A little under the weather

Yesterday was a bit of a rotten day for me personally. I was sick (you don't need the TMI) and a big stronkin' weather front was blowing through. With blow being the operative phrase. The gusts and temps were both in the 50's, mph and degrees respectively.

Calves and a cow hunkering out of the wind.

Three calves were born and as high winds tend to make cows grumpy the tagging, banding, and vaccinating was a bit of a chore.

Cows and calves were in the south googie pasture and the west windmill wasn't making any water. The east one was doing okay but I'll have to get the west one sorted today or get the well people out to fix it.

On the other hand, yesterday was 120 days since surgery. I still got my foot, it's working fine, there's no infection, and I ain't dead. So for all my complaining it was a durned fine day.

As it turned out I didn't feel a lot better today. It was a good day for tylenol and orange juice.

The well people were out but I haven't had a report yet. I imagine they'll have to pull the well and replace the leather valves. Windmills are wonderful and they produce free water. If you don't count the expenses. This repair will cost a thousand dollar bill. Pretty reasonable, actually. Not free, but close!

At 3 p.m. another calf was born. He picked a nice day for it; the howling winds of yesterday had given way to stillness and occasional puffs of spring-smelling air.

We'll see what tomorrow brings.

Search and Rescue, Suchen und Retten

Some moving pictures with sound today.





I know what both of those helicopters smell like.

It's a good thing to know.

Corpsman Chronicles IX: Don't mean nothin'

After roughly an hour's sleep, they dragged me out of the rack. It was a little bit after 10 a.m. I was working nights on the roof, but getting dragged out of the rack was far from unusual on this deployment.

It was my third full deployment to the Mediterranean. I was an E-4 Hospital Corpsman assigned to one of the air wing fighter squadrons. I was a rated Naval Aircrewman and Rescue Swimmer as well, and the only aircrew rated corpsman in the ship's medical department. For a fellow who loved to fly and had chosen Hospital Corps C-School for the sole purpose of expediting a seat in the earliest possible NACCS class, my monopoly on medevac missions was a genuine good deal. Even though it got me dragged out of the rack from time to time.

I pulled on my dungarees and flight deck jersey, which were still standing where I'd left them, and headed on up to medical. Hmm, medevac in the works? Or is it another...

We were deep in the eastern Med, just over the horizon from Lebanon. A couple of weeks earlier the U.S. Embassy in Beirut had been bombed, killing more than fifty and wounding scores. We'd been busy then, and I'd drawn quite a few medical support flights. They were mostly resupply, and we never got close to treating any casualties. We flew a lot of medical supplies into Beirut International, where the MNF was located.

As I hammered up the ladder and headed aft down the second deck starboard passageway I wondered if something else had happened in Beirut. I entered medical and ducked into the admin office. The Senior Chief waved me into his cubbyhole. It was tight in the little office, and a skinny, mean looking Gunnery Sergeant was sitting in the only available chair.

"So you're an 8404 too," said the Senior Chief without preamble. "You've been busy." The Senior Chief was the senior enlisted man in H Division -- the ship's medical department. He'd only joined the ship at the beginning of cruise, replacing a Senior Chief who I got along with very well. This new Senior -- not so much.

I noticed that he was flipping through a personnel record, which was odd, this being sick bay, and that the record was my personnel record, which was also odd, because to the best of my understanding he shouldn't have been able to lay his hands on it.

"That's right, Senior, I went to FMF school while I was waiting for my seat at NACCS. Never served with the Marines though."

The Gunny cleared his throat, and when he spoke his voice came through a bucket of gravel. "Whydja go to Lejeune if you was gonna be an airdale?"

"Didn't want to paint rocks for two months Gunny." There was a flash of something in his eyes. Might have been amusement, might have been contempt.

The Senior chief rolled his eyes. "I'm sure you have your field uniforms on board," he remarked, raising an eyebrow.

"Of course, Senior."

