my mind awakes to the sound of my alarm. With one sharp movement the alarm is silenced. Leaving behind the sounds of thin walls rattling in the morning breeze. I pull myself up in bed and feel the trailer shake, the creaking bedpost absorbing my shifting weight. I breathe in, hoping all the mucus in my head will drain down. If I sit still and do not jump out of bed, I find, I can hear the refrigerator humming and birds twittering a morning song.
On a good morning, I sit in bed and read. I let my ears fill with the coming sounds of the day and my mind venture to long lost wilderness. I at last rise with a clearer head, sinuses and all. After gathering all that I need from my humble abode I open the door and step outside.
Each morning I am graced with a perfect view of the Sangre de Christo Mountains. Their peaks reaching high into the heavens. No snow garnishes the peaks today. Few clouds float in the sky. Within a few steps of my door, I can hear the constant roar of our well pumping away. The water gushing out, navigated down a long ditch to a series of tributaries that feed water across the meadow.
The family's youngest dog is often the first to greet me as I make my way towards the front door. She jumps enthusiastically all over me, bouncing off like I am a jump-board. The gravel under my feet adds a crunch to my travels. The yellow cat is sometimes basking in the morning rays and gives me a hello meow as I approach the porch. After defending myself well enough from the jumping puppy I am able to wander into the house.
Good mornings are exchanged. The kettle is reheated. The coffee pot hisses. The rising sun blinds us all through the panoramic window. Today is a slow morning. We all take some time to lavish in the morning light eating our eggs and tortillas. The objectives for the day are discussed before the phone begins to ring.
With several different conversations going on in the room. I collect the dishes and begin to wash each by hand. The clinking of wet dishes mixes with the voices in the room and the dogs pacing around ready for their breakfast. I dry my hands and turn to the stove and the bag of milk replacer powder. I measure out what is needed for a pint of liquid. Mix with water and heat. Then I reach into the refrigerator for the jar of raw milk. Cool in my hands I pour out a pint worth. The replacer temperature is not quite warm enough. I wait.
After adding the raw milk and rising the temperature up a bit, I head out to where the calf is staying. She is nervous when I arrive. Her mother had died six days before. An unexpected loss for us and her. She is but a month old, but has quite a fight in her. We were unable to catch her out in the field. We figured she had learned the art of stealing milk from other moms since her energy level stayed high during the week. Her skittish energy this morning assured me she must be feeling better. Yesterday evening we could tell her "guts were bad." Her body was happy to have some milk, but in the five days without her mother she had lived off of grass and stolen milk, which disrupted her little rumen, which has yet to fully develop.
After having to corner her effectively to catch her little chin I was able to introduce the red plastic nipple to her mouth. After a second or so she began to realize/remember that this bottle provided her some tasty milk. She swallowed the quart rapidly. I massaged her hip in a circular motion, mimicking the tongue of a mother cow. I had to leave her but did so after a long scratch.
I drove the two-wheel-drive truck back to the house. Its speedometer belt whirling around as it kept speed.
The day ended up being hot. The cow herd was ushered to a new paddock and the bulls were trekked across their water deprived landscape to a new section. The bulls we hope will feast on weeds and chico brush and our scattered hay will add some organic matter in spots so some microbial life might emerge in the baked soil.
At mid afternoon, the sun was not yet hidden behind the in coming cumulonimbuses. We headed south, down the county line road. The Chevy stirring up dust. Along the way the air smelled like spring to me. What that is made up of is questionable, but the wind winding through the cab was sweet. We left behind pastured meadows and brush for crop circles and bare ground. The potatoes had a last appeared from their hills. Some center pivot sprinklers were spraying away, while others sat motionless. Some of these sprinklers will never throw another drop of water out onto the ground. The price of water becoming too high and the ever dropping aquifer limiting use.
A line of trees meets us in the distance. We turn. This patch of land is bisected by the Rio Grande River. Today I would not see the river. The yearlings were waiting for us. Their stomachs full. The graze line was even and plenty of residue was left behind to cover the soil and expose new grass shoots to light. Our cow dog gathered the herd tight and pushed them through the gate. Each cow ducking its head low to the ground ripping off a new bunch of grass.
As the yearlings grazed away at their new paddock we took our time cleaning up the old amoeba like fence we had put up four days before. The reel cranked easily in my hand making a rhythmic clicking noise with each turn. With good tension on the line at all times the wire evenly rolls up. After laying some new wire down along a short barbwire fence we headed for home.
This American Life accompanied us home. Potato fields passed into open meadows and the air had hints of water vapor mixed with it. The sky was dark. Across the great valley we could see rain falling to the East. Virga, rain that evaporates before hitting the ground, was all that covered our due North approach. Each afternoon so far in June has built up some summer rain activity. We hope one day some will fall on us.
After dinner and a shower I walked outside. The light of the sun had passed below the mountains, but the ridges were illuminated with an afterglow. I thought of home--the Blue Ridge. During sunset these tall Rockie Mountains transform into what reminds me of ol' Appalachia. You are unable to tell that there is still streaks of snow peaks and that they rise up 10,000 feet or more.
My trailer welcomes me home. I take off my boots and set them aside and listen to the puppy dog roving around the yard. Her collar jingles. She barks a little and rushes off in some direction. In pursuit of a ghost coyote, I guess.
My tired limbs accept the recumbent position. I turn over setting my alarm. Close my eyes. Somewhere in the distance a few coyotes sing their nightly song. Maybe they are planning their great takeover of the valley or singing praises to mother nature.
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