RIP Snowball's Mom

The fly strike struck. Remember how I said I could only count 12 sheep that rainy weekend. I tried and tried but always came up one short. Now we know why. Snowball's mom was down with the dreaded fly strike and died without me even knowing. Dan found her a few days later. Of course we moved the rest of the flock but it was a bit unsettling for us. Sad, really.

Fly strike comes in with the wet, warm weather. Nasty little maggots burrow in the wool, reach the skin and literally eat the sheep to death. Very little warning, great pain, and dead in a couple of days. Dan was pretty sickened by the sight. I didn't look but the look on his face was enough.

So we moved the sheep and then couldn't find the ram. Dan tramped the paddock. I tramped the paddock. We tramped the paddock together. Either the wily ram had made a bolt for freedom and we didn't notice or he was buried in the deep grass. Either way we were frantic. We drove around all the farms on the mountain. No ram.

I swapped chores with Yael and she went to search with Dan. And naturally our sheep whisperer found him. He had been hiding behind a tree down in the tall grass. With his coloring he was almost invisible in the shade. But he perked up when she arrived and stood to greet her. Who would have guessed that this Johannesburg chic lady would have such an affinity for livestock. The steers love her too.

So now I am on the farm by myself and I headed out to get the mail and check the stock. We are trying something new this week. We put the steers and sheep in the same paddock and used our electrified tape to seal off the barn and the hay. They have all settled down well together and the grass is practically disappearing before my eyes. Pretty soon the ram won't be able to hide in the long grass.

Obviously he has figured this out because once again I couldn't find him. I walked all over the place. No ram. I was wondering what the odds were of some ram thief taking him but doubted it. He was way too mean to go with anybody but Yael. So I decided to walk the perimeter and check the live tape. I did this. Starting on my right and going around the whole paddock. I finally came within 2 yards of my starting point and there was the ram. I could have saved myself 20 minutes by turning left instead of right. Lesson learned.

And where was the ram, you ask. Guess! He was inside the electrified tape zone, snuggled down in the hay in the barn. He is the exact color of hay so if I weren't on top of him, I'd never see him. Plus, I mentally ignored the barn thinking he couldn't get there without electrocuting himself. I don't know how he did it but he did. And now I get to call Dan and tell him that the experiment has unanticipated side effects.

Progress Report

So I tried the mint. I’m not too optimistic since the flies buzzed around me as I brought the cuttings into the house. I left doors and windows open for them to escape the pungent mint smell but they were noticeably loathe to venture outdoors. They are definitely house flies; not farm flies. Perhaps we inadvertently brought them with us from Auckland.

Anyway, things progress. My tomatoes are close to becoming table food, the squash are doing well, and nothing else is growing. Even the garlic is dying off and I thought nothing got to garlic. Perhaps we have vampire insects.

We have one of the most beautiful Pohutukawa trees I have ever seen. These trees from the Myrtle family have multiple trunks and the splashiest red brushy flowers you’ve ever seen. This tree was planted several owners ago and sits in the perfect position outside our dining room window.

Lately I have noticed small branches, and fair sized twigs scattered all over the ground. Tui birds attack this gorgeous tree and savage it. I have seen the tree tremble all over as these black and white birds hop around twisting branches in their beaks. They are beautiful birds but very destructive. They are also not fans of man. They dive bomb us. I wave my hands and scream at them (not very effective) but I worry about my tiny grandchildren. Yet another reason this over-protective Grandma goes outside when the wee ones do.

I looked up the Pohutukawa tree and found out that it is slowly disappearing from New Zealand. Part of it is that there is more farm land than before but a major problem is my old friend the possum. Yet again these varmints come up on the top of my Most Wanted list.

The steers have finally decided to graze on this side of the paddock. I must have ruined their bucolic sanctuary for them when I hiked the paddock yesterday to see if they were all right. Now this paddock isn’t Mt. Everest, or even the dreaded Paddock #1 but its steep enough to be going on with. I appeared on the crest and 14 brown eyes raised themselves from the grass to watch as I lurched down among them. I don’t want to say that they’re nonchalant about me, but not a one of them moved. I could have touched them as I wove my way to the far gate. A far cry from those cows from Hell we had before.

I approached the sheep paddock from the far side and saw some of the flock gathered in the gully with the willow trees. They love it there. They never seem to come out. I don’t know if there is enough grass down there for them or if they have some sort of sentry who warns them when I come down the driveway and they all beat feet for the gully. Whichever it is, I will take it on faith that they’re all right. I’ll let our sheep whisperer, Yael, count them when she moves them on Sunday.

