What Happened to Empathy and Reason?

Since I first started writing the Foothill Agrarian blog (16 years ago this month), I’ve dedicated this space to building community. Initially (and almost exclusively), I wrote about farming and ranching in the Sierra foothills. Occasionally, I’d take on a more controversial topic, but mostly my posts focused on the challenges and joys of trying to raise sheep and earn at least part of my living doing it. On helping my neighbors understand the good, the bad, and the difficult of being a shepherd. Over the last two years, however, most of my posts have described my experience with caregiving and grief. I’m astounded that my posts have been read more than 494,000 times since February 2009. This is my one-thousandth post.

While I’ve tried to write about difficult topics (none more difficult than those I’ve discussed since 2023), I’ve mostly shied away from politics. My focus has always been to build up my community - I’ve largely avoided argumentative essays. But today, I find that I am compelled to speak out about the topics below.

Social media has the ability to both build up community and tear it apart. Increasingly, platforms like Facebook and X seem focused on the latter - they are either echo chambers for confirming our personal worldview, or shouting matches where facts and nuance don’t matter. I’m choosing to disengage from these platforms, at least for now. Maybe for good.

I realize that many of my friends may disagree with what I’ve written below. To those of you who are close enough friends to have my phone number or email address, I hope we can talk about our perspectives. To those who are casual friends only on social media, I realize that you may decide to unfriend me over these perspectives. I’m entirely fine with that - I firmly believe that the solutions we need to these issues won’t be found in a Facebook post.

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I spent this past week in the company of the brightest rangeland scientists and range managers in the world. Scientists from the best universities on the North American continent. Scientists from federal agencies like the Agricultural Research Service and the U.S. Geological Service. Range managers from the U.S. Forest Service and Bureau of Land Management (BLM). I listened to research talks on how sheep grazing can be used to manage invasive species and reduce fire danger. I talked to range conservationists who are participating in (and sometimes leading) collaborative efforts with ranchers and environmentalists to ensure that grazing remains part of federal land management. I learned about new tools that ranchers are using to adapt to the impacts of wildfire and drought.

This morning, many of these scientists and managers found themselves fired through the action of a federal “agency” that has never been authorized by Congress, let alone by the U.S. Constitution. They were fired simply because they were vulnerable. Because they were still in their probationary period. Not, as the emails they received suggested, because of performance problems - all of the people I know who were fired had consistently received positive performance reviews. Reviews that they can no longer access from their personnel files.

I’ve spent most of my professional life working on issues related to rangelands. Being a westerner, many of these issues have involved federal agencies like the Forest Service and BLM. I’ve lived through the “Cattle Free by ‘93” movement, President Clinton’s Rangeland Reform ‘94 initiative, home rule movements in Nevada and elsewhere. I’ve seen the federal rangeland and research work force expand and contract through the efforts of six administrations. This time is different. This time it is short-sighted, arbitrary, and mean-spirited.

In my experience, when a new president takes office with a desire to reduce government spending or change policy direction, they’ve done so thoughtfully and strategically. I have not always agreed with this change in direction, but there has always been a deliberative process. Is this program relevant? What will we lose if we cut that agency? What will we gain?

These cuts have not been thoughtful. As one friend remarked this week, they’ve used “a giant meat cleaver to cure a problem that requires a scalpel.” They’ve been implemented with the greatest degree of meanness possible. Federal employees have been told they are underperforming and lazy - living off the public dole - simply because they chose civil service as a career.

Several of my friends have urged me to “wait until the dust settles - don’t jump to conclusions.” I’ve been told, “let the process play out - they’ll learn that some of what they’ve cut is important to their constituents.”

I’m struggling with this advice. In the first 3-plus weeks of this administration, the “dust” seems to be the objective. Chaos is the strategy. Thoughtfulness - and empathy - seem to be in short supply - indeed, we are told that thoughtfulness and empathy are the antithesis of bold action and the “will of the voters.”

I object. I know that President Trump won the last election. I know that some of my friends voted for him. I also know these friends to be thoughtful and empathetic people. I hope they can see how wrong this approach is. I hope they’ll say something.

