Newborns

Newborns

Sunday, August 13, 2017

Charlottesville 2017

Several years ago, I came across a letter that my dad sent to the editor of the Union Democrat newspaper in Sonora in 1968. As I was just over a year old, I didn't know about the letter at the time. His letter was sent in response to the assasination of Robert Kennedy in June 1968. My dad, a teacher in a rural school district in Northern California, advocated gun control in response to Kennedy's murder. I still stand in awe of my dad's courage in writing such a letter. I imagine his letter had ramifications for his career and for his relationships in his community - but he wrote it anyway. And so I must write this.

Times have changed, obviously (a letter to the editor seems almost quaint in light of the instant gratification of Facebook and Twitter). And yet I can't help but admire my dad's response as I consider my own feelings following the events in Charlottesville yesterday. And I can't help but remember my granddad (my dad's dad) who crawled into the tailgunner's turret of a B-29 based on Guam during World War 2. Much as my granddad fought the evil of his time (fascism), my dad fought the evil of his days (racism).

The violence that occurred in Charlottesville, Virginia, yesterday is reprehensible on all sides. That said, the white supremacists and Nazis that precipitated the violence must be held accountable. Had a person of color, or a Native American, or (God-forbid) a Muslim, driven a car into the crowd, we'd all be howling "terrorism." The fact that our government cannot (will not?) call the act of a white, Christian(?) young man terrorism frightens and angers me.

Perhaps a blog post isn't a particularly courageous act - it doesn't feel like much in light of this weekend's events. Nonetheless, I feel compelled to stake out my perspective on what happened on the other side of this continent yesterday. I feel compelled to call out racism and intolerance when I see it. I feel compelled to join my dad and my granddad in my own small way.

Saturday, August 12, 2017

Descending Towards Autumn

I could never live somewhere that doesn’t have distinct seasons. I’ve enjoyed Hawaii and the Caribbean when I’ve visited, but the sameness of the seasons suggests that I wouldn’t enjoy living in those places. While some would argue that my part of the Sierra foothills doesn’t experience the seasonal extremes of places like the northern Rockies, Alaska, or the tip of South America, I do enjoy the distinct changes in light, weather and internal attitude that come with the changing of the seasons.

As I write this in mid August, I recognize that we’re still in the midst of summer. Even so, the changing light (and shortening days), the moderation of our sizzling July temperatures, and the fact that both of our daughters are (or will be soon) back in school confirms that we’ve started descending the backside of the calendar - autumn is just around the corner. At some point in the next several weeks, we’ll have a cool morning and a breezy, cool(ish) day that reminds me that fall really is approaching.

Autumn, for me, has always been a season of transition and juxtaposition. The cold nights and warm days of October transition to the stormy weather and colder nights of early December (we usually have our coldest mornings just after Thanksgiving, it seems). As we “fall” towards the closing of the year, I find myself taking stock of what I’ve accomplished over the last 10 months - agriculturally and otherwise. The lambs (most of them) are sold, so we know whether the year will be profitable (or not) in a financial sense.

This feeling of wrapping up, however, is contrasted by the new beginnings represented by the start of the school year. It’s further contrasted by our preparations for a new crop of lambs. In my childhood, school started after Labor Day; our youngest, Emma, started high school last Tuesday. Lara, our oldest, will start her second year of college at Montana State University at the end of this month. Also at the end of the month, we’ll move our ewes back to irrigated pasture and begin feeding them barley in preparation for turning the rams in with them in late September. While the shorter days, falling leaves, and sense of melancholy that autumn brings me, I always get excited about the new possibilities of a new school year and a new “sheep” year. In some respects, these contrasting emotions make autumn my favorite time of year - that and the knowledge that we’ll soon be past the 100-degree temperatures of summer!


Autumn, like every season, holds uncertainty for farmers and ranchers. As a shepherd who depends on grass, I enter every fall wondering when (if?) we’ll get a germinating rain that will get the grass growing. I wonder whether we’ll have an early cold spell that will put the new grass of autumn into early dormancy. As I grow older, I also recognize that the days seem to speed by ever more quickly - Lara’s four years of high school went by quickly; Emma’s are likely to seem even more brief. Even so, I always look forward to our annual descent towards autumn. 

