MARCH 8

Today we moved our bred heifers across the plains and into Weaning Camp (we really should start calling it “Calving Camp”) where they’re set to live for the next couple of months, calving out their very first calves. Mike and I are also set to live at Calving Camp with them for the foreseeable future. 

Our setup delights me: our two bedrolls (mine significantly larger than Mike’s despite myself being significantly smaller) lay side-by-side raised on two cots in the middle of the barn beside our hydraulic squeeze. Beside them Mike has constructed the world’s dustiest coffee bar propped up on a plastic folding table and an old cooler, scarves draped loosely over the paper coffee filters in a half-hearted attempt to shield them from dust (half-hearted because shielding anything from dust in the calving barn is a futile effort — better to befriend the dirt early on). 

The flu that I seem to have picked up on my travels back from visiting my parents in Tucson does not delight me in the slightest. There’s probably never a *good* time to come down with the flu, but “at the start of calving season” does seem like a particularly inconvenient time to be dragging myself through the day by the fist, leaning heavy on the crutch of DayQuil to accomplish even the minor tasks, let alone moving our heifers across half the ranch and preparing for one of the most energy demanding seasons on a cow-calf operation. Thank god Sting was forgiving of my abysmal ability to participate today. Today would have been much harder, if not impossible, without him. 

MARCH 10

I forgot how much of calving season consists of waiting. Waiting for signs of labor, waiting to go to bed because you don’t want to fall asleep only to have to wake yourself up in a couple of hours for the mid-night check. Waiting for the sun to come up and hoping it will spill light on new life. 

Waiting for Mike to finish peeing for the 11th time this morning so we can go home and eat food that didn’t come from a desperation-fueled trip to Pac-A-Sac. 

MARCH 14

We’ve had a few calves drop in our mob, which has only made the quiet state of the heifer pasture that much more maddening. The anxious anticipation can only be staved slightly by our chosen calving barn past-times: roping each other’s ankles, flipping through Kurt Markus’ photo book “Cowpuncher”, and regretfully eating yet another bag of Cheetos from Pac-A-Sac. Honorable mentions to the sport of keeping track of how many times Mike says “that one’s going to do it any minute, I can feel it” and showing each other funny videos on our phones.

MARCH 15

The first heifer calf is on the ground! They are both healthy and have paired up well. When we found them the calf was already standing, and against all odds attempting to take her first steps (the odds being a 50mph westerly wind and her own gelatinous leg joints). We watched her for a while, cheering quietly from the sidelines like parents at their kid’s first peewee soccer game, until she managed to battle her way to mom’s bag and latch on. A joyful example of nature working exactly the way it’s meant to. A great start to heifer calving season.

MARCH 16

Today was horrible. We should have known we were in for a dark day—the sky warned us. All morning it churned, dark blue and gray, spitting thin, icy rain in our faces through the hissing wind. But we didn’t listen. 

We brought the red heifer with the white face in before the sun even thought about coming up. In the ink-black night, already loud with wind, I drove the truck behind Mike and the red heifer to illuminate their path through the pasture to the barn. She walked in so quietly, never trying to turn around, not worrying about Mike walking so closely behind her or the truck rattling noisily through the weeds just behind him. She walked easily and purposefully, like she was confident we were going to help. 

The weather was ominous, but we were excited. She was one of the bigger heifers and so easy to work with that we weren’t too worried about her. Just wanted to keep a closer eye on her just in case. She stood surprisingly close to us in the small pen beside the calving barn, looking expectant. We jokingly found a new-age “birthing playlist” on Spotify and played it for her. To our surprise she seemed to like it, or at least not to dislike it. She came closer inquisitively. We teased that we would have to call her calf “Didgeridoo” because she kept having contractions every time the instrument would sound. We laughed and drank coffee and talked through different theoretical calf pulling strategies, no idea that within a few hours she would be dead.

At first it just seemed like she was having an average amount of trouble delivering. Probably just a big calf, we wanted to give her as much time to herself as possible before intervening. But after her water broke and more and more time elapsed without the slightest progress, we decided to bring her into the barn and start trying to assist. 

