Two Things at the Same Time

This will probably not surprise anyone who knows me, but the photo album on my phone is dominated by photos of sheep. Me with sheep. Dogs with sheep. Goats with sheep. Sheep with sheep. For the last 20 years, raising sheep has been a huge part of my life. Being a shepherd is at the core of my self-identity. I am nearly always happy when I’m in the presence of sheep.

 

As I’ve written before, another part of my self-identity for more than 30 years was being Sami’s husband and partner. Of being the “Mr.” in “Dr. and Mr. Macon.” Sami and I both had our own lives (our own friends, our own careers, our own interests), but for the 35 years we were together (33 as husband and wife) we were also Dan and Sami. Sami and Dan.

 

I have realized, approaching three years since Sami’s passing, that both identities have changed. I now raise sheep as a hobby – I guess I’m still a shepherd, but it doesn’t feel the same to me. And I’m Sami’s widower. These changes are related, to some degree. I gave up raising sheep as a business to care for Sami and then to accommodate the transition to living solo. Learning to manage a household all on my own seemed overwhelming at first – like I couldn’t care for a flock of sheep while also caring for myself. And so I’ve also realized that I grieve for both losses.

 

Earlier this week, I posted a photo of myself leading my little hobby flock of sheep and goats into a new paddock. It was a beautiful evening in the Sierra foothills – one of those spring evenings where the clouds are rolling in but the sun is still shining. And I was laughing because the sheep and goats were following me with the enthusiasm of grazing animals who know they’re being led to fresh grass. Looking at the photo today, I definitely look happy. I WAS happy!

 

This morning, someone remarked about my smiling photo, saying, “It looks like you’re BACK!” The comment caught me off guard, which I found curious. What does “you’re back” mean? Back from grief? Back from mourning? Back to my old self?

 

I suppose that I can see that from another’s perspective – maybe I haven’t looked or seemed very happy (or at least happy very often) over these last three years. But being “back” doesn’t describe how I feel. I don’t think anyone gets “back” to who they were before they experienced such a profound loss. I don’t think anyone gets “over” grieving – and I’m not sure that I want to “move on.” I do want to move forward. To carry what being Sami’s partner (and what being a shepherd) was like into whoever I will become, for however long I have left. I want to be open to new relationships – friendship and companionship – but I also want to acknowledge that the three decades I spent as Sami’s partner have shaped who I am now. And who I will always be. Just like two decades of raising sheep commercially mean I’ll always think of myself as a shepherd.

 

And so back to my smile in the photo I took yesterday. I was genuinely happy. And I was also missing Sami. I missed telling her that the sheep and goats followed me like dogs. That the sky was beautiful. That it was a lovely springtime evening. I was both happy and sad, as I often am. More and more, I find that I can enjoy the happiness while embracing the sadness. I feel two things in the same moment. Maybe that’s what I mean by moving forward? 

More Dog than I've Deserved

Our family said goodbye last week to the best sheep dog I’ve ever had the privilege to work with. Mo, who technically belonged to my oldest daughter, Lara, was coming up on his 15th birthday. During his prime - and even past his prime - he was the finest border collie I’ve ever partnered with. Saying goodbye to a pet is difficult; saying goodbye to a working partner is beyond difficult.

Mo came to us as a pup - just 9 or 10 weeks old, as I remember. At the time, I was just beginning to understand how to work a dog - we’d returned our first older border collie to our friend Ellen (who also sold Mo to us). My working dog at the time was Taff - who was a wonderful dog in his own right. Being new to working dogs, we sent Mo for six weeks of training with Ellen before he was a year old. He came back to us with a solid foundation; we spent the next 10 years building our relationship.

He was an incredibly athletic dog - and one that we could never keep weight on (no matter how much or what we fed him). One of my earliest memories of seeing Mo and Taff together was walking across our winter pasture with them and watching them run. Taff was going flat out - as fast as he could go; Mo passed him and pulled away - all the while looking back at Taff over his shoulder. I’ve seen coyotes run the same way!

While he was a rough-coated dog, Mo was one of the more fastidious dogs I’ve ever had. Stickers and burrs didn’t seem to take hold - and if they did, he picked them out of his coat with his teeth. I suspect he did this because he hated being brushed. And unlike the rest of our dogs, he rarely rolled in shit or other stinky things. Once, when his half-brother Ernie was still a pup, Ernie rolled in a fresh, green cow pie at one of our leased ranches. We had to throw Ernie in the creek to get him clean enough to ride in the truck. Mo was disgusted - somewhere I have a photo of Mo sitting on top of Ernie on the ride home.

Shortly after Mo came back from training, I used him to gather a group of sheep that was out of sight behind a hill. For some reason, we had exposed some of the ewes in the spring with the hope of having some fall lambs (we generally lamb in March). Mo disappeared around the back side of the hill; soon, the sheep crested the hilltop - but Mo didn’t reappear. I was getting ready to curse him for becoming distracted and leaving his work when he showed up - easing a new pair (a lamb and ewe) back to the flock. This was my first lesson from Mo: trust your dogs. Mo was always trustworthy in working sheep.

In better hands, Mo might have made a competitive trialing dog. He was fast, smooth, and smart. Lara did enter him in several amateur trials (in Plymouth and Pescadero) - they made a great team. But I think he always preferred real work. Unlike some of my other dogs, Mo would take a break if he got too hot, but I only really saw him tired one time - after a full day of shipping sheep from a grazing contract in Rocklin in hot weather. I watched him fall asleep sitting up on our ride home!

In 2013-14, I went to work part-time for a big sheep outfit in Rio Vista. Taff, my old dog, was winding down. Ernie wasn’t quite ready for prime time. Mo solidified his position as my top dog. The job was our first experience working with large groups of sheep (more than a thousand at a time). Mo excelled. He loved the work - and he loved curling up in our trailer at night.

The following year, I left the sheep job because of the drought - and went to work as the beef cattle herdsman at the UC Sierra Foothill Research and Extension Center. Mo and Ernie came with me. Cattle work made hard-headed Ernie a more thoughtful sheep dog; steady Mo took the change in species in stride. Since we still had our own sheep, Mo’s work week might include gathering cattle pairs, moving heifers to fresh feed, and driving sheep up the county road. He seemed to love all of it.

All through these working years, Mo also developed several hobbies. He loved chasing bird shadows and butterflies on the far side of our shop. He barked at the lawnmower, the chainsaw, and the leaf blower - and he lost his mind if I blew leaves off the roof. And he cultivated an intense fear of gunshots, firecrackers, and thunder. On one occasion, he bolted when a neighbor at one of our leased ranches shot a shotgun - he ran across two or three other properties and waited for me at our corrals.

