An Ovine Adventure - Part II

First a quick recap. Dan suspected fly strike in the sheep so Yael and I corralled them in front of the red, red barn and I waited for our sheep expert, John, to come and evaluate them.

And I waited. In fact, I waited all day. I finally called Auckland at twilight to report that John had never called. See, the idea was that John would call when he got near our farm and I would go down to the corral and meet him. No John. At least, so I thought. During my phone call to Dan we agreed that I would go to Dave's place (sheep savvy neighbor) and get him to look at the flock.

Off I went. No Dave. Nobody home at his farm so I was on my own. Now I am not comfortable making major decisions, indeed, life changing decisions, on my own when these are not my sheep. But needs must. Climb the gate, walk very slowly to the corral and observe. Nothing! Only one ewe who twitched slightly. No head buttings, no twitching, no flies, etc. etc. So I follow plan C which is to release the sheep back to paddock #2. The corral is small and they have been there all day. They need space and fresh grass. BUT, there is one ewe that might have fly strike. I will need to keep her in the corral.

Now, how do you let 16 sheep out of a corral, up a rope line and into a paddock while simultaneously keeping one frantic ewe (and a mother no less!) from going with them? I didn't have a clue; I just knew that that was what I had to do. And do alone! I felt pretty much like a Survivor contestant. I am happy to relate that I rose to the challenge.

I had two things going for me. The first, the sheep wanted nothing to do with me. Wherever I was, they weren't. Second, they desperately wanted out of that corral. The gate to the rope line is long, wooden, wet and heavy. I could not swing it from near the hinges, I had to be out in the corral near the open end. But if I did that then the sheep wouldn't come near the gate because I was there. It took a few futile attempts but I managed to run with the gate back and forth, letting just a few sheep out at a time. All this while I am keeping on eye on the possibly infected ewe and trying to hustle her to the back of the queue.

Each time 2 or 3 scooted through, I had to shut the gate and scurry after them to chase them past the rope line and up far into the paddock. Then back to gate swinging duty and isolating of the "sick" ewe. Eventually it was all done. The 16 sheep were huddled around a tree halfway up paddock #2 telling war stories of their escape from Stalag 17. The one remaining ewe was standing huddled in the far corner of the corral too dispirited to even look at me.

I went home and called Auckland to report. "I couldn't find any sign of fly strike." I began. "But there was one ewe that was iffy so I kept her and released the rest back into the paddock." I was nervous. This was a major decision to make on my own. "Good news", Yael reported back. "John dropped by and didn't see any sign of fly strike either."

Yeah it was good news. Better news would have been if John had called me and we had met up at the corral. I could have let all 17 back into the paddock and not frantically worried about getting it wrong. So that poor, pent ewe was trapped in isolation. I thought about her all night. And scampered down to the corral at daybreak to let her out. Her baby was still calling for her and she was so frazzled that she bolted right by me, right through the rope line, and into the wrong paddock.

I tried to move her but the steers were in paddock #1 with her so I couldn't leave the gate between 1 and 2 open. She was totally berserk and I finally gave up. When Dan gets back, he and I can move her together. So for another 48 hours she and baby lamb will be separated. But at least the lamb is weaned and the ewe can move freely around the paddock.

And that it what she did. She hung close to the fence between 1 and 2 and seemed relatively content. That is until Dan and I came to move her. And that will be the third and final episode of my Ovine Adventure. Stay tuned.

An Ovine Adventure - Part I

I can say without fear of contradiction that I am not RAMbo’s favorite person. And yet he was cooperation itself in my latest ovine adventure. Before going down to Auckland, Dan inspected the flock and came back to the kitchen with an ominous concern. He thought he had seen evidence of fly strike in 2 of the ewes and one of the new rams.

What to do? What to do? There is only one thing to do. Gather the flock in the red, red barn’s corral and call in an ovine specialist. Our first line of defense is always Dave, our neighbor and stock specialist. Unfortunately Dave was at work. So then we turn to our sheep  specialists: the John and Paula team of sheep shearers and we rely on both of them for our information. Then if necessary we call in the vet.

So Dan called John who is very busy this time of year with shearing but agreed to drop by and take a look. But (a big but) he didn’t have time to hike paddock #2 and check out 17 sheep. They would have to be corralled for a concentrated viewing.

Since Dan had to work, It was necessary to fall back on the second team – Yael and me! Now I like being needed. I am always half afraid that I’ll do something particularly stupid (Yes even more stupid than those acts recorded in this blog) and I’ll be booted out of paradise.