Thursday, August 10, 2017

Bozeman to Los Angeles: The West from 30,000 Feet


A much longer post is percolating - having to do with daughters, dads, college experiences, and what it means (to me) to be a Westerner. As I stew on these themes, however, I wanted to share a few observations on the somewhat surreal experience of starting my afternoon in Bozeman, Montana, and ending it (at least till I board my next flight) in Los Angeles, California.

This was my third trip to Bozeman - in the last three years, I’ve taken our daughter Lara to visit Montana State University for the first time; our whole family delivered her to her freshman year last summer; this summer, I helped her get her car to Montana. This trip marked the first time that I’ve flown for either part of the journey; in years past, I’ve driven to and from Montana.

The drive to Bozeman (at least the way we do it) takes about 15 hours to cover the 900+ miles. While the drive is long, I enjoy the slowly changing western landscapes we drive through - from the granite and conifers of the Sierra to the sagebrush flats of central Nevada and the juniper-studded mountains of the northeastern part of the state. As we enter southern Idaho, the land (with the addition of center-pivot irrigation) transitions to more intensive agriculture. The Snake River plain of eastern Idaho, in turn, transitions to the timbered mountainsides and broad river valleys north of Ashton. Once we leave the depressingly touristy town of West Yellowstone, Montana, we enter a slice Yellowstone National Park and descend the Gallatin River into Bozeman. The length of the trip gives my mind (and my body) time to adjust to these changing aspects of the American West.

Flying, however, is another experience altogether. As my United flight climbed out of Belgrade, Montana, I watched the hay and grain fields of the Gallatin valley reach up to the steep slopes of the Bridger Mountains. Clouds (and this summer’s ever-present smoke) obscured most of the next hour of my flight, but I caught a glimpse of the Wasatch Range and the Great Salt Lake as we turned southwest towards Southern California. About 40 minutes later, I snapped a cellphone photo of the canyon lands of the desert southwest. I have to say: seeing the interior West from 30,000 feet is not nearly as interesting as seeing it from ground level!

Our plane hit some minor turbulence as we flew flew over the mountains marking the eastern edge of the Los Angeles basin. As we approached LAX from the south, I saw the Pacific Ocean in the distance - the western edge of the American West. The packed freeways (even at 2 p.m. on a Wednesday afternoon) and expanse of concrete and rooftops stood out in stark contrast to the fields and mountains I saw when I left Bozeman several hours earlier. This is probably not a shock to anyone who reads this blog, but I far prefer fields and mountains to concrete and rooftops.


Technology (airplanes, computers, and such) have shortened the distances between communities and people. In many respects, this has been a plus - connectivity usually gives us greater empathy for others. But in some respects, these connections present a double-sided challenge for rural communities - and for the West in general. If I can get from Bozeman to Los Angeles in less than three hours, perhaps I’ll decide that a summer place in Montana and winter place somewhere warmer (like LA) is doable. Driving around Bozeman - and flying out of the Gallatin valley - revealed significant new suburban development; condominiums instead of crops. Concrete and rooftops permanently change the ecological and cultural attributes that (at least for me) make the west the West. Flying, rather than driving, underscores how quickly these transitions can happen

Friday, July 21, 2017

Epitaph for a One-Lane Bridge

Roughly 10 years ago, we leased a ranch north of Lincoln along Doty Ravine. The quickest way to get from home (in Auburn) to the ranch was to drive Joeger Road to Mt. Vernon Road to Wise Road. As we approached the low ground in Lincoln on the east end of Wise Road, we'd cross Doty Ravine on a one-lane bridge. I crossed that bridge nearly every day for four years. Today, as I drove Wise Road on my way to Yuba City, I encountered a detour - Placer County is replacing the old one-lane bridge over Doty Ravine.

I can certainly understand the County's reasoning. The old bridge was probably a maintenance nightmare. From a transportation efficiency and legal liability standpoint, necking the two-lane road down to a single lane didn't make much sense. But I have to say I'm mourning the passing of this relic of simpler times.

Based on the stories that friends have told me about the roads between Auburn and Lincoln, Mt. Vernon and Wise Roads were not paved until the second half of the 20th Century (perhaps Jean Allender or Betty Samson can fill in the details). The Doty Ravine Bridge was a reminder to me of these simpler times - like the bridge, the roads were single lane as well.

