I've Been Busy ... Gone ... Working ... or Just Lazy

I had great intentions last year to post my Daunt to Dillonwood column every week, having it appear on Friday morning after the column comes out on Wednesday.  I had the Recorder's approval, and all was well.  Except for the human factor.

I got busy with fires last summer on July 4th.  I got my first call to go to the Ranch Fire over near Lake Isabella, actually west of Greenhorn Summit, that day, and away I went.  From then until October 1st, the day I got released from the King Fire (de-mobbed in fire-talk - means demobilized), I was on one fire or another for 35.5 days.  It was a struggle to get the text for the column to the paper sometimes, much less getting it posted to this blog.

Part of the problem is that I can post the text but not pictures from my iPad.  I have to go in on my laptop computer to post the images.  And, since I never take the laptop to fires, only the iPad and my iPhone, well it means one more stop.

Obviously, if I were really on top of this, I'd post the text whenever I could, and go back and get the pictures put up when I get home.  Of course, once Fire Season was over, I had plenty of time.  But the human psyche doesn't work that way, does it?

So, now I'm going to give it a try once again.  But I beg your indulgence.  I'm only human.  If I were half as good as the dogs think I am, I'd ... well, you know what I mean.

Laughing at Both Dogs - D2D.7.23.14

This was Tinker Bell's view as she looked toward the house and safety.  I tried to catch more of the cattle on the road and in the way, but couldn't get my phone out fast enough.

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Beau, the big Boxer, and Tinker Bell the Chihuahua, are exactly the same color and are great buddies.  Beau goes with me most everywhere, often riding in the back seat of the pickup when I have to run errands.  Of course, in this hot weather he and Tink stay home in the outside kennel because it's just flat too warm to take him along.  But when I go to the pasture, I take them both.

One recent morning I was down in the pasture carefully tending to the irrigation, especially important during this drought.  I noticed both dogs on the ridge below the ditch, looking around, exploring, and in general, just being dogs.  Recently Tinker was frightened by the cows checking her out, and coming toward her, heads down, sniffing.  Since she was with me in the field, I kept an eye on her for she was a long way from the house.   

Finished with irrigating, I headed for the barn to feed hay.  The cattle began moving toward the gate to the corrals.  Since they were all above the ditch, they had to cross the bridge on the driveway to get to the corral.  The result was a line of big cows walking down my driveway, heading straight toward the dogs, especially one small dog.

When Tinker discovered this development she decided it was high time to abandon any further exploration and make tracks for the safety of the house.  Of course, if she'd stayed with Beau below the ditch, the cattle would have lumbered over the bridge, turned to the east and would soon have been in the corral.  She could have then had the whole road to herself to go to the house.

Not realizing this, Tinker raced toward the bridge.  Like a running back dodging the entire backfield, she zigged and  zagged, dodged through the moving forest of bovine legs coming down the road. 

With hay foremost on their mind, the cattle ignored the speeding brown flash.  Several times Tinker stopped for a instant, changed directions to go around four more moving hooves and legs.  Watching her broken field running, I had to giggle.

When she finally escaped the sea of legs, she suddenly stopped and looked back at them in amazement.  It seemed as if she said to herself, "Wow.  That was close.  I was almost crushed." 

Of course, the cattle weren't in the least bit interested in her as they headed for their morning ration of hay.

Beau gave me a great laugh the other day and I'm pretty sure I insulted him.  When Sharon and I eat meat with bones, he and Tinker each get one to chew.  I had already shared one bone with both dogs earlier, and only had one more good-sized bone so I called Beau.  As he turned the corner into the kitchen, he ducked his head and dropped his first bone on the floor.

As it rattled to a stop, I noticed it was much cleaner than it had been a few moments earlier.  Anxious to get the proffered new bone, he ignored the dropped bone but only until he turned back toward the couch.

Suddenly he had a dilemma.  Two bones.  One mouth. 

His mouth went from one bone to the other, back and forth, making a sort of snuffling sound as he chased the bones across the vinyl flooring.  I laughed at his frustration and unsuccessful efforts. 