So I accepted the challenge and Yael and I gathered a rope to make a guide line to usher the sheep through Paddock #1 (which for some reason you have to go through to get to the gate to #2.) Down we go and Yael doesn’t even hesitate at the broken gate but climbs over. I follow suit. Then we decide that I should circle up paddock #1, open the upper gate and drive the sheep down to the rope line where Yael will escort them to the corral.

It looks so nice and neat written that way in my Ariel font. Reality is a lot messier. First it had rained, making climbing steep hills a whole lot of fun. Second, the sheep weren’t too enthusiastic about leaving paddock #2. Actually it was probably more that they weren’t enthusiastic about anything I wanted them to do. But I kept at it. I zigzagged back and forth trying to keep the flock together. No such luck. They insisted on splitting into factions.

One faction would hug the fence line and the other would trot smartly across the entire paddock and hug the other fence line. Then they would swap sides. Finally, they stood waiting for King RAMbo to amble down and lead the way. In this fashion I finally got them down to within sniffing distance of the gate, Yael, and the rope line. At which point they turned and ran back up the paddock.

I waited for a few sour words to leave my mouth, softly so I wouldn’t offend Yael whose biggest curse is “sugar” and that rarely. Back up I went. This time Yael entered the paddock and I gestured her to stand point at the far fence to  prevent flock splitting. Our next concern was that the sheep would bolt down the paddock, through the rope line and mingle with the steers in paddock #1.

I am happy to report that none of that happened. The sheep whirled away from Yael (and me) and followed a determined ewe down the paddock, along the rope line and into the corral as slick as you please. Yael and I scampered down to close gates, push our way through 17 sheep in one small corral, and return to the kitchen to report progress.

Then Yael and Dan packed up the girls and headed down to Auckland and I went back to my room to read and wait for John to call. And that will be my next blog. The adventure continues! Just like an old Pearl White continuing cliff hanger. The only difference is that mine is real. Talk to you soon.

And Yet Another Challenge

Just when I thought it was safe to meander through the pastures, Dan came up with yet another new challenge. It was a doozy; at least to me. The steers are in paddock 1, the sheep are in paddock 2. Switch them!

I spent some sleepless nights (okay 2 sleepless nights) trying to figure out what combination of gates, running up and down Mt. Everest, scare tactics on the steers (RAMbo leads a guerilla trained flock so no scaring them) and blind luck will I need to "switch them".

At the outset I have to tell you that I am exceedingly proud of myself. I did it with no harm to any living animal. Well, unless you count the bump on my forehead and the three puncture wounds in the same area. Don't worry, they quit bleeding within the hour.

Here's how it went. We have gates at the top and bottom of the fence between the 2 paddocks. My 'plan' was dependent on where the two sets of animals were when I shouldered my way through those recalcitrant 3 wooden gates. I was in luck: the steers were at the bottom of 2. So I opened the lower gate and started shooing them through. Very slowly and very gently since steers can be quirky. Four went through easily. Guess which one ambled in the other direction?

But I stuck to my plan. I ignored #104 and slugged my way up to the top gate. My path took me past Mr. Stupid and he moseyed the other way, which happened to be down the hill toward the gate. Notice I did not  say "through the gate". That would be too easy. A part of me hoped that he would still be in 2 when RAMbo showed up. RAMbo could get that steer through that gate at the speed of light. Of course, then RAMbo would go too and I'd have to try to round him up again.

Anyway, the next step in my plan was to find the sheep and herd them through the upper gate. Then I would go down the hill and close the lower gate. This is obviously dependent on #104 having moved his tail into 1 and the other 4 staying in 1. But I didn't have to worry about that yet. A quick glance down the hill showed Mr. Stupid grazing literally in the gateway. The other 4 had wandered farther away from the gate and were munching nicely.

Okay! Where are the sheep? Can't see them. Deep grass and gullies abound on the far side of paddock 1 (also known as Mt. Everest). So I figure out where I think they must be and attempt a flanking manuever to keep them from moving down the hill away from the upper gate. It is almost impossible for one person to execute an effective flanking manuever. I would have succeeded except that I was so elated at spotting the sheep that I forgot to look where I was going and slipped on wet, poo grass and slid down into a tree branch. That is how I got the puncture wounds. The knot on my forehead was (I think) administered when my forward propulsion sent me headfirst into the tree trunk.

This, needless to say, startled the sheep. Startled them sufficiently that they moved to the right in the general direction of paddock 2. All I had to do was keep them on the crest of the hill and moving in the right direction.