More importantly, the one-lane Doty Ravine Bridge was a reminder (in an increasingly fast-paced world) to slow down. If someone was approaching the bridge from the other direction at the same time, both of us would decelerate (usually). We'd make sure that whoever was closest to the crossing made it over first.

This slowing down also required neighborliness. Most of the folks I passed crossing the Doty Ravine Bridge were strangers, and yet we nearly always waved at one another as we crossed. The one-lane bridge was a reminder, in some ways, that our destination wasn't more important than safety and politeness. In an increasingly busy (and rude) world, I'll miss this reminder.

I suppose I'm sounding like a curmudgeon. Progress is positive, right?! I expect that the county road department was tired of dealing with damage to the bridge caused by people who didn't slow down and wave. I expect the county counsel was tired of the liability faced by the county when people caused accidents. But with a two-lane bridge, I'll make it to Lincoln 10 to 15 seconds faster than I would have otherwise. I'd gladly give back that time. I'll miss this reminder of our rural roots.

Sunday, July 16, 2017

Moving to the Country

In early May number of years ago - before the drought - I was moving ewes and lambs home for shearing. Since it was before the drought, we had more than 200 ewes - and (like now) we saved the 1-1/2 acre pasture at our home place for the 3-4 days that the sheep would be home for their annual clipping. As I pulled in to drop off the second or third load, a friend who kept bees in our pasture waved me over to tell me that a woman from the county code enforcement office had come by a few minutes earlier. Apparently, one of our neighbors had called to complain about "all of the sheep" in our pasture. I called the code enforcement woman back immediately - she'd already confirmed that our property was zoned "farm" - and when I told her the sheep would be there less than a week, she said, "I'll call the person who complained and let them know you have every right to have your sheep there - especially since they'll be gone in less than 7 days." We never did learn which neighbor objected to the sights and sounds of agriculture in our "neighborhood," but we suspect it was one of the families who had recently moved to the country. In some cases, I'm afraid, the expectations of those moving to the country fail to match the realities of living in a rural (or even semi-rural) community.

We've had other similar experiences with folks who encounter our sheep operation - even with people who ask us to graze their properties. I suppose the image of farming, for some, is one of bucolic bliss - peacefully grazing (and quiet!) sheep spread across a green hillside. In reality, grazing livestock can often be peaceful. It also involves hard work. Grazing animals make noise on occasion (especially at weaning time or during shearing). Livestock guardian dogs will bark if something threatens their sheep. Some of the grass that animals consume passes all the way through and comes out the other end (imagine that!). Grasslands and pastures that are grazed seldom look as "neat" as a mowed field (to some, anyway - I much prefer the look of a grazed pasture). To a shepherd, the smell of wet wool or of manure from animals that have been eating grass is normal (even pleasant, some would say); to some who move to the country, I guess, these odors, sounds and sights are objectionable.

Even in areas where we're asked to graze (for fuel reduction purposes or to control invasive weeds), we get questions like: "how soon will you be done here?" or "I didn't realize how much they'd smell" or "will you be able to get the manure off the road?" Most recently, some folks who asked us to graze their 4 acres (because they didn't want to mow it) decided they couldn't handle the sight and smell of sheep manure, and that the uneven look of the leftover vegetation was undesirable.

Sometimes this disconnect can take a dangerous turn. Placer County, where we live and raise sheep, still has a local ordinance on the books that allows the movement of livestock on county roads. For short moves between properties (of less than 2 miles) on quiet county roads, we much prefer herding our sheep to hauling them in the trailer. Nearly all of the drivers we encounter are patient and interested in what we're doing - most take photos or videos of our border collies and sheep with their phones. Occasionally, however, someone decides he or she can't wait until we can get the sheep off the road to let them pass - and so they drive through our flock. Fortunately, we've never had a sheep or a dog (or a person, for that matter) injured when this happens; other ranchers haven't been so fortunate.

Placer County, like many California counties, also has a right-to-farm ordinance that protects commercial farmers and ranchers from nuisance complaints associated with the normal course of an agricultural business. These ordinances are important - anyone who buys a home in rural Placer County gets a copy of the ordinance as part of the normal disclosure process. I suppose some buyers even read the ordinance! That said, our experience with these issues is not unique. As Placer County continues to grow population-wise, these challenges will only intensify. While I find it easy to complain about our new neighbors who have no idea what it takes to run a sheep operation (or any other farming or ranching enterprise), I am realizing that those of us who are farmers and ranchers have a responsibility to proactively reach out to people who move to the country. Who knows - maybe some of these folks will end up ranching one day!