During the summer of Mo’s eighth year, as we were preparing to take Lara to Bozeman, Montana, for her first year of college, Mo suffered a back injury while helping me move sheep at the house. We’re still not entirely certain what happened, but he lost the ability to use both back legs. As hard as it was to send our oldest child off to college, I found leaving Mo in the care of some friends nearly as difficult. Thankfully, Mo eventually made an almost complete recovery and was able to work with me for another three years.

But the injury took its toll. In February 2019, just before we started lambing, we decided we needed to retire Mo. My friend and sheep partner, Roger Ingram, took drone video of Mo’s last job - moving sheep across the road where we graze in the wintertime. While he’d obviously slowed, he accomplished the job with his characteristic style.

In his retirement, Mo was content to pursue his hobbies. He enjoyed laying in the sun on the back step. He liked to sleep in the house during the winter, but insisted on sleeping outside the rest of the year. I suspect he was amused (or perhaps annoyed) by his offspring (we have two pups from Mo and Mae). He continued to enjoy trips to swim in the irrigation ditch at the back of our property. And he lost all interest in working sheep - he’d stand and watch when Mae and I would move sheep here at home.

I’ve written similarly about my other working dogs, but I still have difficulty expressing the difference between my relationship with my working dogs and my relationship (earlier in life) with pet dogs. The term “master” doesn’t seem to be appropriate - “partner,” to me, is more apt. Mo, I think, respected me (although I’m certain he wondered about my sheep herding abilities at times); I know I respected Mo. Every dog I’ve owned has taught me something; Mo taught me to trust my canine partners. He taught me that a sensitive dog (as he was), doesn’t need harsh words or a guilt trip (do any of us, really?!). He taught me to stop and enjoy the beauty of a dog totally committed to his work.

Mo also spanned an interesting time in my life. Mo watched (and helped) our daughters grow up - he was a companion, a guardian, and a friend to both girls, but especially to Lara. He also spanned an interesting time in my professional life. When we got Mo, I had dreams of making a living from raising my own sheep. Drought, lack of capital, and my own unrealistic expectations forced me to adjust my dreams. During Mo’s life, I went from working full-time and ranching part-time to trying to ranch full-time. I went from working for others to working for myself to working for others again. I went back to school and earned a master’s degree. I managed sheep and cows and goats. And Mo was there for all of it - a willing and uncritical partner. Perhaps that’s the greatest lesson I have learned from my dogs - unconditional love and boundless energy for the job that’s in front of us today. Mo loved his work - and always lived in the moment. Thanks, Mo - that’ll do, ol’ buddy - that’ll do.

A Shepherd's Reflections on the Winter Solstice

As a kid, I knew with certainty that the longest night of the year was NOT the Winter Solstice - it was Christmas Eve! After all, Santa Claus didn't come on the morning after the Solstice. As an adult, however, I've come to appreciate both nights - I love the anticipation of increasing daylight and surprises in my stocking.

In the days leading up to the Christmas holiday, we build a fair amount of electro-net fencing. Our goal is to minimize the sheep work on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day (and again a week later, as the old year ends and a new one begins).  This morning, that meant moving the ewe flock up the road to fresh grass. Tomorrow, we'll take down fence from the old paddock and fence some fresh pasture for the sheep to graze early next week. A hard day's work tomorrow will mean that my only chores on Christmas Day will be to check fence and feed the livestock guardian dogs. As usual, my daughters will join me - with both of them away from home now, I relish every opportunity to share this Christmas tradition.

I know the winter months can be challenging for many - longer nights and days without sunshine can be depressing. For me, though, I like the sense of slowing down. I love the crisp winter afternoons when the setting sun shines through the leafless oaks. I love the sound of rain on the roof when I wake up before sunrise. I enjoy the muffled sounds on a foggy or (even better) snowy morning when I head out to do chores.

Part of my enjoyment, I'm certain, comes from the realization that without the long cold of winter, I couldn't appreciate the warm, bright days of spring and summer. But I suspect I'm actually a winter person. I like cold weather more than hot. I prefer warming myself in front of the woodstove to cooling myself in front of the swamp cooler. I appreciate the excuse to go to bed early with a good book.

Last night, before the rain started, the border collies and I enjoyed a campfire in the back yard. The fire - like the Christmas lights on our roof and the Christmas tree in our living room - dispels the darkness and chill of the longest winter nights. But as a winter person, the campfire also gives me an excuse to be outside after dark with nothing to do but sit and relax. To slow down. To go dormant for a week or two, like the longer dormancy of the grass in our pastures.

Happy Solstice!

Mixed Blessings and Sleepless Nights

I’m sure this will shock some of you, but rain in March makes me lose sleep - even in a dry year like this! I know I’ve vowed never to complain about rain again (having raised sheep through the millennial drought of 2012-2015) - and I’m not complaining now. But I also know I’m enough of a shepherd that I’ll probably not get a good night’s sleep tonight.

Let me explain! For the first time since we started lambing two-and-a-half weeks ago, we’re getting a decent rainstorm this evening. We absolutely need the rain - with the grass growing and the trees leafing out, our soil moisture deficit is reaching a critical point. We didn’t have much soil moisture to begin with; the lack of precipitation and the increased soil-water demand is concerning. There’s a chance that we’ll end March 2021 with less seasonal rainfall here in Auburn than we’d measured by this time in 2014. The grass-growing side of my brain is rejoicing tonight!

But the lambing side of my brain (and yes, at this stage of lambing season, grass and lambs is about all I have room for in my sheepherder mind) is anxious. Our production calendar tries to strike a balance between lambing during nice weather and lambing early enough to take full advantage of the spring flush of grass. Unlike many of the larger operations in the Delta and San Joaquin Valley, we don’t have sufficient fall forage to lamb in the fall, and I’m not willing to feed the hay necessary to lamb in mid-winter. Our compromise is to lamb in the late winter and early spring - when the grass is usually primed to take off. And when the weather can still be iffy. March, I think, is the cruelest month for a spring-lambing outfit like ours.

We are very intentional about our grazing and flock management year round - but especially so at lambing. We save our most sheltered pastures for lambing - our paddocks have enough tree and brush cover to provide shelter and windbreaks for the ewes and the lambs to get out of the weather. We’ve started using some nifty lamb raincoats developed in the UK - biodegradable plastic “lamb macs” that cost us less than $0.50 each. We make late night and early morning (before sunrise) rounds through the flock to make sure lambs are nursing.

Ultimately, though, we have to trust our sheep - and ourselves. We’ve spent years selecting for ewes that are great mothers - ewes that can count at least to two (and often to three), ewes that produce enough milk, ewes that know to shelter under the trees we’ve fenced within their paddocks. For the most part, our ewes have earned our trust!

But...