Have I told you before that I love my parka? Well, I do and I certainly missed it as I was shepherding sheep. I didn't have a sleeve to swipe away the blood trickling steadily down my face. I used my T-shirt. I'm pretty sure that shirt is doomed now. Funny how blood stains continue to look like blood stains no matter what you do. I don't want to scare anyone to death or get arrested as a female Freddie Kruger so I think the rag bag will get another contribution.

While I was tending my wounds, RAMbo was herded his flock across the line and into 2. No fuss, no hassle and no steers! I was home free. Almost. I shut the upper gate. I hurried down and shut the lower gate. Mission accomplished! I'm getting pretty good at this farming gig. Now if I could just learn not to bang myself up each time I'm faced with a new challenge. The psychologist side of me is shrieking that this is subconscious avoidance manifesting as physical pain. Right! Whatever. I'm feeling pretty darn proud of myself.

Minus Ten

Last week I cleaned out the chicken coops preparatory to finally getting chickens. I have prepared rigorously for this latest acquisition to our livestock. I read “Raising Chickens for Dummies” and watched “The Egg and I” on classic movies. I was so ready.

That night I bragged to Yael that 3 weeks had passed since my trip back to the States and I hadn’t gotten sick. A first!  My herbal immune supplements must be working. I was even able to clean the coops without my allergies acting up.  Less than an hour later, I was in agony.

In rapid fire order my sinuses swelled to the bursting point, my throat was a fiery pathway to hell, my chest was carrying a twelve pound weight, and my eyeballs were popping out. I more or less stayed that way for a week. During the week, I did nothing except go to the eye doctor and then back home.

None of this is noteworthy except that on the trip back up to the farm, I did NOT see the sheep. Correction, I did not see 14 of the sheep. There were 3 in paddock 2. That was Tuesday. Wednesday saw me stagger out to check the stock. The steers were fine. There were 7 sheep in paddock 2. There were no sheep in paddock 3. At least none I could see from the road. That left me with minus 10 sheep.

I wasn’t worried. Paddock 3 is the one with the deep swale and you can lose a cow in there. Actually, I once managed to lose all 5 of ours. So I set off again that afternoon and looped paddock 3 including the swale. No sheep. Now this is not an easy search. The grass is chest high, the footing is very uneven, and it is steeply hilly. And I was feeling rotten. Perhaps not the perfect time to play Sherlock the sheep searcher.

I reassured Dan and Yael that the missing wool bearers were doubtless down in the swale playing hide and seek. Since my eye surgeries I have to wear these deep dark glasses and I probably missed them hidden in the grass.

I skipped the sheep hunt on Thursday since it rained all day. But today, Friday, saw me resume the hunt. I am embarrassed to admit it but I even started looking for sheep scat to see if they had spent any significant time in some gulley. No scat; no surprise since it had poured all yesterday. Also, no sheep.

Back to my room for lunch. I gave an update to Dan and Yael who were noticeably more concerned now that it had been 4 days since a sheep sighting. So I turned off the stove and went back out. Boy, I wish I could make a dramatic story out of this. I could gain great street cred with my kids but the truth is, all 10 were peacefully grazing in the upper portion of paddock 2. There they all were: 17 sheep all presenting me with equally innocent faces along the lines of “Who, me?” But I knew better. All I had to do was look over at RAMbo. His face was turned away from me but his shoulders were shaking. Another deep sheep belly laugh from he who always wins.

NOTE to readers. I was just kidding about not telling Dan that I had broken the gate.(See previous posting)  I use that gate at least twice a day. I need it to work. I am not a duplicitous mother scheming against her hard-working son. I was just kidding! Honest! You can stop with the emails now. Please!

The Day of the Trees

You know how you refer to unusual events as “the day Johnny broke his collarbone”, or “the day my car died on the interstate 15 miles from anywhere”? Well, Wednesday was that kind of day. I call it the day of the trees.

I had decided to update you with all our permaculture efforts and wanted to start with how our orchard was doing in front of the red, red barn. I got out my trusty camera and hoofed it down the road to take a picture of the peach tree we planted last year which is doing marvellously well this year. Good visual on the way we are trying to turn this farm into a haven for trees.

The gate into the orchard has always been difficult. Of all our wooden gates, this one is perhaps the worst. I can’t get it open without hauling it upward to slip the hook out of the socket. Since it is a very heavy wooden gate (made more so when it is wet, which is always), I use my foot as a lever. This, along with my shoulder action usually gets the gate up enough to slip off the hook. And it did so this time. Unfortunately, it also broke the gate which dropped, very heavily, down on my foot.