And so I’ve been thinking about what I can do. What I can say. I know my small voice won’t have much of an impact on national policy, but I think I can make a difference in my chosen profession. And in my community.

In 2002, Sierra College (a community college in Placer County) published Standing Guard: Telling our Stories, which shared the personal stories of Japanese Americans from Placer County (and throughout the West Coast) who were sent to concentration camps after President Franklin Rosevelt signed Executive Order 9066 in 1942. At the invitation of my friend and fellow farmer Howard Nakai, I went to the book release event at Sierra College’s Rocklin campus nearly 23 years ago.

Howard, who took over his family’s fruit orchard near Penryn as a teenager, had been imprisoned at Tulelake. A U.S. citizen at the time of his internment, his story was one of the first-hand accounts of those dark times included in Standing Guard. Sixty years later, Howard spoke at the Sierra College event about what it felt like to be sent away from his community simply because of his ethnicity and the color of his skin. But what stuck with me most about his talk that evening in Rocklin was a story of community. Howard related how his Portuguese neighbor had taken care of his farm during the war. Of how the refrigerator in his house was stocked with cold beer and steak when he finally returned home. Of how it felt to actually have a farm to come home to.

While there were Japanese families who lost everything when they were sent away, Howard’s story was not unique in Placer County (or in other farming communities). Both of my daughters participated in the Future Farmers of America chapter at Placer High School. On the front wall of their classroom, an incredible handmade mosaic of the FFA emblem - made entirely from vegetable seeds - has hung since the late 1940s. This mosaic was made by Japanese families over the course of a winter shortly after World War 2 ended. They presented it to the Placer High agriculture teacher, Frank Bonito, who had cared for their farms during their imprisonment. I’m grateful that current Placer FFA members share that heritage.

Mr. Bonito must have been an amazing person. I’ve also learned that he expanded the Placer High FFA program during his tenure to include students of all ethnic and racial backgrounds. He invited the first female students to join the Placer FFA chapter. Another former Placer High agriculture teacher told me that if you look at the records of State Farmer Degrees and American Farmer Degrees from that period, Mr. Bonito left his mark on an entire generation of Placer County students, farmers, and leaders.

Now, as I read news reports about legal immigrants being detained, of a new internment camp at Guantanamo Bay, I’ve wondered what Howard Nakai and Frank Bonito would be thinking if they were alive today. More importantly, what would they be doing? I wish I could ask them both.

The virtual communities we’ve created through social media have had many benefits. I can talk to (and learn from) shepherds all over the world. I can stay in touch with high school and college friends who I wouldn’t see otherwise. But social media, at least for me, has some critical negatives, too. Social media allows us to amplify the shrillest voices amongst us. We can be rude, disagreeable, and mean without looking each other in the eye. For every upside to a virtual community, at least lately, there seems to be two or three downsides. I am going to step back. I’m going to focus on the communities where I live and work.

I suspect Mr. Bonito and Howard Nakai didn't use the terms “diversity” or “inclusion” to describe their approach to living and working in the Placer County agricultural community. But based on my interactions with Howard, and what I’ve learned about Mr. Bonito, empathy and mutual respect guided their interactions with their neighbors. These are principles I’ve tried to live and work by. These are the principles that I admired and appreciated in my community during Sami’s illness and passing. And these are the principles that it pains me to see abandoned in our current public discourse.

Putting these words down, however, is just the first step for me. Living the principles of empathy and respect for ALL people in my community is far more important than just writing about it. I know that I’m imperfect in this regard, but I keep working at it. Rather than demonize those with whom I disagree, I hope to provide an example of tolerance and acceptance. Of thoughtfulness and empathy. I hope to speak up more than I have in the past, especially on behalf of those who have no voice. I hope to live up to the example of community provided by people like Howard Nakai and Frank Bonito.

Laughing at Myself. And Feeling Isolated.

Late Monday afternoon, I felt like I was coming down with a cold - I had that weird taste in the back of my mouth that seems to come before a sore throat. Tuesday morning, the sore throat had intensified. And I’d developed a lovely cough. By the following evening, I had the chills - even though I’d cranked up the wood stove enough to make it 75 degrees in my living room. I was sick.