At the edge of the carpet he finally got them close enough to grasp both in his teeth and triumphantly carried them to the couch.

Once on the couch he stared back at me with a disgusted expression, the ends of both bones protruding from his mouth.  When he turned toward me, his expression accented by the stubby ends of the bones made me bend double in gales of laughter. 

Good taste prevents me from writing what his expression seemed to be saying.  I'm quite certain it wasn't polite.

Of Cattle Guards and Stubborn Calves

Faithful readers of this column know that my Charolais bull, known far and wide as Ghost, has a stubborn streak.  He is so persistent he will actually get himself hung up in a barbed wire fence if he decides he wants that special bite of grass on the other side.  Over the past few years I've had to extricate him from precarious positions several times. 

When he gets himself tangled in a fence, he waits patiently for me to find and release him.  As I approach, usually laughing and talking to him, the old bull turns and looks impatiently over his shouder.  The expression on his face can only be described as, "It's about time you got here.  Hurry up and get me out of here."

One morning a few days ago I discovered his stubbornness and persistence may well be a genetic trait.  It appears Ghost has passed this on to at least one of his calves, also a little bull.

A cattle guard is designed to allow vehicles to pass through a fenceline, without having to open a gate.  The time-honored method of construction is to dig a pit, then cover the hole with pipe or railroad iron to support the vehicle.  When cattle see this, the darkness, or at least the space beneath the grate does not appear secure enough to walk on so they stay in the pasture and not in the yard.  At least that's the design concept.

This idea has been used for a long time, and works so well that in some areas I've even seen a cattle guard painted on the roadway.  A wide black strip across the road is painted on the asphalt, then white "rails" are painted accross the black, giving the appearance of a pit below the surface.  And sure enough, the fake cattle guard works very well.  Smart old cows, and experienced bulls, will eventually figure out the painted surface is not a dangerous cavity beneath skinny rails.  That animal may need to be moved to another field before the whole herd follows the knowledgeable ones across the non-existent rails.

Incidentally, one can always spot an amateur "cattle guard driver."  They slow down and bump-bump-bump much too carefully over the rails.  Experienced country folk know the proper way is to maintain at least "driveway speed" and just skim across the tops of the bars.  If the tires have time to drop, the car bumps along, shaking your teeth loose.  Simply drive quickly enough to let the tires go smoothly from rail to rail.

But I digress.  On a recent morning I went outside to open the gate for Shiplay and discovered a large bull calf, obviously one of Ghost's calves, standing in the cattle guard reaching carefully between the rails to nibble on the dry leaves blown into the pit.  When I stepped toward him, he quickly and effortlessly stepped out the hole, and scampered away toward the other calves.

This bull calf, obviously out of Ghost, appears to have inherited some of his daddy's stubbornness and persistence.  He's standing on the bottom of the pit, legs carefully in between the rails, nibbling on leaves down inside.

As the father of three grown sons, I often find there are great similarities between raising cattle and boys.  When the calves think they've gotten away with something, it's not unusual to see them run away, kicking up their heels in glee.  As I walked toward the young bull calf, and the calves gathered around to watch him, he hopped out of the cattle guard easily and they all dashed down the hill, kicking and bucking.  Sure sounds like a group of little boys to me.

Tinker and The Big Mean Cows - D2D 7.9.14

These two characters are great buddies, and often snuggle up this way on our couch.

            Two dogs reside on our hilltop with us.  One is Beau, a six-year-old Boxer, and the other is Tinker Bell, a four-year-old Chihuahua.  Both dogs sleep in the house, and usually join us on our king-size bed at night.  Their interactions with each other, with us, and with the cattle, squirrels, birds, rabbits, bobcat, and coyote can be entertaining.  Sometimes that interaction can even be dangerous.

During the day and the evenings I put both dogs outside on a regular basis.  Beau has no problem taking care of his business outside, but Tinker is a whole different story.  I swear she holds it when I take her outside so she can go inside on the rug, either in my office.  Sometimes she leaves me a surprise in my bathroom which make for an interesting late night trips in the dark to the toilet.

