Mountain Falling

Since Sir Edmund Hillary took the top of Mt. Everest and became the classic mountain climber, I have taken the bottom of Paddock #1 and therefore have become the classic mountain faller.

It really wasn’t my fault. Oh, I may have been a contributing factor; all right THE factor but I steadfastly claim that the cow paddy deserves some of the censure.

It all started about 4:30am when high winds blew in lashing rain. I congratulated myself on escaping the dreaded orchard watering for yet another week and went back to sleep. Now I check our livestock twice a day – sometimes more. This morning was no exception. But it was windy, chilly, and wet, wet, wet. So I set off down to the red, red barn paddocks to check the steers and the sheep.

The sheep were fine. Probably discussing whether Godot ever arrived or something else beyond me. But I couldn’t find the steers. Not that I looked too hard. I assumed that they were in the little corral by the barn and turned for the trek back up to the house.

Now that probably was my first contributing factor – my laziness. And my dislike for being cold and wet. I should have ventured into the paddock to make sure all 4 black steers were present. I didn’t. Instead I crept back to the house and my dry room and exciting book.

But my sins of omission tend to catch up with me. It had quit raining by the time I went for my afternoon bed check but it was cold and damp so I wore my parka (the only smart thing I did all day). Sure enough, there were the sheep, happily munching away. But where were the steers?  I could see over 2/3 of the paddock and no steers. Groaning I prepared to scale Paddock no. ! to check down the ravine on the other side. Now remember I had no hiking equipment, no Sherpas, no grappling hooks. Just me against nature. An unequal contest.

By procrastinating in the morning, I ensured that I had to hike up the mountain through chest high grass that was also wet chest high grass. Just a little bonus for my laziness. I got to the top and sure enough there were the steers down the other side. They looked at me and started to come toward me, Rusty in the lead as usual. So I turned to go down the way I had come up but somehow managed to step in a wet, slippery cow paddy and away I went.

I tumbled, I slid on my backside, I rolled onto my front side, I twisted and turned but I kept on my downward trajectory. I think it was all that wet grass but it was a bit like a sled ride. Luckily for me I was wearing my parka so all I have are a few bruises. The worst ‘injury’ is getting my glasses jammed into the bridge of my nose. Otherwise, not too bad.

So I am now the classic mountain faller! Autographs anyone?

Silly Sheep

When I told Alessia (aged 2)  about our adventures moving the sheep on Sunday, she giggled and kept repeating “silly sheep” as the tale unfolded. I’m not too sure who was sillier, the 13 sheep or the 2 humans trying to move them to another paddock.

Dan and I moved the steers to the infamous no. 1 paddock with no trouble other than my wheezing and puffing as I scaled the Mt. Everest of our farm’s paddocks. Anyway, Dan got them moving at a brisk trot and off they went, right through the gate.

Feeling pretty good about our herding skills, we drove back up to the paddock in front of the main house which had been home to our beloved sheep for a week. This paddock is really not in shape for livestock but we felt all that good grass shouldn’t go to waste. So there they were. We shut all the gates, positioned the car as a barrier, moved the fence slats, etc. We were ready to move ‘em out.

Unfortunately they weren’t ready to be moved. They scampered off down to the woods. And back. And back down to the woods. And back. Get the pattern? I was of very little help but no real hindrance. My time would come; it always does.

Dan and I finally get the boss ram and three of his flock out of the paddock and heading down to no. 2 paddock. The rest swirl around in ever increasingly panicked mode. Finally a few more figure out how to get out and off they go. And we are left with 4 including Snowball, our adolescent ram.

We had heard that keeping 2 rams might cause the flock to split allegiances and ours certainly did. We had planned to send Snowball to greener pastures around the end of the year. This experience has caused us to move up our timetable.

Snowball bolts out of the paddock and turns left not right. Left, directly past the car blocking (hah, hah) his path. Down the driveway, along the sidewalk past my precious garden, around the house and onto the patio. Here he starts investigating our shrubs, flowers, and barbeque.

Now because of the configuration of our land, our main house and patio sit about 4 feet above the paddock. There is a wood retaining wall around it. Normally there is also electrified tape above that but the rampant cows took that out a few months ago and we hadn’t gotten around to replacing it.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, Snowball calls his accolates and up and over the wall jumps one of the ewes. The other two bleat forelornly and race around the paddock making huge springy jumps over nothing at all. Dan gamely heads off after Snowball and accolate. I stay standing where I have been positioned.

The 2 sheep jump back into the paddock urged on by Dan and his trusty wand. Then they start racing up and down again. I stand. Dan goes up and down after them. Finally they begin to tire, and more slowly move up toward the driveway. Very slowly Dan shuffles them toward the opening and they are through! And heading down toward the main herd.