But I know I’ll wake up tonight if we get a sudden downpour. I know I’ll wake up when my partner texts me after he’s walked through the sheep at 10 pm tonight. I know I’ll awaken even earlier than normal tomorrow morning, and that I’ll be checking the flock before the sun rises. And I know I’ll be grateful for whatever rain falls overnight. The blessing of rain is worth a sleepless night during lambing.

On Becoming a Past President

Photo: K. Schiller

Seventy-seven years ago, in the midst of the Second World War, the U.S. Navy took over the Palace Hotel in San Francisco. In the 160-year history of the California Wool Growers Association, 1943 was the only year we were unable to hold our annual membership meeting – a remarkable record! The President at the time, J. Kenneth Sexton of Oakdale, served an extra year.

Over the last two days, our members and board of directors came together virtually to conduct the business of the organization. Video conferencing, obviously, wasn't around in 1943. And while we all decided that we much preferred meeting in person, we also agreed that meeting virtually was much better than not meeting at all.

Yesterday, I completed my two-year term as President, joining the ranks of past leaders. And while I've mostly enjoyed my time as an officer, these last six months have been a struggle. I'm looking forward to taking a step back, knowing that our organization is in good hands.

This morning, I looked back at the first President's Message I wrote for the CWGA newsletter. I ended with this paragraph:

“Shepherd” is a word that I particularly like. The primary definition is probably obvious to all of us, I’m sure! The second definition on www.dictionary.com is equally pertinent – “a person who protects, guides, or watches over a person or group of people.” For the leadership of the California Wool Growers Association, we add this second meaning to our primary responsibilities. While we face many challenges in 21^st Century California, I’m confident in our tenacity, unity and enthusiasm as an organization.  We’ll need the foresight and energy of our founders – and the effectiveness and communication tools of our youngest members! I’m tremendously excited about these next two years. I’m humbled that my colleagues have confidence in my abilities to help “shepherd” our organization.

Little did I know that the challenges we'd face as an industry - and as a society - would be unprecedented!

And so I thought I would share my last President's Message - delivered to our membership during yesterday's meeting.

Over the last several weeks, as I’ve been working on my last report to you as President, I’ve struggled to strike a positive tone. I think all of us who raise livestock are optimists by nature – turning the rams in with the ewes each year requires a faith in the future – but at least for me, these last 6 months have been really difficult, on many levels.

For me at least, many of the reasons that I find it difficult to be optimistic are beyond my personal control – the pandemic, the lamb market, the wool market – each of these challenges has been overwhelming at times. Like it doesn’t really matter what I do, or what we as an organization do.

But when I think about the things I can control in my own business and within my own family, I find my natural optimism returns. When I see my daughters carrying the experiences that they had growing up around a sheep business (even a small one like mine), I’m reassured about our future. My oldest worked as a range tech at the US Sheep Experiment Station in Dubois this summer; my youngest, a senior in high school, will be showing her last fair lamb (virtually, at least) in a couple of weeks.

And when I think about things we as the members and leaders of the California Wool Growers Association can control, my outlook brightens further. I start with the mission statement we adopted several years ago in Minden:

Our mission is to deliver lasting value to support all segments of the California sheep industry.

I want to break this down a bit further – because I find both cause for optimism and a challenge for our organization moving forward.

First, we talk about lasting value. To me, that means that we’re in this for the long haul. I joke with my cattle ranching friends that the California Wool Growers Association predates the establishment of the California Cattlemen’s Association by more than 50 years! This is our 160^th annual convention – think about that! Our organization has spanned the Civil War, two world wars, the Great Depression – and several pandemics, including two major ones!

How have we lasted this long? We’ve adapted. That’s the thing about sheep – and sheep producers – I think. We’re adaptable. When I see multi-generational operations make the shift from a conventional production model to getting paid to graze, I’m amazed. When I see producers using new technology to make labor more efficient, I’m encouraged. When I see our Ram Sale Committee put an online sale together in less than four weeks – and see our ram consignors and buyers step up and support this new format – AND our organization, I’m incredibly grateful. Our ability to adapt makes me hopeful about our future.

But our mission statement also suggests that we need to support ALL segments of the industry. I’m humbled that while this organization has largely represented the interests of large scale producers, you elected someone who operates a small-scale, part-time sheep business to serve as President. And while I firmly believe that our focus on the issues critical to our larger scale members benefits all of us, I also believe we must acknowledge the value of smaller scale – and in many cases, new – producers.

As some of you know, over the last 8-10 years, Roger Ingram and I have taught a variety of hands-on workshops for new and aspiring sheep producers here in the Sierra foothills. In that time, we’ve worked with literally hundreds of people who are enthusiastic about our industry. Now most of these folks still have very small operations, but a handful have grown viable businesses. We need to do a better job of welcoming all of these folks into our industry and our organization. If we take these folks seriously, they can help our industry move forward. If we blow them off as hobbyists or “backyard folks” who don’t understand the challenges faced by full-time operations, we’re losing a huge opportunity to expand our base and increase our effectiveness. We small producers need viable, large scale commercial production in California, absolutely; we also need enthusiastic newcomers, most of whom will start small. We can’t afford to turn these newcomers away.

Finally, I believe that the entire industry benefits when ALL segments are healthy and profitable. This includes not only the large scale and small operations I’ve just discussed; it includes seedstock producers here and in other states. It includes fiber flocks and sheep shearers and large animal veterinarians. And it includes our partners further down the production chain – processors, distributors, and retailers. These challenging times, at least for me, have emphasized that we are all interconnected.

So why is now a good time to be in the sheep business in California? Why should we be optimistic as business owners?! Here’s what comes to mind for me:

• The targeted grazing business is exploding in California – and we have urban folks who can’t get enough of what we do! Ten years ago, did any of us think we’d have allies in Oakland and Berkeley, in Simi Valley and San Rafael!?

• California is home to the largest lamb packer in the nation – and Superior has been able to ramp up production during the pandemic, when other processors were closing down. I know our relationship with Superior is complicated, but we are so fortunate to have them as a partner here in our own state.

• Our market potential is tremendous – between the wealth of places like Silicon Valley and a growing West Coast population that loves lamb, we’re in a perfect location!

• We produce more wool in CA than in any other state in the country – and wool is cool, again! All you have to do is check out the REI catalog or join the Fibershed Facebook page!

• Finally, California is home to some of the top agricultural universities in the world – and there’s renewed interest in doing sheep research! I am excited about this both as a scientist and as a producer.

 How can we NOT be optimistic?!

 Don’t get me wrong – we have hard work ahead of us. Change is never easy. Some of us will need to change our business models to meet these new opportunities. When I look at the faces on my screen today (my own included), I know that many of us need to start thinking about generational transfer – who comes after us in our businesses? In this organization? How can we encourage new producers to take the chances that many of us have taken to build our businesses? How can we support these new folks? How can we get them engaged in our organization? To me, these are the pressing challenges – and greatest opportunities before our industry and our association.