In the summer, I often have irrigation of my green pastures to tend to first thing in the morning.  When I go outside, I often take both dogs with me.  Beau usually goes with me into the pasture, and quite often Tinker will go down the driveway as far as the ditch, which is about half way down the hill.

As I work with the irrigation I always keep an eye on Tinker Bell, and watching for the presence of wandering coyotes. A few months ago I was working inside the barn.  My attention was drawn to a disturbance on the road.  One of the dogs barked and yelped frantically. 

I rushed out the front door of the barn, and thought I saw three dogs on the road.  Hey, wait a minute I don't have three dogs, only two.  Included in the animals on the roadway was a hungry coyote.

I began shouting as loud as I could.  My cries stirred Beau into action.  Barking, he tore after the coyote.  Scared for her life, the chihuahua yipped continuously as she raced up the road toward the safety of the house as fast as her short legs would carry her.

Because of Beau’s barking the coyote abandoned the chase and disappeared over the hill.  With the combination of an upset Boxer chasing him, a very noisy human at the barn, and a rapidly disappearing and yelping dog racing up the road, it was time to look for a quieter breakfast.  The coyote must have decided a rabbit wouldn't have reinforcements and might be a better idea.

When I caught up with the little dog at the house, I learned how close she came to being the coyote’s morning repast.  On the top of her shoulders was a half-inch slice from a slashing coyote canine tooth.  One tooth caught her hide, the other must have missed.  A quick trip to the vet, a thorough cleaning of the wound, three stitches and an overnight stay and she was good to go.

After that experience, when Tink goes with Beau and me down into the pasture, I always watch for a predator passing through the area.  Even after Tinker Bell’s narrow escape, the marauding coyote is not her greatest risk. 

My cows are used to seeing Beau pass among them, but Tink is tiny and arouses their curiosity.  Curious cows will investigate and sniff at the little creature.

This morning I was irrigating below the bridge when I heard the Chihuahua barking ferociously.  I looked up quickly, fearing something dangerous threatened her. 

Instead of a hungry coyote, two curious cows slowly walked toward her, heads down, sniffing and trying to see this little bitty critter.  To Tinker these two large animals posed a tremendous threat.  At ten pounds she was dwarfed by a creature at least eighty times her weight.
She raced up the driveway toward the safety of the house, yelping over her shoulder at those big mean cows.  Once safely at the yard, she paused in her flight and gave two last indignant barks.  Her pointed comment made, she haughtily ducked under the fence.  The cows returned to grazing, unimpressed.

The Coveted and Purloined Grain - D2D.7.2.14

The morning after the last column appeared, it became time for Sharon to leave for work.  Walking toward the car we noted Spirit standing at the gate as she does when she wants her grain.  Sharon asked if the other cattle were far enough away to let her eat her breakfast.

"Oh," I assured her, "she'll eat so fast they'll never get here in time."  Spirit eats very quickly, and usually has the rubber feeding pan empty in a very short time.  So, I gave her a big scoop. 

I didn't take into account the speed of Ghost, the Charolais bull.  This big guy was not far from the gate leading into the back field, and stood at least one hundred yards away.  He was even looking the other direction.  I thought by the time he walked all the way to the house, Spirit would have time to eat.

When Sharon leaves for work I always carry her lunch out to the car and put it in the rolling box she takes into work, then place her travel coffee mug in the cup holder between the seats.  As she goes down the drive I wave goodbye before returning to the house.

As Sharon disappeared over the top cattleguard, I started into the house, only to find Spirit standing on the side of the kennel well away from her feeding pan.  Ghost had arrived in a big hurry.  Spirit is much too shy and not aggressive enough to try to protect her grain.  Of course, Ghost is used to getting his way anywhere he goes. 

It became obvious that Ghost had walked quickly across the pasture, shoved Spirit out of the way, and was busily munching down on the grain.  Well, so much for the idea Spirit would get to eat unimpeded.

My first thought was to open the gate, shoo Ghost away, then let Spirit come back and finish her breakfast.  Ghost is not overly aggressive, but at 1,200 pounds he doesn't let much stop him. 

