Thank you SO much to everyone eho has sent me letters! It truly makes my ent1re week to get someth1ng on the Fr1day ma1l plane. 1f you want to mail me someth1ng, my address 1s...
Jena Clarke
Walhallow Stat1on
PMB 12
Tennant Creek, NT 0862
Please don't spend heaps of money send1ng me packages though, and as thoughtful as 1t sounds, 1 can't brew coffee, so just hang onto 1t and we'll dr1nk 1t when 1'm states1de aga1n.
Thanks,
Jena
Friday, April 23, 2010
Pop 1t 'Cause 1t's Hot
The dress here 1s, above all else, extremely funct1onal. Every aspect of l1fe 1s centered on work1ng hard and be1ng out of doors, wh1ch 1s reflected 1n the cloth1ng. Not to ment1on, the nearest shopp1ng mall 1s over 12 hours away 1n Darw1n or Al1ce Spr1ngs, so wardrobes are not often updated.
The bore runners who dr1ve around the stat1on check1ng on the 50+ water pumps dress 1n shorts and collared work sh1rt w1th the sleeves cut off. Those of us who work w1th the cattle and horses every dayhave to cover up a bt more as protect1on from the sun and tall grass. We wear sturdy jeans and long sleeve work sh1rts. 1 try to keep my sleeves down as much as 1 can stand to h1de from the sun, but the guys all wear them rolled up to the1r elbows, g1v1ng them dark brown forearms. Com1ng as 1 do from the Amer1can trad1t1on of ranch1ng, all of my sh1rts are pearl snaps. Here, however, the guys wear sh1rts that only unbutton half way. Several of the boys don't bother w1th the buttons at all and wear the1r sh1rts open to the sternum, w1th the1r collars popped to guard aga1nst the relentless sun, lend1ng them an amus1ngly '80s look. Add to that the fact that none of them have had a ha1r cut 1n 2 months and you have a rec1pe for an Outback vers1on of New K1ds on the Block.
Aga1n, as the stubborn Amer1can, 1 wear cowboy boots, wh1ch the Auss1es refer to as "h1gh tops," nearly every day, regardless of the act1v1ty. Somet1mes 1f we're r1d1ng the Austral1ans w1ll wear h1gh tops, but the typ1cal Austral1an footwear 1s e1ther elast1c-s1ded anhle boots for r1d1ng, or lace up work boots for yard work. For my b1rthday, Dad got me a beaut1ful par of elast1c-s1ded R. M. W1ll1ams boots, wh1ch the boys call my "town boots" because they are so n2ce. Everyone 1s moderately appalled that 1 would even cons1der work1ng 1n such n1ce boots, but 1 f1gure that th1s 1s the1r 1ntended purpose 1n l1fe, so they m1ght as well be used.
W1th the blaz1ng sun, a w1de br1mmed hat 1s absolutely 1nd1spensable. M1ne 1s a grey Seretell1, g1ven to me by the wonderful Lance Ra1nwater last fall. 1n true western style, 1ts s1des are turned up, creat1ng what the Auss1es laugh1ngly call "gutters." 1 th1nk 1t 1s a beaut1ful hat wh1ch, unfortunately, makes 1t a constant target because the boys feel 1t needs more "character." Dodg1e, one of my fellow r1ngers, dec1ded that 1t wouldn't be truly broken 1n unt1l 1t had a good smear of cow's , wh1ch he attended to. So Lance, your hat 1s be1ng well used and has plenty of character. Sorry.
The Austral1ans wear a brand of hat called Charl1e One Horse, wh1ch are g1ant off-wh1te numbers w1th a small horse show branded on the crown. They wear them almost flat except for the very edge of the r1ms, whech are turned up, offer1ng the max1mum amount of shade poss1ble. Although the color 1s funct1onal 1n the sun, 1t's not very pract1cal for the d1rty work we do and each hat 1s un1quely spotted w1th dust, fly dew, cow's and motor o1l. Lots of character.
There are a few women here who work 1ndoors. They usually wear polo sh1rts, shorts, and fl1p flops, wh1le st1ll manag1ng to keep the1r fa1r sk1n. 1, on the other hand, am baked brown and burst1ng w1th freckles, but only on my forearms and face. What's more, 1 spend so much t1mes be1ng d1rty and dressed l1ke a boy that when 1 show up at Rec Club w1th clean ha1r and a t sh1rt, people ask me why 1'm all dressed up. i'll adm1t that 1 m1ss feel1ng l1ke a g1rl at t1mes.
The bore runners who dr1ve around the stat1on check1ng on the 50+ water pumps dress 1n shorts and collared work sh1rt w1th the sleeves cut off. Those of us who work w1th the cattle and horses every dayhave to cover up a bt more as protect1on from the sun and tall grass. We wear sturdy jeans and long sleeve work sh1rts. 1 try to keep my sleeves down as much as 1 can stand to h1de from the sun, but the guys all wear them rolled up to the1r elbows, g1v1ng them dark brown forearms. Com1ng as 1 do from the Amer1can trad1t1on of ranch1ng, all of my sh1rts are pearl snaps. Here, however, the guys wear sh1rts that only unbutton half way. Several of the boys don't bother w1th the buttons at all and wear the1r sh1rts open to the sternum, w1th the1r collars popped to guard aga1nst the relentless sun, lend1ng them an amus1ngly '80s look. Add to that the fact that none of them have had a ha1r cut 1n 2 months and you have a rec1pe for an Outback vers1on of New K1ds on the Block.
Aga1n, as the stubborn Amer1can, 1 wear cowboy boots, wh1ch the Auss1es refer to as "h1gh tops," nearly every day, regardless of the act1v1ty. Somet1mes 1f we're r1d1ng the Austral1ans w1ll wear h1gh tops, but the typ1cal Austral1an footwear 1s e1ther elast1c-s1ded anhle boots for r1d1ng, or lace up work boots for yard work. For my b1rthday, Dad got me a beaut1ful par of elast1c-s1ded R. M. W1ll1ams boots, wh1ch the boys call my "town boots" because they are so n2ce. Everyone 1s moderately appalled that 1 would even cons1der work1ng 1n such n1ce boots, but 1 f1gure that th1s 1s the1r 1ntended purpose 1n l1fe, so they m1ght as well be used.
