until I get to spend half of the night  alone while Cowboy night calves, or until I spend my evenings mixing milk replacer by the bucket-full.  This is the time of year when my cabin fever almost peaks. I have had enough of sitting inside waiting wistfully for the day I can venture outside without long underwear on.
As for MW’s last definition (a period of inactivity or decay), I would saw that is half true for ranching in Montana.  Things slow down, that much is for sure, but they never really stop or start to decay. Stock must be fed, equipment must be kept up and cowboys must be taken care of, and just like every other part of the year, there is always more to be done tomorrow.
Life. Love. Wild times under the Big Sky. – MC

Take it when you can get it…

29 Monday Nov 2010

Posted by in branding, love, ranch wives, tractor

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The snow is officially here, and has been here for a few weeks now. Our little island under the Crazies is white and quiet as the hum of shipping, preg checking and other fall activities has long since ceased. The hot, dusty days of summer have given away to a few feet of snow and sub-zero temperatures. The green gold that was still knee-high a month ago is now hidden under a blanket of snow and ice, waiting until next year. Actually, we’re all waiting until next year. The mama cows, still fat from summer and no longer missing their weaned calves, gather in groups now, their backs to the cold northern wind. Deep trails in the snow lead the way to icy waterholes, their frosted black ears perk up at the sound of the approaching tractor. Winter feeding has begun.

In the cycle of ranch life, the winter is a quiet albeit tedious season. Feed cows, keep waterholes open, service machinery, clear snow and repeat. Add in coffee and the occasional animal/machinery/mother nature disaster, and you have the daily experience for my Cowboy, winter edition. Of all these tasks there is one that really dominates winter life here on the ranch, and that’s feeding. Right now there are over 400 head of cattle on the ranch, 30 head of horses, and 2 feet of snow, all of this requires at least 15 bales of hay per day and at least 15 miles round-trip the seat of a tractor. Every single day. For months at a time. But, it’s essential for the health of the livestock and thus the health of the ranch itself, and so winter feeding is done everyday, no matter the weather.

Occasionally, I go with Cowboy to feed, though I learned early on that I have neither the patience nor the toughness of hind end to feed for 5 or 6 hours in a bumpy tractor. We now have a system worked out: I go with him on a weekend day but only if the temperature is above 0°. Cowboy picks me up from the house after he has finished feeding the lower pastures and is heading up-country, which just happens to be the halfway point in feeding. I meet him in my muck boots and overalls, with a hot cup of coffee to warm up his Super Tanker. Cowboy gets fresh coffee and I get the benefit of a warm tractor.

After a quick kiss and a long pull from his Super Tanker, Cowboy puts the tractor in gear and we are off again, speeding down the snow-covered road towards the next herd of cows. It’s 9 a.m. and already there has been technical difficulties in the form of a flat tire on the Haybuster. Huge and yellow, the Haybuster is an impressive piece of agricultural engineering — it can process and distribute several tons of hay a day without requiring the operator (Cowboy) to leave his tractor cab for loading, cutting, or feeding (if only it would open and close gates!). It can handle 2 large round bales at one time, and through a series of belts and blades, chops and spits out the hay into a perfectly straight rows. Cowboy loves it. I’m guessing that he feels the same way about his Haybuster as I do about my straight iron: not completely necessary for survival but it sure makes life easier and, well, better.  Without the Haybuster, Cowboy will have to use the tractor and a “bale wagon” to get the hay out to the cows. The bale wagon is just a large wooden wagon or flatbed trailer that hooks up to the tractor on which 6-8 bales can fit as one time. The downside is that whenever you need to load or unload bales from the bale wagon you have to unhitch it from the tractor, go about your feeding and the hitch it back up when your ready, and, oh yes, make sure you don’t park it in a place where it could roll away on its own.

Feeding with the tractor is a process of unloading the bale from the bale wagon, cutting the plastic net wrap from the bale and then using the tractor, unroll the bale by pushing it with the grapple. And be sure not to hit any of the cows or calves that are mobbing the very bales you are trying to roll out. And try not to get the tractor stuck in a ditch or seven-foot tall snowdrift. Cutting and removing the net wrap from the bales can be challenging in frozen Muckboots and two foot deep snow – even Cowboy took a little spill while wrestling with the net wrap (and I know he is thrilled that I caught it all on camera!).

Finally, I took my turn behind the wheel of tractor, unloading and positioning bales so that Cowboy could cut the net wrap and come help me unroll the bales. After a quick tutorial on how to operate the grapple, Cowboy left me to handle the bales. The tractor growled as I released the clutch, lurching forward in the deep snow. Giggling nervously, I geared down and started to turn the tractor around. All of a sudden the tractor tilted and bucked wildly, both of its right tires bouncing through a snow-covered irrigation ditch. The grapple bounced violently and the top of my head brushed the ceiling of the tractor cab. Now giggling wildly, I did the only thing I could do… Hammer on the accelerator just enough to bounce back out of the ditch and back onto the road. When I finally had everything under control I could see Cowboy, standing 20 feet away. He had been waving his arms wildly throughout my wild ride and he was now shaking his head and faking a heart attack. I tried to play it off – Yeah, I meant to do that - but I think my hysterical laughter gave me away. Eventually Cowboy relieved me of my role as tractor operator and the day went with out a hitch. By the time we got home, I had one extremely sore hind end and a new appreciation for air-ride seats.

Why go with Cowboy while he feeds? It’s like any other job on the ranch that I help out with: 1. It has to get done and, on a ranch, everyone helps to get it done faster. 2. It’s a great excuse to get out and remember why in the hell I live out here on this island, and 3. I love spending time with my Cowboy, even if that means sitting in a tractor for 4 hours on a less than comfy seat. When you’re a rancher’s wife and time with you man is rare, you take it when you can get it, even if it’s in the cab of a tractor.

What do you do to spend time with the people you love?

Life. Love. Wild times. – MC

There’s more pictures from feeding and this winter (so far) in my Flickr feed on the right on this post or click here http://www.flickr.com/photos/sophidavis/sets/72157625364735597/with/5216487405/

Guest Blog: Marmalade Boots’ Fall

27 Saturday Nov 2010

Posted by in Guest Blog, love, Montana, ranch wives, smiles

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Fall by Marmalade Boots

This fall was amazing.

