Wilmeth - The Immensity of our lives

When Landscape recharges our hopes

The Immensity of our lives

When Friendship restores our perspective

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

            Our friend and trusted financial advisor, Rod Carson, is from Kansas City. He has managed our investments knowing what we have paid to the government will never be redeemed.  He recently reminded me of a primary motivator of our life in agriculture.

            “Rod, where is the upside of all this insanity?” I asked.

            “It is in our friendships, Steve,” he responded.

            Indeed, our friendships bless us when everything else is jumbled and assaulted.

            The Mountain

            We had gathered cattle for days. The rocky country had claimed a trailer suspension, a crankshaft alignment sensor, a front end differential and horseshoes. We were tired. The days continued to grind away as we were up before dawn doing chores only to get home for chores again in the dark. Our horses no longer even avoided being caught in the mornings. They were as tired as we were even with days of rest between duty calls.

            An attitude change occurred, though, when we picked up some wild remnants. Loading those cattle in the trailer had been important. We had run them too many days in succession and penning them offered a degree of victory. We were making progress.

            Several days later six of us climbed out through a rocky chute. Leonard led the mounted riders as I trailed. The climb was steep and the horses stopped to blow each and every time they called for a halt.

            At an overlook, I was reminded of what others might think of the scene. How many other Americans that morning could comprehend the immensity of the setting and the partnerships at play within that group? It wasn’t just the individual horses and riders. It was the group and how it would respond to the drama that would develop over the next several hours.

            As the mountain dictated, we distributed riders. The youngest rider, Tyler (Deuce) Clevenger, was first to pick up cattle for a return to the bottom. He and the sorrel paint, Sonny, started off together.

            One by one we committed to an evolving plan. Leonard, Paul Clevenger, and I wound up on the outside circles in one manner or another before Paul and I started 15 pairs from the bench under Tailholt Mountain. He would continue toward cattle missed from yesterday’s work. He would then rejoin Leonard, Jack and Jonna Moore, and others in the bottom of the drainage where the cattle were thrown together for the drive out. I retraced part of the ride we had just made to get other cattle that would have to be driven back up the same drainage to rejoin the drive coming at them.

The morning was gorgeous. No wind, but my scarf and my vest and silks still felt good against the bite of the air. I rode southeast to a bluff for an overlook. Even a nudge of spurs to his side failed to convince the bay gelding, Tom, the view over the side would be inspiring. He agreed to disagree and let me dismount and walk to the edge for a gander.

            Hundreds of feet of drop greeted me.           

Standing on solid ground looking off into infinity admittedly sometimes makes me feel wobbly, but, my goodness, what a view. For several minutes, I was mesmerized by the magnificence.

            The colors of the New Mexico morning were astounding. Sheer rocky drops, the convolutions of drainages, and grass in abundance all gave way to a mosaic of plains that tied to mountain ranges on the horizon. The combination was moving.

            That moment offered a profound sense of spirituality. The panorama of the backdrop was immense. The exhilaration was breathtaking.

            Before I turned to leave I offered thanks for this life and this blessing of land stewardship.

The Friendship

            Tom was pleased to leave the escarpment. He walked off in third gear and we began our descent to the ridgeline stretching eastward and below. We prowled the points, the saddles, and the drainages as we dropped lower. I enjoyed the ride. I liked being with the horse. I let him make most of the decisions in the descent. He took responsibility. He was alert and we built on his willingness.

            On a point, I finally got to peak into the canyon below. There were cattle scattered across the bottom still further away and down the drainage. I knew those cattle and I knew how they would react to my presence. We’d been with them before and they used that big rocky, mesquite bottom to their advantage. Given any chance they’d run.

            We finally made the last rocky descent into the bottom. As we started contacting the cattle, we shaped them away from us and up the arroyo. Those cattle had run so many times it had become their automatic tendency and they tried repeatedly again to do the same thing. At one point, we ran with them for a hundred yards up the rocky hillside before we got them headed.

            I remained hopeful we would meet the big drive coming down the drainage in front of us. We could then mix the combined herd and mill everything together as we forced the climb out of the canyon. The route we would use would put us at a gate just over the ridgeline and at the entrance to the pasture of our destination.

            When we came within sight of the hillside, though, the last of the cattle were just topping out. Leonard and the cowboys accompanying him had had no choice but to stay with the herd as they started out of that bottom.

            I knew immediately the cattle remaining in front of me would be hard to turn. They were now running. The horse needed no encouragement. He had been impatient holding back and he ran without hesitation. Over and through the cuts and rocks we went. Twisting and winding through mesquites we stayed with the cattle. It was then I saw unexpected riders at the trough at the foot of the incline. Those riders saw us coming and started spreading out trying to head the cattle, but we had missed the best chance.

            Hearing the cowboys coming at them, the lead cow followed by a yearling bull turned and led the whole bunch up a chute and away from the approaching riders. All I could do was charge right up through the middle of them trying to split them and turn them back from me in that narrow passage. Only four or five head turned off and back. At the top of the chute the remaining cows split in three directions and continued to scatter. I ran with the bigger bunch of calves but there was no more turning them. At that point, I was out of horse and out of position. I pulled him up and stood with him as he heaved for air. He was not going to be forced on up that mountain again that day.

            By that time, Leonard arrived back at the bottom of the canyon and he, Paul and Robert Huston turned the remaining cows split in the climb through the chute. They stayed with them for the mile back down the creek to the water gap. It was there they were able to turn all but one and put them through the gate on the ridgeline to the east. Part of our effort was salvaged.

            Leonard later told me the other cow that went through the water gap never slowed. She kept running.

            An hour later, we were eating lunch together. I was cooled down enough to accept the outcome and recognize what was at hand. We had put 225 head of cattle out and had them where they needed to be. We would regroup and deal with the missed cattle another day, but something more important was at hand. While most folks were getting ready for a day of Sunday football playoffs, this group of people was engaged in an American art form.  It wasn’t rehearsed, but a very unique skill set was not only required it was absolutely necessary. Horses and horsemen were equally important. The people, starting with Leonard, had become part of my life.

            Around us lounged the extended partnerships of our trade. Tired horses stood amidst tired cowboys. We had done okay. Every body was accounted for and everybody had contributed … we had lived this day and we had shared it with friendship.

            Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “Cultural ecology is what the northern New Mexico stockmen, the Norteńos, are calling it. Our land based existence can only exist through continuity. If it dies … our culture dies.”

This column originally appeared in the Summer (2014) edition of Range, the premier magazine for all Westerners or anyone interested in the "people, the land, and the western way of life".