"Well that's your uniform of the day. Shift into it and report to the Gunny in the MARDET spaces. You're going on a little trip."

On my way back to berthing to change I stuck my head in the Flight Surgeon's office. He saw me and held up his hands in surrender. "Not my fault," he said, "you're the only FMF qualified corpsman on board who isn't a fat alcoholic. Don't worry, it's just a supply run."

I must have looked lost, and the Flight Surgeon took pity on me.

"One/Eight (more properly 1/8, but you can't start a sentence with a numeral) just relieved 3/6 but none of them have had their plague shots. We're the only source, so you're going to deliver 1,500 doses. The airport has been getting shelled occasionally and you might get stuck there, so they want a qualified FMF corpsman."

That really didn't make any sense. What would be wrong with sending the vaccine with a MARDET grunt, or just kicking the box out during a quick helo trip ashore?

"Shit," I whined, "am I gonna have to give a thousand jarheads shots?"

"Nah," he said, "you're just the courier. Their corpsmen will give the shots. Don't worry, it'll be fun. They're doing assault landings. Just un-ass, deliver the vaccine, then catch the next flight out."

I have to admit that I perked up at the thought of doing an assault landing in a Phrog. That would be cool. But what was that about getting shelled? Firetruck. Well, I'd been around long enough to know that making sense is no requirement for a navy plan, and that if you keep volunteering for shit you're liable to get volunteered for shit. The upside was more flight time, an assault landing, stretching my legs ashore, and getting a first hand view of how the other half lived. It did sound like fun. For certain values of fun.

##########

Our happy band of brothers waited in the Air Transportation Office (ATO) compartment just aft of the Flight Deck Battle Dressing Station (FDBDS) on the starboard side of the island. A Lance Corporal (E-3), three PFC's (E-2), and myself. I was senior in rank, the Lance corporal was in charge. We were dressed alike in camies, flak jackets, and tin pots with cammo covers. Over the flak jacket we each wore an H-harness and web belt. Clipped to each belt were a canteen, a first aid kit, and two mag pouches holding three 30-round magazines. We were each armed with an M-16A1 stenciled with a white MARDET inventory number on the butt stock. The Gunny had tried to issue me a Colt 1911A1. It's what corpsmen were always issued.

"I'd rather have a rifle, Gunny."

He looked me in the face and held my eyes for two very long heartbeats.

"Get Doc a rifle, Pags."

We made our way to the foul line to port and forward of the island while the helo was on approach. The Marines had their game faces on and I tried to emulate their look of hard competence. It was a little tough to pull off with a white Styrofoam medicine container tucked under my arm.

The Phrog was from the HMM squadron in the LPH supporting the Marines ashore. As it landed I noted the slim, menacing barrel of an M-2 .50 caliber machine gun poking out of the forward starboard crew compartment window. It was painted in (somewhat) glossy Marine green with big white side numbers and full color stars and bars and squadron decals.

s

We boarded via the rear ramp and I noticed the Marine aircrew were wearing white-taped helmets and regular LPA/SV2 flight gear. No flak jackets. Nothing but nomex and thin aluminum between themselves and any ground fire that came their way.

We lifted and headed east for the beach. Twenty minutes later we made an assault landing at Beirut International Airport. The big helo flared steeply on approach, tandem three-bladed rotors pounding the thick Beirut air into submission. As the mains contacted the tarmac we were up and shuffling toward the ramp. The nose wheel touched and with the Phrog still taxiing forward the crew chief shouted "Go!" We went.

Off the ramp we turned left and ran in a crouching shamble toward a jeep with a tee shirt-clad Marine in the drivers seat. Behind us the Phrog pounded back into the air and accelerated down the runway, then yanked left and away.

I looked around. We'd landed at the "Y" of intersecting runways. The airport was less than impressive; something you'd expect to see in rural Mexico. Larnaca had a more impressive airport.

s

We boarded the jeep. I was a bit surprised that the Lance Corporal gave me the privilege of the front passenger seat while he and his PFC's piled into the back. The driver glanced at us and roared down the taxiway without a word.