Growing up a California city girl where open-toed sandals are practical footwear for all seasons and a cardigan provides adequate insulation from the cold, let’s just say moving to Montana two years ago was a bit of a change. I arrived in this frigid, unforgiving country November of 2008; too late for fall. I proceeded through the winter in a cold but optimistic daze, waiting for the day Spring would arrive. Instead I was met by a winter that lasted till June followed by a fall that was rudely denied when temperatures dropped below zero the first week in October. As I spent the autumn months fending off frozen fingers and toes, I grew a new appreciation for long underwear, insulated muck boots, and the sweet California falls of my past. Manstuff (the light of my life)\ assured me that Montana experiences some beautiful falls of it’s own, but I had yet to experience this elusive season.  I resigned myself to the fact that in order to live this life I had chosen alongside my beautiful cowboy, some sacrifices would have to be made. I anticipated that from October ’til July, my sundresses and sandals would be among the casualties.

This past fall however, proved me all wrong. It was beautiful! The blazing orange and yellows in the trees accented by the deep purples and reds of the willows encompassed such a brilliant palate of colors it took my breath away.  I rode, I worked cows, and most importantly, I wore little cotton sundresses to my heart’s content all while soaking up the warm autumn sunshine. It was the gift that kept on giving. Every time it appeared ready to call it quits and I would begin to mentally prepare for the winter that was bound to ensue, the warm weather would return and all would be right with the world once more.

Alas, the cold eventually did come. It’s funny how things work out. That was two weeks ago. Winter is now in full swing here in Montana. The grass has finally gone dormant, the horses have begun to resemble carebears, the cattle are suddenly not quite so independent, and I, despite my self-proclaimed cold intolerance, am still right where I want to be. To my own surprise, I have found that while I mourn the loss of a temperate climate and tank tops in January, it is a small price to pay for the sheer simplicity of living and feeling of purpose this ranch life provides me on a daily basis. I love it here even when I am freezing my tushy off in subzero temperatures. I am one lucky girl.

This blog was written by my good friend “Marmalade Boots” – who is every bit as entertaining as her pen name. MB and her cowboy “Manstuff” live on the other side of the Crazy Mountains on an equally beautiful and chaotic cattle ranch. I love MB’s perspective and experience as a Cali girl gone Cowgirl gone Rancher’s wife. I hope to see more of her guest posts in the future and hopefully a few recipes (she is an amazing cook!).  -MC


The Last Ride of the Year

08 Monday Nov 2010

Posted by in Cowboys, horses, love, Montana, smiles

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I have a love-hate relationship with fall, though this fall there has definately been more love in our relationship than ever before. Montana is not known for a long, leisurely falls. Last year, fall lasted for exactly 48 hours. The aspen leaves had just began to show a tinge of yellow and then WHAM!, a foot of snow and freezing temperatures. And just like the leaves that turned black overnight, so did my hopes of getting our engagement photos done among the fall colors. This year, on the other hand, has been literally picture perfect. Sunny and warm, the countdown to winter began this past week, as the weather forecast came in… Winter storming warning for Park County, extending from Monday to Tuesday evening… Ignoring the mountain of laundry that had been calling my name all week, I donned my jeans and boots and set out to enjoy my last ride of the year.

The snow was lower on the Crazies than it had been it months. As Cowboy and I saddled our horses, I could not help but notice that the air tasted different on my tongue, a mixture of Earth and something I can only describe as pure. It’s like the scent after a thunderstorm, that obscenely clean and pure sensation. Mix that with the smell of horse and you have a scent that is not only addicting but liberating. 

Off we rode, towards a bunch of cows that had come off the mountain and down into the hay fields. Good to be out? Cowboy asked as he looked back at me with a little grin. I nodded, too happy and relaxed to answer.
Once they saw us coming, those cows turned and headed back towards where they belonged. Cows are funny. The older cows know the routine as well as we do. Stay as high as possible, as long as the grass stays good.  Cowboy and I rode side by side, watching as the dogs kept the stragglers moving.

To be continued

Cowboys and Pickup Trucks

02 Tuesday Nov 2010

Posted by in Cowboys, Montana, town, tractor

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If there is one thing I have learned from Montana boys, it’s this: they love their pickup trucks. They love driving them, washing them, working on them, and showing them off to girls. They love talking about them with their buddies, admiring them, and spending hellacious amounts of money on them (kind of like me with Cowboys boots).  My cowboy is no exception.

Although Cowboy claims that I was too busy being cool in high school to notice him (a charge I can only half-heartedly deny, I was pretty cool after all) I do vividly rmember him driving a old brown Ford in high school. We shared one class in high school, Agriculture, which was basically a mixture of regular classroom time and shop time. To say I was out of place in the shop would be a gross understatement. The extent of my shop experience would amount to walking through the shop and past the group of boys, elbow deep in the engine of their trucks, hands black with grease. For fear of having to participate, I was careful not to make eye contact or worse, get grease on my Lucky jeans. I would hurry past and out of the shop, back to the gym, where I belonged.

Years have passed since those days of high school mechanics and my cowboy is still working on his truck. Instead of an old brown Ford F-150, Cowboy now drives big F-350. Honestly, I think his truck is sexy, and I even think he’s sexy in his coveralls and baseball cap. What’s not sexy: 3 solid days in the shop replacing the EGR on his truck, especially when the weather is gorgeous and prime for taking a ride. Ah, the trials and tribulations of a rancher’s wife.

Life is good. -MC

I Own High Heels

19 Tuesday Oct 2010

Posted by in Cowboys, high heels, love, Montana, town

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I own high heels. They live right next to my cowboy boots. Well actually, they live above my cowboy boots on a shelf but you know what I mean. On paper, I am probably not a person who would own, like or wear high heels, but I do.

At just a shade over six foot tall, I certainly don’t need high heels to close the height gap between me and my cowboy. I’m taller than him standing barefoot (sorry babe, but it’s true), a fact that he has come to terms with, and thus refuses to wear a roper heel for fear of losing the extra half inch a horseman heel gives him.  I am also lucky enough to have size 11 feet. That’s all fine and well, after all I am tall but isn’t it kind of a cruel joke that I also have an extremely high instep. Don’t even get me started about how challenging shoe shopping is for me. It’s tough - though finding the perfect pair of heels that fit and aren’t totally excruciating (like the bright yellow, four inch wedges I found this spring) makes it all ok for a while. But this whole story isn’t about shoe shopping  – I’ll put that in Things Cowgirls Love later.