Wednesday morning, I awoke to discover that my throat was even more irritated. My cough persisted; I found that some coughs were (as my doctor says) “productive” - I call this “coughing up a lung biscuit.” Regardless of the terminology, I seemed to be producing copious amounts of phlegm.

Sami used to tease me about moaning and groaning when I was the least bit under the weather - she figured I wanted to make sure she knew I wasn’t feeling well. She was probably right! But I can now confirm that I moan and groan even when there’s nobody else in the house to hear me. I suppose this makes me wonder about the tree that falls in an empty forest.

One of the unexpectedly difficult things about moving from Placer County (where Sami and I had lived for 30 years) to Calaveras County is the realization that my support system has changed. In Auburn, I had friends I’d known for the entire 23 years we lived on Joeger Road who I could call if I really needed something. Having worked in rangeland livestock production during that entire time, I also had friends in far-flung places (here and abroad) who would help (who did help during Sami’s illness) when I needed something. But now, all of my friends seem far-flung. I have to keep reminding myself that I’ve only lived in Mountain Ranch since early October - and I’ve travelled a fair bit of that time. I’m starting to meet my neighbors and make friends. But this week, I felt isolated. I felt alone in my house with my dogs and my phlegm.

This sense of isolation, I know, comes with living in a more rural community. Placer County has a population of more than 400,000 people. Calaveras County is barely a tenth that size. I’ve never minded being alone (even as a kid). I’m learning that it’s more difficult to be lonely.

Among the things I’ve realized I miss about my life before Sami’s illness and passing is the sound of a busy house. Of Sami talking on the phone. Of our end-of-the-day recounting of the day’s frustrations, victories, and laughs. Of waking up first to enjoy the quiet time alone in front of the wood stove, knowing Sami would join me shortly. These days, the quietness of waking up alone remains until I leave for work.

I don’t regret moving - I’m glad to be closer to my family and to be living in a smaller community. I’m happy to live in a place where we might get snow (and where, tonight, we’re finally getting rain). As my friend Jean Allender told me had happened for her, being in a new place has allowed me to recall the happy memories of my life with Sami more readily. But there are times when I feel incredibly isolated. Times when I envy my daughters for the people around them - even though I know that they struggle with Sami’s loss as much as I do. But there are also times, like this week, as I was fighting off a cold, when I feel very alone. Like a tree falling in the forest with nobody there to hear it.

The What and the Why are Important. So is the How!

Last week, I was invited to help with a prescribed fire at the University of California’s Blodgett Research Forest. I’ve had a bit of experience with broadcast burning, but never at this scale (we were hoping to burn 40 acres) and never in this kind of timber. The goal of the fire was research-related - part of a long term study at Blodgett - but there were practical purposes for burning, as well. By consuming some of the surface fuels during the winter, we hoped to take them out of the summer wildfire equation. In other words, yesterday’s fire will make Blodgett Forest more defensible during wildfire season.

Prescribed fire, necessarily, takes a great deal of planning and knowledge to implement. But it also takes on-the-ground knowledge. And hard work. As I was dragging a drip torch back and forth across the slope, I realized that I needed to be aware of many things - of where the receptive fuels were, of my spatial relationship with the other people lighting the fire, of the obstacles in front of me. And of the fire around me. In other words, I became more aware of the skill necessary to put fire on the ground safely.

Before we started the burn, my colleagues Rob and Ariel talked through the conditions - how they expected the fire to behave, what they would do if the unexpected happened. I was struck (again) by the similarity between prescribed fire and stockmanship. Escaped livestock don’t necessarily do the same damage that escaped prescribed fire can do, but planning - and communication - minimize the risk of both. Again, however, the actual work still needs to get done. The animals need to be moved. The fire needs to burn.

Driving home, I thought about these parallels. I’ve been working with another colleague on a policy brief regarding the use of prescribed grazing as a fuel-load reduction tool. I’ve helped others write technical bulletins about preparing for wildfire. I’ve spent much of my extension career focused on the science behind grazing management, fire mitigation, and climate adaptation. The “what.”

As an extension advisor, I’ve also focused on the “why” - why we need to reduce fuel loads. Why we need to provide rest from grazing to increase forage production. Why we need to think about non-lethal predator protection for livestock.