We'd traveled fewer than 50 yards when the driver slammed on the brakes and baled out. "Fuck! Cover!"

It was only then that I realized the sound I'd been hearing was the Hollywood whistling roar of incoming artillery fire. I was a little slow off the mark, and the Marines handily beat me to the shallow ditch alongside the taxiway. They flopped on their bellies while I crouched down and looked back at the jeep. The white Styrofoam med container sat on the floor of the vehicle where I'd left it.

Three big arty rounds landed about a mile away. They weren't very impressive, just big puffs of dust. I stood up straight, intending to rescue the container of vaccine. It was in my charge, after all, and my only assigned job was to deliver it safely.

"GET THE FUCK DOWN, DOC!" It was one of the PFC's. I hesitated for a moment, and then something different happened.

I've tried to describe the experience before, both orally and in writing. It's been more than thirty years and I still haven't found the words. I'm not certain that they exist.

The sound of the second batch of incoming was different. And it was much, much more than mere sound. It was a shrieking, immediate presence that instantly became the entirety of the universe. In that moment, that's all there was. My mind was utterly paralyzed. It wasn't fear, it was simply the inability to function at any level higher than the brain stem.

Fortunately, my brain stem knew just what to do, and it flung my body face and belly down into the ditch.

I'm not entirely certain, but the impression I had then -- which remains burned into my memory -- was that the close round hit before I hit the ground in the ditch. I didn't know it until much later but two other rounds landed about a quarter-mile away on the other side of the runway.

The explosion of the close round didn't sound anything like an explosion. It didn't sound like anything at all, really, because it wasn't sound. I know intellectually that there was sound involved, but that was such a trivial bit player in the experience that it had exactly no meaning at all. The shrieking presence that had become the universe simply and instantaneously expanded. Then, just as quickly, it was gone. I was on my back. My helmet was gone. My eyes and ears and nose and mouth were filled with dust and the reeking stench of explosive. I no longer held my rifle. I felt a quick stab of shame. You never drop your rifle.

I rolled over and looked around. Five helmetless dirty-faced Marines were looking around too. None of us were hurt. None of us were holding our rifles. After some indeterminate time we got up, dusted off, found and donned our helmets and picked up our rifles. Looking around, nothing seemed to have changed. The airport still looked like a third-rate airport. The sun still shone from a lovely blue sky.

The jeep looked different though. I couldn't figure out what it was, but something about it was wrong. We cautiously approached it, crouching, heads on swivels, acutely alert to the possibility of more incoming. The Styrofoam box was on the ground now. I picked it up and examined it. I opened the top and checked the contents. The box was pristine, the vaccine intact.

"Well, fuck," said the dirty-faced, tee shirted Marine.

The driver and passenger seats had disappeared from the jeep. They were just gone. As was the steering wheel and shift levers. Only tiny, shiny-ended stubs remained where once before had been seats and controls. Otherwise the jeep was completely intact.

Another jeep roared up and two Marines baled out, both Corporals.

"You guys okay?" We were.

"You the doc? That the vaccine?" Yes and yes.

"C'mon then." One of the Corporals waved to my companions. "You guys stay here, I'll be back for you in five minutes. And stay the fuck down."

##########

An hour later the dirty-faced, tee shirted Marine escorted the MARDET Marines and I to the passenger terminal. He wore his cammy blouse over the tee shirt this time. I'd learned that his name was Shitbird and that he was a Prive, an E-1. There was a story there but I didn't ask.

As we waited for the Phrog to arrive we talked a bit of Marine talk. I was mildly surprised to realize that I'd developed a bit of the lingo. Not a lot, but some. We five from the carrier were a lot more comfortable together now than we'd been in the morning. It was nothing to remark on, it just was. We talked about women and getting drunk. No one said a word about artillery. Our close call didn't really mean anything.