Three years ago I met a guy… at a bar. A cowboy, dressed in Wranglers, boots and a starched Ariat plaid shirt. He was clean shaven and smelled of leather and soap. I was wearing baggy jeans and slippers that looked like shoes, but were actually slippers. I had my hair twisted into a messy bun and my attitude was less than friendly. I had just waded through a torturous breakup, which was soon followed by another messy breakup. Needless to say, my sparkle was a bit clouded.

I was in limbo, somewhere between starving for adventure and culture anywhere but in my hometown and resigning to living in my parents barn. No really, I was literally living in my parent’s barn.  Who in the hell was I? Who did I want to be like? Seemed to me there were two options: cowgirl or citygirl. Like being a cowgirl was something you could quit, or being “city” was a color of lip gloss. Cowboy boots or high heels.

The best way to describe me back then was “discontent”, with everything. I would love to say that meeting Cowboy that evening in Livingston instantly contented me and everything was pink roses, but contentment for me was so much more complicated. While wearing my cowboy boots was so much more comfortable and natural for me, those dang high heels were so sexy and exotic. This mirrored every aspect of my life: the familiarity and beauty of home or the excitement and chic-ness of the city, faded jeans with stains or pressed suit pants and cashmere, dirty Ford truck or sleek black luxury car.

Finally, citygirl in me won, or so I thought. I left Montana  and my cowboy for the big city with big plans. It wasn’t very long before I realized I was not wearing suits and high heels everyday, and there was not a single stitch of cashmere in my closet. And although shiny and red, I was still driving a Ford truck. The city turned out not to be very chic. Or exciting. Every spare second I was escaping out of the city to a family friend’s house to ride, or at least to smell horses. I was wearing my faded jeans and cowboy boots, seeking out any rodeo, western bar, and horse barn within two hours of my tiny condo.

And then there was the Cowboy I left in Montana. I loved him but I knew when I left Montana, that it may not last between us. Either one or both of us might find someone else. He was not (ever, ever) going to move to the city and I was too proud and independent to imagine staying in Montana just for a man. Hell no. But things changed for me. As I sat in stand still bumper to bumper traffic, high heel shoes off and country music cranked up, it struck me like a bolt of lightning. I want to be with Cowboy, on a ranch in Montana. I want to be close to family and friends. If I stay here, that’s never gonna happen. All of a sudden, it was okay that I wanted to share a cowgirl life with Cowboy, to carve out my place in Montana. And so I left. Within 10 days, I quit school, quit my job, broke the lease on my apartment, packed what I could fit on the back of my truck, sold or gave away what I couldn’t, put on my cowboy boots and headed north. I stopped in Las Vegas to meet up with my family for the NFR but thats a different story.

As I left Vegas heading back to Montana, I could barely contain my excitement. I was going home. Did I have a job? No. Did I have a money? Definately no. Would I probably have to live in my parents’ barn again? Yeah. 13 hours later I pulled into Cowboy’s driveway, my little truck dwarfed between his big F-350 and a horse trailer. As I checked my reflection in my rear-view mirror, I got nervous. What if things had changed between us? We hadn’t talked about being more serious. A million worries swirled through my mind. Nervous energy and Red Bull made my hands shake as I tried to put on mascara and chapstick, a weak attempt to salvage my face after a weekend of partying and cross country travel. All of sudden, my car door opened and I was pulled into Cowboys arms. I didn’t go back to my parent’s barn. We both knew where I belonged.

Fast forward to today, Cowboy and I are married, living on the ranch in Montana, and I am continuing to carve out my place in Montana. I no longer feel the need to hide the cowgirl part to feel successful. On any given day, I wear cowboy boots to gather cows and then meet the girls in town, in high heels. This is my version of a balanced life. I have finally accepted that I am passionate about Montana, about ranching and the cowboy lifestyle, about my cowboy husband and about sharing that passion with other people. Am I every going to make a bunch of money or get a ton of recognition for these things? Truth be told, I don’t have all that figured out, I’m just finally at the point that I don’t care about the “whos” or “whats” but the “feels” are infinately more important. My point: you can be both, you can have all that you choose to have. My high heels and my cowboy boots live in harmony.  

“A cowgirl is not a western woman. A cowgirl is a spirit. She might be a business woman in Manhattan, but she has an inner quality that allows her to do something for no one else’s reasons but her own…”

Cowboys Don’t Cry… But Sometimes They Whine.

21 Tuesday Sep 2010

Posted by in Cowboys, horses, love, ranch wives, town, Uncategorized

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A couple of days ago, Cowboy had a tough day. Keep in mind, Cowboy is tough, exceedingly patient and possesses an “everything is going to be alright, baby” personality. His “tough” days would have me curled into the fetal mission and drowning myself in chocolate and vodka, preferably at the same time. As my  mother-in-law has told me before, Cowboy has an incredibly high pain tolerance and is genetically capable of working himself to death. So when Cowboy complains about pain, I really listen.

Cowboy’s job is relatively dangerous, compared to if he worked in an office shuffling papers or slaving away on the computer as I do. In fact, according to the U.S. Department of Labor:

Farm work can be hazardous. Tractors and other farm machinery can cause serious injury, and workers must be constantly alert on the job. The proper operation of equipment and handling of chemicals are necessary to avoid accidents, safeguard health, and protect the environment.

Lovely, but what about the livestock. As much as I adore our horses and am grateful for the cattle that make our livelihood possible, let’s not look past the potential they have to cause some serious harm. I have been bucked off, kicked, trampled, and head butted by more than a few onery creatures over the year. And I am really careful! 

And then there’s Cowboy… In our time as a couple, Cowboy has been kicked in the crotch, trampled by an angry Mama cow, ran up a fence by our resident Longhorn, dragged by an excitable yearling, charged, headbutted, and licked. Some of these events were hilarious, a couple were a little scary and I am positive there have been a few incidents I do not even know about. Of course, Cowboy was not seriously injured in any of theses, at least not injured enough to complain. Not until the other day anyway…

 After a long day of computer screens and paper shuffling, I generally have three things on my mind: my sweats, dinner, and spending time with my cowboy (actually all of these are related as I need to have my sweats on to make dinner and dinner provides my scarce time with Cowboy).  On this this evening in particular, my mind was consumed with the upcoming weekend, work, bills, etc. and as I swept into the house, I briefly pecked Cowboy on the lips before flipping through the mail with one hand and unbottoning my jacket with the other. He was home early and was already in his Lazy Boy chair. As I rambled about my day, Cowboy took listened patiently, though his eyes were on the muted tv. When I finally finished my summary of my less than thrilling work day, complete with the usual trill of complaints, he laughed and said he had something that would top that.

