I pulled up to the feedbunk on the south side of the little feedyard just as the truck was backing up to the chute. Daylight had arrived about 20 minutes earlier, but the inversion that blanketed most of the Magic Valley still held an ominous and icy grip on the entire landscape. The crystal hoarfrost lent a frosty beauty to the scene as it clung to everything in sight, from the single strand of horse hair hanging on the top strand of the fence to the power lines and every bar and tire and corner of the farm equipment – red or green – that stood in silent, sentinel-like vigilance over every farm yard of west Cassia County. The fat cattle in the feedyard, their black and red hides highlighted by the glistening white frost on their backs, began to mill around the pens as they lifted their heads and raised their ears in curiosity at the early morning goings-on.
It was shipping day, or at least the first of a few. We were only shipping one load, so I didn’t expect much drama, but shipping day is always accompanied by some angst. We’re not a huge outfit, and our final day of harvest is when we ship the previous year’s calf crop to its final destination to a packing plant in Texas or California. It may not be as romantic or Instagram-worthy as branding day or turnout day, but it is every bit as important and impactful.
The little feedlot where my cattle are fed is a no-frills outfit, but it’s perfect for my needs. It’s just a tiny satellite yard to Ken Black’s feedlot, on my brother-in-law Bart’s farm. It’s a one-brand outfit, so I don’t have to share any space or time with anybody else, and my trust in Ken’s feeding know-how is absolute. However, the no-frills part necessitates extra vigilance in the little details – details like making sure every single gate is properly shut.
As we were running a dozen head of the lumbering yet surprisingly athletic and agile 15-weight steers up the alley to the chute to fill the belly of the Texas-bound trailer, a few of the obstinate beasts turned back and bunched up next to a big 16-foot Powder River gate and, in the process, knocked the gate open. We were able to get the gate closed and minimize the damage, but one big red steer escaped and was off to the races. My hope was that he’d hang around the other end of the yard next to the familiarity of his penmates, but that hope was merely a feeble wish that would not be granted. This was problematic, since we were in the heart of the farm country southwest of Burley, and there was nary a fence within 15 miles. Fences only prevented an extra row or two of beets or spuds from being stuck in the ground.
We finished loading and sent the truck off on its 17-hour trek to Hereford, Texas. We then commenced the search for the fugitive. In fairly short order, my brother-in-law located the big red steer a couple of miles away with his tail and his head in the air and on a long trot headed south. With his pickup in hot pursuit across a frozen beet field, he was able to slow down the retreat, but Big Red was on the fight and in no mood to be directed anywhere by a pickup or any number of pedestrian cowboys. I quickly decided to make the 20-mile trip back home to retrieve a couple of horses while Bart stayed to monitor the escapee’s whereabouts.
I hurried home and retrieved and saddled a couple of ponies and, in a little over an hour, returned to the crime scene. My hope was that the big red fugitive would show a little more respect to the cavalry than he did to the artillery and infantry of my little four-man army. I didn’t want to stress him any more than he already was, so I had no intention of roping him and dragging him in the trailer. I just figured I’d get him headed north and drive him back to the yard. But the only northward steps he took were as he was shaking his head and blowing snot at me before he’d duck his head and take after my horse. It seemed as though we were at an impasse. There was no way he was going to cooperate without some sort of intervention. I wished aloud that we had a couple of companions for the cantankerous critter to encourage his compliance. It was at that point that my 88-year-old father mentioned that Bart’s farm manager had half a dozen old cows in a little back pen at the feedlot.
Bart jumped in my pickup, and within 25 minutes returned with a pair of gentle old pasture cows. It took only a minute or two before the big red fugitive steer decided to join forces with the two old matronly cows. Once the connection was made, he pointed his nose northward and led our little party back to the yard as if he were on a mission to save the world. Within 30 minutes, he was back in his pen and at the feedbunk. I figured he’d regain the 40 pounds he’d lost on his walkabout by the time we shipped again in 10 days.
I was cold and sick and tired of recalcitrant bovines – but grateful for the happy ending, nonetheless. As I loaded up the horses and headed for home, I couldn’t help but notice the parallels in the idiot steer’s behavior and that of many of his human counterparts, myself included. Alone and misguidedly independent at times, we tend to stubbornly lose our way while we resist any sensible attempts to guide us back home. But eventually, if we can calm ourselves enough to hitch our star to the gentle wisdom of someone who’s willing to quietly guide us, we can turn ourselves around and lead the way just as if we knew what we were doing all along.