The Phrog came in and made a normal, non-assault landing near the base of the control tower. I shook my head, wondering why. We climbed aboard, and twenty minutes later were back aboard the carrier. I still had time for four hours of rack ops before I had to show for night-check on the roof.

##########

It would be a quiet night on the roof. There would be no scheduled flying. The last recovery began at 2030, and most of the dozen planes aloft would get daylight traps or pinkies. As I prowled the flight deck just before recovery I noted that, as usual off the coast of Lebanon, most of the aircraft were armed. The Alert Intruders and Corsairs were loaded with Snakeyes and Rockeyes, and even a couple of Vikings had cluster bombs hung on the wings. The Tomcats were loaded two-two-four with Phoenix, Sparrow and Sidewinder missiles. The Alert SLUFs wore 'winders, too.

The Air Boss announced a fuel spill on EL-1, and I hastened over in case my services might be needed. Behind me the first F-14's began to land.

As it turned out, the spill was minor. And after a few minutes they sent the elevator down to the hangar level where up jets would be swapped for down jets in the endless reshuffling of aircraft and space.

Behind me another Tomcat slammed down in the gear. There was a sharp, grating sound, enough different than the usual sound of an arrested landing that I began to turn to look.

For the second time this day a larger-than-life presence appeared. Something pushed me hard on the right hip. It was less than a blow but more than a force. It spun me completely around and deposited me on hands and knees near the safety wires guarding the absent deck edge elevator. A moment later I saw a big splash in the water a few hundred feet off the starboard side of the ship. I realized instantly that I was unharmed, and scrambled to my feet, slightly embarrassed. "WTF?," I wondered. I reached down and discovered that my Unit-1, or aid bag, was missing. I usually wore it strapped to my waist and riding on my right hip. And that's where it had been a moment ago.

A yellow shirt Chief grabbed me. "You okay Doc?" A moment later the Air Boss' voice boomed out over the 5MC. "YOU OKAY DOC?"

"I'm fine," I yelled to the Chief as I waved a big thumbs-up toward Pri-Fly.

"ARRIGHT, BEAR A HAND!" Yelled the Boss. "LETS GET THAT TOMCAT OUT OF THE GEAR AND DO A FOD WALKDOWN. WE'VE STILL GOT PLANES TO RECOVER!"

I looked to where a crowd was forming around a Tomcat in the landing area a few dozen yards away. It was cocked over on the stub of its right main mount, wheel and part of the strut missing in action.

"Shit," said the Chief, I thought that main mount killed you Doc!"

"Nah, I'm fine," I replied. "I need a new Unit-1 though."

##########

A few months later we were all back on the beach and settling down to shore side routine. The squadron had a post-deployment awards ceremony and I wasn't surprised to find I'd be an awardee. Doubtless a gold star in lieu of a third NAM. Nice to be recognized for doing an adequate job, but no big deal. The ceremony would be equal parts pain in the ass and amusing. If you've ever seen U.S. Naval aviation units in formation, you know what I mean.

I was wrong, though. It was a big ceremony and included the other airwing Tomcat squadron as well as the Intruder and Hawkeye squadrons. The outgoing CTF-60 himself, a Rear Admiral no less, presented the awards. Everyone who'd made the deployment got a Navy Expeditionary Medal. A lot of guys got a lot of awards. It had been a pretty eventful and important deployment, and we'd done a lot of good work.

When it was my turn to front and center I got the NEM and NAM I'd expected, but I also received the Navy Commendation Medal with Combat V. "...for conspicuous gallantry while delivering emergency medical supplies...under direct and withering enemy heavy artillery fire...coolly safeguarding critical supplies even as the vehicle he was traveling in was destroyed..."

The Admiral was nice enough not to remark on my dropped jaw and the drool running down the front of my Dress Whites.