With the gate drooping disconsolately in the road, I decided to haul it back into position and pretend I was never there. Wood doesn’t take fingerprints very well, does it?

I had barely gotten the broken timbers in place when Dan came barrelling down the road in the quad (which, by the way, I have never yet been allowed to drive, but I’m not bitter!). Swinging himself off the quad, he matter-of-factly said, “So the old gate has finally had it, eh?”

Now you know why I never turned to a life of crime. I’m terrible at it. Here I thought I was hiding the results of my incompetence and Dan was watching the whole thing from the top of the hill.

Dan then informed me that it was time to move the steers from paddock #1 behind the red, red barn up to the paddock in front of the new barn. Great! I always love it when the stock are in that paddock, I can see them from my window and don’t have to get wet hiking a mile to check them.

So we open the gate – very gingerly but it holds together, sort of. And lead out the steers. These steers are more than ready and bolt eagerly for the new grass on the verge of the roadway. All except one; that one being #104. 104 has been cross-grained since we got him. If the herd goes north, he goes south. If I want him in the next paddock, he flicks his tail and refuses to move, no matter what.

So true to his nature, 104 heads straight for one of the newly planted eucalyptus trees and bites off its head. A screech of pure pain comes out of my son’s mouth and he heads up toward the mangled tree swearing oaths of vengeance on #104 and at the same time, vainly trying to save the mangled splinter that was so recently a tree.

The rest of the trip is spent in a sullen silence by 104 (ha, ha, you thought it’d be Dan, didn’t you). Dan is quite peeved but fairly accepting since it’s all part of being a farmer. As we hike up behind the cows, he tells me that he thinks he’s found the entrance route of the rats that converge in my ceiling every evening.

Now this is good news. I have mentioned before that it sounds like a rats’ convention at happy hour up there and I get a creeped-out feeling as I hear the scrabbling, clawing, and other weird noises as I’m tryng to sleep. I keep thinking that all that activity will eventually come through the ceiling and onto my bed – with me in it.

So I keep my enthusiasm level high as Dan informs me that he will need my help with the ropes. “What ropes?” I ask. The ropes that will pull the extremely large branch of the pine tree down off the roof. Pull off a tree branch, how hard can it be?

I am about to find out. It is late afternoon when Dan fires up the old chain saw and sets to work. I go off to do something. Just about anything else. I am nervous around chain saws and even more nervous when someone I love dearly is around them.

It is coming on to nightfall when I go out to see if Dan is finished. I want to remind him that 8:00 is past dinner time (once a mother, always a mother). The tree branch has been partially sawn through and is resting on the roof. Dan is up an extremely precarious ladder trying to hand saw off the minor branches. With keen insight, I immediately notice that the ladder’s feet are slipping on the wet,  pine needled soil, down into the water gulley that surrounds the garage. Now this gully is no slouch, it comes up to my knees and is treacherous.

I point this out. I won’t use the word ‘snarled’ but the response is less than cordial. I go back to the kitchen and eat my dinner. At about 8:30 I return and stand silently as Dan makes a number of fruitless attempts to better anchor the ladder. I say “at the risk of having my head bitten off, I want to point out that it is getting dark.” Dan responds with a gloomy “I know but I can’t leave the tree limb up there. It might slide down and knock off the water pipes leading to our water tanks.”

Yes, folks, this tree limb is jeopardizing the entire household water supply. And just when we have finally gotten rid of the poison that laid me low twice after we had the roof power washed. Now I’m as invested in this project as my son.

“What can I do?”

“Hold this rope while I try to saw off the rest of the limb. When it’s free, pull on your rope to keep the branch from sliding down this side.”

We tried. We really tried. But the limb gets caught up on a spike of its severed self and won’t budge. It is now really, really dark and we are working by light of my bathroom window which is covered with tree branch. Finally, at 10, I call game over and we decide to try again in the morning. This means early since Dan was supposed to go back to Auckland that night for an early business meeting.

At 6:30 the next morning I am ready. I am wearing my trusty parka. Lands End, I miss you terribly. What will I do when this parka finally goes to garment heaven? At least it’s daylight and we can see.

Dan is a very methodical person. Me, not so much. So I get edgy after Dan spends an hour (it seemed that way) trying to figure out the best way to get the limb off the roof, save the water system, not break my bathroom window and not get hurt in the process.

I mutter. He finally turns to me and asks, “what would you do, Mom?” And I tell him. I pull my ropes this way, and as the base of the tree limb is freed, he hauls on the other ropes the other way so that the top  swings away from the water pipes. But first, he needs to climb that shaky ladder yet again and chain saw off that spike holding the limb.