He started with “Well, your no longer the only one around here to fall off in front of everyone…” (see A Perfect Day)  Uh oh! Cowboy went on to explain how he and few others had been gathering cows on the other side of the ranch. He was on Slim, who has been pretty much perfect since the year before. He certainly never acted the way Cowboy went on to describe. Although Slim was acting a little humpy (cowboy talk for when a horse humps up their back and threatens to buck), he was fine for the first couple of miles. Uphill at a walk and trot, Cowboy was not worried at all as he stepped off Slim to get a gate. Swinging back into the saddle, Cowboy (and his companions) were surprised as Slim began what was described as a bronc-style exhibition of equine athleticism. Twisting and spinning, with his nose tucked and hooves flying, Cowboy tried to ride it out.

As the Boss Lady would later tell me, he scored a 90. Nice. Then it gets not as funny. Cowboy said he was trying to stick with him and finally “decided” to jump off. His jump off was more of a fall off, right onto a large rock. He landed on the rock right between his shoulder blades, I’m sure with some considerable force. It knocked the air out of him and thoroughly pissed him off.  After re-gaining his air and tracking down his bronc, Cowboy got right back up and finished his day. And then came home early (clue #1). I, of course, freaked out and lectured him. Damn that Slim! And dang it Cowboy, you know better that to fall of like that.

Listen, anyone who tells you that they have never got bucked off (or fallen off) before is either: 1. Lying to you 2. Only ridden EXTREMELY broke horses (and therefore a Dude) 3. Hasn’t rode very much (also, potentially a Dude). When you do the things a ranch requires, or ride horses for a living, at some point, something is going to happen. This is the reason that safety and experience is SO important on the ranch. I could launch into my entire speech about safe riding and working, but I will just say that you should just try tuck and roll, and protect your head, neck, and spine at all costs. Duh. From experience (I have come off A LOT of horses in my day) I can tell you that as I get older, the ground gets harder. ( Just a quick note about helmets: Cowboys do not and will not wear helmets when they use horses. The only time I have used a helmet is when I would go to shows and was required to in order to show in the English classes. I am sure helmets have their place, especially with kids, but honestly, knowing your horse and working safely is just as important.)

And then there is the horse… Here is the thing about horses, just as the type of feed their on can encourage “feel good” bucking, so can a cold, crisp morning. Ask an old cowboy about “cold-backed” horses and they will certainly have a story or two for you. Usually a trip or two around a round corral will work it out of them. In Cowboy and Slim’s case, a mile of hills at a trot didn’t solve the issue. In my personal opinion, working up a sweat in the round corral or on the lead, and a kick in the belly if necessary, will usually do the trick. As far as horses go, don’t just depend on age or “broke-ness”, my 17 year old gelding is more humpy than my 4 year old. Just depends on the pony. But I digress…

Back to Cowboy… Of course, his little rodeo was also during  the three weeks he was running the ranch alone. The constant upkeep of cows, the peak of hay season, and non-stop thunderstorms ruining said hay season, were on Cowboy’s mind. Going at his usual pace (110 mph), Cowboy was trying to do the job of 3-4 full time guys, and it was starting to wear. After his wreck my cowboy started complaining of back spasms but claimed it was just a bruise. Two days after getting bucked off, as I sat in the office in our house, Cowboy came gimping in. He was wincing when he would breathe and was a little pale. “What’s up babe?” I asked, turning my chair to face him, the look on his face perplexed. Apparently he had been working on a piece of machinery and needed a tool from the back of his pickup. When he jumped out of this pickup and landed, he heard a crack and the pain brought him to his knees. When he composed himself, he drove straight home, which he said was excruiating. Immediately, I made him lay down and got my Mom on the phone. “ER,” she said, matter of factly.”Better safe than sorry.”

Trip to town… The only thing tougher than getting a cowboy to eat balsamic vinegarette on his salad, is trying to get him to the doctor, especially the ER on a Saturday. Laying on his back and gasping with effort, Cowboy tried to argue that he was fine. There are times when a rancher’s wife has to lay down the law, and this was the time. “Listen here Cowboy, you are going to the ER and that is the end of it. Now get in the shower and I’ll start the truck.” Why, you may ask, would I make him shower when he is obviously in suffering. Two reasons: the hot shower would loose up some of his muscles and help him relax, and there was no reason to expose those nice ER people to a cowboy when he hasn’t showered in 6 days (Yes, I said 6 days). And, if that wasn’t bad enough, I made him wear sweats and tennis shoes IN PUBLIC! The whining about this potential humiliation was epic. What if he saw someone he knew? I reminded him that it was a Saturday night and we were going to the hospital, not the Bank Bar. I helped him into the truck and off we went.

On the drive, Cowboy started to get nervous. I have never heard my gem of a husband talk, sing, and fret like he had on the drive over from Wilsall, and just when he thought he was fine, his back would spasm and he would be silent, panting in pain. When he was finally quiet, I put my serious wife voice on and told him that this was serious. I asked him to please be honest about his pain to the doctors. “I know you are a tough son of a gun baby. Everyone does, but there’s nothing wrong with getting fixed up when you need it. ” The fact that he agreed showed me just how much pain he was in.

 As we walked through the sliding glass doors of the ER, I recognized the look of resignation on Cowboy’s face. We checked in with the nurses station and waited in the lobby for our turn. As we were sitting there, a man came bursting out of a room, yelling and cussing. I would have laughed but this gentleman was packing a very large knife on his hip. When I mentioned this to the check-in nurse, she just shrugged her shoulders and led us to a treatment room. Only in Montana.

Once in his private room, Cowboy faced his greatest fear… the hospital gown. “No way in hell, ” Cowboy said, crossing his arms defiantly. The nurse insisted and as I tied the string I could hear him grumble, “Thank God I wore underwear”. Into the bed he went, warm blanket and all. As he lay there in the bed, I started to get choked up. This was just wrong in so many ways. This man was my rock, my anchor, my source of stregnth. I smiled as we talked and said a little prayer as they wheeled him off to X-rays.

I was texting and calling the parents when I heard him coming back. Coming  down the hall in the gurney, Cowboys was talking a blue streak to the x-ray tech and everyone he passed in the halls of the hospital. Eventually, news came back: broken ribs just inches from his spine. Thank you Lord. Two prescriptions and a handshake for the doctor later, we loaded back into the truck and headed home.