##########

I understood that the combat award I received had nothing to do with combat or valor or courage. It was about service and branch rivalries more than anything else. I feel a little bit dirty about the award, but not terribly dirty. I'd been hit with the poopy end of the stick enough to realize that in the navy, things balance out in strange ways. I'd been caught in a bullshit explosion, but it was rose-scented bullshit.

When I think of that day and that award one fact is ever present. In October of that year 241 of the Marines and Sailors at Beirut died real deaths in the real world at the hands of real terrorists. Which puts the bullshit in perspective.

From time to time over the years I've thought back to that interesting day when I had two near-misses. What was the significance? What did it all mean, that I'd been so close to death twice in a span of only nine hours?

Well, like a Chief once told me, such things aren't near-misses. They're Misses. Period. And if they mean anything at all, understanding the meaning is far, far above my pay grade. It's an amusing story, but that's all it is.

There is a season

The little guy didn't make it. He died about 3 p.m., and I wept bitter tears.

It often surprises people that I mourn and sometimes weep when my cattle die.

I think a lot of people think that since they're destined to be food, that I think of them only as meat. I can understand that, and I realize that a lot of people have never raised livestock, have never been responsible for their care and well being.

Yes, they are destined to be food. That is their purpose both domestically and in the wild. Cattle are prey animals; they provide sustenance to predators, including men.

The first thing you learn in this business is that livestock, while being future food, are also living, breathing animals; individual beings, and not just walking steaks. That while they feed and clothe you and put some jingle in your pocket, they also depend on you to treat them right; to care for them and nurture them. This is your responsibility, to provide for their well being while they are in your care. To provide for their well being as real, genuine animals, not as some anthropomorphized caricature of an animal.

In an ironic way the people who assume that I think of my cattle only as walking food can make that assumption only because they think of cattle as walking food.

That's not a bad thing. How could anyone understand unless they've raised cattle? The idea is simply not the same as the doing.

Anyway, he died peacefully. He had no pain. He lived three full days and part of a fourth. He was warm and dry and comfortable, he had plenty of milk to drink, and he was nurtured and cared for by a very attentive mama. His life was short but it was full for all of that. And though it would mean nothing to him, he was able to share his story and his short life with people from all over the country. All over the world, really.

When I wept at his passing I was really weeping for myself. I did my best, knowing full well that the odds were against his survival, and losing the fight made me very sad. I did so want to see him larking about with the rest of the calves. It just wasn't to be.

So I dried my tears in the knowledge that he had a good but brief life, and that I'll remember him more than I'll remember any of the other calves. Life's like that. It's the way it is, not the way you want it to be or wish it was. And that, in part, is why it's such a wonderful journey.

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to reap;

A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;

A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

He hath made everything beautiful in his time: also he hath set the world in their heart, so that no man can find out the work that God maketh from the beginning to the end.

I know that there is no good in them, but for a man to rejoice, and to do good in his life.

And also that every man should eat and drink, and enjoy the good of all his labour, it is the gift of God...

For that which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts; even one thing befalleth them: as the one dieth, so dieth the other; yea, they have all one breath; so that a man hath no preeminence above a beast: for all is vanity.

All go unto one place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again.

Who knoweth the spirit of man that goeth upward, and the spirit of the beast that goeth downward to the earth?

Wherefore I perceive that there is nothing better, than that a man should rejoice in his own works; for that is his portion: for who shall bring him to see what shall be after him?

Premie, windmill, walking the menagerie

The premie calf that was born Monday is doing quite well again today. When you're dealing with a calf that's struggling you always wonder what you'll find in the morning. You hope you'll find a live, thriving calf but nature doesn't worry much about your hopes and desires. I've seen a lot more struggling calves survive than not, but that doesn't mean that a lot of battles haven't been lost. You never know for sure what the morning will reveal.

This morning the little fellow was parked on the southeast slope of a little hill, snoozing away while his tummy worked on digesting breakfast.

I spotted the cow first, contentedly cropping grass a few score yards away. Her obvious contentment told me that the calf was almost certainly okay. If it was failing or dead she'd have likely been quite agitated and standing over it, trying to figure out what to do.