W1th the blaz1ng sun, a w1de br1mmed hat 1s absolutely 1nd1spensable. M1ne 1s a grey Seretell1, g1ven to me by the wonderful Lance Ra1nwater last fall. 1n true western style, 1ts s1des are turned up, creat1ng what the Auss1es laugh1ngly call "gutters." 1 th1nk 1t 1s a beaut1ful hat wh1ch, unfortunately, makes 1t a constant target because the boys feel 1t needs more "character." Dodg1e, one of my fellow r1ngers, dec1ded that 1t wouldn't be truly broken 1n unt1l 1t had a good smear of cow's , wh1ch he attended to. So Lance, your hat 1s be1ng well used and has plenty of character. Sorry.
The Austral1ans wear a brand of hat called Charl1e One Horse, wh1ch are g1ant off-wh1te numbers w1th a small horse show branded on the crown. They wear them almost flat except for the very edge of the r1ms, whech are turned up, offer1ng the max1mum amount of shade poss1ble. Although the color 1s funct1onal 1n the sun, 1t's not very pract1cal for the d1rty work we do and each hat 1s un1quely spotted w1th dust, fly dew, cow's and motor o1l. Lots of character.
There are a few women here who work 1ndoors. They usually wear polo sh1rts, shorts, and fl1p flops, wh1le st1ll manag1ng to keep the1r fa1r sk1n. 1, on the other hand, am baked brown and burst1ng w1th freckles, but only on my forearms and face. What's more, 1 spend so much t1mes be1ng d1rty and dressed l1ke a boy that when 1 show up at Rec Club w1th clean ha1r and a t sh1rt, people ask me why 1'm all dressed up. i'll adm1t that 1 m1ss feel1ng l1ke a g1rl at t1mes.
Heat, Dust & Fl1es
Beng the b1bl1oph1les that they are, my fam1ly saw to 1t that 1 left for Austral1a w1th a whole stack of Austral1an-themed books. A good th1ng, too, s1nce read1ng 1s almost the only th1ng to do on a Sunday afternoon and already my stockp1le 1s dw1ndl1ng. The l1st 1ncludes "The Thorn Brds" by Colleen McCullough, about a fam1ly l1v1ng on a stat1on 1n the early 1900's. One of the characters from the book says, "Th1s 1s the Outback, and there are three th1ngs you'll never defeat - the heat, the dust and the fles. No matter what you do, they'll always be w1th you." How true!
A few weeks ago, after spend1ng the morn1ng work1ng yearl1ngs 1n the shade of the round pen, 1 thought to myself "Wow! 1t doesn't feel nearly so hot today." At lunch 1 checked the thermometer and 1t was 114. 1 don't thnk 1 had ever actually exper1enced 114 degree temperatures before, much less often enough that a breeze and a b1t of shade felt l1ke s1gn1f1cant rel1ef. Not only 1s 1t absurdly hot, but we wear long sleeves, jeans, hats and boots. Wh1le th1s seems unbearable, s1nce we work 1n the d1rect sun almost all the t1me, 1t 1s essent1al. 1 put on sunscreen 4 t1mes a day and st1ll my hands are brown. At lunch out 1n the yards we all crouch 1n the shade of the brand1ng tra1ler, h1d1ng from the relentless sun, grateful for even th1s fragment of rel1ef. The sun seems to love Austral1a more than 1t does the rest of the world. We start work each day by 5 am because even by 9 the heat 1s already overwhelm1ng.
The dust 1s also unl1ke anyth1ng 1 had prevously exper1enced. Th1s part of the country 1s called the Red Centre for 1ts 1ntensely red clay so1l. 1t makes for some extraord1nary colors, but 1t 1s so f1ne that the sl1ghtest breeze k1cks up a dust storm. Add to that the hooves of 2,000 cows. Wh1le we're out muster1ng we eat a fa1r b1t of dust, but 1t's noth1ng compared to yard work. W1th so many cows 1ns such a small place, what l1ttle grass there was to start w1th 1s qu1ckly demol1shed. We all end up w1th dust tans and d1rt mustaches. The sleeves and collars of all of my shrts are now permanently t1nted red.
The fl1es here are noth1ng l1ke the lazy fru1t fl1es we know 1n Amer1ca. Austral1an fl1es, called buffalo fl1es, are small, b1t1ng n1ghtmares that are totally capable of dr1v1ng a person mad. They don't just land on you - they settle on you 1n th1ck clouds, cover1ng your jeans, shoulders, and hat - anythng you are not act1vely defend1ng. What's more 1s you let them, because as long as they're not on your face, 1t's better just to let them be. But are they sat1sf1ed w1th that arrangement? No! They want to be everywhere. They try to snuggle 1n your ears, crawl up your nose, wr1ggle up your cuffs, and rest on your l1ps. They are aston1sh1ngly pers1stent. Amus1ngly, 1 put my ponyta1l to 1ts 1ntended use, swsh1ng constantly to keep the buggers at bay.
Fortunately, my quarters prov1de a resp1te. My trusty l1ttle a1r con chugs away all day so that 1 can come home and collapse on my bed 1n cool rel1ef. Lev1, the gardener, keeps the lawn around the house watered and tr1mmed, wh1ch saves us from much dust, so although 1 have to sweep a few t1mes a week, 1t's manageable. At n1ght when 1 keep my l1ght on to read, my room f1lls w1th all manner of nsect - fly1ng ants, t1ny black speck bugs, and, most recently, droves of st1nk bugs (called g1dgey bugs). But at least there are no fl1es and my screens keep out most of the mozz1es (a charm1ng Austral1an1sm for 'mosqu1toes,' wh1ch makes them sl1ghtly more endear1ng and not s1mply wretched).
A few weeks ago, after spend1ng the morn1ng work1ng yearl1ngs 1n the shade of the round pen, 1 thought to myself "Wow! 1t doesn't feel nearly so hot today." At lunch 1 checked the thermometer and 1t was 114. 1 don't thnk 1 had ever actually exper1enced 114 degree temperatures before, much less often enough that a breeze and a b1t of shade felt l1ke s1gn1f1cant rel1ef. Not only 1s 1t absurdly hot, but we wear long sleeves, jeans, hats and boots. Wh1le th1s seems unbearable, s1nce we work 1n the d1rect sun almost all the t1me, 1t 1s essent1al. 1 put on sunscreen 4 t1mes a day and st1ll my hands are brown. At lunch out 1n the yards we all crouch 1n the shade of the brand1ng tra1ler, h1d1ng from the relentless sun, grateful for even th1s fragment of rel1ef. The sun seems to love Austral1a more than 1t does the rest of the world. We start work each day by 5 am because even by 9 the heat 1s already overwhelm1ng.