In the end, Cowboy was home recovering for exactly 28 hours. And then he was back at it, though horses, four-wheelers and heavy lifting was prohibited by me, and thanks to Boss Lady and MJ, it was enforced. Now days, Cowboy is back at it as hard as ever, riding, roping, and working into the dark on a regualr basis. He has even put a couple of rides on Slim (who was again perfect). And so things are back to normal and our first experience with a medical issue in our short marriage is past us. Cowboy was vulnerable and I was strong, and we got through it together. That is the lesson that the ranch teaches you: You can handle more than you think, but you have to handle it together. Oh, and when you get bucked off, get back on.

Around and around… Welcome to Haying Season.

12 Thursday Aug 2010

Posted by in Cowboys, Crazy Mountains, gardening, love, Montana, ranch wives, tractor

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Summer is in full swing on our little island under the Crazy Mountains. The green gold is now hip height and higher in some places, our calves are growing and are wild with life, and suntans and cowboy sweat is a daily occurance under the Montana sun. The days of calving season, branding season and planting season are past us until next year… enter haying season.

Haying season is a process of planting, waiting, praying, growing, waiting, praying, cutting, praying, raking, baling, praying, waiting, counting, hauling, stacking (and if you get a second or third cutting) repeating the process, minus planting. Praying is generally a result of weather, or lack thereof, and other acts of God, including grasshoppers, mechanical failure, timing, market prices, and, well for lack of better word, luck. As far as my Cowboy goes, it’s as he put it – “alot of time in a tractor, going around and around”.  This season is as vital to the health of the ranch as any other for two reasons: 1) you have to have hay to feed cows, especially Mama cows with growing babies in their bellies, and 2) to manage the health of the land against fire and under-grazing.

Hay season is the time that my cowboy temporarily hangs up his spurs and wool shirts and instead dons a cap and hiking boots. On a rare occasion, Cowboy will put on a short sleeve t-shirt, which reveals the ultimate mark of a cowboy, the “farmer’s tan”.  Most people would consider a “farmer’s tan” the tan lines one would get from forgetting sunscreen on a sunny afternoon, a red ring around the neck or a shade difference between upper arm and lower. No, you can tell a Montana Cowboy by his tan, or lack thereof. Dark brown face and hands, pearly white everywhere else, the man looks like a Apaloosa horse, especially when you add in the red bumps and scratches all over from the misquitoes. Nothing better tells the story than the Ringling Five in their song “Rancher’s Legs”.

Most evenings during hay season, I make dinner for Cowboy and deliver it to him in the hay fields. Sometimes something like flank steak and baked potatoes, other times a simply sandwich, to be washed down with fresh iced tea or a cold beer. I load up the food into the truck, carefully balancing items so as to prevent the enevitable spill. Usually I find him just before dusk, the sun just touching the Bridgers off in the distance. He is there, in the tractor, with baler hitched up and humming. Driving through a hay field is not as easy or smooth as one might think, so I take it slow. Of course, I always seem to hit the largest hole in the county, sending food and drink flying and me cussing. Cowboy shuts down his tractor and swings out of the cab. A quick kiss and then dinner on the tailgate, watching the sunset. Did I mention I love haying season?

Pick Me Up!

12 Wednesday May 2010

Posted by in calves, Cowboys, gardening, high heels, ranch wives, town, tractor

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Spring has sprung on our little island under the Crazies, though summer has yet to show its face. The green gold is making its way to the surface almost everywhere, our yard in particular. As I lay there in bed this morning and the sunshine poured through my windows, I had a sudden bolt of inspiration to leap up, through on my running shoes, and enjoy this beautiful day with a walk/jog. Yes, I thought, I will get out there and start out the morning right. I grabbed my sweatshirt and a pair of gloves and made it all the way out to the front deck, at which point I wheeled around and hustled back inside. Forget that! On this fine day in May, the temperature is a brisk (very brisk) 33 degrees. As I have mentioned before, I am a bit (ok, a lot) of a fair weather cowgirl. I am also a fair weather exerciser, gardener, picnic-er, and other outdoor activity-er. I considered getting my pre-wedding butt in shape with a little P90x but in the end, breakfast won. And exercise lost. Again. Of course, not sweating to Tony Horton’s ass-kicking routine has given me time to sit and write this story about yesterday.
Every good rancher’s wife spends time in town. “Trip to town” is met by equal parts excitement and dread, depending on the tasks awaiting you there. Let’s just say that running to town to meet the girls for drinks and articoke dip deserves a much different reaction than going to town for parts and calf scour vaccine. One requires cute clothes and possibly high heels, the other muck boots and hiding out under a baseball cap. There is one thing about going to town that I always look forward to: coming home to Cowboy.
Yesterday I spent the day in town, had coffee with Cassie and had a job interview. I was excited about being in town and probably had too much caffeine, so I putted around town, doing the errands I always forget to do usually. After having the oil in my truck changed and driving slowly by the dealership looking at new ones (not gonna happen but a girl can always look), I stopped in at the hardware store to research what I would need to start my garden. $86 later, I was back on my way back to our island. For the record, I do not possess a green thumb, not even a little. I currently have three houseplants, which seem to live and die, bloom and wilt, regardless of what I do for them. And, I am sad to announce, my sweet little basil plant that I bought on a whim and managed to keep alive and use constantly, has died after 3 months in my possession. Sad day. So why, you may wonder, should I even attempt a “real” garden? Well, I love fresh veggies, and I use them during the summer. Although I could get them from the farmer’s market, going anywhere on Saturday morning is pretty touch-and-go for me. And I usually end up spending 60 bucks on pies and knick-knacks instead of produce. Another reason to attempt a garden is because I have been told that the people who lived here before us had an incredible garden and that our place here on the creek bottom is a really great garden spot. So I will give it a shot. Probably.
Pulling into our driveway, I could see a tractor far off, probably doing something with the ditches. The sun was out, though it was not remotely warm. I hurried inside with my bags, dumping them on a chair while going through the mail. Every good rancher’s wife is an excellent multi-tasker, you know. I changed into a faded pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, let my hair out of its tie and set to getting dinner ready. Dinner usually depends on what is thawed out. I marinated a flank steak, put a pot of potatoes to boil on the stove and jumped on my computer to send some emails. I try to always have the ranch radio on, so that I can hear whats going on and keep in touch with where my cowboy is. Just as I was finishing up my emails and contemplating getting some housework done, I heard the growl of a tractor coming from the shop. I looked out just in time to see the tractor turn down our drive instead of continuing up to the other barns. Yes! I laughed to myself, That man does have good timing. Cowboy was coming to pick me up. It was too early for him to be home yet and he would have seen my truck in the driveway. I skipped out to the livingroom, waiting and looking out our large picture window as he looped the tractor around. Without getting out of his tractor, he pointed at me then motioned me to sit next to me. And I had a totally 13 year old girl reaction. I giggled and ran around the house looking for socks and a coat. And gloves. There wasn’t time to put on long underwear, though the weather warranted it. It was like high school all over, the excitement and suspense of getting picked up for a date. Pick you up at your house at 7, k. Only with my cowboy its more like Pick you up at our house, wear your muck boots. Baseball cap, jeans, sweatshirt, and Carhartt coat, and a granola bar for Cowboy. Yes, cowboys eat granola bars, as long as they have chocolate, carmel and peanut butter in them. Turning off the stove, I strided out to the tractor. “About time,” Cowboy teased, easily the granola bar I chucked at him in reply. Climbing up the steps of the tractor and settling into my seat, I kissed Cowboy and petted the dogs.Multi-tasking again. Off we went, chatting about our days, my job interview, wedding plans, etc. etc., just like if we were sitting on our couch. That’s how it is with Cowboy, whereever you are, there you are. Live does not stop or slow down because your in a tractor or on the back of a horse, love and life keeps happening. to be continued