However, I realized last week that I’m most interested in the “how” - how do we accomplish this work? How do we manage sheep to reduce fire danger? How do we protect livestock from predators? How do we make our landscape more fire resilient? And I came to the conclusion that it’s more than more than “workforce development” - it’s developing a relationship with a particular piece of earth. An interdependence between people, communities, and the environment. And it takes skill.

Despite selling most of my sheep, I still see myself as a pretty decent shepherd - as someone who has the knowledge and skills to keep sheep alive, to produce a lamb and a wool clip every year, to manage rangeland vegetation with a grazing animal. But I’ve also tried to learn other skills necessary to living in my little piece of the Sierra foothills. I’m not a logger, but I’ve tried to learn how to run a chainsaw and fell a tree safely. I’m not a sawyer, but I’m learning how to operate a sawmill to utilize the trees that I drop as an amateur logger - or the trees that fall during big storms. I’m not a prescribed fire expert, but I’ve tried to learn the skills necessary to use fire safely to make my property more fire safe.

In my work, I’ve realized, I need to know the “how” before I can teach the “what” and the “why” - I need to know what it feels like to work sheep all day. What it feels like to lose a ewe to a coyote, despite my best efforts at protecting my sheep. Last week, after spending a day burning at Blodgett, I discovered I knew what my 57-year-old knees would feel like after sidehilling a steep ridge with a drip torch.

I’m not suggesting the scientific underpinnings of adapting to our changing climate are unimportant. They are critical. But adaptation will take more than research. We need people who know how to run a chainsaw. We need people who can build fence, herd sheep, or doctor cows. We need people who know their patch of the planet as intimately as they know their own skin. We need hard work. Day after day.

Two Years

Two years ago today, a Friday, I was likely at work in my office in Auburn. My calendar from January 6, 2023, says “Emma Home!” - she was midway through her sophomore year of college. Lara had been home; she’d left to return to New Mexico just before the end of December. I was looking forward to my upcoming sheep husbandry field day in mid January (it rained incredibly hard, but we still had a great turnout) and our driving trip to visit Lara in Las Cruces. As I sit in the kitchen of a new (to me) house on January 6, 2025, I can’t quite wrap my head around how much things have changed in just 24 months.

Several days ago, I tried to write down all of the significant events of the last two years. Sami’s illness and ultimate passing. My decision to sell most (and ultimately all) of our sheep - at least for now. My mom’s dementia diagnosis. Sami’s celebration of life. The decision to transfer to Calaveras County, where I’m doing the same job (UC Cooperative Extension Livestock and Natural Resources Advisor) in a different set of counties. Related to the change in jobs, the decision to sell our property in Auburn and buy a property in Mountain Ranch. The actual move (of all of our household goods and ranching equipment). Totaling my Toyota Tacoma on CA-20, and buying a new truck in late November and early December. Traveling to see our daughters in Idaho and New Mexico multiple times. Experiencing difficult first (and now second) anniversaries - of our wedding, of Sami’s birthday, of Sami’s passing.

I realized that the previous 24 months absolutely wore me out.

I write all of this not to seek sympathy, but to acknowledge what these last two years have been like. In January 2023, I was the extension livestock advisor for the county I’d lived in for 29 years. I was the county director, too, leading a staff of wonderful folks. I was a sheepman - Auburn’s own sheepherder, in lots of ways. And I was Sami’s husband (as I had been since August 4, 1990). Looking back from January 2025, I can’t quite fathom what life was like two years ago. I can’t really remember what I expected the rest of my life to be like.

Today, 24 months later, I’m none of these things. For the first time in 20 years, I will not have any lambing ewes this spring. I’m still an extension livestock advisor, but in a new set of counties. I’m nobody’s boss. I’m nobody’s life partner. 

I’m not sure where I belong. I’m not sure who I am. I’m not sure what (if anything) brings me joy at the moment. I’m lonely. I’m sad tonight. I wonder if moving (and leaving the community Sami and I were part of - part of building) was a mistake. I’m realizing that as I write this, my leg and back muscles are tense. I realize that anticipating something (like Christmas, or traveling to see my daughters) is much easier than the aftermath. Going on a trip to see them is far easier than coming home. Similarly, decorating my new place for Christmas was far easier than putting Christmas away.