I want to thank our sponsors and auction donors for making this year’s convention possible – you’ve seen their names in my background all weekend! I also want to thank both of the executive directors I’ve had the privilege to work with. I know we all appreciate Erica Sanko’s work on our behalf. Thank you, Jay, for stepping up during these challenging times.

Thank you to my family and to my ranching partner Roger Ingram for covering things at home while I focused on California Wool Growers business. You made it possible for me to spend time away!

Thank you to our committee members and committee chairs who have put in so much volunteer time over the last two years.

I most want to thank the members of the Executive Board – Ryan Indart, Andree Soares, and Ed Anchordoguy. These last two years have definitely been a team effort – thank you for always stepping up, and always taking my call! And finally, I want to thank you, the members of the California Wool Growers Association, for giving this first-generation sheep producer an opportunity to serve as President. Thank you.

Best of luck to our new officers, too - Ed Anchordoguy, President; Andree Soares, Vice President; and Phil Esnos, Treasurer. I know you all to be outstanding leaders! Now I think I'll go take a nap!

Drought and Disease

Okay - so I'll admit the title of this post is pretty depressing. Unfortunately, it also describes the times we're living through in Northern California (and much of the rest of the world). I'm writing this from the desk in my kitchen where I currently spend most of my work week (now that the University of California has mandated that most of us work from home due to the coronavirus pandemic). And as I write, most of the northern two-thirds of California remain in moderate drought, according to the National Drought Monitor. Indeed, we're currently on track (off track?) to have the driest year since we've lived in Auburn - drier, even, than 2013-2014. Drought and disease are our reality.

I'm amazed by how much has changed in California and the U.S. in the last five-and-a-half weeks. I returned from a conference in Denver on February 19 with a dry cough and a fever - symptoms that lasted about four days. COVID-19 was just starting to make news here - I wondered about my symptoms but wasn't too worried about it. We measured just 0.03" of rain last month - the driest February on record. Just three weeks after I returned from Denver, I was agonizing over my decision to inform all of the 4-H clubs in Placer and Nevada County that we shouldn't hold any meetings until April. This afternoon, we learned that the President has indicated that we need to maintain social distancing through at least the end of April.

This pandemic is something with which almost nobody alive today has any experience. My grandmother survived the 1918 Spanish flu pandemic as a child (an experience which, thankfully, she shared with me). Uncertainty and fear cause anxiety; anxiety, for some, causes irrational behavior. And this irrational behavior creates stress for others - at least it does for me. Whether this crisis ends in April or not, all of us will be different when we reach the other side of it.

I see similarities in the drought we're experiencing. From a forage perspective, we seem to be tracking at or above average in terms of grass growth (mostly due to the warm temperatures and false spring we experienced in February). This fact gives some a false sense of security - we'll be fine because we have more grass on April 1 than we normally do! When I look more closely, however, I see that the rangeland we grazed in February and early March has not regrown like expected. When I dig into the root zone on our annual rangelands, I find that soil moisture remains depleted - which explains why the seasonal creeks aren't flowing. And when I look at the forage we do have, I find that it is maturing 30-40 days earlier than normal. In other words, our drought is more than simply a lack of rainfall. We are seeing warm temperatures and dry days much earlier than normal. I worry about what our feed conditions will be next fall.

In many ways, drought and disease are similar conditions. Unlike other "disasters" - fire, hurricanes, floods, etc. - we don't know when these crises will end. And we don't know how bad they'll get. For me, these times have forced me to focus on what I need to do one day at a time. What can I control in my life today? What do I need to do tomorrow? This lack of control, I suspect, is one of the biggest challenges for most of us. We are so used to being able to control our own lives - our work, our social interactions, and our future. Drought and disease remind us that we're not in control - and that's incredibly uncomfortable for most of us.

Yesterday, I needed to visit a hardware store here in Auburn to buy some storage containers so I could clean up an alternative office space at home. The store was only allowing people to enter as others exited - an effort to facilitate social distancing. I thanked the store employee and security guard - which they obviously appreciated. They said they'd been told by some customers that they were overreacting. But isn't that the point?! Don't we all wish that our "overreactions" (staying at home, washing our hands - easy stuff, really) mean that our parents and grandparents (and our children and grandchildren) don't get sick? Don't we really wish that it won't be necessary to sell sheep (maybe this only concerns shepherds!)? We won't know if our actions will be sufficient until all of this is over. For me, that waiting might be the most difficult part.

Coping with Crisis Fatigue

Since last summer, my part of the world (the Sierra Nevada foothills) has experienced the threat of wildfire, multiple multi-day power shutoffs (related to the threat of wildfire), a dry October and even drier February (which impacted the forage available for our sheep), and now the spread of COVID-19. I realized one evening this week that I was inexplicably tired - more tired, even, than I usually get by the third week of lambing season. I realized that coping with one crisis after another has worn me out.

Since the first of the year, I've been worried about the lack of precipitation - and the resulting lack of grass for our sheep. As I write this, my worries are diminished (we've measured just under an inch of rain today), but not entirely eliminated. I suspect the dry, warm February will result in earlier-than-normal maturity in our annual grasses - which reduces the nutritional value and palatability of our forage at the time when we need as much high quality feed for our sheep as possible. And I'm still concerned about the amount of dry forage we'll be able to save for next fall.

More recently, I've been anxious about the spread of novel coronavirus and the resulting COVID-19 infections in California and in Placer County specifically. For me, the pace at which this current crisis has evolved has been especially difficult - every day, it seems, we learn something new about its spread and impact.

I serve on the board of a local agricultural organization that had scheduled it's biggest fundraiser of the year (a dinner and auction) later this month. Our board met Tuesday, and in a split decision, voted to go ahead with the dinner. I voted no, not because I was worried about disease transmission, but because I was concerned that many people would decide not to come and would ask for ticket refunds. Despite these concerns, the board voted to go forward. By Thursday, however, we learned that the California Department of Public Health was asking organizations to cancel or postpone gatherings of 250 or more people. We decided to follow their recommendation.

Also on Thursday morning, a local 4-H volunteer asked if I thought the club should go forward with a separate fundraising dinner scheduled for tonight. After talking it through with her, we decided to postpone this event, as well. I learned second-hand that other volunteers were critical of my decision - they felt I was overreacting. On Friday, I directed all of our 4-H clubs to suspend club and project meetings at least through the end of the month. I was a bit worried about the response to my caution; so far, I haven't heard any criticism. We'll see.