It’s just food

09 Sunday May 2010

Posted by in food, love, Montana, ranch wives, sleep, town

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It is my job, as a future rancher’s wife, to take care of my cowboy. When the novelty of washing jeans crusted with two weeks of cow shit and God only know what else wears off and I am no longer amused by wrenches living on my coffee table for months at a time, there is a task that does not get old, and honestly is the best way to keep track of the health and happiness of my sweet cowboy, I cook for him. As any good rancher’s wife will tell you, feeding your cowboy should be a top priority, for when a cowboy gets hungry, he gets cranky. And that is bad. The one disadvantage to cooking for a cowboy is that for the last 18 months, I have been eating like a cowboy. Cowboy food in close to cowboy-sized portions. This wouldn’t be such a big deal if I worked like a cowboy but I do not, and so while my cowboy actually lost weight since of co-habitation, I have gained. A lot.
The beauty of co-habitating with anyone is that your significant other while expose you to many, many things, and likely you will transfer some things to them too. Cowboy exposed me to white bread and Laury’s Seasoning salt. I, in return, introduced him to whole wheat bread, avocados, skim milk, balsalmic vinegarette, and whole wheat pasta. Our first big fight, during which I cried and there was silence in our house for no less than two days, occured the first time we went grocery shopping together. I wanted to re-vamp our eating style in our new home, since we both have cardiovascalar disease in our families, and, frankly, I was tired of frozen pizza. And I swore I wouldn’t eat Top Ramen or boxed mac n’ cheese again after I graduated college, no matter how poor I was. As we strolled down the spacious aisles of the grocery store, hand in hand and madly in love, our cowboy boots shuffling quietly and leaving a dust trail of manure and mud, we were blissfully unaware of the fire storm ahead of us. It started out slowly. Picking out fruits and veggies, Cowboy said very little as I loaded our cart with a broad variety of colorful albiet expensive fruits and veggies. He said nothing about the asparagus, broccoli, and green beans. His eyebrows did shoot up as I picked out not one, but three types of lettuce. And spinach. No, the real trouble began in the dairy aisle. I picked out a half-gallon of skim milk. As I put it in the cart Cowboy also put in a gallon of whole milk. “Babe,” I said sweetly “You know that has alot of fat in it right?” Yes, he knew but he thought skim milk was pretty much just water and he refused to drink it. Just for the record, Cowboy will NOT drink milk. Ever. He only uses it in cereal and in box macaroni and cheese. Ok. A half gallon of 1% milk for both of us. The milk was followed by yogurt, the lowfat kind, and cottage cheese, also low fat. And lastly, fat-free sour cream. The teasing was minimal over my Tirimisu CoffeeMate and things were still pretty good until we hit the cheese section. To most young American males, processed American cheese is cheese, to me its a lab experiment. As I picked out a block of reduced-fat medium cheddar, deli style swiss cheese, sliced thin, and bags of shredded cheese. As well as a wedge of parmescean, you know the kind that requires a grater. I could see the viens in his neck starting to bulge as I launched into the milkfats and cholesterol and the importance of eating right. He must have been feeling rebelious as he plucked a huge vat of margerine from the butter area. I HATE margarine. Really, really dislike the stuff. As he dropped it into the cart, Cowboy smugly said “I want this kind.” Just for the record, Cowboy knew my feelings about margarine. I would not/will not eat foods made with margerine. I can detect margarine in food, no matter the cover-up, even if it were chocolate. I laughed at Cowboy and said, “Hell to the No” as I dropped two pounds of amish butter into our carts and reached for the vat of butter substitute. What followed was a loud and vigorous verbal squabble about which butter we would get. The result was me angrily pushing the cart towards the cereal aisle. I tried to relax as I pulled boxes of Kashi and Shedded Mini Wheats into the cart. The effort was wasted as my dear sweet cowboy replaced my cereal with boxes of sugary kids cereal. “Are you serious!?” I shrieked. “Are you serious?!” he countered. And there we were, a stand off in the cereal aisle. “Fine. Here is the cart. Get your own groceries.” I said, turning on my heel. We were done. Silence as we stood in line to checkout and loaded the pickup. Silence all the forty minutes home to the ranch. Silence for two days as my whole milk and margarine loving cowboy cooked for himself.
Fast forward to today. I now do the shopping alone, and there are Fruit Loops in our cupboard.

The Perfect Day

30 Friday Apr 2010

Posted by in Cowboys, Crazy Mountains, horses, Montana

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Let me take you back to last week, when the weather could not be described as anything but gorgeous. 60 degrees and sunshiney, the green gold had just started to break ground. The air was sweet and clean with barely a breeze blowing. While having a cup of coffee with my cowboy he asked my plans for the day. “Oh, this and that,” I replied lightly, looking past him at the monstrous pile of laundry that was awaiting me. “Well, I was going to ride through the cows. You wanna put a ride on a couple of horses with me?” he asked as put on his boots. Um, hell yes! I practically sprinted out of the house right then, but my horse print pajamas stopped me short. I pulled on my oldest, most comfortable faded jeans and grabbed my spurs off the top of the dresser. Yes, some women have jewelry and flowers on their dressers, I have spurs. With my boots under one arm and my bridle over the other, I practically skipped out to the waiting pickup.