I’m profoundly exhausted.

Some days, I can focus on the positive parts of my life. I’m the father of two incredibly strong young women, in whom I can see both Sami and myself. I have a wonderful sister and brother-in-law (and their adult kids) who have helped me navigate these last two years. I live in a beautiful place on a property that I own outright. I have a job I enjoy, and that I think I’m reasonably good at performing.

Over the last 24 months, I’ve done a fair bit of reading (and thinking - and writing!) about grief. Some describe grief as a stone that you carry in your pocket - and that as time goes on, and you get stronger, the stone feels lighter. But the stone is with you for the rest of your life. I’ve heard others describe grief as a box with a ball in it, and with a button that causes pain. When your grief is fresh, the ball is big, and so it rolls around and hits the pain button frequently. As time goes on, the box of your life gets bigger, and the ball of your grief shrinks - which means the pain button gets hit less frequently. But it still gets pressed.

Both of these descriptions feel reasonably close to my experience, so far. But I especially like Jimmy Buffet’s (yes, THAT Jimmy Buffet) take on grief. He writes:

”Grief is like the wake behind a boat. It starts out as a huge wave that follows close behind you and is big enough to swamp and drown you if you suddenly stop moving forward. But if you do keep moving, the big wake will eventually dissipate.”

Building on that imagery, grief (at least at this stage) feels like a day at the beach (hear me out)! When Sami first passed, the surf felt incredibly rough - like I would be sucked under the waves if I quit moving. As time went on, over the last two years, I began to feel like the surf had calmed. But the sneaker waves keep coming. Unexpected grief is difficult, and this weekend’s grief felt like I might be pulled away from the shore. Unsettling, to say the least. And probably why I’ve had difficult slowing down - I keep moving, which is both helpful and exhausting.

I’ve never been much for New Year’s Resolutions, but I do use the changing of one year’s calendar to the next to take stock. To think about things I’ve done and things I’d like to do. To think about what I’d like to do better. I guess this year is no different. I feel like I can be better about work-life balance. I hope that the change in jobs will help - but I’m still the guy who says “yes” far too often. I know that I’m the kind of person who seeks (and hopefully builds) community - I hope that I settle into my new one. I also know that working with my hands (whether with sheep, or with my new sawmill) brings me comfort and peace. And maybe - hopefully - joy.

Finally, a word of gratitude. I’ve been told that my vulnerability in writing about these last two years has been helpful. I hope that it has; even more, I am grateful to those of you who have reached out. Grief, as I’ve written before, requires community - even if that community is virtual. Thank you for being part of my community. And my grief.

Christmas is Different - Merry Christmas, My Friends

Christmas has always been my favorite holiday - I've embraced both the religious and astronomical significance of the day. The winter solstice may be the longest night of the year, but Christmas Eve can't be far behind. But as I approach my second Christmas (and Solstice) without Sami, I realize that Christmas is different now. And likely always will be.

When we were first married (and Sami was in vet school), our Christmases were marked by mutual gifts (like the flannel sheets that turned us both blue the first night we slept in them because we didn't wash them) and homemade presents for our families. We made lots of woodworking gifts in our early years together - Christmas decorations and toy boxes, as I recall. Later, with children of our own, we made the conscious decision to be home on Christmas Day - to watch our girls discover that Santa had eaten the cookies and drank the egg nog they'd left out for him, and find their stockings full.

When we started raising sheep commercially in the early 2000s, we added sheep chores to our tradition. Usually, I'd spend December 23 and/or 24 getting sheep moved to fresh grass so that our Christmas chores (and our chores in the day or two that followed) were minimal. And on Christmas Day, after we'd opened presents and had cinnamon rolls for breakfast, but before we'd opened our stockings, the girls and I would drive out to wherever the sheep were grazing to feed the livestock guardian dogs. Sami, I think, enjoyed the peace and quiet of our short absence!