The dust 1s also unl1ke anyth1ng 1 had prevously exper1enced. Th1s part of the country 1s called the Red Centre for 1ts 1ntensely red clay so1l. 1t makes for some extraord1nary colors, but 1t 1s so f1ne that the sl1ghtest breeze k1cks up a dust storm. Add to that the hooves of 2,000 cows. Wh1le we're out muster1ng we eat a fa1r b1t of dust, but 1t's noth1ng compared to yard work. W1th so many cows 1ns such a small place, what l1ttle grass there was to start w1th 1s qu1ckly demol1shed. We all end up w1th dust tans and d1rt mustaches. The sleeves and collars of all of my shrts are now permanently t1nted red.
The fl1es here are noth1ng l1ke the lazy fru1t fl1es we know 1n Amer1ca. Austral1an fl1es, called buffalo fl1es, are small, b1t1ng n1ghtmares that are totally capable of dr1v1ng a person mad. They don't just land on you - they settle on you 1n th1ck clouds, cover1ng your jeans, shoulders, and hat - anythng you are not act1vely defend1ng. What's more 1s you let them, because as long as they're not on your face, 1t's better just to let them be. But are they sat1sf1ed w1th that arrangement? No! They want to be everywhere. They try to snuggle 1n your ears, crawl up your nose, wr1ggle up your cuffs, and rest on your l1ps. They are aston1sh1ngly pers1stent. Amus1ngly, 1 put my ponyta1l to 1ts 1ntended use, swsh1ng constantly to keep the buggers at bay.
Fortunately, my quarters prov1de a resp1te. My trusty l1ttle a1r con chugs away all day so that 1 can come home and collapse on my bed 1n cool rel1ef. Lev1, the gardener, keeps the lawn around the house watered and tr1mmed, wh1ch saves us from much dust, so although 1 have to sweep a few t1mes a week, 1t's manageable. At n1ght when 1 keep my l1ght on to read, my room f1lls w1th all manner of nsect - fly1ng ants, t1ny black speck bugs, and, most recently, droves of st1nk bugs (called g1dgey bugs). But at least there are no fl1es and my screens keep out most of the mozz1es (a charm1ng Austral1an1sm for 'mosqu1toes,' wh1ch makes them sl1ghtly more endear1ng and not s1mply wretched).
Chopper
1'm not sure that 1 have thuroughly conveyed just how cool 1t 1s to muster w1th a hel1copter. Muster1ng w1th a HEL1COPTER!! had heard of such a th1ng, but 1 never, NEVER dreamt of see1ng 1t for myself.
Our chopper p1lot 1s named Cameron, but everyone calls h1m Fonzy. He 1s an am1able guy w1th a spectacular handlebar mustache, wh1ch he takes great care to ma1nta1n. Rather than a plot who sw1tched to acttle work, he was a stockman who took up fly1ng. As a result he 1s very knowledgeable about all th1ngs cow and has a great sense for the an1mals.
Last week we mustered the Number 1 Hold1ng Paddock, wh1ch 1s essent1ally a ret1rement home for old or m1sf1t bulls. There were l1terally hundreds of them, plus 1,000 some odd cows. Bulls at home are stocky, 1nt1m1dat1ng creatures, but they have noth1ng on the bulls here. We have 2 types of bulls - crossbreds and Brahmans. The crossbreds are stout beasts wth broad chests and wde backs. They are the embod1ment of pure muscle. The Brahmans, theogh, are the really daunt1ng ones. They are taller than a man and have great fatty humps lke a camel's on the1r necks. They look l1ke steam locomot1ves and move w1th the power of one, too. G1ven he raw strength of these creatures comb1ned w1th the1r 1nnate aggress1on, muster1ng them on horseback 1s a terr1ble 1dea. 1f one turns on you, and they 1nev1tably do, you are pretty much up a creek. Thus the hel1copter.
Watch1ng Fonzy work was absolutely 1ncred1ble. Cattle generally have a tremendous d1sl1ke for the chopper, and 1t takes l1ttle more than the sound of the rotor to set them mov1ng away from 1t. Although most of the bulls follow su1t, somet1mes they w1ll confront the1r aggressor. Whenever a bull would make a break for 1t, Fonzy would swoop around and cut 1t off, hover1ng nearly at eye level, challeng1ng the bull head on. The an1mal would stomp ts hooves and throw 1ts head wh1le the chopper jabbed 1n closer, f1nally forc1ng 1t to back down and turn back to the mob.
The cattle 1n the hold1ng paddock were an espec1ally w1ld mob, and a few t1mes they would run 1nto the yards, sp1ral around the fence, and burst out aga1n 1n a churn1ng mass. Then Fonzy would be off l1ke a shot. He would let them run off some steam and then c1rcle them back around, d1rect1ng them back 1nto the yards. 1t was amaz1ng watch1ng th1s flu1d mass of cattle ebb1ng and flow1ng l1ke water 1n, out, and around the yards. (Granted, the 'out' and 'around' were not the desred outcomes, but st1ll cool to watch.) Wth the last l1ght of duck the chopper chased the fnal cows 1nto the wards and then z1pped home. 1 got some amaz1ng photos wh1ch hopefully 1'll be able to post someday.
Although the chopper somet1mes works alone, more often he works as part of the team for the b1g musters. We, the horseback rders, move the cattle along, wh1le Fonzy tracks down stray from the far corners of the paddock. So far the country we have been muster1ng has been mostly downs country - flat, grassy pla1ns dotted w1th only a handful of trees. However, on out f1rst muster we had to pass through a short stretch of bush country just before reachng the yards. As the name 1mpl1es, bush country 1s th1ck scrub, 1n wh1ch you can only see 20 cows ahead or beh1nd you and 1t 1s absurdly easy to lose a whole mob (not to ment1on yourself!) w1thout even real1z1ng 1t. That 1s exactly what happened to me on my f1rst foray 1nto the bush. The mob broke ahead of me and 1 was the only r1der for ages. 1 couldn't maneuver through the trees and the cattle were scatter1ng 1n every d1rect1on. Enter Deus Mach1na. L1ke an angel from heaven, the hel1copter suddenly appeared, sweepng up my cattle and pushng them back to the fence. He then ponted me 1n the r1ght d1rect1on and w1th a wave was off aga1n to hunt down more. Needless to say, at that moment Fonzy was my hero.