Our freezer was delivered today. It’s huge! I made some joke about storing a body in there and the delivery man told me that they referred to it as the ‘coffin’. Eventually it will be the coffin for some sheep and probably a  steer as well. I haven’t sorted out my feelings on that yet. I’ll let you know.

Flies

I don’t like flies! I have never liked flies and I never will. There are lots of flies in New Zealand. So many that my favourite magazine here – NZ Gardener – just had a full page article on how to get rid of flies. First the author listed a number of ways that don’t work and then suggested growing mint and putting the pots in all the fly-infested rooms. Flies don’t like mint and will leave. If they don’t, then tickle the mint to increase the amount of fragrance they give off.

Now I plan to try this. I will take cuttings from my garden mint and start the process tomorrow. But! A question springs to mind. What’s the matter with screens? Why have the Kiwis not climbed on the screened window/door bandwagon? I understand why the older homes like our house at the farm don’t have screens. They were built when screens were either not invented or too expensive.

But what about now? My quarters over the garage are a pretty new addition and I have one window in each room that has one stationary side and one with a screen. The other two sets of windows don’t have screens! Why? What is the rationale behind this? Are the flies supposed to be deterred by the one screened window and give up?

 My experience is that they generally come up the staircase from the garage. Perhaps they are socially correct flies and wouldn’t dream of dropping in through a window. Following that logic, there should be no screens in my windows; all they do is keep the flies in. However, having been raised in a house with screens, I automatically leave those windows open and keep the others closed. Still it beats counting sheep for something to think about during my frequent bouts of insomnia.

There are an abundance of flies on a farm. Dan tells me not to worry about them; that fly-borne diseases don’t make it to rural areas. Oh yeah! What about flies visiting sheep or cow poo and then coming to visit us? Don’t tell me that there are no bacteria/germs making the trip to the big house.

Besides carrying unwanted germs (I have enough of my own, thank you very much), they are very annoying. They swarm around your head making vile whining noises (I get all the whining I need from a hungry 3-year-old’s “Why isn’t it ready yet” repeated endlessly until actually biting down on afternoon tea). And they leave little specks of fly poo all over that make you look as if you’ve never cleaned that room in your life.

I suppose in fairness I should state here that they are an excellent source of protein. Naavah, my 1-year-old granddaughter, is an avid scavenger of dead flies. She hears our electronic fly zapper go off and she crawls at the speed of light for the delicious, fried fly that will soon drift down like manna from heaven. And is she fast! She always manages to get at least get the fly in her mouth before I can reach her. It has gotten so bad that she automatically turns away when she sees me coming so that she can swallow in peace.

But aside from cutting down on the baby food bill, there is nothing good to be said for flies. They are major league pests  and I am on a campaign to introduce screens to this otherwise incredibly civilized country. Who knows, I may get a statue in Auckland Harbor as a result. Or they may look at me with that strained tolerance I know so well and deftly turn the subject. We’ll see.

So I Sang To The Steers

So I sang to the steers. And the next day, all the stock – steers and sheep – were diligently chowing down. I went back in the afternoon and they were still at it. I was pretty darned pleased with the response to my exhortations to eat, eat, eat. I could practically see the grass disappearing. I paid no attention to the other farmers who claimed that it was the sun drying the grass that encouraged our stock. Not my preaching. But since it has drizzled ever since and no four-legged friend has continued with the feeding frenzy, I reluctantly concede that those pooh-pooh farmers might be right.

It is holiday time and the whole family is here on the farm for two weeks which pleases me no end. Alessia and I are tending the vegetable garden. I pulled out the green beans which did not do well and have replaced them with squash for which I have high hopes. It has rained all night since so I have high hopes that the new seedlings settled in well.

Quarantine being over, Dan and Yael moved the 3 new steers to join the established 4 in paddock #3. I don’t know if I’ve described #3 to you. It is hilly but not as steep as #1. The really tricky part is that near the road, there is a deep gully lined with willow trees. Stock love it since it offers plenty of protection from the elements and lots of grass. The problem is that once they are in there, you can’t see them from the road so you have to hoof it over a fence, down the gully and start looking. Try that with 7 black steers. It is plenty dark down there.

I was pretty keen to keep up the sermonizing but my audience seems to have disappeared on me. Perhaps they are just adjusting to each other. Yael tells me that when the newbies were introduced that a lot of head butting went on. Nothing serious just simple statements of ownership of the domain. When I went down the next morning, all 7 were lying around together. Very little chewing was taking place. I tried discussing the prime directive with them – eat, eat, eat so others might feast – but they were singularly unresponsive.