See him on the slope? You can click the image to enlarge.

I stopped by the calf to see how he was doing. One sign that all was well was his regular breathing. He was deeply asleep and his breathing was neither too rapid nor too slow, just a perfect in and out.



His mama came over to make sure I wasn't getting up to any mischief.

A little while later I took another video to send to my farmer friend in Herefordshire, England. We trade videos and pictures via WhatsApp, which I find delightful and amazing. For all the world's cares, we still live in a remarkable time.



This is what Herefordshire looked like this morning.



Bit of a difference, eh whot?

##########

I finished checking cows and calves, tagging a couple of new arrivals along the way.

Then it was time to drive over to the South Googie, a 300 acre pasture bounded on the north by I-80. The grass in this pasture is predominately smooth brome, which was seeded into former farming ground about 30 years ago. The brome is quite palatable early in the season, but much less so after only about a month of growth. We like to get on it hard in the spring, both to get use out of it and to weaken it a bit to encourage native prairie grasses to move back in. It's working, but the process will take a few more decades. Nature doesn't move at our pace.

I opened the gates to allow the cows and calves to wander on over. They'll get there over the next couple of days and will enjoy the taller, more abundant grazing. I checked fence around the pasture and it was all in good shape. I'll have to nail up wire in a spot or two but overall the winter was kind to fence this year.

I turned on the windmills as well, and waited for them to begin producing water. It takes a while in the spring, for the leather check valves have to soak up and swell before they'll seal. Eventually both wells were gushing forth with cool, clean water.



##########

As I finished checking fence I met Mom and her menagerie as she motored along on her daily walk. The dogs just love to walk with Mom; it's the high point of their day.

Especially if there are puddles to play in!

Nona the Wonder Dog

Red, Jeter, Nona

A couple of years ago mom was crippled with degenerative arthritis in both hips. She was in constant pain and, in all likelihood, dying. The human body just can't survive that kind of pain.

After getting her new hips, though, she regained her lease on life. These days she does daily 4-5 mile hikes. And these are prairie hikes, which are nothing at all like walking in a park or on a sidewalk. She can hike most women my age into the ground. As I said, it's a remarkable time to live.

Here's hoping that you're all having a wonderful day!

Premie!

We had an itty-bitty calf born the other day. It was a raw, cold, wet day. A miserable day to be born, at least in human estimation. As I've noted before though, you only come into the world once, so miserable or not, it's your beginning.

The cow had the calf in a relatively sheltered spot. On the one hand, it was out in the middle of the prairie, with no trees or buildings to provide cover from the elements. The temperature was 35 degrees, it was spitting a stinging cold rain, and a brisk, chill wind was blowing from the north, seemingly straight off the Arctic ice pack.

On the other hand, the cow chose a place on the south slope of a hill. Three feet above the ground the wind was awful. At the calf's level, though, it was the lightest touch of breeze. And on the southerly slope the calf was completely exposed to the radiance of the sun. Never mind the cloud cover; the sun's infrared rays were washing the new arrival in radiant warmth.

The calf -- spittin' image of his mama -- was tiny though.

As I sat there in the pickup looking at the pair my estimate of birth weight began at 60 pounds, but the more I looked, the more that estimate shrank. Fifty pounds? Maybe. Probably closer to 45.

The calf was still damp, but he was curled up with his head resting on his forelegs. He had milk bubbles on his chin, and his eyes were open, bright, and looking at me. He'd obviously been up and nursed. He was sheltered from the wind and rapidly drying off. He was alert and not shivering. All in all he was in very good condition.

I stepped out of the pickup, intending to tag, vaccinate and band the little guy. Mama stepped closer, lowered her head, and shook it emphatically. In cow talk she said, "Nope, not gonna happen!"

I was okay with that. The calf wasn't that old, the weather was crap, and it was far more important that he digest colostrum and get his metabolism going than that he be tagged.