But in 2023, everything - EVERYTHING - changed. Last December 23, we celebrated Sami's life at the Gold Country Fairgrounds. The girls and I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day in Pacific Grove. A very different celebration, for sure - but a needed departure from being at home. A home that was so very different than the one where I'd celebrated Christmas for 32 years.

This year, I'm in a new home. I'm working a new (if familiar) job. I've sold all of the sheep except for 8 feeder lambs. Emma is home from college; I'll travel to New Mexico to see Lara in a few days. I did most of the Christmas decorating by myself. The sharp pain of last year's sense of loss has lessened, to some degree - but I find that I'm unusually exhausted as the days have grown shorter. December 23 snuck up on me. I continue to find that being around people is both helpful and exhausting. I find that I have had a hard time thinking about the gifts I'd like to give my family and friends - even thinking about what to eat on Christmas Day seems like too much work.

My friends and family continue to be incredibly supportive and understanding, for which I'm more thankful than I can express. The shortest text - a simple card - can lift my spirits more than you know. I continue to be humbled by the people who seem to know intuitively when I need someone to check in with me. And who don't expect reciprocation or response.

Tonight, Christmas Eve, I find that I miss the anticipation I shared with Sami. I miss knowing the comfort of knowing that we're all under the same roof. I miss the ritual of preparing a simple hearty meal (for many years, I made Scotch broth on Christmas Eve) in anticipation of a much bigger meal on Christmas Day. Tomorrow, I'll miss the walks we took after an early dinner (and before dessert). I'm so thankful that Emma is here this year. I'm grateful that we got to celebrate at my sister's house yesterday (with my grand-niece and grand-nephews). But Christmas is still different.

Merry Christmas, my friends. Know that I'm grateful.

Sixteen Months

Sixteen months ago today, Sami passed away. We’re coming up on a year since we celebrated her life at the Gold Country Fairgrounds. And I continue to think (and write) about my experience - relationship might be a better word - with grief.

Journaling has been immensely helpful for me. Some of what I write in my journal ends up in these blog posts. Much of it does not. But the physical act of putting what’s inside me onto paper helps me process what I’ve gone through. What I’m still going through.

A little over a week ago, I wrote in my journal, “Does grief rip you open? Make you notice signs that are always there, but missed if you’re not vulnerable? Just because you notice the signs when you’re grieving (only when you’re grieving?) doesn’t mean they aren’t there all along.”

I was thinking about the occasions when red-tailed hawks have appeared - both in reality and in my dreams. But then, on social media, I saw this photo of a sculpture called “Melancholy” by Albert Gyorgy. I had just written “Does grief rip you open?”

I love this piece. First, the interior emptiness seems to be real - there does seem to be a hole in the core of my being. My heart, for sure, but more than that - losing Sami seems to have removed my center of gravity.

But to me, the aspect of the sculpture’s head seems right, too. I seem to have rediscovered introspection in the last sixteen months (or maybe my introspection is simply more intense). There are times when I simply sit with myself, looking inward. But the fact that I noticed a “sign” about grief after asking myself if grief makes me notice these signs more readily is an interesting coincidence. Or maybe it’s a proof.

November 2024 was a rough month in many ways. I had a great visit with both of my daughters in Idaho, but driving home was incredibly hard. The trauma of my truck crash was, too - both emotionally and logistically. But I also think the milestone I will experience every November for the rest of my life was particularly hard. Sami would have turned 57 on November 10. I have the privilege of being 57; Sami doesn’t.

That said, the last few weeks have been brighter, despite the shorter days. I had family and friends here at my new place for Thanksgiving - I smoked a leg of lamb and barbecued a turkey (for the first time in many years). We had 12 people at my table - I think the most I’ve ever had!

The following week, I drove to Reno for the California Cattlemen’s Association convention - an event I’ve attended most years since 1992 (there were a few I missed, but I’ve made more than half!). I saw old friends, ate dinner at Louie’s Basque Corner in Reno, and enjoyed my Extension colleagues. On the way home last Friday, I bought a new truck to replace my totaled Tacoma.

Saturday, I joined my sister and her family in getting our Christmas trees on the Stanislaus National Forest. We had a great time on Ebbett’s Pass. Hard not to laugh when you’re hanging around little kids and dogs! In the snow!

