In Search of …

Lost Bull

In Search of …

Clues

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

            As my grandmother neared the end of her life, she never quit smiling.

            On one of those visits between just the two of us, she reminded me that looking back on life the best times “remained in the chase”. Rarely does a day go by that I don’t think about her and those words. Her absence has never been a void. In fact, her influences on my life have probably grown more noticeable than I could ever have imagined since she left.

            Lost Bull

            We are missing a bull.

            It is very important we find him whether the outcome is dead or alive. We had the vet out Thursday and tested the others that have been in the headquarter pens since as early as the last day of December. Our plan was to lift the bull battery out of the herd at the close of the year and return them to the cows in the Apache Pasture on a prescribed date.

            In a last-ditch effort last week, I even flew with the hope of finding him, but the flight was a disappointment. Too high and too fast was the outcome, so, yesterday morning before daylight, I decided to check for tracks once again across the east and northeast side of the ranch. I hooked the 1957 CJ-3 to the pickup and headed out.

            At the headquarters, I unhooked it, cranked it, and off we went. Even with the windshield up it was cold. I found I could weather the icy blast pretty good at 25 mph so that is where I stayed until the two tracks required four-wheel drive and slowing to a crawl.

            I had seen water in the lower of the double tanks at the Swope Place when I flew and that became my primary target. Having moved the herd out of that pasture months ago we just hadn’t been there, and I was surprised to see water in a tank that doesn’t hold water very well.

            Clues

            This week has been one of tugs and bruises.

            There had been the report of the death of a friend’s child. That was followed by a separate memorial service. Circumstances surrounding it were bumpy and it made what is always difficult even more so. Then there were two separate alarms relating to doctor visits by good and dear friends. And, then a stroke, albeit mild, was confirmed in a relative that means so much to us.

            This business of getting old is not for the weak of heart is it?

            Almost invariably, though, being out under a big New Mexico sky becomes therapeutic, and that is what the day became. The first stop was at HEPO, the name of a drinker and tank of unknown origin. It was there on the map when we bought the place and, of course, it remains the name used. I walked around the drinker and found little fresh sign of anything especially after the big wind of the previous day.

            At New Joy, I was reminded of the word, clues, our soon to be married oldest grandchild but then three-year-old granddaughter used in serious discussion with her Noni as they walked along the ditch bank. She had insisted they must be careful and not disturb the clues as they studied the ground for tracks.

            For that matter, I didn’t find any clues or tracks at Mucho Cuidado, either.

            At the Howard Place, there were javelina tracks and a fresh deer track, but no cattle. It was the same at Martin, but, my goodness, the big horizon was growing more noticeable all around. It was warmer by then as well. I pulled my Calgary Stampede saddle jacket and threw it across the Ruger laying on the seat beside me. The binoculars were placed over the top of it all.

            The run over the gap to the Swope Place from there is always a delight. It is one of my favorite places on the ranch. A good part of the way was in compound in low range just crawling. There was not a fresh track one around the lower tank with water.

            Hmmm …

            After I backtracked a mile, I took the cutoff over the ridge to the Monterrey well and pens. I kicked myself for not taking a picture of the remains of the Swope rock house, but I paused on the ridgeline to take a picture of Massacre Peak and the Floridas in one frame and Cooke’s Peak and Hyatt country in the next.

Massacre Peak

Cooke's PEAK

         

















  I found no cow tracks at Monterrey, and, later, the first look around at Lion Tank down in the Apache Pasture revealed nothing either. With little hope and less expectation, I turned off the backtrack and dropped to the twin troughs also referred to a Lion, and there is was!

            A single animal with a big track had been there likely in the night. It had come in along the east west fence of the state section and leaving going east. Closer investigation indicated it had been coming and going for several days.

             We had been over there last week and picked up one bull by himself out in the middle of that section, drove him to the Howard Corrals, and hauled him from there. We had not seen anything else, but here was our likely missing bull. We had just missed him.

You rascal. I’m going to come horseback and get you!

In Search of …

Minnie Rice once told us her legacy would never be written because, when the author came, she was out in the back 40 fixing a fence.

I don’t believe that. The conditions, the work, the ethics, the friendships, the humor, and the lessons all suggest something much more profound. Our gift has been there all the time.

                Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “You can take the vacations and all the bon temps … I’ll take this life.”