Brand1ng Calves
The second half of yard work 1s brand1ng the calves. On days when we have the whole team out at the yards we might start with only 3 people wh1le the draft1ng 1s st1ll go1ng, but usually we wa1t unt1l we have everyth1ng sorted 1nto the1r respect1ve pens. With 7 of us working, 1t 1s an extremely fast process and you have to move qu1ckly and keep every one of your movements flu1d and organ1zed so that you can get 1n and out to make room for the next person to work.
"Brand1ng" actually refers to a whole flurry of act1v1ty done to the calves to prepare them for l1fe as respectable Walhallow cattle. Dur1ng draft1ng the calves, wh1ch range 1n age from a week to a few months and accordingly vary 1n s1ze from about 40-150 k1los, are put 1nto a ser1es of pens s1m1lar to a m1n1ature bugle. At the end of the l1ne of pens there 1s a contrapt1on called a "calf cradle." 1t's l1ke a large steel sandw1ch board that squashes the calf 1n place and then fl1ps s1deways so that the calf 1s ly1ng on 1ts s1de.
Once the calf 1s 1n pos1t1on, everything happens l1ke clockwork. 1t gets ear tags 1n both ears. The one on the left 1s the Walhallow tag (orange th1s year) wh1ch s1mply says "Paraway" (the company that owns the stat1on). They don't bother g1v1ng the cattle numbers because they don't keep records on 1nd1v1dual an1mals. W1th 50,000 of them 1t would be both 1mposs1ble and po1ntless. The tag 1n the r1ght ear conta1ns an 1D ch1p wh1ch 1s used to 1dent1fy the an1mal's or1g1n and track 1t's movements as 1t goes from the stat1on to the feedlot to the pack1ng house. Th1s 1s a relat1vely new government requ1rement that 1 bel1eve arose 1n response to mad cow, although 1'm pretty sure Austral1a has never had a case of mad cow (correct me 1f 1'm wrong). 1 th1nk that's probably an example of the1r Br1t1sh her1tage and European-1nfluenced precautonary principle at work.
1n case they should lose the1r ear tag, the calves are also ear notched to s1gn1fy that they are Walhallow cattle, and then branded on the h1p w1th the station's "ATE" brand. Apparently the "A" and "E" are the 1n1t1als of the f1rst company to own the stat1on, and every cattle stat1on 1n the Northern Terr1tory 1ncludes a "T" 1n 1ts brand. 1n add1t1on, they get branded w1th the1r b1rth year, so th1s year's batch all gets "0"s. All of the calves are also dehorned to make them safer to handle and sh1p later 1n l1fe.
As 1s usually the case for l1vestock, the females (he1fers) get the better end of the deal. Once they are all marked up, they get turned out w1th the1r mommas for a restorat1ve dose of m1lk and TLC. Unfortunately for the bull calves, Walhallow buys ts breed1ng males (they bought over 300 new bulls last year!), so before they're released they have to go from "hes" to "1ts." Th1s 1s done as qu1ckly as poss1ble w1th a blade that 1s met1culously sharpened. Nevertheless, 1t's not a good day for the l1ttle guys.
Once all of the calves are worked and turned out 1nto the ma1n yard, we hop on our horses and let the cattle back 1nto the paddock. The f1rst thought of a cow that has spent a day 1n a dirt yard 1s to get out of Dodge 1n a hurry, wh1ch makes them rather forgetful mothers. 1nstead of simply lett1ng them bolt, we r1de around the herd, keep1ng them close to allow the cows and calves to "mother up." Once the head stockman 1s sat1sf1ed that all the l1ttle ones are accounted for, we head back to the yards and let the cattle amble 1nto the abyss.
The last task at the yards 1s truck1ng the weaners back to the house yards. Th1s usually happends the day after yard work and, s1nce 1t takes several loads to move them all, 1t 1s typ1cally an all day project. Once back home, the Weaner Camp takes over. 1 have not yet worked 1n the Weaner Camp, so 1 do not yet have much to say on that subject. You'll just have to wa1t.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Yard Work
So just as a d1scla1mer, the letter between 'h' and 'j' has mostly broken on th1s keyboard, so 1 w1ll be replac1ng 1t w1th '1.' 1 know, 1t's w1erd.
Explaining yard work is something of a vocab lesson. Sorry, just bear with me. "Yard work," rather than trimming hedges and weeding flower beds, refers to any cattle work done in the yards.
After mustering, we leave the cattle in 2 "water yards" overnight, where they have access to water and are able to chill out before we start handling them. In the "Hitchhker's Guide to the Galaxy," the spaceshp makes a sound l1ke 1,000 people say1ng "wop" at the same t1me when 1t appears, wh1ch 1s almost exactly what the cattle yards sound l1ke - a cacophony of wop. 1t makes you wonder whether there s a Somebody Else's Problem h1d1ng 1n pla1n s1ght...
The next day, bright and early, we hitch up the branding trailer and head out to the yards. A branding trailer is an ingenious little rig that hauls everything a person could need for cattle work- branding forge and propane tanks, several bins or ear tags and tools, 2 coolers (called "Eskies"); one for our lunches and the other for vaccines. There are even racks for are saddles. We pretty much never leave home without it.
At the yards, we lay out all of our tools, set the gates to the bugle, and begin shuffling the cattle into place. A bugle is a curved set of pens that start large and work down to small ones. At the end of the bugle 1s the race - an alley only w1de enough for a s1ngle f1le l1ne of cows. The race leads to the crush. The crush 1s a stall b1g enough for only one cow, so that she can't move around wh1le we work on her. 1t has a head catch on the front and back ends to trap her 1n. Somet1mes the cattle need some k1nd of work done, l1ke vacc1nat1ons, new ear tags, or brand1ng, wh1ch 1s accompl1shed wh1le the an1mal 1s stat1onary 1n the crush. On the ex1t end of the crush there are sw1ng1ng gates wh1ch can be moved to draft the an1mal 1nto one of 4 yards.
Usually draft1ng 1s the pr1mary act1v1ty of yard work. The cattle get sorted by type. "Wet cows," wh1ch are cows w1th calves, go 1nto one pen, "fat cows" - cows w1thout calves and thus destned for sale, go 1nto another, calves go 1nto a small pen, and "weaners" (older calves that have been weaned from ther mothers) go 1nto the yard where we stand to work. Usually the bulls get sorted 1n w1th the wet cows, but once 1n a wh1le when we need to separate them they get drafted 1n w1th the weaners, wh1ch means 1n wth us! 1t's not a b1g deal 1n the morn1ng when there are only a few an1mals h1d1ng 1n the corners. But by the end of the afternoon the yard 1s crammed w1th cr1tters and hundred of bulls the s1ze of small cars dr1ft around your work space. You have to puff up your chest, tell that bull to scram or you'll show h1m, and then hope to God he doesn't th1nk to call your bluff. You also have to constantly keep an eye out and be ready to scurry up the ra1ls and out of the road 1n a heartbeat. 1t takes some gett1ng used to.