Still, I was more than a little bit concerned. He was such a tiny calf! The first thing I thought about was the possibility that he might be a twin. He was the right size, and it's far from uncommon for cows who have twins to pick one to nurture and abandon the other.

I combed the prairie, which made me think if this...



But I could find no sign of an abandoned twin. When I did the math I discovered that if he wasn't a twin, he was probably a single. Who says that a kollidge edjmakashun is worthless?!?

He was so tiny though!

So far this calving season the babies have had birth weights ranging from 55 lbs. to 140 lbs. This new little guy was tiny even compared to the petite little 55 lb. heifer who had been, until this guy came along, the smallest.

Most likely, then, he'd come early. He was almost certainly a premie.

Which left the question of what to do. I had two choices, really. I could take the calf back to the barn and get it out of the intermittent cold rain. In the barn I could easily monitor his condition, tube feed him if needed, put him in a bed of clean straw and provide external warmth from a heat lamp. As interested as the cow was in her new baby, she would probably follow right along.

The downside to that idea was pretty simple. The disruption would cause a lot of stress to both cow and calf.

Looking at the calf, he was already mostly dry. He'd been up and nursed. He was alert and awake and curled up comfortably, conserving body warmth while he digested colostrum and and booted up his metabolism. His mom was very interested in him and concerned enough to fight to protect him.

So no, the best option was to leave the pair where they were, and let them do what they were best fitted to do. At this point, interference on my part would do more harm than good. That might change, and I'd need to keep an eye on the little guy, but unless he took a major turn for the worse he was better off right there on the prairie.

This morning the sun came out and the world began to warm up. The little calf was doing fine. I'd seen him up and nursing several times yesterday, and he seemed to be the warmest, driest calf on the place.

I decided to go ahead and tag and vaccinate the little guy. If he was as premature as I suspected, his testicles would likely still be parked up in his abdomen, so I probably wouldn't be able to band him. Which would be fine.

As I drove up to the calf mama came on the run from where she'd been grazing about 50 yards away. I'd hoped she'd be more relaxed, but I was prepared for the alternative. I might be old and fat, but I was able to nip out, quickly snatch up the calf, and jump back into the cab of the pickup.

As I snatched up the calf my birth weight estimate tumbled a bit more. He weighed about 35 lbs.

Still, he was bright and alert and thrashed his legs about with a lot of power for such a little guy. He had fresh milk bubbles on his chin and when he bawled in protest he had milky calf breath. He was warm and dry and very much alive. Still a bit weak and wobbly when compared to a full-term calf at three days, but more than healthy for a premie.

I tagged him and gave him his shot, but as I'd anticipated his testicles were still up in his belly. Time enough for that in the future.

While I'd tagged and vaccinated him inside the pickup his mama had grown confused. She couldn't find her baby, and there was no reason in her world to imagine that he might be inside that white drivy-thingy. So she charged off toward the nearest group of calves, which were laid up in the morning sunshine half a mile away.

I drove along behind her. As we bounced along the little calf looked around the inside of the pickup. Another good sign.

The cow stopped at the group of sunning calves and sniffed each one anxiously. I coasted up, got out, carried her calf over to her, and lay him down in the warm grass for her to discover. Which she promptly did. He lurched to his feet and sought her udder. Soon his little tail was wagging, a sure sign that he was getting milk.

We'll see how it goes. So far, so good, but premies can have setbacks. He might make it, he might not. Today it looks like he'll be okay.

Cold!

Cold and snowy today, with a brisk north wind.

Cold!

Of course it's not really cold when compared to winter. It got up to 42 degrees just after lunch, and overnight the mercury only fell to 33. In the winter that's warm. Flip-flops and shorts weather.

But when compared to more pleasant springtime weather, say 70's and 50's with sunshine and light breezes...

Yeah, feels cold as hell.

The snow is melting as soon as it hits the ground. It's moisture, it's spring, and that's just good enough for me.

It's still cold though.