I learned during the 2012-2015 drought that decisiveness is a coping mechanism for me. I find that making and sticking to a specific course of action (selling ewes, for example) is difficult but ultimately reduces my anxiety. Indecision, on the other hand, stresses me out. I have also been told that I'm a very deliberate person (which I take as a compliment, mostly). I do find that I give a great deal of thought to the downstream effects of my decisions. I know that sometimes my decisions may turn out wrong - what if I sell sheep, for example, the week before the rain returns? What if I suspend 4-H meetings and it turns out that our anxiety over COVID-19 turns out to be overblown?

My friend and colleague Leslie Roche helped me look at this conundrum differently yesterday. I had mentioned that I was a little worried that our 4-H families would think I was overreacting. She said, "What might seem extreme now may be exactly what we need in 10 days - and hopefully not less than we need. And if everything turns out ok then, yeah - that's the point, right?!" Coping, I realized, also means sharing our anxieties with friends and family - they always provide perspective and reassurance!

Finally, I find my lifestyle and practical skills help me cope. I told someone yesterday that I feel so fortunate to have freezers full of food that we've raised. And I'm comforted by the knowledge that I have the skills and resources to refill those freezers as necessary. A full woodshed, a fire in the woodstove, and a pot of stew on the stove are reassuring, as well. And sheepherders, after all, are masters at social distancing!

Chicken, Lamb, and Beer

Late last month, I attended the American Sheep Industry (ASI) annual conference in Scottsdale, Arizona. As president of the California Wool Growers Association, I represent California on the ASI board of directors. I'm also a member of the Production, Education, and Research Committee, as well as the Resource Management Council. As usual, I enjoyed getting to interact with sheep producers from all over the country. And, as usual, I found that the informal conversations we had in Scottsdale were far more productive - and interesting - than the actual meetings themselves.

On Friday afternoon, several of us "sneaked" out of the formal luncheon and walked a few blocks to another restaurant. My friends Ryan Mahoney, Jeff Clark, and John Kidwell (from Emigh Livestock in California) were joined by AJ Neilson from Colorado and Dr. Rosie Busch from UC Davis. Over burgers and beers (at least I had a beer), we discussed the future of the U.S. sheep industry.

Now my friends at Emigh Livestock - and AJ Neilson and Dr. Busch - are in a position to influence the future of our industry. Their work matters - partially due to the scale of their operations; mostly due to their intellect and foresight. Our own sheep operation is extremely small by comparison. And yet we all share a passion for sheep production - which became the focus of our lunchtime conversation.

One of the most significant challenges for sheep producers in the U.S. is the diversity of our production - and our lunch was a great example of this. Emigh Livestock produces lamb and wool at a large scale. They raise western whiteface sheep (mostly fine wool) and crossbred lambs. They market internationally. We raise coarse wool sheep, largely because of our wetter climate. We market closer to home.

Initially, our conversation centered on the challenges that this diversity entails. Unlike commercial chicken production, the lamb industry is not well integrated. The large-scale chicken companies (like Foster Farms and Tyson, for example) control all stages of production - from genetic selection to the marketing of the final product. Chicken, largely, tastes the same all over the U.S. Despite our efforts to integrate, sheep production is much more independent and diverse. The ewes that are productive in the drier climate of the Central Valley and Sacramento-San Joaquin Delta, for example, don't work well in the wetter climate of the Sierra Foothills. Worldwide, there are more than 1000 distinct breeds of sheep. While not all of these breeds are raised commercially, there is significant diversity in commercial production, as well. In the United Kingdom, there are more of the crossbred ewes we raise here in Auburn (called "mules") than there are sheep in California. The wool that we produce is different from the wool that Emigh Livestock markets; so is the lamb.

Someone at the table posed the question, "Is there an industry where diversity is embraced - and economically successful?" Since most of us are Californians, the wine industry immediately came to mind. But as we talked further (and I suppose this might be due to the Arizona-brewed beer I had with lunch), we turned our attention to craft beer.

As a beer enthusiast, I think we live in the Golden Age of Beer. "Commodity" beer (Coors, Miller, and Budweiser) is widely available and very successful; but so are regional beers like Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, Fat Tire Ale, and Lagunitas IPA. On an even more micro scale, breweries like Knee Deep, Crooked Lane, and Moonraker here in Auburn (and Grand Canyon Brewing, whose Sunset Amber Ale I enjoyed with lunch) are successfully turning hops, water, yeast, and malted grain into profits. Admittedly, I don't like every beer I've tasted, but somebody does! I know that not every brewer is successful, but many are - and their diversity is a strength!

As we talked, we became more convinced that we could learn something from the pioneers of the craft brewing business - people like Ken Grossman at Sierra Nevada Brewing. Brewers have embraced diversity; we in the business of producing lambs have struggled with it. And so an idea was born - what if we as sheep producers invited craft brewers to share their insights? What if we held a conference that was focused on pairing beer with lamb - with the ulterior motive of learning how craft brewers succeed?

Last week, I shared this idea with some fellow sheep producers back here at home - that's the reason we go to conferences after all, right?! After I contrasted the chicken business with lamb production - and suggested that we organize a workshop with craft brewers - my friend Rob Thompson said, "Well that sounds like a whole lot more fun than a chicken meeting!" And while fun doesn't necessarily pay the bills, I think Rob is right. We're in the sheep business, in part, because of the diversity and independence it affords us. And it does sound like fun!

Watching Other Dogs

As some of you will know, I've had the opportunity to observe a large number of livestock guardian dogs - both in my capacity as a livestock advisor with the University of California Cooperative Extension (UCCE) and in my private capacity as a shepherd (and a student of everything sheep). I've watched our own dogs and learned about the management approaches and behavioral characteristics that result in a dog that fits in our system. I've studied other people's dogs and learned even more about the relationship between dogs, livestock, and people. Over the last several years, I've used geographic position system (GPS) technology and trail cameras to try to learn about the relationship between dogs and predators. And recently, I've had the opportunity to observe dogs and livestock owned by other producers who use management systems different than ours. As the summer 2019 grazing season wraps up, I thought I'd share some of my recent observations.

Last week, I camped near Russell Valley north of Truckee to be able to watch Luis, who works as a sheepherder for Talbott Sheep Company, take his band of ewes (a band is roughly 1000 head of sheep) from their bed grounds (near his camp) out to graze. Last week, Luis' camp was located on the east side of the road that runs from Boca Reservoir north to Stampede Reservoir. Just after sunrise, Luis and his border collies worked the band across the road and down to the meadow adjacent to the Little Truckee River. This group of sheep is guarded by a single guardian dog (a second dog had decided to visit too many campgrounds, so he was relocated to a more remote band of sheep). The dog led the sheep across the road and down to the river to drink. But I use "led" loosely here; the dog was in front of the band, but the ewes seemed more intent on grazing than on following the dog. After they'd grazed for several hours, the sheep decided it was time to head back towards camp. At this point, Luis and his collies went back up the road to keep the ewes grazing in the meadow for another hour or two. The livestock guardian dog followed the sheep this time.

