I'm staying with my brother Charlie on his 300+ acre ranch. He was up with the roosters and gone before I rolled out of bed. He left early because he is “working out.” When Charlie says he "works out," it means he's packs his tools, loads his truck and heads to someone else's place where he builds fences, digs holes for septic tanks, welds gates, and does all manner of back breaking work.
Charlie & Rudy take a break.
He's 62 years-old, has two artificial hips, a colostomy bag--the result of colon cancer--and runs his ranch all on his own. Oh, sure he has Rudy, a sharp-eyed, fleet of foot red Border Collie, but no hired man to help. Don't get me wrong: Rudy is invaluable. Last winter, while my brother was feeding his 150 head of cattle, he slipped and fell on the icy ground, and the hungry Herefords crowded around him. Rudy was there in a flash, keeping those bovines at bay until Charlie could get up, untrampled. Rudy has light colored, almost hazel eyes, eyes that would be perfect for a therapist, and even when he's loving me up, he's got an ear cocked for his master. At a mumbled word or a hand signal, he's off to do Charlie's bidding. Rudy goes everywhere with Charlie--to town and the bank, the range, the hay field, and to his outside jobs. They are a package deal.
Charlie "works out" for cash because he has big bills to pay each month: the power bill, the water bill, the cost of fertilizer, parts for his massive John Deere tractors, and he has to keep the 300-gallon gas tank filled up. He doesn't pay attention to politics, but he watches the price of gas especially during the summer haying season because an increase will impact him all year long. And not just his "bottom line," but his body. Higher production costs means the need to "work out" more.
Montana Uber
There is a check on the table from table from the Missoula Livestock Exchange. He sold 9 head of cattle on the 17th of May, 69 cents per pound. Normally, he doesn't sell cattle until the fall. Cattle are his cash crop and that's where he gets the money for the massive machinery that allows him to keep his part of the Jocko Valley green and lush. The lush grass is tended meticulously, grows, and gets converted to dry hay, which feeds the hungry cattle, which he sells to feedlots in Nebraska, which garners him checks--which keeps the whole thing going and going.
Long ago, I decided I would not work in the fields. The unrelenting labor destroys your body. But when I do come home, I cook, clean, and do his laundry. Yesterday for supper, I fried four medium-sized elk steaks, made potato salad, and steamed broccoli. We ate most of the elk, but he saved a goodly amount for Rudy. This morning I rummaged around in one (yes, he has more than one) of his full-sized chest freezers and took out a chicken. He raises chickens, which he butchers and freezes. I'll roast it with our mom's cornmeal stuffing. There is leftover potato salad from yesterday. When a man does hard, physical labor for 12-14 hours a day, the cook doesn't have to worry about having too many starches.
I'm having two fresh eggs for breakfast this morning. I'm sipping coffee and watching the clouds descend over McCloud Peak. Light rain is on the way. There is a red-tail hawk perched on the power pole by the barn, waiting for a negligent gopher to dash out of his hole and try to cover too much ground. The magpies, black and white flashes, patrol the corral, and the red-winged black birds trill and sway on the tops of tall grasses and bull thistles.
And that's the morning report from Arlee.