We follow the plan and so does the massive tree branch.Then we cut off the ancillary branches and haul the whole thing out of the gulley into which it had fallen.  It is 8:30 and Dan dashes for the shower and Auckland. I throw the severed branches over into the forest for permaculturing at a future time and follow him into the house. The day of the trees is over.

 

I'm Back

 

I have just gotten back to the farm after a month in the US. I had a great time reconnecting with old friends but I was back and it was time to shoulder the burden and tackle the sheep once again.

The past two days I have spent babysitting my totally adorable younger grandchild, Naavah. So I haven’t been able to hike the paddocks for my up close and personal inspection of the stock. I was only able to get furtive glimpses from the roadway (those darn sheep remember me and run over the hill as soon as they hear me coming). So today I was child free and determined to count heads.

While I was gone, another lamb had been born, bringing our total to 16. Focus on that number, it becomes important later on. From the road I was only able to count 15, no matter how often I tried. So up over the hill I went. By scouring my pathetic short term memory bank, I was able to remember that we had 2 black ewes, 1 ram, and 7 white ewes. Add to that the twins, a white lamb and 2 black lambs for a total of 15. The newest addition looks to be about a week old and another white one was born in the past two days (I think) bringing the total to 16. Still at 16 since one of the ewes is missing.

I was afraid she had drowned in the creek, or was caught on wire. But no! After a long search, through water, thickets, wet grass and all the usual sheep and steer poo, I found that she had gone off by herself to give birth to yet another white lamb. The Stone Tree Farm total is now 18. Not bad. We have had a total of 9 live births, 1 death, so 8 of our 9 ewes are fertile. And so is RAMbo. I congratulated him on my way out to the road. He just lifted a weary head and gazed at me. His work was done and he was plumb tuckered out.

Everything else is going well here. The raised veggie beds are thriving with abundant weeds (my next major task). The house is almost completely painted and the equipment to make a true garden, i.e., posts, netting, etc. has arrived. And then there are the seedlings. Dan planted some of them but I have two flats of tomatoes and no clue as to where they can go. Perhaps pots on the patio with netting over them. I’ll run it by command central and see.

Right now I am sitting back revelling in Spring (it’s a chilly Fall back home) and contemplating setting out flats of cherry tomatoes. Oh well, no need to be hasty. Until the garden is finished there is no place for them anyhow. I think I’ll take a leaf out of RAMbo’s book and just keep on doing nothing.

No Snakes

There are a lot of fine things about New Zealand but the finest is that there are NO snakes. I don't like snakes. I would go so far as to say that I hate, loathe, despise, and fear snakes. Get the idea? So when I ended up flat on my back in the creek today, I was thankful there were no snakes.

I spent some time in Mississippi in my youth and one of my most vivid memories is seeing the cottonmouths' heads bobbing the lake. Lots of heads; no swimming for me altho there were those who went in anyway. Today, as I staggered out of the filthy water (runoff from animal effluent), I was reminded of that cherished childhood scene.

This afternoon started out pretty nice. It was overcast but no rain. In fact, it hasn't rained for several days so I decided to do an 'up close and personal' check of the sheep. They were in paddock #2 and I wanted to go up the hill through paddock #3. For some unknown reason, I decided to explore. Perhaps it was the freedom of not having to wear my down parka, perhaps it was because I hit the big 70 recently and wanted to prove something to myself. Oh, I proved it all right - I'm not as young as I was.

So I decided to jump that itty bitty creek instead of circling around the entire paddock. I took a slight running pace, slipped on the grass, missed my footing and ended up staring at the sky. Note to Dan: that creek is deeper than you think. It was above my knees when I was finally able to stagger up. I am 5'3". You do the math.

I would have been humiliated except that no one saw me except me and I'm used to my pathetic antics. Well, there was an observer. RAMbo had ambled over to watch the fun. He didn't look pleased to see me dripping wet. I got the distinct impression that he was considering whether or not this was the time for a pre-emptive strike. Lucky for him there were no hostilities. I would have wiped the paddock with him. In my mood I might even have caused him serious bodily harm.

Oh, who am I kidding? It was a dumb stunt and I should have known better. I was evaluating this whole thing as I squelched my way home smelling of paddock and animals. In my last blog, I called steer #104 stupid and implied that he had an IQ in the single digits.

I now apologize to Mr. Stupid. Your IQ may be in the single digits but mine IS a single digit. So I offer you a picture of #104 - the smarter of the two of us.