As I stepped toward him, he backed away a few steps, but definitely let me know he wasn't happy about it by bobbing his head in what I recognized as a threatening manner.  I've been around cattle enough to know he was just as liable to step forward and try to buffalo me, as I was doing to him.  I watched him carefully and shouted at him.  This seemed to hold him at bay, at least for the moment.

Spirit saw her opportunity, came back around the tree and hustled up to the pan.  I glanced over my shoulder to see how she was going, only to find the pan was actually empty.  She had eaten a little at first, but Ghost had finished it off.  Reluctantly I stepped back through the gate and let him return to lick the pan clean.

Standing at the gate watching Ghost lick the bottom of the pan, I spied the red-eyed cow, the one Sharon had talked to.  She was hustling up the hill toward Ghost.  She intended to get in on the treat. 

The following pictures tell the whole story.  She wanted just a taste, but Ghost would have none of it even though the pan was empty.  After all, he is the herd sire.

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Here are the sequential pictures of Ghost and the Red-Eyed Cow.

 The Red-Eyed cow hurries up to the feeding area, but Ghost butts her away.

So she went around to the other side to see if that worked any better. 

Even though there is no grain in the pan, Ghost is not having any part of sharing with her.

  She butts back a little and gets her nose into the pan, only to find it empty.

Getting In On A Good Deal - D2D 6.25.14

All of these feeders were filled a day and a half ago.  

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In past years, by mid-July the tiny birds were coming to the sugar-water in big numbers, especially first thing in the morning and last thing at night.  But not this year.  The hummingbird feeders are already going full force.

In past years I could count on having to fill the almost two quart feeders at least every other day, sometimes once a day.  About two or maybe three weeks ago I noticed I was finding empty feeders every other day.  Interestingly though, I haven't seen the big bunch of birds early and late.  They seem to be coming to the porch feeders all during the day, though the morning and evening periods are certainly busy.  

The Tule River is sure running low.  Last summer, the flow under our bridge was nearly stopped by mid-July.  Several irrigation ditches, carrying water along the foothills on both sides of the river, take their adjudicated water out before it gets to the bridge.  If the river further up does actually stop flowing, of course the ditches will not have water to take out, and when that happens there will be no water for irrigating pastures or anything else.  

In my case, when the irrigation stops, the feeding of hay begins, lasting at least until we can begin watering again.  By the middle of September the Sycamore trees should begin to slow their use of water, which may allow a little water back in the river bed.  

Recently I was resting on the bed watching TV when Sharon came in, laughing.  "I have to fill you in on what's going on out here."  Obviously, something interesting had happened with our animals, and she was anxious to share it with me.

You who read this column on a regular basis know about Spirit, our three year old heifer who thinks she is simply an oversized dog rather than a smallish cow.  In fact, a young man who has come and helped around the ranch several times calls her the "horned dog" for she certainly does sport a rather impressive set of horns.  

Spirit was raised around the house, even sleeping on our front doorstep for a time when she was little.  When we tired of cleaning manure off the front porch she was turned into the pasture with the rest of the herd.  But she continued to come to the gate for her daily ration of grain.  And that continues to this day.  

First of all, Sharon loves to interact with her, and second, it doesn't hurt the little heifer's physical condition in the least.  She doesn't seem to get too fat, so there seems to be little downside to this process other than the cost of grain.

But this afternoon, Sharon was working in the dog kennel.  This is a chain link pen for our pampered pooches when we are gone from the house.  Built on the edge of the patio, the outside of the kennel looks directly into the pasture.  

Spirit had been fed her ration earlier, so had gone on her way to graze on the green grass.  As Sharon straightened up in the kennel, she noticed one of the adult cows easing up to the pen, watching her carefully.  The cow stepped a step or two, and paused.  Then another step or two.  Noticing the cows' actions Sharon spoke to her.  "So, you think maybe I'm going to give you something special like I do for Spirit."  

Of course, the cow didn't answer but kept stepping closer and closer to the gate.  Obviously, she wanted to get in on this feeding opportunity.  

Even though she was tempted, Sharon didn't give her any grain.  Sharon said, "I'd be feeding the whole bunch of them pretty soon."