It was a big pull, not a malpresentation, but the bull calf was nearly too large to fit through her pelvis. Mike pulled him out slowly while I held her tail out of the way. There was a brief moment of relief once he hit the ground, eyes wide, covered in the yellow of a stressed too-slow birth, coughing, but clearly alive. It was a short-lived relief. The red heifer had prolapsed, so we had to quickly move the calf out of the way and get the med box to try to rectify her exposed uterus and stitch her back up. She went down while we were getting our shit together, and we realized quickly that we were in trouble. The race narrows towards the feet, making it very challenging to get a cow up once they go down. Had she been in an open area we could have rolled her onto her side to work on her, but as it was we needed to get her back on her feet to have any hope of fixing the prolapse, which was now one of the largest prolapses I’ve ever seen. We quickly opened the head catch and started putting all our effort into getting her up onto her feet, but she refused to budge. We had struggled and failed to get her to her feet for so long that we had paused, catching breath, trying to think of other options, when suddenly without warning she leaped up, faster than we were prepared for, and blasted through the open squeeze before we had a chance to close the front catch. We should have realized that was a possibility, however slim, and had someone ready to man the squeeze. But it was too late. We watched in shock as she sprinted wildly into the pasture, and in horror as she stepped on her prolapsed uterus, ripping it completely out of her body and falling to the ground. In the space of less than ten minutes we had gone from relief that her calf was alive and healthy, to the cold, nauseous truth that she was dead.

I feel like I failed her. 

We’ve doctored prolapses many times before with success. Her prolapse, while it was extreme, didn’t have to be a death sentence. If only I had thought to be on the other side of the squeeze and had stopped her from running out into the rain. If only we had thought through the structural pitfalls of pulling a calf in the narrow confines of the race and tried to pull her calf somewhere less shaped like a trap. 

Her calf is an orphan now. A bottle calf, dependent on us to feed him. I fell asleep laying in the hay with him at the back of the calving barn, in front of the space heater throwing vaguely warm air a few inches in front of its metal face. Every few minutes he would low to me “are you my mom?” and I would apologize into the darkness, “I’m so sorry, Didge.”

MARCH 17

A miracle has happened (maybe). A miracle born of two tragedies, but still. I’m counting them where I can. 

This morning as I was checking the heavy pasture, Mike was checking the lights and found a heifer that had escaped our notice when looking for signs of imminent labor. He found her down, with her calf only partially exposed, already dead. The heifer did not seem to have been struggling too long though, she still had plenty of energy and wasn’t paralyzed, so he brought her in to the calving barn, hoping we could at least save her.

Yesterday a calf lost his mom, this morning a new mother cow had lost her calf. We had to at least try to pair them together. 

The chances for success with grafting pairs in general are not great, and I’ll admit I was in a fairly pessimistic mood this morning after the failures of yesterday, but the timing was good and Didge was healthy and full of vigor, so I felt a sliver of hope.

Before we brought her into the barn I picked up Didge (a miraculous feat as he weighed in at around 90 lbs at birth, so we’re a very even match) and hauled him around a corner just out of sight from the heifer. Everything went smooth with the pull. As soon as the calf was out I brought Didge back into the tub and went to work covering him in the dead calf’s afterbirth and placenta. Undoubtedly an odd morning for him after I spent most of the night drying him off and trying to keep him warm, but then his short life has been strange so far all together. Mike moved the other calf out of the barn and out of sight before we released the heifer, and we stood back with fingers crossed. Theoretically this was as good as it gets with a grafting scenario. To the heifer’s knowledge she entered the barn with something stuck in her, we pulled it out, and when she turned around there was a calf there: looking and smelling like he had just come out of her. She sniffed him, and licked a bit of the placenta off, but quickly became distracted with possible escape options from the confines of the tub. Normal and expected, but still slightly disheartening. We decided to turn them out alone together into one of the small corral pens behind the barn with some hay and see if they would pair up under less stress.

At first it seemed as though our scheming hadn’t fooled her, she was a bit on the flighty side, and didn’t seem particularly captivated by the little red calf’s existence, but within just a few minutes there was a shift. Suddenly she seemed to accept that there was no viable escape from the corrals, and she ought to pivot to inspecting the little wet calf in the hay. We left the calving barn to tend to the rest of the ranch with higher hopes, and when we returned in the afternoon it was evident that the pair of them was truly a pair. She had licked him totally clean and was following him everywhere around the small pen, lowing to him when he would get too far away. She was proving to be one of the most attentive mothers of the heifers so far. We turned them out into the trap pasture this evening and despite her obvious desire to be clear of the corrals she waited for him and his stumbly legs and they walked out shoulder to shoulder.

I’ve taken to calling her St. Monica, the patron saint of Motherhood.

MARCH 18

St. Monica and Didge are thriving. A couple of heifers have successfully calved out unassisted, one easy pull. Optimism has been tentatively restored. Pac-a-sac snacks have been had in celebration. My bedroll cocoon is warm and we have a few hours to rest our tired bones and eyes before our night check. 