This week, after checking in with both bands of sheep in the Stampede region, I paid a visit to Squaw Valley Ski Resort. My friends Brad and Alana Fowler and Nathan and Kaitlyn Medlar are working with Squaw-Alpine to determine if goats can help the resort manage the height of vegetation on the ski slopes (lower vegetation requires less snow for coverage - meaning an earlier ski season!). Brad Robinson, Squaw-Alpine’s environmental manager, is a graduate of Cal Poly San Luis Obispo. His experience at Cal Poly's Swanton Pacific Ranch convinced him that livestock could be an effective tool.

Brad and Nathan had turned goats out on the slopes on Monday. On Tuesday, I arrived at about the same time as Nathan's wife, Kaitlyn - who had two Big White Dogs in the back seat of her truck. Brad and Nathan reported that the goats had been restless during their first trip up the mountain. While the goats were herded during the day, they were penned in electro-net for the first night. According to Brad and Nathan, neither goats nor herders got much sleep the first night; coyotes on the outside of the night pen kept them up most of the night. After daylight, both Brad and Nathan observed coyotes near the goats. Which is why Kaitlyn was delivering dogs on Tuesday.

We put the dogs in the back of Brad's truck and drove up to the goats on Tuesday afternoon. Nathan and Kaitlyn led the dogs down to the goats and gently pushed the herd upslope. Brad had indicated that the goats had moved uphill rapidly the day before; on Tuesday, with the dogs, they ambled up the mountain, grazing as they went. Both Brad and Nathan reported this morning that the dogs and the goats seemed much more relaxed - both goats and herders got some sleep last night. Brad texted that the dogs chased a coyote out of camp last night; Nathan sent a photo of the dogs and the goats comfortably grazing the ski slope - held in place by high quality forage rather than any fences.

As I thought about these experiences, I think that the livestock were more confident because they with with dogs they knew. The sheep near Stampede continued to graze contentedly even once they spotted an unknown human (me) in close proximity. Their dog knew I was there - and I'm sure the sheep knew that he knew - and so they were confident that they were safe. At Squaw Valley, I could almost see the goats heave a collective sigh of relief when the dogs arrived - and their subsequent grazing behavior suggested that the dogs helped them settle into a new environment.

There is a risk, I realize, in anthropomorphizing these observations. Trust and confidence seem like human emotions. That said, there is scientific literature that supports my observations. Research conducted at the U.S. Sheep Center in Dubois, Idaho, suggests that "that ewes grazing with accompanying LGD will travel greater daily distances compared with ewes grazing without LGD accompaniment. As a result of traveling greater distances, ewes may also be exposed to more and varied foraging opportunities." (Webber et al. 2015). For me, these observations suggest that the bonding process works both ways. I've always focused on bonding our dogs with our sheep; I'm coming to realize that the sheep (or any other livestock) must bond with their dogs, as well.

In the coming weeks, I hope to post some videos of my observations. In the meantime, I hope other producers will share their experiences (good and bad) in using livestock guardian dogs!

Legacies

Yesterday was a difficult day for my family. We had to put down two animals that had been a part of our family for more than a decade. Reno, our oldest (and best) livestock guardian dog was ten or eleven; Woolly, our oldest daughter's first ewe, was fifteen. Both will be missed, but both also left a lasting legacy in our sheep operation.

Reno came to us as a six-month old puppy from a small-scale goat operation east of Nevada City. There were times in that first year when we didn't think he'd work out. We were still new to using guard dogs, and Reno tested our abilities (and our patience). He chased lambs. He chewed on ears (indeed, we had a one-eared ewe for many years who we called Vinnie - for Vincent Van Gogh). Thankfully, Reno outgrew puppyhood and ultimately became our most trusted guardian. Somewhere, I have a photo of lambs climbing on him.

He also had a mischievous side. If he got out of our electric fence (which rarely happened), he'd explore the neighborhood. He enjoyed these excursions even more if he knew we were trying to catch him. As I've written previously, I think Reno would have flipped me the bird if he'd had a middle digit on his front feet. I finally realized that Reno was playing a game when he went on these jaunts. If I ignored him, he'd quickly come back to me so I could put him back with his sheep. He also never turned down a chicken dinner (if he could get it fresh), and he didn't care for cats or raccoons (much to their detriment). A cat-killing dog doesn't do much for relations with one's grazing landlord.

Woolly was a Dorset ewe that we bought for Lara when she was 6 years old. Lara's cousins still tease her about the summer visit when the three of them tried to halter-break Woolly (Hanna was 9 and Sara was 12) - apparently Woolly drug Lara face down around the pen several times. I suspect this was the same summer that Lara and Hanna sneaked off and ate four dozen ears of sweet corn from my market garden one afternoon, so the accuracy of their story can't be entirely trusted. Woolly later gave birth to the first lamb Lara showed at the Gold Country Fair - a sheep-showing career that ultimately earned Lara enough money to buy her first truck. After ten or eleven sets of lambs, we let Woolly retire - she lived out these last years grazing our home pastures.

As anyone who loves animals knows, the departure of an animal leaves a little hole in our lives and in our hearts. Part of our responsibility as animal owners is to prevent pain and suffering - and yesterday we realized that the time had come for us to let both of these animals go. As I've mourned their loss over the last 24 hours, however, I've realized my relationship with these animals is different because they were not pets - they were both an important part of our sheep operation. As such, they both leave important legacies for Flying Mule Sheep Company.

Reno helped me understand how important proper bonding with livestock was for a livestock guardian dog. He taught me to be patient with puppy misbehavior, but also to insist that he outgrow this behavior. And in his later years, he helped me realize the importance of allowing a younger dog to learn from (and be corrected by) an older dog. The video below from last lambing season shows Reno insisting that Bodie keep a respectful distance from a ewe and newborn lamb. I realize that Reno was just protecting his access to this ewe's afterbirth, but this correction was much like Bodie's graduation from puppy to guardian. Bodie is in charge this year as we begin to lamb, and we're fully confident in him.

Woolly gave birth to a number of ewes that are still in our flock. She was an outstanding mother - she usually had twins, and she could always count to two (meaning, she always took care of both of her lambs). Her maternal ability, and her ability to thrive on all kinds of forage, will live on in her daughters and granddaughters that remain in our flock. Her genetic influence lives on in our operation, much to our benefit.

To some, I suppose, my sorrow at losing these two animals may seem mushy - I'm a rancher, after all, and ranchers aren't supposed to be sentimental, right?! And yet I think we are - every rancher I know mourns the loss of their animal partners. And every rancher I know pays attention to the legacy that these animals leave in our operations. A ewe who passes on her maternal traits and ability to thrive in our specific environment is incredibly valuable. A dog who passes on his protective instincts lives on in the dogs he helps us train. I'm not sure I can articulate this, but I feel the loss of Reno and Woolly (and the other canine and ovine working partners I've lost as a rancher) far more profoundly than that I've felt for any pet. I owe them both my gratitude.

