Unmoored

I have always enjoyed the cycles of the seasons. I look forward to the first frost of autumn, the first sunny spring day in March. I enjoy sitting outside after dark on a warm summer evening. I even enjoy the longer nights leading up to the winter solstice - partly because I also enjoy the return of the light that follows!

Every year since at least as far back as 2006, my late February and March days have been marked by the arrival of lambs. The anticipation of new life has made the long nights and short days of midwinter bearable - seasonal depression has never bothered me. But this year, without new lambs to look forward to, I feel less connected to the cycles of the seasons.

In addition to the mental and emotional benefits nearly 20 years of spring lambing has provided, I have also enjoyed the physical fitness benefits of lambing on pasture. My typical lambing routine was a morning and evening walk through the flock - even on slow days, this meant I was walking three to four miles. On days when we built fence and moved sheep, I would walk twice as far. Since we lambed in the foothills near Auburn, my daily routine would include lots of hill work, too - my Apple fitness app would often show that I’d climbed 30 or 40 flights of stairs!

Besides getting me out of the house and exercising, lambing helped me tune in to the subtle changes that happen every year on the annual rangelands where I’ve always lived. My twice-a-day walk-throughs would usually begin in early February - my first check would usually coincide with the sunrise, and my evening rounds would correspond with the sunset. As lambing progressed and the days grew longer, I’d start to notice the signs of spring: the sandhill cranes flying north, the blue oaks putting out their first leaves, the blue dicks and buttercups blooming. The grass starting to grow. In dry years, I’d worry about the grass maturing too early; in wet years, I’d revel in the sound of the seasonal creeks running through the pasture - and the tree frogs singing in the early evening.

Everything is different now. For the first time in nearly two decades, I did not breed any sheep last fall - and so I have no lambs arriving this spring. After wintering the sheep on pasture that was at 800 feet above sea level in the Placer County foothills, I’m adjusting to a much later spring at my new elevation (2,600 feet in the Calaveras County foothills). Looking back on this past January and February, I realized that I struggled mentally through the long winter nights, without any lambs to look forward to.

My new physical environment is not the only change that’s been difficult, obviously. Lambing was a time of intense physical and mental activity, for sure; it was also a time of enjoyable interactions with friends and family. Lambing was a time of daily check-ins with my friend and business partner Roger Ingram. Lambing was also a time of sharing the joys and frustrations of raising livestock with Sami. A time of watching her resurrect near-dead, hypothermic lambs on a heating pad under the woodstove. Of waking up to the clatter of lamb hooves on the living room floor once the lamb had revived. Of coming home from the lambing pasture to a warm house and a well-lit kitchen.

To some degree, I have enjoyed the freedom of being able to travel during a time of year when I was typically homebound. I’ve seen friends and family that I would not have seen during lambing. I’ve been able to do other things, like run my sawmill and go for hikes. But I’ve missed the day-in-day-out excuse to be out on rangeland with livestock. I’ve missed the lamb races and chances to work with my border collie. And I’ve missed coming home exhausted to a partner who was happy to see me (especially if I had a bottle lamb with me). While there is some freedom in not being tethered to a sheep operation, I find this feeling of disconnectedness unsettling.

And so I’ve tried to start several new routines. I’ve placed a bench at the top of the hill at my new property, and I try to sit and watch the world around me at least once a day. So far, I’ve noticed new flowers coming up - and some of them blooming. I’ve noticed the grass finally starting to grow. I’ve seen birds that I didn’t typically see in Auburn, and I’ve had to knock what I think was fox poop off the bench! I’ve also tried to spend some time each week making my new place more fire-safe - cutting downed oak for firewood, thinning out the crowded Ponderosa pines, or piling and burning brush. And taking my dogs on walks through my new community.

How long does it take to know a place? I’ve often asked my rancher friends how long it took them to really get to know their rangeland. I think if one is curious, one never really does know a place - there is always something to surprise and delight if I’m paying attention. For years, raising sheep helped me pay attention - now I need to find new ways to connect with and understand my corner of the planet.