MARCH 21

The balancing act of maintaining the rest of a cattle ranch during calving season is a challenge. 

Early this morning I trailered out to backride the North 18 pasture with our intern and left Mike to tend Calving Camp, fingers crossed that it would be a quiet morning for him. 

We called the mob out of N18 a couple days ago, and moved them that same day but had to leave behind a few un-paired moms to find their calves. It was a  euphoric ride. We split up straight away so that Sting and I could sweep the far east and north sides of the pasture while Zack walked in the few that were on the south end. The range looked good, still a decent amount of grass left, and Sting is always a good solo partner. We found a few pairs in the northeast corner and a few more near the center drinker. All the pairs looked stout and healthy, and moved easily where Sting and I asked them to go. As good as it gets. A nice break from the uncertainty of the calving barn.

Mike called as I was driving back to HQ with bad news. It had not been a quiet morning for him and in addition to one successful pull/unsuccessful pairing he was struggling with another heifer and needed help. By the time I got to the calving barn it was too late. We lost the heifer and the calf. The other calf he had pulled is struggling to pair up with its mother, who does not seem to possess a single maternal bone in her body. We’ve tried all the tricks we know to kickstart her maternal instincts, but she refuses to be interested. Mike gave the calf colostrum early on, and now it’s seeming inevitable that we will have to continue giving him milk replacer. He took the bottle well, pivoting to seeing us as mom pretty immediately. I’ve started calling him Turtle. (He walks very, very slow.)

MARCH 22

Today, between pulling two calves in the morning (good presentation, just big, both alive and hopefully will pair up, though I don’t have high hopes for the polled red, hopefully her calf won't have to join Turtle’s ranks) and another born unassisted in the heavy trap before our afternoon/evening checks, it’s been a good day. 

MARCH 25

Calving season is life in constant dichotomy: days blur together in sporadic fits of slow waiting and sudden deluges of activity, when it goes well it feels as though everything is right in the world and you could not possibly be happier or more fulfilled doing anything else, and then you fuck up and lose a calf or heifer and that feeling crashes down around you like a late night storm-washing the meat from your bones until you’re bare and left with nowhere to hide from your own ineptitude.

Calving season is: new life, joy, success, confidence, feeling grateful and purposeful.

Calving season is: death, pain, failure, regret, confusion, feeling despondent and drained.

MARCH 29

Last night I had a dream that we were pulling a calf in pasture, Mike with his arms elbow deep in a struggling heifer, trying to find feet to pull.

“His feet are wrong,” he said to me.

“Like backwards?”

“No just…wrong.”

Shoulder-to-shoulder we pulled and pulled until finally it emerged, not a calf at all but a coyote. Canine nose slicked with blood and afterbirth it slid out of the heifer and into our laps. Before we could do more than gasp it stood and shook its coat, spraying us with wet droplets, and calmly slipped away into the grass, glancing just once over its shoulder at us before disappearing. 

“What the fuck,” dream-Mike said.

I woke feeling uneasy. Mike made us coffee and we talked about symbology and the unknown and the day ahead. I still don’t know what that dream meant. 

MARCH 31

Shaka (named for her notable crooked horns) popped out a little carbon-copy heifer calf in pasture early this morning. They are identical in every way. Same dark honey colored coat with white bellies, white paint-dipped tail and long white splotch along their spine. She was born straight into the merciless wind. 60 mph gusts intent on knocking her over every time she dared to try rising above the grass on her wobbly legs. I can’t imagine being warm and peaceful in the quiet of your mom’s belly one moment and the next being shoved into the cold screaming wind, relentlessly pelting you in the eyes with missilized dirt and grass while you struggle to figure out how knees work. Cattle are resilient creatures from day one.

Speaking, hopefully, of resilient creatures, Mike found a paralyzed heifer in the lights pasture this morning. She had obviously struggled through the night with a still-birth calf and by the time he found her the calf’s hips had damaged a nerve in her pelvis leaving her partially paralyzed. Last year we had one heifer with a similar situation and we brought her hay and water twice a day where she lay in the pasture for five days, rolling her over onto her off side to give her body some relief while she did her best to hook us, until one day we showed up and she was standing. This heifer seems slightly less hell-bent on life than that one, but hopefully after a few days of rest her body will also be able to heal itself.