The Wonders of Wool

My predilection towards wool might be a family trait. I have a small photograph of my Dad fishing on a Southern California beach with his uncle Guy in the late 1940s or early 1950s. My Dad is dressed in short sleeves and blue jeans; Uncle Guy is wearing a Stetson hat and a Pendleton woolen shirt. Uncle Guy was originally from Iowa and had lived briefly in Montana before coming to Southern California. As my Dad tells it, Uncle Guy usually wore Pendleton shirts – regardless of the season.

Some of Uncle Guy’s fashion preferences must have worn off on my Dad. Some of my earliest memories of shopping with my Dad include going into Baer’s Clothing in Sonora (a real old-fashioned, small-town clothing store – you could enter through the display windows in the front or the shoe department from a back street). Baer’s carried Stetson hats, Justin boots, Levi’s 501s (including an enormous pair that hung on the back wall as an advertisement). They sold dress clothes as well – suits and ties, Arrow shirts (under a sign that read, “Custer’s last shirt was an Arrow”). And they sold Pendleton shirts. I can distinctly remember my Dad buying classic Pendleton board shirts and pearl-snapped western shirts from Armand Baer.

My Dad has given me a number of these shirts that no longer fit him – including some that are older than I am. To me, one of the great wonders of wool is that it lasts so long. As a wool producer, I sometimes wish our product didn’t wear so well – maybe we’d sell more of it if it wore out more quickly! As a consumer, however, I definitely find value in wool. Even at $135 (the cost of a Pendleton shirt today), wool is a bargain! A $135 wool shirt that will last 50 years is still a better deal than a $40 cotton shirt that might last five!

The benefits of wool go far beyond longevity and economy, however. Wool is naturally fire resistant. It is also resistant to bacteria (which means it doesn’t stink like my cotton shirts after one day’s wearing). It can absorb up to 30 percent of its weight in water and still retain its insulating properties. The cuticle cells on the outside of wool fibers have a waxy coating, making wool water repellent. Wool is a renewable and biodegradable fiber, as well. The wool that we sheared from our sheep last May, which is by now likely turned into carpet, was the product of the grass our sheep consumed – a much smaller (and more sustainable) production loop than polyester or other man-made, petroleum-based fabrics!

I can’t bring myself to wear Pendleton shirts through the summer months like my Great-Uncle Guy, but I do wear wool socks every day of the year. I always look forward to the first chilly day of autumn, when I can break out my wool shirts again. Like my Dad, I’ve outgrown a couple of my Pendleton shirts – much to the delight of my daughters, who now get to wear them! As a sheep producer, I take great pride in producing something with such longevity!

Do these Big White Dogs Really Work?!

At the beginning of November, I had the privilege to be invited to speak about my experience with and research into livestock guardian dogs at the West Central States Wool Growers Convention in Casper, Wyoming. The Saturday session, where I spoke, was organized by Dr. Whit Stewart, Sheep Specialist and Professor at the University of Wyoming. Other speakers (including Dr. Stewart) discussed mastitis in sheep, mineral supplementation and nutrition, managing coccidiosis, using new technology to monitor rangeland use and diets of sheep and wildlife, marketing feeder lambs profitably, and a variety of other hugely interesting topics. I found it invigorating to be among other ranchers - and other researchers - with such enthusiastic interest in commercial sheep production!

To me, one of the more enjoyable aspects of ranching and conducting research in the era of social media is that I've made virtual friends with folks who share my interests all over the world! Dr. Stewart and I, for example, had never met in person before the meeting. When I went to pay for my purchases in the silent auction fundraiser, I met another virtual friend - Jenny Osguthorpe and her husband Brad ranch in Utah and Wyoming. I also had a chance to talk dogs and sheep with Cat Urbigkit, editor of The Shepherd magazine. Cat and her family ranch in western Wyoming - she's been using livestock guardian dogs in wolf country for a number of years. I had so much fun meeting these folks (and others) in person - social media is great, but there's no substitute for actually visiting with someone directly!

All of this is a long-winded introduction to a recorded version of my talk, "Do these Big White Dogs Really Work?! Livestock Guardian Dog Solutions: Observations from a Rancher/Researcher." If you've used these dogs, I hope you'll share your observations! If you have questions, ask away!

The 52nd Week - and What Comes Next...

Several years ago, I had the off-the-wall idea to start posting a photo of something to do with our little sheep operation every day for a full year. Beginning with the day we turned the rams in with the ewes (New Year's Day in our Sheep Year - the photo above!), my #sheep365 project taught me a great deal about telling the story of raising livestock - the annual cycle of breeding, birthing, weaning and marketing. Others started using the hashtag - and it even sparked Twitter and Facebook accounts (@Sheep365).

Fifty-one weeks ago, I decided to start a new project I called 52 Weeks of Sheep. Each week, I posted a video (or videos) of whatever it was we were doing with the sheep that particular week. I started out on YouTube, but soon found that 50-second videos on Instagram were easier to do. I started by talking about flushing the ewes in preparation for breeding season; my last post (next week) will cover the process of hauling the ewes from the dry, annual rangeland they've been grazing all summer back to irrigated pasture. I'm hoping at some point to be able to compile all 52 weeks of video blogging in one place (maybe here!).

I hope that these projects have helped non-sheep folks learn a bit about raising sheep. I've tried - in both #sheep365 and #52weeksofsheep - to share the good and the bad. I've tried to explain why I love lambing season. I've tried to show the monotony and the excitement. I've tried to share why I love what I do and where I get to do it. Perhaps more importantly, these projects have helped me realize that what I do - raising sheep, producing food, directly interacting with my environment - are increasingly rare in the 21st Century. These projects have also helped me connect with sheep producers in California, the Western U.S. and all over the world.

These connections hit home for me this last winter during lambing season. As usual during lambing (in late February and March), we were paying close attention to the weather. With a cold storm (and the possibility of snow) predicted, we were concerned about the newborn lambs in our pasture-based lambing system. Through my #sheep365 posts, I'd connected with a producer in the Dorset region of the UK (@meandeweblog) who posted something about some biodegradable lamb raincoats (called Lamb Macs) that she used. I sent her a message, found out where she got them, and within 5 days was using Lamb Macs from Shearwell to protect our lambs during the storm. The connections I made through social media literally saved a half-dozen lambs this year.