Are our troubles over? Of course not. Dan gets the car to go past them and block off the road past the entrance to paddock no. 2. I walk after the sheep to keep them moving ever downward.

Now in my defense, I was worrying about getting those sheep past the orchard, past the red, red barn and into paddock no. 2. There is no barrier to keep them from running into any of the 3 aforementioned diversions.

The sheep defy logic and keep wanting to walk up the hill and not take the easy road down. So I have my hands full turning them around and moving them back. Dan has given me his wand and I have a lot of fun waving it in slow, wide arcs. The sheep don’t seem impressed.

They gather in a corner near where the fence makes two sides of a triangle and seem perfectly content to camp there forever. The grass is good, I have trouble with the footing so that weird wand isn’t waving about in their faces. Life is good.

Just one problem, they aren’t in paddock no. 2. So Dan starts hiking up from the gate to help me shift the sheep. But tho I see him, it doesn’t really register. Perhaps a senior moment? I’ll try that as an excuse when the time is right. I make a surge – wand in hand – at the sheep. They rush away from the fence and get back to the road. They have two choices, left and up the hill or right and down into Dan’s face. They pick left. And run up out of sight. Dan looks for one long moment at me and then bends over, hands on knees and sighs.

Up he goes to the top of the hill. I obey orders and go down the hill to stand by the car. It takes a while but here come the sheep and Dan. He calls to me to get behind the car (less visible and less apt to screw things up again).

All my worries about the orchard, the barn, and the no. 1 paddock are for naught. The sheep see the car (and probably me) and make a sharp right turn into the lane to the correct paddock, trot right pass the diversions and into no. 2 paddock.

So all’s well that ends well? Right, Dan? And I leave it to you to decide. Who’s sillier, the sheep or me?

Herd Mentality

I spent a lot of time walking around Auckland yesterday and I was amazed at the similarities between it and the farm.

At the farm, the steers gather for the morning coffee klatch, the noon break, the afternoon tea, dinner, and then snooze. They wear basic black and seem very content to circle the tree butt to nose so each of the four directions finds a steer with the tree as the center of the compass.

This basic black theme is repeated in the endless stream of cafes with black-clad patrons sitting there for morning coffee, noon break, tea, and dinner. I assume they go home to sleep. I can't  figure it out. New Zealand is dazzlingly gorgeous with thousands of greens (trees and bushes), blues and grays (water from two oceans plus a multitude of rivers and streams). And yet the Kiwis dress in very muted colors - black and gray.. I stand out like the proverbial sore thumb. I wear Khaki, Red, Yellow, etc.

Now the sheep also cluster. They are several colors but the overall theme remains the same. Gather under the trees, exchange all the gossip, snooze, and occasionally amble off for a few blades of grass. The real difference between the two herds is that one talks incessantly to the other diners but also talks on the cell phone at the same time. How do they do that? Don't the real live humans at the table resent the extra conversations? Actually probably not since they're on the phones too. The four-legged herds seem to be more contemplative; more ready to watch the world go by. Probably not an ulcer among them.

All our livestock is doing well. The steers come when called, go through gates as if sirloin steaks wait for them on the other side (oops, well you know what I mean). The sheep also have chilled out. I can walk through the paddocks with only a few heads raised and a few perfunctory semi-ambles out of my way. Except for the ram, of course. It is a duel to the death between us two.

My garden is finally in. Just in time for the drought which seems to have started this past week. It is a seasonal thing and each year there are dire warnings that this will be the worst drought season yet. If what is happening in Texas is any indication, this year the doom and gloom guys could be right. Anyway, I have volunteered to give up one shower a week so that I can use the water to nourish our plants. Not too much of a sacrifice for me but a definite sacrifice for those around me.

Enhancing the Resume

I used to be secretly rather proud of my resume. Varied experience, upward mobility, awards - the whole deal. But now! I can add meter reader to that list. How many psychologists will have that on their resumes? Not many; I may be the only one.

It all started when I announced an early departure back to the farm. "Aha," thought my son, "She'll have additional time to spend on all those tasks I never get around to." So, he made a list. I don't know if the list made it onto the whiteboard but it made it onto my 'to do' list.

So yesterday afternoon, I started at the top of the list and hiked to the far paddock to check the steers and their water trough. Everything was fine there. I think I told you that all 4 steers are pure black. Not quite true; one has a rust colored ring around his mouth. Yes, I got close enough to see it. Actually, he got close enough to me. He followed me all the way to the gate and then hung forlornly around hoping I'd return. I don't know what it is with me and bovines but Romeo was the first and now here I have another fervent admirer.