APRIL 5

Several heifers in a row now have calved on their own. Huge relief. The couple of assists we’ve had to do have gone well. There’s a wordless rhythm of routine between me and Mike in the calving barn. We bring in the heifer, I walk her down the alley and into the race, closing gates behind us as we go, narrowing down to the squeeze where Mike waits. He catches her head and we fasten on the halter on either side of her. He hands me the lead over top of the race rail and opens the head catch. We walk her backwards down the race until it opens into the small “tub”. I dally her lead rope to the corner post of the tub with a quick release knot and we both climb in with her. I hand Mike the chains, he reaches in and finds the feet. If the presentation is normal, he puts the chains on and we start pulling, waiting until the heifer contracts and leaning our combined body weight to pull while she pushes. Alternating between pulling and repositioning the calf until it's all the way free. We pull the calf out of the way of being stepped on and release the heifer from her halter so they can pair up. Once they’ve successfully paired up we move them out into the small pen behind the barn and then into the pairs pasture. Smooth and satisfying.

APRIL 19

Lost another heifer. I really liked her. Pulled her calf in the alley with no restraints, just let me work on her right there. Whole uterine prolapse. Couldn’t get it back inside, something was punctured, bled out. Calf is alive but super weak, not sure if he’s going to make it. 

APRIL 22

We found a dead calf predated in the heavy trap this morning. Looked like it had been born in the night, probably not long after our mid-night check. We don’t have much trouble with predation typically—the coyotes are usually busy cleaning up the already dead, an important part of their ecological niche. The heifer seemed confused by the whole thing. She paced, lowing for her calf, and at one point traveled up to the calving barn where yesterday’s orphan calf answered her a few times. I thought there was a chance they would pair up and tried putting them together but no luck. 

APRIL 24

Pulled the pissy horned brindle heifer’s calf on my own today. Well, not on my own, I had Spider with me. I certainly would not have been able to help that heifer without Spider. She’s a flighty little thing, and not too shy to think about running over you if you give her limited options. Lucky that Spider is quicker and bolder than any cow I’ve yet to meet. We argued with her all the way through pasture, into the corrals, and into the calving barn. Spider waited patiently in the alley after I jumped off of her to run ahead of the little brindle to work the squeeze and catch her. I was clumsier without Mike, but got her haltered and worked back into the tub. I didn’t know how long the calf had been stuck in the birth canal but two feet were protruding with no sign of a head, and there was a good amount of blood. As I wrestled the chains on, I noticed the legs felt cold and I thought it was likely that the calf may be dead. The heifer kicked me in the knee (can’t say I wouldn't do the same in her position) and without anyone to anchor her she thrashed around with me for a while but finally stood still long enough to get a good secure hold on the calf and start pulling. Ended up having to use the calf-puller to get the head and shoulders through, but to my surprise the calf was alive. Her mother’s fiercely unfriendly disposition translated quickly to strong maternal instinct, and they paired up quickly. 

APRIL 27

Calving season is marked by long days entrenched in nature’s capacity for harshness. Covered in the proof of death—sometimes unavoidable and sometimes our fault—the world feels heavy, blue, and cold, no sound but the wind ripping violently through the dry grass and blood pounding in my ears.

What if we found her just a little sooner?

What if we had left her alone a little longer?

What if we had been able to get her onto her side?

What if we were able to reposition the calf and we just didn’t try hard enough?

What if she didn’t have to die?

The growing list of questions and second guesses is a wide chasm of alternate realities to dwell on that end in life instead of loss.

Sometimes the questions lead to answers, maybe not definitive, but at least educational. Those I can swallow. A lesson hard-learned is regretful but valuable—I’ll never forget it. But sometimes the questions are unanswerable. And those I have to figure out how to let go of, like the grass lets the frigid wind pass through it without being ripped from the ground.

Other days, or moments within days, the world is bright and golden and blindingly beautiful. The sun lighting the grass so brightly that it’s hard to look at. A new mamma cow licking her strong healthy calf so fiercely that I want to cry with happiness. Sleep deprivation may be largely to blame, but really I should just come to terms with the fact that I’m an overly emotional creature, sleep or no sleep.

Today we got some sleep. We woke late (for us) in our bedrolls in the calving barn, cocoons of wool and dust and stressful dreams. It had rained in the night and when we rode out onto the plains the air was still and the earth was damp and all the birds in the entire Texas panhandle were singing their praises to spring. Calves littered the plains—dark lumps still asleep in the grass and lively shapes leaping through the endless sea of gold. As we rode through them, I was overwhelmed with the feeling of privilege to have had a hand in their existence. To, in some cases, get to see them through the entire production cycle of their lives on the Frying Pan—from birth to branding, weaning, and eventually calving their own calves. Over and over the cyclical patterns of living with and for and by nature repeat themselves, and with any luck each time they pass by, I grasp a little more of their meaning, and learn enough lessons that spring can be full of more gold days than blue ones.