Yard work runs best w1th about 7 people. 2 folks work the "back yards" - mov1ng cattle forward through the bugle 1n progress1vely smaller chunks, unt1l there are only about a dozen 1n the last pen. From here, one person works the race, mak1ng sure the cattle walk 1n one after the other and cont1nue all the way down to the crush. Th1s 1s what 1 usually do. Weaners are the most d1ff1cult to move because they are new to the process and they're small enough to turn around 1n the race, so they often ball up and head the wrong way. When th1s happens, someone has to jump 1n the race and push them all the way through. The boys all seem to l1ke that part because 1t means they get to manhandle someth1ng b1gger than themselves (although 1 must confess that 1 l1ke 1t too for the same reason!). 4 or 5 people usually work at the crush; one person operates the head gate to catch the cows, 1 or 2 others work on the cattle, brand1ng or ear tagg1ng as necessary, and someone opperates the gates to let the an1mal 1nto the correct pen. The last person keeps a tally of everyth1ng that goes through - no small task cons1der1ng the volume of cattle we work.
Mustering
There are 3 main divisions to the cattle work here; mustering and yard work,both of which are Stock Camp tasks, and tailing weaners, which is the Weaner Camp's job.
Mustering is the process of bringing the cattle in from the paddocks to the yards (pens). At home this is called "rounding up" or "gathering." Paddocks vary in size; small ones are 60-80 km2, but most are 150-200 km2. Bush Paddock, in the furthest northeastern corner of the station, is a whopping 1,825 km2. It takes 4 days to muster. Each paddock usually has between 1,000 and 5,000 cows. Tat's just cows. There are also this year's calves and last year's weaners, not to mention all the bulls that made the calves. It's a lot of cattle.
On the morning of a muster, we saddle our horses at dawn and get them loaded onto the horse float (truck) at first light. So far the paddocks we have mustered have been less than an hour away, but as we start working the further ones I'm sure our days will get earlier. The mustering crew usually consists of 5 horseback riders, 2 guys on motorbikes and, get this, a helicopter. The bikes and chopper are already at work by the time the cavalry arrives. Because of the sheer size of the paddocks, it would be impossible to ride around collecting all of the cattle with horses. Instead, the motrbikes and helicopter flush out the cows and push them to the horse crew, which holds them in a corner. Once we have a large enough mob (herd) assembled, the folks on horses start driving them toward the yards. As the mob moves along, the vehicles continue to pick up strays, which are added to the larger group.
Last Friday we mustered a paddock that was about 160 km2 and contained about 2,000 cattle. We were in the saddle at 7:30 and didn't get down until 10 hours and 25 km later. It was a very long day, but, as mustering days go, it was par for the course. The hardest parts of mustering are the very beginning, when you're trying to convince 1,000 stubborn cows to get moving, and at the very end, "yarding up," which is when you push all 2,000+ tired, ornery cows into 2 large holding pens in the yards. There were also several obstacles along the way, including 2 bores that we had to pass. Bores are wells that supply water for the cattle. As we pass them, we can't let the cattle stop to drink because once they do, they won't start walking again. So each bore becomes an epic battle to circumvent the mob around the troughs, while the thirsty cattle fight just as hard to get to them. At each bore the helicopter had to help us move the mob on.
When moving the mob, we generally push them along a fence line, which funstions as a barrier on one side. One person rides lead. His job is to set the course, provide something for the cattle to follow, and keep everything behind him. Then there is the point rider, who rides at the front corner of the mob, keeping all of the would-be runaways in line. The crazies tend to congregate at the front, so the pont rider is constantly chasing after breakaways. Along the side of the mob, wing riders keep the edges tucked in and keep the whole group moving. Finally, the tail rider brings up the rear. He has to keep the slow pokes moving along, fight the quitters who want to turn back, and urge everything forward at a reasonable speed. All of this can be accomplished with 4 horsemen, but it gets easier with more. Each positon has ts own skll sets and challenges to be mastered; setting the rght pace in the front, findng a balance of pressure in the back, and on the sides, "pushng in"- moving the cattle forward by riding into the herd. So far I have mostly been riding the wing and have not qute figured out the key to pushng in. Oh well. It's early yet.
Mustering is the process of bringing the cattle in from the paddocks to the yards (pens). At home this is called "rounding up" or "gathering." Paddocks vary in size; small ones are 60-80 km2, but most are 150-200 km2. Bush Paddock, in the furthest northeastern corner of the station, is a whopping 1,825 km2. It takes 4 days to muster. Each paddock usually has between 1,000 and 5,000 cows. Tat's just cows. There are also this year's calves and last year's weaners, not to mention all the bulls that made the calves. It's a lot of cattle.
On the morning of a muster, we saddle our horses at dawn and get them loaded onto the horse float (truck) at first light. So far the paddocks we have mustered have been less than an hour away, but as we start working the further ones I'm sure our days will get earlier. The mustering crew usually consists of 5 horseback riders, 2 guys on motorbikes and, get this, a helicopter. The bikes and chopper are already at work by the time the cavalry arrives. Because of the sheer size of the paddocks, it would be impossible to ride around collecting all of the cattle with horses. Instead, the motrbikes and helicopter flush out the cows and push them to the horse crew, which holds them in a corner. Once we have a large enough mob (herd) assembled, the folks on horses start driving them toward the yards. As the mob moves along, the vehicles continue to pick up strays, which are added to the larger group.
Last Friday we mustered a paddock that was about 160 km2 and contained about 2,000 cattle. We were in the saddle at 7:30 and didn't get down until 10 hours and 25 km later. It was a very long day, but, as mustering days go, it was par for the course. The hardest parts of mustering are the very beginning, when you're trying to convince 1,000 stubborn cows to get moving, and at the very end, "yarding up," which is when you push all 2,000+ tired, ornery cows into 2 large holding pens in the yards. There were also several obstacles along the way, including 2 bores that we had to pass. Bores are wells that supply water for the cattle. As we pass them, we can't let the cattle stop to drink because once they do, they won't start walking again. So each bore becomes an epic battle to circumvent the mob around the troughs, while the thirsty cattle fight just as hard to get to them. At each bore the helicopter had to help us move the mob on.