Monday, July 10, 2017

Summer Routine

Several weeks ago, we weaned our lambs. This year, weaning was a multi-step process, largely due to the heat (we tried to be finished with sheep work by 9 a.m. on hot mornings). During the third weekend of June, we completed the physical weaning of the lambs - we separated them from their mothers and  applied permanent ear tags. The ewes were moved to dry forage (with a mix of still-green yellow starthistle); the lambs went back to irrigated pasture. The following weekend, we weighed the lambs and started marketing the feeder lambs. We also selected the lambs that we'll finish for our own winter meat. Last weekend, I vaccinated the replacement ewe lambs and the ram lambs that we'll market. I also treated the lambs for internal parasites (which can be lethal if left untreated). Finally, I sorted the thin ewes (those who had worked especially hard during their lactations or who had lost weight for other reasons). These thin ewes will get to stay on irrigated pasture; the rest were moved to dry annual rangeland. Last Saturday afternoon marked the end of this stage of our sheep year.

With the work of weaning behind us, we're settling in to our summer routine. For the next 50 days or so, I'll focus on irrigating our pastures and caring for the lambs. My partner Roger will focus on caring for the ewe flock on dry pasture. We'll help each other accomplish big projects (moving the ewes, shearing the lambs, moving the lambs to a different property), but much of the work is the same day after day - the dog days of summer!

As I grow older, I find that routine becomes enjoyable rather than monotonous. In The Solace of Open Spaces (which I highly recommend), Gretel Ehrlich writes that irrigation "is an example of how a discipline - a daily chore - can grow into a fidelity." In our current situation, my "daily chore" is comprised of moving the K-Line pod irrigation system every morning. On good days - when the ATV is running right, when the sprinklers aren't clogged and when I'm paying attention - irrigation takes about 45 minutes. On less good days - when the ATV isn't running quite right; when we get a load of aquatic weeds, trash, leaves, or fish clogging the system; or when I run over a riser and have to repair the system - irrigation can take a couple of hours. In either case, discipline is critical - no matter how tired I am or what I have to do during the rest of my day, the water must get moved. The pipe must get repaired. We haven't talked about this, but I suspect Roger settles into a similar routine of responsibility in July and August.

Fidelity, I think, comes from our dedication to the less glamorous tasks of raising sheep. Flushing the ewes, managing our breeding groups, lambing and shearing are all more "exciting" than moving sprinklers day in and day out. And yet I find that the deferred gratification of irrigating is rewarding in a different way. In some ways, irrigating is like saving money. Putting money in my savings account is much less exciting than buying that new pair of boots. As I get older, however, I find that I enjoy watching my bank account grow. Similarly, I enjoy seeing our irrigated pastures respond to my efforts to spread the water over them. Increasingly, I'm able to relish the days when everything goes as planned - and I'm able to laugh at myself on the many days when it doesn't! I'm beginning to learn that my success as a shepherd depends on my ability stay focused through the routine work as much as it is to manage the "exciting" times.

Irrigation season, in our part of the foothills, follows a chronological (rather than an ecological) schedule. The water arrives in our ditches on April 15. The water shuts off on October 15. No matter what else we might be doing, this means that we're moving sprinklers every day for 183 days. Now that the lambs are weaned and the ewes are moved, I'm finding that I'm looking forward to 50 days of simply moving water across our pastures. I'm looking forward to 50 days of watching the grass grow!

Tuesday, July 4, 2017

The "Easy" Nonlethal Solution

If you've read my Foothill Agrarian blog over the last 12 months, you'll know I've been learning about (and, to some extent, writing about) the return of gray wolves to California and their potential impact on rangeland livestock producers. You'll also know that Flying Mule Farm has been committed to using nonlethal predator protection tools since we started raising sheep commercially more than 12 years ago. Our combination of livestock guardian dogs, electric fencing, and intensive grazing management has been highly effective at protecting our sheep from neighbor dogs, coyotes, mountain lions and black bears. The California Department of Fish and Wildlife believes that wolves will likely make it as far south as Interstate 80 in the Sierra Nevada - which suggests we might have wolves in our region in my lifetime. Because wolves are larger and (apparently) more intelligent carnivores - and mostly because I don't have any experience in dealing with them - this newly returned predator makes me worry that perhaps our current suite of nonlethal tools won't be sufficient.