So as 52 Weeks of Sheep wraps up, I've been thinking about a new project. In addition to raising sheep, I work as a livestock and natural resources farm advisor for the University of California Cooperative Extension service. Much of my work focuses on rangeland management - I work with other producers, nonprofit organizations, and government agencies to provide science-based information about managing rangelands. I'm engaged in a number of research projects - from drought management to coexisting with predators on rangelands. And so it seems natural to start a new project that focuses on this work! When I post my last #52weeksofsheep video on Tuesday or Wednesday, I'll also put up my first #rangelands365 post on my Facebook, Twitter and Instagram accounts (check out https://www.facebook.com/FoothillSustainableRanching/ on Facebook; @flyingmulefarm on Twitter and @flyingmule on Instagram). As with my #sheep365 project, I hope others will join in on using this hashtag - my posts will feature lots of foothill rangeland photos, but since nearly half of the earth's terrestrial surface can be considered rangeland, I hope we'll all learn about these incredible landscapes! Stay tuned!

52 Weeks of Sheep: #1

Here's my first attempt at vlogging! Enjoy! And let me know if there are specific questions or topics you'd like me to cover in the next 51 weeks!

You can subscribe to my YouTube channel, too - flyingmulefarm!

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!

Sheepherder Container Garden Version 2.0

Several years ago, we experimented with growing a container garden in recycled protein tubs. I cut the bottoms out of the tubs, filled them with compost, and planted tomatoes, pole beans, summer squash, and chard. The garden was a success, but the plastic tubs weren't that pretty to look at.

This year, we've had our old redwood deck replaced. Most of the boards were beyond re-using, but we were able to salvage enough to take another run at a container garden. This year's version adds another dimension of re-use to the concept - wool!

Still needs more compost - but this year's
sheepherder container garden is entirely recycled!

At shearing, we set aside the top knot and belly wool (which typically contains lots of stickers and other vegetation), along with our skirtings (wool contaminated with vegetation and post-digestive residue - sheep shit, in other words). In past years, we've separated and sent this along with our main-line wool - it typically brings around 20 cents per pound. This year, we're trying a new experiment - we're putting this wool in the bottom of our planter boxes! It's organic (with a lower-case "o"), it contains nutrients (all of that sheep shit), and it has amazing water retention properties.

We'll see how it works (and will, of course, keep you posted). It may be that the wool stays too wet. It may be that the wool is too nitrogen-rich. It may be that all of those stickers sprout and we're inundated with weeds. It may be, even, that our tomatoes and peppers taste slightly of lanolin. Or it may be a rousing sheepherder success! We'll see! Now to keep the border collies from digging up the beds....

Sheep Management Basics: It All Starts with Grass!

Note: Over the last four weeks or so, I've given four presentations on the basics of raising sheep. I thought it might be fun (for me, at least) to do a series of blog posts based on my presentations. This will be the first in a series....

When we started our small flock of sheep (in 2005), we gave a great deal of thought to how we would match our production calendar to the forage cycle in the Sierra foothills where we live. While we still had much to learn 12 years ago (indeed, we still have much to learn today), we knew that we wanted to match our period of greatest forage demand with the period of greatest forage growth. For us, everything started with grass - and it still does today!

We live and operate in a Mediterranean climate in our part of the Sierra foothills. Our annual weather pattern is typified by cool, wet (hopefully) winters, and dry, warm summers. Accordingly, our annual grasses grow according to distinctive and predictable patterns. In most years, we get a germinating rain in mid-October or early November. Our annual grasses start growing - and continue to grow until the days get too short and the soil gets too cold (usually just before the winter solstice). During this winter dormant period, the grass doesn't grow much (if at all) - but usually by early February, the days are long enough (and the soil warm enough) that our grasses and forbs (broad-leaf plants) start growing slowly again. By the first of March - if we've had normal precipitation - our grass is ready to rip! In most years, we have our greatest quantity of highly nutritious annual grass from early March through mid-May.

So much for the supply side of the equation. On the demand side, our ewes require the greatest quantity of highly nutritious forage in the last third of their pregnancies and the first 6 weeks of their lactation (that is, the 6 weeks after they give birth). They require so much forage during this phase, in fact, that our stocking rate increases by almost 100 percent. In other words, 100 ewes that are about to give birth will consume nearly twice as much grass at this point in their reproductive cycles as they will when they aren't pregnant or nursing lambs.

Logically, then, we try to match supply with demand. We time our production system so that the ewes are giving birth when the annual grasses begin to grow rapidly. We start lambing in late February and finish lambing around the first of April. As a consequence, we've never fed hay during lambing - Mother Nature sees to the needs of our ewes during lambing. In addition to matching forage supply with forage demand, this decision allows us to map out the rest of our production year.

Our shearer tells us that sheep don't shear well in the first 6 weeks after lambing - so we wait to shear until the youngest lambs are 6 weeks old (usually in the first week of May). Since we want to avoid getting stickers and other vegetation in the ewes' wool, we pay attention to where the sheep are grazing before shearing.

We typically move the sheep back to our irrigated pastures in mid-April. Depending on the year, we'll wean the lambs (that is, separate them from their mothers) sometime in June. After weaning, the ewes can graze on dry forage (more about how we manage this type of grazing in a later installment). The lambs (those that we're keeping, anyway - replacement ewe lambs and feeder lambs) stay on our higher quality irrigated pasture.

In late August, we bring the ewes back to our irrigated pastures. We check their body condition, teeth and udders to make sure they can stay in the breeding flock. And on the first of September, we start flushing them. Flushing involves putting the ewes on a rising plane of nutrition prior to breeding to increase ovulation rates. We've found that proper flushing can increase our subsequent lambing percentage by 40-50 percent - that is, flushing can increasing lambing rates from 1.3 lambs per ewe to 1.8 lambs per ewe.

Since sheep have a gestation period of 145-155 days, we count backwards from our desired lambing date of February 22. That means the rams get turned in with the ewes around October 1. Since we want to concentrate our lambing season (a matter of labor efficiency), the rams come out six weeks later in mid-November. The ewes then "settle" in their pregnancies for roughly three weeks - we try not to do anything that might cause stress (like trim their feet or move them long distances).

Once the ewes have settled, we haul them back to our winter range - the landscape where they'll stay through lambing. In mid-January (4-6 weeks before lambing), we'll trim their feet and give them their vaccinations (which will transmit immunity to their lambs). Then we wait for lambing - and the cycle starts again.

Ruminant livestock - cattle, goats and sheep - have an amazing capacity to convert grass and other forages into meat, milk and fiber. Grazing lands that won't grow a cultivated crop, our sheep convert sunshine, rain, carbon and soil (in other words, grass!) into products we can use. By working with nature, we have essentially eliminated the need to provide supplemental feed (hay or grain) to our ewes. With the exception of flushing (when we do provide a bit of supplemental protein and energy), our ewes typically "harvest" everything they consume by grazing. It all starts with grass!

Look for the next installment: Lambing on Pasture