Last year, Emma was home when I put up our Christmas tree. This year, I approached decorating my tree by myself for the first time with some trepidation. But I found that I enjoyed it. Most of our ornaments are handmade - by us or by friends. All of them have meaning, and I found that the memories they brought to mind were happy. Mostly. There was one ornament that Sami and I received as a gift on our first Christmas way back in 1990 that I couldn’t bring myself to put on the tree. Mostly, though, I smiled with each ornament I unwrapped and hung on the tree.

On Sunday, I finished trimming the tree and decorating the house. I met a neighbor who has some pines that I will be able to mill into lumber for a barn at my new place. I went to my local cattlemen’s association dinner, where I saw more old friends - and hopefully made some new ones!

On Tuesday morning, I wrote in my journal, “I seem to be doing okay at the moment. I wonder why?… Seems like happy memories of Sami come easier - I don’t feel as weighted down by my grief. Is it the season?”

I’ve always loved December - even as a little kid, I think, I appreciated the darkness - and the eventual return to light, represented by Advent and the Solstice. This year, December seems to be healing. I feel more at ease. Or maybe more at peace.

Later on Tuesday, I attended the California Wool Growers board meeting in Los Banos. My participation has been sporadic since Sami’s illness. The meeting was productive - and the lunch at Wool Growers Restaurant was outstanding (as usual). Eating two meals at Basque restaurants - with friends - in the span of a week was a special treat. But when I got home, I found that I was exhausted - more exhausted than five hours of driving and three hours of meeting would suggest.

Sixteen months after becoming a widower, I’m finding that I’m adjusting to working by myself. Mostly. But there are still some things that I find difficult to do alone. Some are practical things - like hooking up the gooseneck trailer in the dark. Some are more esoteric - like figuring out how to travel for work without someone being home to take care of the animals. Sixteen months later, I still wish I could ask Sami questions. Or share about my day. And especially, hear about hers.

Here’s the thing. At this point in my grieving process, I find that I can laugh and joke. And still be intensely sad. Simultaneously. I can be extroverted and engaged. And exhausted when I get home. I find that when someone asks me, “How are you?” I mostly answer, “I’m okay.” Sometimes I want to explain why I can’t say, “great!” Some days things seem “normal”; other days - other hours, other minutes, even - the grief is just below the surface. Or floating on it. I can be happy, cheerful, productive. Creative. But sometimes I need to withdraw. To sit in front of my woodstove. To mourn. To cry. To not move on. Grief, to me, equals memory. And love. And, perhaps, introspection. Winnowing. What’s important to me now, sixteen months later? I will be interested to see.

Aerial Ovine Evolution

Or an Update on Flying Mule Sheep Company...

I would have to go back through old photos, but I believe I’ve lambed out ewes (even if it was only 2 or 3) for each of the last 25 years. At least. Lambing season has been part of the annual rhythm of my life for a quarter of a century or more. But it won’t be in 2025. At least not with ewes I own.

All businesses evolve; Flying Mule Sheep Company is no different. The first ewe we owned was an injured sheep that Sami nursed back to health in her final years of vet school. We brought that ewe to Penryn when we moved there in 1994. We also started buying feeder lambs - one for us, and additional lambs for our family. When we moved to Auburn in 2001, we started a small breeding flock. I can remember buying a our first ram from a ranch in Lincoln, where Home Depot is now.

In 2005, we partnered with our friends Allen and Nancy Edwards on buying some feeder lambs to finish on their place in Colfax, purchasing 12 Barbados lambs from a breeder in El Dorado County. We thought the 8-foot fences were to keep mountain lions out - turns out, they were to keep the nearly wild sheep in. When we unloaded at Allen’s, the first two jumped over my head and disappeared. We never saw them again, although Allen says people would come to their home for several years after this and say they’d seen wild bighorn sheep in the American River canyon! They were the last Barbados sheep we owned!

In 2006, we bought our first 27 breeding ewes and another ram. We started leasing property for grazing. Eventually, we lambed out as many as 275 ewes. Lambing season became a second Christmas for me - I loved the daily gift of new life that lasted for 6 weeks each spring.