When moving the mob, we generally push them along a fence line, which funstions as a barrier on one side. One person rides lead. His job is to set the course, provide something for the cattle to follow, and keep everything behind him. Then there is the point rider, who rides at the front corner of the mob, keeping all of the would-be runaways in line. The crazies tend to congregate at the front, so the pont rider is constantly chasing after breakaways. Along the side of the mob, wing riders keep the edges tucked in and keep the whole group moving. Finally, the tail rider brings up the rear. He has to keep the slow pokes moving along, fight the quitters who want to turn back, and urge everything forward at a reasonable speed. All of this can be accomplished with 4 horsemen, but it gets easier with more. Each positon has ts own skll sets and challenges to be mastered; setting the rght pace in the front, findng a balance of pressure in the back, and on the sides, "pushng in"- moving the cattle forward by riding into the herd. So far I have mostly been riding the wing and have not qute figured out the key to pushng in. Oh well. It's early yet.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
I Have Horses!
I have horses! On Thursday (a weekish ago) we collected all of the work horses that we had mustered so far - about 45 of them, and 'drafted' them. Drafting entails moving portions of the mob (herd) at a time through a series of pens that become smaller as they progress, until finally 1 horse at a time is allowed into the round pen. Once there Cameron, The Boss, decided who would ride each horse. "Lucy, grab Hot Lips here." "I think Tommy Gun would be a good horse for Mat." "Jesse, give this wild hoorang a try." Each jack and jillaroo was assigned at least 3 horses, and a handful of them, the camp draft horses, were kept as spares. (Camp drafting is the rodeo sport of choice in the NT and seems to be unique to Australia. More on that later.) When all was said and done, I had been assigned Wilbur, End Over, and Dingo. (Yes, after all the jokes, I actually ended up with a Dingo of my own.)
Wilbur is only about 3 and was one of last year's breakers, which means he has only been ridden maybe half a dozen times. As befits his age, he is small framed, but he should fill out this season as he gets into shape. He is a nondescript brown, not bay, with only a tiny white crescent on his forehead. I'm not sure whether it was by design or coincidence that he ended up with the name of a pig, but it suits him. He has a stubborn streak a mile wide. His coping mechanism for stress is simply to shut down. You want forward, he gives you backwards. The more you urge him on, the more he locks up. This mostly seems to be because of his age and inexperience, though. You can feel him getting confused and frustrated and over thinking things. Honestly, I know the feeling. Today, though, I took him out to work cattle for the first time. Once he was faced with a concrete task, he was able to concentrate and loosen up. After a few long days tailing cows I'm sure he will start to really understand what is expected of him and relax. I'm looking forward to the learning process and excited to see how he develops.
Quite the opposite of Wilbur (in looks, at least), End Over is a sway backed old man. He is a buckskin with a blaze face, black points, and unusual blue flecked eyes. Unfortunately, these promising features do not come together to form an attractive whole- he's not a good looking fellow. Even more unfortunately, he shares Wilbur's stubbornness, although he lacks Wilbur's good excuse. Really, he's just flat lazy. I rode hm for our first muster last Friday - 10 hours of bonding time in the saddle, and it was agony. I had to flog him just to make him move, much less walk out. Should a cow break out, he can occasionally rally a bit of enthusiasm, but it is always too little, too late. Not only that, but he's afraid of everything- motorbikes, food wrappers, even sometimes other riders, and he has the bad habit of bolting and running me into thinks when spooked. End Over's greatest virtue is that he makes every other horse a pleasure to ride.
The last horse of the day on Thursday was Dingo. Yay Dingo! What a rock star! He is a big red sorrel with a huge, wide blazed head, giant muley ears, and a blond mane that stands up like a mow hawk. He looks like a doofus, which actually he is - at slow moments on a muster he likes to turn his head back to have me scratch his nose. But oooooh buddy can he move! Just let one cow break away and he is on it, big ears pinned back, running wide open until she turns. Then he skids to a stop, wheels around, and drives her back into the mob. Little in life compares to the rush of wrapping up a cow- flying across the flats, dodging bushes, leaping ditches, and then pulling up hard as you get her back. Those moments on that horse, fleeting seconds of adrenaline and speed, are why I love this job.
On Friday of this past week we went out to another part of the Station called Creswell to work cattle. Half of the work horses were still out in that area, so we rode ones that were already there. I ended up with an older mare named Candid. She's an ugly beast - she has no forelock, barely any mane, and the flies adore her. She's got some good moves- pivot turns that could knock you socks off, but she stresses out and over thinks everything. Actually, that makes us a perfect pair because I do, too!
Wilbur is only about 3 and was one of last year's breakers, which means he has only been ridden maybe half a dozen times. As befits his age, he is small framed, but he should fill out this season as he gets into shape. He is a nondescript brown, not bay, with only a tiny white crescent on his forehead. I'm not sure whether it was by design or coincidence that he ended up with the name of a pig, but it suits him. He has a stubborn streak a mile wide. His coping mechanism for stress is simply to shut down. You want forward, he gives you backwards. The more you urge him on, the more he locks up. This mostly seems to be because of his age and inexperience, though. You can feel him getting confused and frustrated and over thinking things. Honestly, I know the feeling. Today, though, I took him out to work cattle for the first time. Once he was faced with a concrete task, he was able to concentrate and loosen up. After a few long days tailing cows I'm sure he will start to really understand what is expected of him and relax. I'm looking forward to the learning process and excited to see how he develops.
Quite the opposite of Wilbur (in looks, at least), End Over is a sway backed old man. He is a buckskin with a blaze face, black points, and unusual blue flecked eyes. Unfortunately, these promising features do not come together to form an attractive whole- he's not a good looking fellow. Even more unfortunately, he shares Wilbur's stubbornness, although he lacks Wilbur's good excuse. Really, he's just flat lazy. I rode hm for our first muster last Friday - 10 hours of bonding time in the saddle, and it was agony. I had to flog him just to make him move, much less walk out. Should a cow break out, he can occasionally rally a bit of enthusiasm, but it is always too little, too late. Not only that, but he's afraid of everything- motorbikes, food wrappers, even sometimes other riders, and he has the bad habit of bolting and running me into thinks when spooked. End Over's greatest virtue is that he makes every other horse a pleasure to ride.