But it was interesting how the little cow knew exactly where and how Spirit got her grain treat, and was emulating her little friend.  Of course, how long Sharon holds out on giving the cow grain, is a whole different question.  

I thoroughly expect a conversation such as this before long.  "Honey ... would it be too wrong to give that one little cow some of Spirit's grain?  Do you think the others would come up too?"  

Sigh.

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NOTE:  If you would like to listen to the above, it will also be found on Central Valley Business Times.  Doug said he was going to put it on the front page (so it would be immediately visible at that address) and on "Lighter Side" in the upper right corner area.  

http://www.centralvalleybusinesstimes.com

School Days - D2D 6.18.14

This picture was taken about 1950 just before Dale (on the right) left to go into the US Coast Guard.  That would mean I was almost exactly the age he was when he rode his horse to school every morning.  (yes I said it would be color … sorry, the original is B&W)

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When my brother Dale started school in 1935, the nearest school building was along the south side of the Tule River roughly across from the west end of todays Tulare County Dump site.  The Rural School was on the south side of the river, but the highway going from Porterville to Springville is on the north side. 

The closest access from the highway side was over a swinging bridge across the river near the school.  The teacher did have a choice though.  They could cross the cable bridge, or drive.  There were two routes to the Rural School. Either drive across the river on the bridge directly south of the Old Globe Church then work your way around to the school house, or cross on the bridge above the Dump and come in that way.  Either way, it was at least two or three miles further, and involved a bumpy drive down an lenghty access road from Globe Drive.  Most chose the bridge.

Every weekday morning the teacher drove from Porterville, parked near the north end of the swinging bridge, then crossed on the narrow cable bridge to reach the grounds of the Rural School.  Of course once in the schoolhouse, they had to start a fire, make sure the floors were swept, as well as any other pre-class preparation.  During winter months, it was entirely possible both the morning crossing and the evening return trip to the waiting car would be made in darkness.  On a stormy night, with the Tule River bounding along beneath the floor of the bridge, that must have been a rather harrowing trip.

When my brother turned six years of age, it was time to go to school rather than go with Dad around the ranch.  Dale's home was on the hilltop where I live today, which is approximately one mile from the Rural School location.  Typical of most old country schools Rural did not have a bus to gather up the children.  It was up to the parents and the children to make arrangments for transportation to school morning and night, or walk if they lived close enough. 

Living on a ranch where a horse was a reliable means of traveling the hills to work cattle and care for the ranch, it was not surprising Dale's chosen method was horseback.  Every morning my father would saddle the youngster's gentle old horse.  When my brother was ready to leave, it was up on the horse and ride away. 

The trip to school wasn't as simple as riding along a country road however.  There were fences to go through, and that meant he had to dismount, open the gate, lead the horse through the gate, closed it back again, then climb back onto his horse.  And this wasn't just once or twice.  As I remember the story he had to go through either four or five gates to get onto the school grounds.  I seem to remember Dad made sure there were handy rocks or stumps near the gate to make getting on easier for a six year old.

Arriving at the school, he rode into the barn, the original "parking lot" for vehicles used to get to school.  Hopping off once again, he loosened the saddle a bit so the horse would be comfortable for the day, pulled off the bridle and hooked it over the saddle horn, tied the horse securely, and threw him a little hay.  Then it was school time all day.

In the evening, long before the teacher made their way back across the swinging bridge, my brother would untie his horse, slip the bridle back on, tighten his saddle, and climb back aboard for the trip home.  And of course, he had the same gates to traverse before he arrived safely on our hilltop. 

To my brother, this wasn't a hardship. It was just another day on the ranch.  He and Dad had ridden together all over the ranch, along with his Uncle Bud Allumbaugh, for at least a few years.  Knowing his boy would have to make the trip to school before long, I'm sure Dad made certain the youngster could handle it.

Before he started second grade, the old Rural School was absorbed into the Springville Union School District.  Now school was at least 2.5 miles from our home.  As a modern, forward thinking school, Springville had a bus to transport their students.  So the trip to school for the rest of Dale's school days, though not as romantic as his First Grade year, was as simple as walking to the end of the drive and catching the bus.