Here's something you don't see every day.



This either.



Hope you had a great day!

The hurrier I go

Busy, busy, busy. It's 1930 local and I'm just getting back to the house after a long day. Nothing major, just the usual springtime calving stuff.

Here are a couple of antelope videos. Three young males who were grazing on winter wheat an hour or so before sundown the other evening. The only remarkable thing about them is their proximity to the road, their seeming curiosity, and the way they stuck around to check me out. Antelope do seem to be highly curious but also highly cautious. They tend to shy away from roads and seldom stand still when a vehicle approaches.





This one is of me tagging a new calf. Video by my brother the new cattleman. It wasn't as exciting as it looks.



And here is the new cattleman tagging his first calf. The calf got in a good one. Sorry about the poor video technique; I was trying too hard not to laugh to do a proper job.



Finally, calves at play.



Coolish and windy today with intermittent rain showers and occasional warm sunshine. Good day to be a rancher.

Guess we'll see what tomorrow brings.

Getting closer

Things are starting to come together for my idea of hosting some Two-Gun matches on the ranch. This morning I put three mock-up stages together and ran them with video.

The purpose of such matches? Well, among other things...



The first stage is called Raising Arizona.



The purpose is to rescue a baby in a car carrier from bad guys. Zombies, terrorists, irs agents, whatever. Start with holstered pistol and rifle on table. Run to table, engage two barrel targets with two rounds each rifle. Safely table the rifle. Run to first set of flags and engage paper targets with two rounds each pistol, then to second set of flags and engage paper targets with two rounds each pistol. Then dash to the baby, pick it up in its carrier, and run back to the start table. On the way back engage each paper target with one shot each from one-handed grip, keeping hold of baby/carrier with the other hand. Back at the table place baby/carrier out of harms way, then re-engage barrel targets with two rounds each rifle. This ends the stage. Time today, 2:02.



The second stage is casualty rescue.

Shooter starts seated in passenger side of vehicle. Pistol holstered with six rounds in mag, empty chamber, rifle in vehicle mount between seats, loaded magazine and empty chamber. From seated position engage closest paper targets with two rounds each pistol. Change mags, step out of vehicle and engage the other paper targets with two rounds each pistol. Decock and holster, run to casualty and drag him to cover behind the vehicle. Retrieve rifle and from cover at rear of vehicle engage steel targets with two rounds each. Safely down rifle, simulate treating casualty, retrieve rifle and re-engage steel targets with two rounds each. This ends the stage. Sorry about the wind noise. Time today, 2:18.



Stage three is vehicle ambush. Shooter starts seated in drivers seat with hands on the wheel. Pistol is holstered with empty chamber. Rifle is unloaded and zipped in case on passenger seat. At the start signal shooter bales out of vehicle with cased rifle. From cover shooter uncases and loads rifle, then engages steel targets from prone position at rear of vehicle, two shots each. Shooter transitions to front of vehicle, re-engaging steel targets from over the hood, two shots each. Shooter runs to cover behind barricade, re-engages steel targets from prone position at right of barricade, two shots each. Shooter moves to left side of barricade and re-engages steel targets from prone position, left handed, two shots each. Shooter then engages near paper targets with pistol, two shots each. This ends the stage. Time today, 3:11.



So. Old fat guy running 2-gun stages isn't a pretty sight. My marksmanship wasn't up to par. This is why you do it, to stress yourself and make shooting and operating the weapons a challenge.

I had a malf on stage three shooting lefty. Let the ejection port get too close to the barrel and stovepiped. I fought through it, recognized and cleared the malf, and re-engaged. That might have been my best performance of the match.

All in all, it's a lot of fun.

April fools!

April Fools day, and very much NOT in the spirit of spoof posts, I offer the following. I'm quite busy today with ranch stuff and my be travelling to Cabela's for to turn perfectly good money into an infernal machine.

Anyway, cool, damp morning...



And a calf hollering for his breakfast...