The last horse of the day on Thursday was Dingo. Yay Dingo! What a rock star! He is a big red sorrel with a huge, wide blazed head, giant muley ears, and a blond mane that stands up like a mow hawk. He looks like a doofus, which actually he is - at slow moments on a muster he likes to turn his head back to have me scratch his nose. But oooooh buddy can he move! Just let one cow break away and he is on it, big ears pinned back, running wide open until she turns. Then he skids to a stop, wheels around, and drives her back into the mob. Little in life compares to the rush of wrapping up a cow- flying across the flats, dodging bushes, leaping ditches, and then pulling up hard as you get her back. Those moments on that horse, fleeting seconds of adrenaline and speed, are why I love this job.
On Friday of this past week we went out to another part of the Station called Creswell to work cattle. Half of the work horses were still out in that area, so we rode ones that were already there. I ended up with an older mare named Candid. She's an ugly beast - she has no forelock, barely any mane, and the flies adore her. She's got some good moves- pivot turns that could knock you socks off, but she stresses out and over thinks everything. Actually, that makes us a perfect pair because I do, too!
Friday, April 2, 2010
Sport
There are certain stereotypes about Australians that are simply accurate. They do say "G'day" and "No worries." They have phenomenal barbeques. And they are fanatics about sport ("Sport," not "sports").
In high school, in addition to P.E., it is compulsory for boys to play both a summer and a winter sport. I'm not sure whether this is the cause or they result of their love of sports. Although Australia mostly lacks the tradition American sports- baseball, football, basketball, and hockey, more attention is paid to what we typically view as periphery sports- soccre (called "soccer" here), volleyball, swimming, water polo, field hockey (called simply "hockey"), cyclingm and "athletics" (track and field). Not only that, but there are all sorts of sports that essentially don't exist in the US, including cricket, lawn bowling, two kinds of rugby, and, strangest of all, Australian Rules Football.
Within Australia there is a heated debate over the proper use of the word "footy" (short for "football"). Depending on where you're from and what you play, it can refer to rugby union, rugby league, or Aussie Rules. Rugby union is what the rest of the world knows simply as "rugby". The Australian national rugby team, the Wallabies, for instance, play rugby union. It also seems to be the most commonly played version in high school. Rugby league is a strictly Australian creation because, it seems, union simply wasn't aggressive enough. In union, for example, I don't believe you can should check, but in league you can. Also in league there are more pauses than in union. I don't actually know much about rugby in the first place, so anyone out there (cough, Gus) is welcome to correct me. It mostly seems like men jumping on one another to me.
On Thursday night I watched my first game of Australian Rules Football. We have 2 boys here from Melbourne and they are crazy about Aussie Rules, as most Victorians seem to be. The other fellows, from Queensland, New South Whales, and the Northern Territory are rugby fans and therefore totally dismissive of Aussie Rules, which they call "aerial ping pong." Truly, it is a very strange game. It is played on a HUGE oval field measuring about 200 x 100 m. At either end there are 4 posts forming 3 goals. Putting the ball through the center goal is worth 6 points and either side goal is worth 1. You can't run more than 15 steps (do people really count?) without either bouncing the ball to yourself or passing it. To pass the ball you have to either kick it or punt it like a volleyball- you can't throw it. The most absurd aspect of the game, though, it that each team has 21 players, with 18 of them on the field at once. 18! It looked like they let the spectators onto the field there were so many people thrashing about! Becase of the sheer number of players, lots of goals are scored in spite of the size of the field. When I left after the 3rd quarter the score was 33 to 36. There also seemed to be a dozen neon-clad refs to follow the chaotic movement on the field, although they didn't seem to do anything except announce goals. There don't seem to be any fouls, and why should there be? If one player gets dropped, the play simply moves to one of the other 17. At one point one of the players actually got pants and the play continued. Like I said, it's a very strange game.
The Melbourne boys, Mat and Sam, were eager to convert me to Aussie Rules, but I'm afraid I simply find it too ridiculous to take seriously. One thing that Mat pointed out, though, was that Aussie Rules yields excellent kickers, some of whom have gone on to play professional American football. Apparently the punters for both the Patriots and the Eagles began their careers playing Australian Rules Football. Who knew? (Certainly not me- a fact which the Australian boys were appauled that I didn't know.) How ignorantly American of me to find a sport's 1 redeeming quality to be its ability to produce quality American athletes. Oh well, sorry Australia. Perhaps I should start watching lawn bowling instead.
In high school, in addition to P.E., it is compulsory for boys to play both a summer and a winter sport. I'm not sure whether this is the cause or they result of their love of sports. Although Australia mostly lacks the tradition American sports- baseball, football, basketball, and hockey, more attention is paid to what we typically view as periphery sports- soccre (called "soccer" here), volleyball, swimming, water polo, field hockey (called simply "hockey"), cyclingm and "athletics" (track and field). Not only that, but there are all sorts of sports that essentially don't exist in the US, including cricket, lawn bowling, two kinds of rugby, and, strangest of all, Australian Rules Football.
Within Australia there is a heated debate over the proper use of the word "footy" (short for "football"). Depending on where you're from and what you play, it can refer to rugby union, rugby league, or Aussie Rules. Rugby union is what the rest of the world knows simply as "rugby". The Australian national rugby team, the Wallabies, for instance, play rugby union. It also seems to be the most commonly played version in high school. Rugby league is a strictly Australian creation because, it seems, union simply wasn't aggressive enough. In union, for example, I don't believe you can should check, but in league you can. Also in league there are more pauses than in union. I don't actually know much about rugby in the first place, so anyone out there (cough, Gus) is welcome to correct me. It mostly seems like men jumping on one another to me.
On Thursday night I watched my first game of Australian Rules Football. We have 2 boys here from Melbourne and they are crazy about Aussie Rules, as most Victorians seem to be. The other fellows, from Queensland, New South Whales, and the Northern Territory are rugby fans and therefore totally dismissive of Aussie Rules, which they call "aerial ping pong." Truly, it is a very strange game. It is played on a HUGE oval field measuring about 200 x 100 m. At either end there are 4 posts forming 3 goals. Putting the ball through the center goal is worth 6 points and either side goal is worth 1. You can't run more than 15 steps (do people really count?) without either bouncing the ball to yourself or passing it. To pass the ball you have to either kick it or punt it like a volleyball- you can't throw it. The most absurd aspect of the game, though, it that each team has 21 players, with 18 of them on the field at once. 18! It looked like they let the spectators onto the field there were so many people thrashing about! Becase of the sheer number of players, lots of goals are scored in spite of the size of the field. When I left after the 3rd quarter the score was 33 to 36. There also seemed to be a dozen neon-clad refs to follow the chaotic movement on the field, although they didn't seem to do anything except announce goals. There don't seem to be any fouls, and why should there be? If one player gets dropped, the play simply moves to one of the other 17. At one point one of the players actually got pants and the play continued. Like I said, it's a very strange game.