I fully embraced sheep ranching. I joined the board of the California Wool Growers Association (California’s oldest livestock organization), eventually serving as President from 2018 to 2020. Even before I became a cooperative extension advisor in 2017, I started holding workshops to teach beginning shepherds about lambing, grazing, and sheep husbandry.

When my sheep partner Roger Ingram decided to move to Texas, I bought out his interest in Flying Mule Sheep Company (in July 2023). Since I was working full-time, I decided to downsize a bit - but I still grazed our sheep on annual rangeland west of Auburn in the winter, and on irrigated pasture closer to Auburn in the summer.

Then Sami was diagnosed with glioblastoma in February 2023. And everything - EVERYTHING! - changed.

After Sami’s second craniotomy in February 2023, I decided to take up my friend Ryan Indart’s offer to lamb out most of my ewes - I sent all but a handful to Fresno County. When Sami spent 3 weeks in hospitals in San Francisco in June, my old partner Roger took over irrigation duties. And when the sheep that Ryan cared for came back in July, I weaned the lambs and sold most of the ewes.

Fast forward to the winter of 2023-24. I’d kept a handful of ewes, which I’d bred to the single ram I’d kept that fall. Their lambs were born in February, and weaned in May 2024. By that time, I’d decided that I was going to move back closer to my family, to help care for my Mom (who’d been diagnosed with dementia). I moved to Calaveras County in August. And brought my remaining sheep (4 ewes, 4 ewe lambs, and 9 feeders) to Mountain Ranch in September.

This week, after three months of grazing my sheep at my new place - and after trying to find someone who can care for them when I have to travel - I’ll take the last of my breeding ewes to the sale in Escalon. Next spring, for the first time in a quarter century (at least), I won’t have any lambs. No bummers. No three-times-a-day checks on the drop bunch. No middle of the stormy night walks through the ewes to make sure everyone’s okay. I’ve decided that for the time being, I’ll buy feeder lambs each spring and graze them at my new place until the feed dries out in late May or June. But I won’t have sheep - at least in 2025 - from early summer through the following early spring.

As I grew older - and as I became more experienced in lambing out ewes - I often thought about the fact that I had a limited number of years of lambing left. I don’t think I’m done lambing - I know that once I get settled in my new place - and in my new life - that I’ll get back into the breeding sheep business. But for now, after Friday, I won’t have any breeding ewes. And next February, I suspect, I’ll miss the sound of new lambs and mama sheep.

I'm incredibly proud of the flock we built. After any years of paying attention to maternal ability, ewe productivity, and lamb quality, we built a flock that fit our environment. Perhaps the highest compliment I've ever been paid was having the friends whose daughter bought my ewes in 2023 (friends who are great stockpeople) tell me, "The lambs from your ewes were amazing." As I've written before, breeding livestock, to me, is the equivalent to an artist's body of work. My sheep are my body of work. Work that was 25 years in the making. Work that I don't feel quite ready to quit.

This afternoon, I brought the sheep into my corrals and sorted off the feeders I wanted to keep. Like many of the things I’ve had to do over the last 23 months, it was a task that I didn’t look forward to, but one I knew I had to do. The work itself was something I’ve done hundreds (if not thousands) of times since we started Flying Mule Sheep Company; the consequences of what I was doing felt different. My dog worked well, the sheep looked good. But the handful of ewes I’d kept were the best ewes we had; watching them walk off the trailer tomorrow at the sales yard will be difficult; only other ranchers can truly appreciate how difficult.

And so tonight, as I sit by my wood stove after finishing this chore, I’m both sad and grateful. Grateful to the sheep and to the way my family’s life was fitted to the rhythms of the sheep year - breeding in the fall, coasting through the winter, lambing in the spring, weaning in the summer, flushing the ewes in the early fall, harvesting lambs as we started the cycle again. I’m grateful for the years when the rains came early and the feed grew strong. I won’t miss the stress of late rains and short grass during lambing, but I will miss the sound of a ewe nickering to her new babies. I’m sad to know that I won’t have lambs here at my new place next February, but I’m grateful my daughters had a chance to experience the tie to the landscape that our sheep provided (even on a small scale). I’m sad to be severing that tie, even if it’s only for a year.