It was a perfect day out – the kind that requires a tank top and sunglasses. I watched as Cowboy brought the horses in from their pasture, their heads high and the sun reflecting off the flanks. Having done this thing before every spring, the horses went right into the waiting corral without any objection. I swung the gate closed behind that last one, turning as Cowboy pulled up. Pulling a couple of halters from his truck, he grinned, “Which one do you want, Chrome?” Ha, ha, very funny… I smiled sweetly and then punched him in the arm. Ah, Chrome. The very decent looking chestnut gelding had been my enemy since the spring earlier, when he dumped me in front of my Cowboy and his cowboy friends. Here I was, the new kid in this group, who was training horses for a living at that point and I fell off while moving cows. I do wish there was a spectacular story but the truth is that I fell off “like a fat kid eating cake” as some of my friends would say. Not graceful, not happy. Of course, I endured merciless teasing from my cowboy, which resulted in Cowboy cooking for himself for a week or two. I chose Blue, a big gray gelding that a reputation for being gentle but not smooth. My cowboy spent a few minutes catching the young horse he had rode all summer. Slim, or Slim Shady as Cowboy called him, is a gangly sorrel with patch of while on his barrel. Slim carries his head a little too high and his legs are a little too long, giving him the look of a giraffe or a horse out of a Remington painting. To my surprise and delight, Cowboy brushed and saddled both horses – I felt spoiled! I got on big Blue to watch the show. Slim had been nothing but solid since Cowboy started riding him the year before, but the spring is different. Months of vacation and green grass can make even the most broke horse buck during the first ride of the year. They just felt so good! I get that. My cowboy stepped in the stirrup and threw his leg over. As Cowboy walked and trotted Slim in small circles, it became obvious that nothing was gonna happen. It was all a little anti-climatic.

Off we headed toward the pasture that held the 200 pairs we were checking. In the distance I could see the coal black calves, some sleeping, others racing through grazing mama cows, their short calf tails sticking straight up in the air. A little breeze ruffled my hair as I settled into the ride and the sun warmed my shoulders. I caught my cowboy’s eye and grinned. If there was a rancher’s bride nirvana, this was it.

The most special thing about our island in the mountains are the scenes that a sight that will make even the most pessimistic person know that there is a God. Riding through the green hills under the Crazy Mountains with the love of my life, I felt an overwhelming sense of contentment. I was home.

Bottle Feed… And Bottle Feed Again.

21 Wednesday Apr 2010

Posted by in barn, bottle feeding, calves, Cowboys, love, Montana, ranch wives, smiles

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I think they’re cute and fun. My cowboy probably thinks they’re cute too, though he would never admit it. And for him, the fun starts to wear off as calving season goes on. I am speaking of our bottle calves, of course. Every calving season, there is one or two calves that have lost their mamas for some reason – she dies, gets sick, doesn’t want him, has twins, doesn’t have enough milk, the list goes on and on – and so we feed them milk replacer with a bottle until we find him a new mama or he doesn’t need it anymore. Most years we have one or two at a time, this year we have four. That’s two bottles per calf per day, sometimes more, times four. Cowboy stays real busy mixing bottles and feeding for these hungry little beasts.

First there is the milk replacer, which comes in a 50 pound bag and smells like vanilla protein powder. The water temperature has to be perfect, not too warm and not too cool. “Exactly what temperature is that?” I ask my cowboy as he spends no less that three minutes adjusting the water for the bottles. He shrugs and keeps testing the water – must be something cowboys just know. The large plastic bottle warms my hands as I follow Cowboy into the dark calving barn. Spring sunshine pours through the barn’s dusty windows and a gentle breeze sweeps through the open doors. In the corner of the barn two sets of very interested eyes watch us enter the barn. Cowboy laughs quietly to himself as he opens the gate to their pen, “Prepare to be mauled.” Frantically, the calves’ blue tongues find the nipple to our bottles and the feeding begins. I am trying to stay upright as my calf pushes and butts against me and the bottle, mother nature telling him that this will produce more milk. I wrestle the bottle out of my calf’s mouth to allow a little air into it. Immediately my insistent little charge is mouthing my legs, licking my jeans and stepping on my boots. My calf drains the rest of its bottle and roots into my knees for more. “All gone,” I say, slipping out the gate behind my cowboy. Two little black heads push through the rails of the panel, looking for more of that creamy, deliciousness. Back in the vet room, my cowboy rinses the bottles and starts the bottle making process again, “Two down, two to go.” Later, as we finish feeding the fourth and final calf, I realize that these precious little buggers are a lot of work… and still cute.

Good Mama

19 Monday Apr 2010

Posted by in barn, bottle feeding, calves, Cowboys, Crazy Mountains, love, Marriage, Montana, ranch wives, smiles

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Mama cows and baby calves… That is what fills my cowboy’s spring days on the ranch. Since our place is at the base of the Crazy Mountains and in a “snow bowl” we don’t start calving until March, considered late compared to our neighbors. Blue skies and warmer temperatures make up the difference, although there are those freak spring storms that can last well into June.

I remember the first calf of this year… My cowboy and I were at dinner at our neighbor’s place. Having hurried home from town and weighed down by numerous life/wedding worries, I was grumpy and not too excited to have to socialize. I was running late and Cowboy rode over to our dinner date with some friends. The weather was miserable cold, icy roads and driving snow – only adding to my dismal mood. I made it through dinner and was relieved and grateful when Cowboy said we were heading out because of the weather and my long day. Climbing into the cold truck and with Cowboy behind the wheel, I shivered and tried not to think of all the things I had to do when I got home. “Tough day?” my cowboy asked as he reached over and warmed my fingers with his. I didn’t answer, just nodded and sighed, “I have something that might cheer you up” – I grunted in response, “Unlikely.” Instead of staying on the road to take us home, Cowboy turned towards the cowbarn, with its fenced driveway. I started to complain but I was cut-off by him, saying he just had to check something and that I could warm up inside and wait. I followed him into the barn and was surprised to see the lights on over the pens, that were usually empty until calving season. Sure enough, still damp and nursing hungrily, was a tiny baby calf, black as coal. Instantly, my mood lifted and the stress released in my shoulders. The first calf heifers were not supposed to start for another 15 days and with the chilly weather and gray skies, I had forgotten that spring and calving season were approaching. And yet, here this little one was, announcing the beginning of a new year. This was this cow’s first calf, an event that usually went well but occasionally resulted in a cow who would not want her calf, rejecting him or killing him. This cow, however, was the moo-ing gently to her new baby, watching him and standing patiently as he nursed. As his mother doted on him, licking him until he was dry and clean, I could not help but feel a twinge of excitement. Excitement for April, when calving would be in full swing and I would go with Cowboy to check cows and tags newborn calves. Excitement for May, when the calves would play with their herd-mates and then collapse exhausted into the grass, napping in the sunshine. And even excited for the day, probably years off in the future, that Cowboy and I would have our own babies, so helpless and miraculous themselves. I smiled to myself at the thought and stole a glance at my cowboy, who leaned comfortably against the panel separating us from the cow and her calf. Someday, he would bring our kids to see the first calf of the year and they would love this life too. This image warmed me so that no Montana wind could chill me. And then my cowboy, in his wise and simple way, confirmed my thoughts, “She loves her baby. She’s gonna be a good mama.”