According to the research I've read, and according to many of the nonprofit groups who support the wolves' return and who are trying to work with ranchers to find effective nonlethal protection tools, removing and disposing of livestock carcasses from rangeland and pasture settings can be one of the best ways to discourage wolves (and presumably other predators that are also scavengers - coyotes and bears, especially) from becoming habituated to killing and consuming livestock. Wolves are attracted to carcasses and even old bones. If these bone piles are in close proximity to grazing livestock, wolves may switch from carrion to killing.

I suppose I should explain a bit about typical livestock husbandry practices. Everyone I know who raises livestock on rangeland does it, at least in part, because they love working with animals and because they love the land. There are times in every ranching operation when animals die. We've lost ewes to old age, to injury, to snakebites, and to a number of unpreventable infirmities and diseases. If you have livestock, the saying goes, you'll also eventually have dead stock. Furthermore, my responsibility as a shepherd occasionally requires me to alleviate an animal's suffering by euthanizing it. I don't particularly like that part of my job, but I take this particular responsibility very seriously.

Once an animal has died, there are several options for disposing of the carcass. We can call a rendering company to retrieve the carcass. For sheep, this service runs $300-400 per animal (for an animal that might be worth as little as $30 at the auction). We can drive the carcass to UC Davis and deliver it to the California Animal Health and Food Safety laboratory. For $120 (for a sheep or goat), the lab will provide a complete necropsy report, which (usually) indicates the cause of death. We also get information about the animal's general nutritional and health status, which can help us improve our flock management. We typically use this service once or twice a year.

There are several things we can't do (at least in California). Legally, we can't bury a carcass on our owned or leased property. We also can't dispose of the carcass at most county landfills. And despite its demonstrated (in other states) efficacy and safety, composting is not currently an option in California (see this link on livestock composting for more information).

In addition to the economic considerations involved in carcass disposal, there are a number of logistical challenges involved. Even in our operation, we'll occasionally have an animal die at some distance from the closest road. While sheep are small compared to cattle, moving a sheep carcass without a vehicle or other equipment can be extremely challenging, to say the least. Imagine having to remove the carcass of a 2,000 pound bull that has died 10 miles from the nearest road in extremely rugged country. These challenges, at least to me, suggest that the "easy" solution of carcass removal as a nonlethal predator protection tool is easy on paper but (at times) incredibly difficult in practice. As a result, so-called "bone piles," which allow scavengers to do the work of carcass disposal, have often been the only viable option available.

These challenges suggest that we must do further research into effective composting techniques in California. Composting, if well-managed, can provide an alternative to producers while turning carcasses into a useful product. Other states have conducted such research; with the return of the gray wolf in California, perhaps it's time we start researching the topic here!

Sunday, July 2, 2017

Ewe 144

Ewe 144 with her 2017 triplets.
Even when we were running 300-plus ewes, there were individual sheep that I would recognize. In many cases, this was related to behavioral or reproductive characteristics - some ewes are friendlier than others; some ewes are better mothers than others. Now that we've downsized significantly, I could probably tell you something about nearly every ewe in our flock. The following is a short story about Ewe 144 (the number refers to her ear tag).

I've not yet dug deep enough into our production records to determine who 144's dam was; her sire was one of 2 or 3 Blueface Leicester rams we had in 2011. The fact that she was retained in our flock past lamb-hood suggests that her mother was a good one - 144 was likely born without assistance, received plenty of milk, and was watched over by an attentive mother. She arrived in February or March of 2012.

In the fall of 2013, she was exposed to one of our composite rams. The breeding took, and she delivered a single lamb in the late winter or early spring of 2014. In 2015, she had twins. Last year, she delivered the first set of quadruplets we'd ever seen in our flock. We took the smallest lamb home; she nursed the three remaining lambs. This year, she delivered triplets on February 28. Based on her past record, we let her keep all three lambs.