So now I'm in the sheep paddock and true to form, they scatter when they see me. I begin to stomp through the tall grass to check their water troughs when I notice that the ram, in his haste to avoid me, has run under a curved branch that is lying on the ground. And he is stuck. For a brief, glorious moment I watch and think that revenge is indeed a dish best served cold. But then I remember that he sires the flock and I go to rescue him. With a marvellous ballet move, the ram throws himself backward into the air, bringing the branch with him. The branch slides to the ground and he is free. For one brief, glorious moment he contemplates lowering his horns and coming after me but then realizes that I control water and food. He turns into the woods and I continue to the water troughs.

Now I'm no engineer but common sense would tell you that one water trough with two sections should hold the same amount of water. But it doesn't. The left is filled nicely; the right is almost empty. I will email Dan and let him put that puzzle on his to do list.

It's getting dark so I decide to leave reading the meters until the morning. I awake at 6:30 to a howling wind and spritzing rain. I roll over. I wake up again at 7:30 and figure out that this is the day I have to deal with. By 8 I am reading the meter at the new barn. I slosh through the driveway past the sheep who turn their backs on me and 4 start pooing me. Quite the little send off. Down the 3/4 mile road to the red, red barn. Climb the fence (I still can't get the gate open) and through the orchard to the next paddock and gate and then into the shed to read the second meter. Smart me! I brought a flashlight and am able to read the meter, close everything back up and reshut the gate to that paddock.

Interesting fact: this gate is made of wood and you close it by sliding wood planks through slits in the gate and the fence. Pretty straightforward so far. Try it when it is raining - hard. The wood is wet and swollen and my knuckles are skinned from wrestling those planks into place.

Since I am already in the orchard, I bring out my trowel and start weeding around the newly planted fruit trees. I do most of them but the grass is up to my belly button and the rain is coming down harder than ever. I decide to plead old age and climb the fence again and head up the road. Now the road down is 3/4 of a mile but the road up the hill is 7 miles long (or at least it feels that way).

I have just had my shower, nursed my knuckles and am surveying my latest lot of library books for the perfect companion to curling up in my dry, warm room and doing nothing much at all. And it's only 11:30. What a life!

Wow! Cows

We have cows! Correction, steers. Steers are male, cows are female. I just learned that. Very  little farm lore in my grade school days. Monday our stockman called from the cattle auction to say that we could have 4 black Angus yearlings. We said ‘yes’ and Dan spent most of the day preparing the stock pens and paddock.

Unfortunately, we had to go back to Auckland before the steers arrived. Dan had to get up at 4am the next morning to catch the first plane to Wellington and had work to do first. So we were pretty nervous about our new herd being left on their own for 3 days. Luckily, Barbara, Dave’s wife, kept an eye on them for us and when we pulled up on Thursday night, there they were. Proud, sleek, CALM, and very, very bovine.

Yael and I were thrilled to see that they placidly came to the fence to greet us. No maniacal racing around the paddock. No snorting or jumping of fences. And best of all, they were of a manageable size. We are happy as clams.

So Friday morning off go Dan and Yael to move the steers from our farthest paddock all the way up the hill to the paddock right in front of the main house. The girls and I watch from the living room. First we see the car come up the drive and block the way to the garage and barn. Then we see 4 steers walking (not running) up the road. They turn into the driveway and stop for a little nibble on the verge. Finally, here comes Yael, sauntering up the road behind them.

I have never figured out how she always manages to look chic in farmer’s garb. She had on jeans, a pullover, a straw hat that had a curly brim, and her trademark bubblegum pink wellies with white polka dots. She looked like she just stepped out of Vogue. I, on the other hand, wear jeans, a pullover, a canvas hat like Aussie outbackers wear, and bright purple wellies. I do not look like I just posed for Vogue. More like I posed for a wanted poster – escaped from the hospital for the criminally insane. I wonder what the difference could be? No, don’t write and tell me. Spare me the humiliation.

So things are looking good here on the farm. The steers are eating long and well. One has a bird that seems to live on its head. Doesn’t bother it any. Did I say how nice and calm they were?

The sheep are so contented that they even let me come to the fence and watch them without running away. Huge improvement in our relationship.

Most important of all, my garden is thriving. We are supposed to be having the beginning of our drought but someone forgot to tell Ms. Nature. It poured. I have now completed two beds with tomatoes, beans, peas, and peppers and Dan has built these rabbit, possum, everything else proof cages and I have figured how to get in so all is working well.

I work in my garden, watch the sheep, talk to the steers, check the progress of Dan’s trees and feel myself getting better every day. And every night I go to sleep without the scurrying of little rat feet over my head. Long live the makers of rat poison. Rats eat it and die. Sounds just fine to me.