The Melbourne boys, Mat and Sam, were eager to convert me to Aussie Rules, but I'm afraid I simply find it too ridiculous to take seriously. One thing that Mat pointed out, though, was that Aussie Rules yields excellent kickers, some of whom have gone on to play professional American football. Apparently the punters for both the Patriots and the Eagles began their careers playing Australian Rules Football. Who knew? (Certainly not me- a fact which the Australian boys were appauled that I didn't know.) How ignorantly American of me to find a sport's 1 redeeming quality to be its ability to produce quality American athletes. Oh well, sorry Australia. Perhaps I should start watching lawn bowling instead.
Holidays and Birthdays
Hello world! It's so nice to be reconnected! The internet/computer was down for a few weeks, thus the extended silence. In my head I sort of assume that my grandparents are the only people who actually read this, so it was surprising to hear that other people had noticed my lack of posts.
This weekend is Easter. Australians don't seem to be much for religion, especially out here in the bush where there simply aren't churches (or anything for that matter) nearby, so Easter has more of a social than spiritual significance. This weekend marks the last moment of calm before the official work season hits, with long days and few breaks. Some of the employees who have been here since January have cashed in on some long overdue holiday time, going fishing or making the long journey home to see family. The rest of us have three whole days off- quite a change from our usual one! The younger guys piled into a truck (sorry, "ute") to make the 2 hour pilgrimage to the pub, where they will hole up til Sunday afternoon. Personally a 3 day binge exceeds my commitment level, so I stayed back to finish my book, catch up on my blog, and hone my nonexistant pool skills. If anyone has any advice on the latter, please let me know- I am truly terrible. I think on Sunday there are plans to decorate Easter eggs and eat hot crossed buns, but there aren't many of us here, so we'll see.
This past week was April Fool's Day. Although no pranks were pulled, the Australians have several other charming traditions to mark th first day of each month. Millie, the governess, came to lunch with crosses (X's) on her hands. She said this was to prevent the kids from giving her "a pinch and a punch for the first of the month." Apparently calling "white rabbit" also achieves immunity. Nobody had ever heard of "rabbit, rabbit," but then I'm not sure many Americans have either. I, however, did remember to "rabbit, rabbit" for once.
The week before was my birthday. 25. Yikes! Although it was a fairly subdued affair, it last a REALLY long time! The Friday prior we had Friday Night Drinks at the Red Club with champagne to mark the occasion. Lucy, the 8 year old, made me a birthday cake in the shape of a horse and everyone sang Happy Birthday. It turns out that when slicing the cake, it you touch the plate with the knife you have to kiss the nearest boy. Also, if any cake sticks to the knife, you also have to kiss someone or scream under the table. Australians seem fond of kissing. Nobody told me about this until too late, so I pleaded ignorance.
Wednesday was my actual birthday and although I didn't really do anything special (apart from calling home), it was a wonderful day. We spent the morning on horseback, moving first horses and then calves. I was surprised to discover that the herd of horses moved at a slow, collected walk, whereas the calves exploded all over at a wild trot. This is pretty much the opposite of New Mexico, which usually had wild horse chases but slow, ambling cattle drives.
In the afternoon we trimmed feet (one of my favorite activities- shocking, I know) and worked with the yearlings. The next day was my birthday in America, so I technically got a 37.5 hour birthday. And THEN the mail plane came on Friday, so I got a third day full of presents and cards, making it possibly the longest birthday on record. Awesome!
This weekend is Easter. Australians don't seem to be much for religion, especially out here in the bush where there simply aren't churches (or anything for that matter) nearby, so Easter has more of a social than spiritual significance. This weekend marks the last moment of calm before the official work season hits, with long days and few breaks. Some of the employees who have been here since January have cashed in on some long overdue holiday time, going fishing or making the long journey home to see family. The rest of us have three whole days off- quite a change from our usual one! The younger guys piled into a truck (sorry, "ute") to make the 2 hour pilgrimage to the pub, where they will hole up til Sunday afternoon. Personally a 3 day binge exceeds my commitment level, so I stayed back to finish my book, catch up on my blog, and hone my nonexistant pool skills. If anyone has any advice on the latter, please let me know- I am truly terrible. I think on Sunday there are plans to decorate Easter eggs and eat hot crossed buns, but there aren't many of us here, so we'll see.
This past week was April Fool's Day. Although no pranks were pulled, the Australians have several other charming traditions to mark th first day of each month. Millie, the governess, came to lunch with crosses (X's) on her hands. She said this was to prevent the kids from giving her "a pinch and a punch for the first of the month." Apparently calling "white rabbit" also achieves immunity. Nobody had ever heard of "rabbit, rabbit," but then I'm not sure many Americans have either. I, however, did remember to "rabbit, rabbit" for once.
The week before was my birthday. 25. Yikes! Although it was a fairly subdued affair, it last a REALLY long time! The Friday prior we had Friday Night Drinks at the Red Club with champagne to mark the occasion. Lucy, the 8 year old, made me a birthday cake in the shape of a horse and everyone sang Happy Birthday. It turns out that when slicing the cake, it you touch the plate with the knife you have to kiss the nearest boy. Also, if any cake sticks to the knife, you also have to kiss someone or scream under the table. Australians seem fond of kissing. Nobody told me about this until too late, so I pleaded ignorance.
Wednesday was my actual birthday and although I didn't really do anything special (apart from calling home), it was a wonderful day. We spent the morning on horseback, moving first horses and then calves. I was surprised to discover that the herd of horses moved at a slow, collected walk, whereas the calves exploded all over at a wild trot. This is pretty much the opposite of New Mexico, which usually had wild horse chases but slow, ambling cattle drives.
In the afternoon we trimmed feet (one of my favorite activities- shocking, I know) and worked with the yearlings. The next day was my birthday in America, so I technically got a 37.5 hour birthday. And THEN the mail plane came on Friday, so I got a third day full of presents and cards, making it possibly the longest birthday on record. Awesome!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