Last weekend, we body condition scored the ewes. Body condition (in sheep) is assessed by feeling for fat cover over the spine, along the transverse processes, and over the upper rib. This external fat cover indicates the nutritional status of the animal; a score of 1 indicates emaciation, while a score of 5 denotes obesity. We like our ewes to be at around 3 to 3.5 when we turn the rams in with them in October. We expect them to drop a bit of condition late in their lactations (in June) - 2.5 to 3 are acceptable scores in our operation at weaning time (late June).

We also weigh the lambs at weaning. This gives us some sense of how much milk the ewes are producing and how well the lambs are growing. Ewes with singles often wean the biggest lambs; ewes with multiples usually wean the most total pounds of lamb. Since we get paid by weight, a ewe that weans more total pounds of lambs is more profitable.

Ewe 144 had a body condition score of 3.5 last weekend - which means she was both producing milk for her lambs and taking care of herself. Her three lambs weighed a combined 175 pounds - even more incredible when I consider that the sheep have had only grass and supplemental minerals since last October. She's been bred four times in her lifetime, and she's given us 10 lambs (9 of which she raised herself).

Sheep can be evaluated in a number of ways, including in the show ring. Sheep shows, at least in this country, can be helpful in setting breed standards in terms of style, appearance, and structural correctness. But these superficial characteristics often fail to recognize traits related to profit and sustainability (of which profit is a component). These superficial characteristics also fail to account for the importance of place; the "perfect" ewe in the show ring would likely fall apart in a grazing-based system like ours. Superficially, Ewe 144 is not particularly striking - she's an average-sized Cheviot mule ewe (mules are crossbreds - sired by Blueface Leicesters out of a Cheviot ewe, in this case). In California, in fact, there are no sheep shows in which she could be entered. And yet she's made more money for our farm in the last 4 years than any other ewe. She's our ideal. I wish I had a thousand more just like her!

Note: the lambs in the header of Foothill Agrarian are Ewe 144's lambs from 2017! The photo was taken in early March.

Good mama - 144 with her 2016 quadruplets.

Saturday, June 24, 2017

Can Direct Marketing Save the Ranch?

I've had several conversations recently with ranching colleagues (both of whom operate much larger ranches than we do) about marketing meat versus marketing livestock. To some extent, each of us had started marketing meat for a variety of economic and philosophical reasons. Economically, we felt that by bypassing the "middlemen" in the meat business (cattle or lamb buyers, processors, distributors, wholesalers, retailers, etc.), we'd be able to capture more of the consumer dollar and enhance the profitability of our operations. Philosophically, we wanted to provide food directly to our communities. We wanted to shorten the distance between the ranch gate and the dinner table. In each case, we've recently concluded that the meat business is very different than the livestock business. We've concluded that we enjoy the work of caring for livestock and land far more than marketing meat. And we've each concluded that if we can't sell a live animal off grass and make a profit, no amount of value-added marketing of meat will make the business profitable. In other words, at least for this admittedly small sample size of family ranches, direct marketing alone cannot save the ranch.

When we established Flying Mule Farm more than 15 years ago, we focused our marketing efforts on direct-to-consumer and direct-to-retail channels. We sold beef, lamb and goat - and for one season, chicken - at our local farmers markets and to local and regional restaurants. While we learned a great deal about our products, we also learned that direct marketing took an enormous amount of ,time. During the peak of our direct marketing efforts, I spent 7-8 hours each week driving to and selling at the Roseville Farmers Market. I also spent 6-7 hours selling at the Auburn Farmers Market. In the summer months, I added 15 hours each week going to the Tahoe City and Truckee Farmers Markets. From June through September, this meant 30 hours each week selling meat - on top of 40 to 50 hours each week irrigating pastures, moving sheep, and doing other ranch chores. Looking back at those years, I have a better understanding as to why I was tired all the time!

The decision to sell meat rather than livestock had additional ramifications for our business. Converting a finished lamb into meat incurs additional costs - by the time I paid for harvest and cut-and-wrap services, transportation of live animals and finished product, storage of finished product, marketing labor, and other "value-added" costs, I had an additional $100-125 per lamb in expenses. The logistics of selling meat took more time away from production activities. A trip to the processor (which happened 8-10 times per year) meant 4 hours on Monday and 4 more hours on Friday were consumed with loading, transporting and unloading lambs (and then loading, transporting and unloading meat). Finally, selling meat instead of selling live animals meant I would defer receiving payment for my work until the last package of meat was sold. When I sold lambs to the processor or at an auction, I had a check within 3-4 days; when I sold meat, I might not receive final payment for that load of animals for 3-4 months. The expenses were due when they were incurred; the revenues took much longer to obtain.