We got another possum last night and the garage was invaded by what sounded like a horde of scavengers. We really must do something about that broken lattice. It is still raining and we are still waiting for the drought. Farming continues to be unpredictable and fascinating. I can’t wait to see what the new year will bring. Happy new year to you all!

A Well-Earned Promotion

As you know, I have been released from sheep and steer shifting duties due to my creative ideas on how the stock should be moved. Running them straight into my son was creative; unfortunately the sheep turned around and bolted up the hill. Not a pretty story but I did give my side of the story in an earlier blog.

Anyway, lately Yael has quietly slipped into my former position and for her the stock move efficiently into the designated paddocks. No fuss; no stubborn refusal to move, etc. etc. So I figured I was back to babysitting as a full time job. Interesting that they don't trust me with their stock but do with their offspring. Hmmm?

But yesterday I got my just reward! We took delivery of 3 additional black steers, bringing our total to 7 gorgeous, gentle bovines. Imagine my excitement when Dan explained that in order to keep these steers placid, they needed to be regularly exposed to human contact. Since everybody else in this family is back and forth to Auckland more than I am, guess who is the designated human.

Now the sheep and I have come to an understanding. I go stare at them twice a day. They stare back. I count them. They scatter, dodge, duck, and hide. I come away with a count (usually) of 11. Not bad out of 13. Sometimes more; on rainy days less.

I have talked to the cattle. They listen politely but I don't sense any true meeting of the minds. They chew their cud or let stalks of grass hang from their mouths, but no deep, meaningful rapport. So now that my audience has increased, I have been giving serious thought to topics that might be of interest to our herd.

I thought I might build audience involvement by giving them a daily briefing on how the rest of the farm is doing. For instance, I could tell them that we have been finding possum scat right on our front porch and that all trapping efforts have been fruitless. I think we have already killed off all the stupid possiums (a la Darwin) and now are left with the more cunning creatures. So far they are winning. Perhaps they would be wryly amused that I had the most beautiful potato plants in the world but no potatoes. I showed those potatoless plants; they are now contributing their mite to the compost pile.

Then I would move into the heart of the talk: the responsibilities of cattle toward their owners. I believe in positive reinforcement. I'll go with encouraging words on how well they are eating. I'll follow up with how important it is to move around the paddock and eat (and fertilize) all the area. The big finish will be when I discuss the adviseability of putting on poundage as quickly as possible. I will exhort them to remember the prime directive - eat so that others might feast. A tad tactless, you say? Perhaps you're right. I'm about to go out and give my first sermon. I'll let you know how it works out.

Country Silence

You know how they always refer to the sounds of the city and the silence of the country. I’m here to say that it ain’t necessarily so. I awaken at 5:15 or so to a full choir of birds all excited about a brand new day and a flurry of new attempts to raid my vegetable garden.

Later in the morning I walk down to the paddocks to check the steers and sheep serenaded by Benny the Bull. His long, mournful bellows echo across the hills. Benny is a young bull just approaching his prime. I’d say he is about 17 yrs old in human terms. He doesn’t have any idea why he gets so hot and bothered all the time but has some vague suspicion that he has to do with all those receptive cows in the next paddock – none of whom seem to be available to him.

Benny is a registered Angus bull and as such in great demand to stud. Or should be. He was scheduled to join a herd of Angus ladies a few miles off but the farmer already had one bull and after viewing Benny the roisterous one (and listening to him) the deal was off. So Benny is as ready as he’ll ever be and so far the bell has not tolled for him.

Instead Benny spends his days (and his nights) bellowing his frustrations to the wind, the hills and to me. Occasionally there is a bull across the valley who bellows right back and I get the baffled fury in stereo. Lucky me!

But Benny and the birds are not the only sounds. We have train tracks just the other side of the road from our property, about a mile away. Trains actually use them – not like the States where I almost never see a train any more. And don’t forget the flying school and airport about 4 miles away. We seem to be in their flight path. And of course there are the quad bikes.

I am the only farmer on the mountain without one and I walk everywhere. No one else does. They all ride and noisily too. No that is not indignation that you hear in this blog but pure envy. I WANT one. I want one bad. To sail over the hills astride my modern steed seems perfection to me. Particularly on days like today when it rains and rains and rains and the winds howl around me as I make my twice daily trek the check the stock.

But the serenity of the countryside is also assaulted by tractors, trucks, and seasonal machinery such as haying thrashers, lawn mowers, etc. Sometimes I think that the city couldn’t be much louder. Then I think again. The quantity of sound might be similar but the quality is very different.

I don’t hear sqealing brakes, screaming teenagers, drunks arguing at 4 am outside my window. Come to think of it, Benny is sounding pretty good to me right now.

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?