Branding… Our love story

15 Thursday Apr 2010

Posted by in branding, calves, Cowboys, Crazy Mountains, horses, love, Montana

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The ranch… Home… Our island under the Crazies… No matter than names I call this place, one thing stays true: it is its own living, breathing thing. Of course it would change left on its own, without my cowboy and his cowboy co-workers keeping to the natural ranch schedule of things. Life on the ranch is cyclic and so there is no start and, as any bride to a ranch cowboy will tell you, no end. The summers are a flurry of activity -fixing fence, moving cows, haying. Fall is dominated by hunting season, at least in our house, though there is shipping, vaccinating, and other stuff to be done. The winters are relatively quiet, as there is only so much one can do is -20 degree temperatures and 28 inches of snow. That said, cows must be fed everyday, water holes kept open, and it is the perfect time to fix the things broken during the rest of the year.
And then it is spring… My favorite time of the year on the ranch, and with my cowboy. We met in the spring and it always brings back memories of those early days. Spring always feels like the beginning of something good, and it was for us. I met my cowboy in high school, though as he likes to say, I was way too cool for him (and I probably was.) Years later, in the Office Bar in Livingston, we met again. Eventually my cowboy called me up, asked me out to dinner, and so our whirlwind began. At the time I was riding horses for a dude ranch in Paradise Valley, my cowboy was working in Belgrade. We were both young, single and not too worried about anything. We would go out dancing and drinking with until the early morning hours and then go our separate ways, he off to weekend brandings and I back to hard mouthed dude horses. Don’t get me wrong, I have been to brandings before but only to help put lunch on and watch. My cowboy would come back from those Saturdays dirty, covered in cow shit, and happy as hell, while I, on the other hand, had loped rubber-sided dude ponies in a circles for 6 hours in driving spring snow. I was missing out. The weekend came for my cowboy’s parents’ branding, an event which I had heard all about and would have to miss because of my date with dude horse hell. As I sat in my truck, looking at the line of horses waiting to be ridden, the sun came out and my hangover cleared. Looking over at my best partner-in-crime and fellow nag tamer, Cassie, I told her I quit and I quit now. I grabbed my saddle out of the barn, loaded it in my little truck and headed out for a shower, an aspirin, and my first branding with my cowboy. Eventually, I found my way to my cowboy’s parents’ place and the branding pen. Cowboy was happy to see me, smiling and shaking his head as I drove up in my little red truck and “Who’s better than me?” t-shirt. That afternoon I got dirty, covered in cow shit, and, as predicted, was as happy as hell. Since then I have been to many more brandings, with and without Cowboy, even roping at one last spring. For other Montana cowgirls, branding may be about work or tradition, but for me they’re about love.

6 a.m. at the Ranch

14 Wednesday Apr 2010

Posted by in Cowboys, love, Marriage, Montana, sleep, smiles

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For those of you not permanently attached to a ranch cowboy, let me tell you about a cowboy’s sense of time. Unless it is hunting season, my cowboy is up at six o’clock in the morning. Up for breakfast, up to check cows, up to beat the heat during the summer. It is a rare occasion that he sleeps in, and by sleep in I mean anything past seven. On those rare days, he will lament not getting up earlier and therefore, is a crabby cowboy (never a good thing.)
I will admit it, I am not what you would call an early riser. I believe that when I have the opportunity, there is not a single thing wrong with getting out of bed whenever I damn well please. I tell him, “Cowboy, I get alot done while I’m in bed!” and it’s true. Phone calls, reading, journaling, planning, coming up with ideas… I’m a big fan of letting your thoughts wander — my theory is that devoted “daydreaming” time allows for more room to concentrate on getting other stuff done.
My cowboy likes to tease me about my late rising habits. Anyone who talks to him for more than five minutes probably thinks I am incapable of waking any earlier than noon. He thinks its hilarious to let the dogs in at dawn to “say good morning” — which consists of lots of licking and tail-wagging on our precious puppies’ part and a good measure of cussing and yelling on mine.
So, this morning I decided to just give in and wake at 6 a.m. with my cowboy. He didn’t say anything as I made breakfast, or while he got dressed. As he filled his super-tanker coffee cup, he looked over at me, gave me his best, most handsome smile and said “See, isn’t waking up this early great?!” He said this with such genuineness, I just smiled and kissed him goodbye. As I watched him and the pups get into the truck and drive off to check cows, I could not help but be so grateful for these early mornings under the Crazies, even if I only see them every once in a while.

The Snow in the Mountains…

14 Wednesday Apr 2010

Posted by in Crazy Mountains, Montana

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In Montana, the weather is like a teenage girl. Happy and bright one second, fitful and tempestuous the next. Today, on our little island beneath the Crazy Mountains, the weather is a snotty, cold little bitch. Bitch in the form of dropping temperatures and wet, sticky snow. Here on the ranch the weather makes itself known in the form is snow capped hills and muddy footprints.

Being the good Montana daughter that I am, I pray for moisture. Moisture in the form of rain, snow, sleet, mountain snow, etc. Spring storms in Montana can come out of “nowhere”, dump six inches of snow in a few hours, and can cause whiteouts so thick is tough to see 10 feet in front of you. Most Montanans will tell you about snow in July and that our unofficial state motto is “if you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes.”

Of course, what we jaded natives don’t tell you is that under these spring flurries, under these little bitchy weather moments, is the greenest of grasses, Montana gold. Gold that feeds our cattle and acts as the first cradle as their precious calves gasp their first lungful of air. Grass that bends in the wind and dries in the fall.

So in the end, we trade the white for green. The cold smoke for green gold.

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