Even though we were capturing a higher price for our retail products, I came to realize that direct marketing meat was a volume-dependent business. Economic "laws" are difficult to break - and the law of economies of scale is especially severe. I used just as much fuel hauling 25 lambs to the processor as I used hauling 2. Other expenses were similar - the unit cost of storage, labor, and processing were all affected by the volume of lambs I was marketing. Volume impacted the demand side of my equation, too. Restaurants wanted to buy lamb chops by the case (for example) - and they wanted all of the lamb chops in the case to be identical in terms of size, thickness and quality. Such uniformity was difficult when we were harvesting just 15-20 lambs at a time. Every rancher who has sold meat has bumped up against the reality that there are only 2 tri-tips in every steer - or 2 racks in every lamb. Selling steaks and chops was easy; selling chuck roasts and shoulder roasts was far more challenging.

Without question, there is demand for locally produced meat products in the community where we ranch. My colleagues would agree - they've observed similar interest in their communities. That said, each of us has realized that the greatest driver of profitability in our ranching businesses is in the production of a live animal. As one friend said, "If I can't make money grazing my cattle, selling steaks isn't going to turn my business around." I'm not sure how to resolve this seeming contradiction. Consumers, increasingly, want to directly support those of us who produce their food. At least for me, I haven't figured out how to make this work on the production side of the equation.

Monday, June 19, 2017

Dealing with the Heat

As I write this, we're three days into the first heat wave of 2017. Today, the thermometer here at our home has topped out at 96F (so far) - I suspect we've been closer to 100F at the ranch. According to Weather Underground, our humidity this afternoon is 21% - while it's relatively dry compared to the Midwest or South, it definitely feels muggy from my western perspective. In this kind of weather, we take a number of precautions - both for our animals and for ourselves.

During heat waves like this, I try to start work extra early. I usually move irrigation water and check the sheep before heading into my "real" job. I typically can leave the house by 7 a.m. and complete these chores in time to get to work at 8 a.m. This week, I'll be trying to leave the house an hour earlier. As always, I wear a wide-brimmed hat to shade my head. I also try to wear light-colored shirts and plenty of sunscreen. Even so, I'll typically sweat through my clothes before arriving at the office. I also drink water constantly - at my current rate, I'll drink more than a gallon of water today.

Our sheep are currently grazing on irrigated pasture with plenty of trees for shade. We fill water troughs morning and night - their water consumption has nearly doubled since the cooler weather we experienced a week. We also walk through the sheep more frequently - keeping an eye out for respiratory infections or other heat-related ailments. While sheep (and other livestock) can usually tolerate this kind of heat reasonably well, the wide swings in temperature (it was in the 60s last weekend) can create problems. By checking on the sheep twice a day, we can generally catch any problems before they become too serious.

We also keep a close eye on our dogs - both border collies and livestock guardian dogs. The guardian dogs, like the sheep, drink more water in this heat. They'll also stand or lay in the water troughs - I would, too! As long as they've got shade and water, they seem to handle the heat. With our herding dogs, we try to do any necessary work as early as possible. For example, we'll bring the sheep in to wean the lambs this Friday. We'll try to start work by 6 a.m., which should allow us to be done by 9 or 10 a.m. We'll take plenty of breaks, too, which gives the border collies a chance to cool off in the water troughs.

With the heat, the fire danger increases. We're always aware of the sound of fire planes and the smell and sight of smoke in the summer time; I'm especially vigilant in weather like this. With all of the dry grass, a spark and little bit of wind on a day like this can be disastrous. Once we wean the lambs, the ewes to will graze on dry forage for several months - I won't really relax until we move them back to irrigated pasture in early September.

Finally, weather geek that I am, I'll keep checking the forecast. According to Weather Underground, Thursday will be our hottest day in Auburn; by next week, we'll be back into the low 90s. The National Weather Service offers a slightly more optimistic forecast - more cooling by early next week. AccuWeather splits the difference. Regardless of the website, we're likely to have more hot weather as the summer progresses. Stay cool and safe out there!

High relative humidity can make hot temperatures even more dangerous. We keep an eye on the heat index
during weeks like this, too.