Winter Calves, Hawks, and Cowboys

A morning on high-altitude rangeland.

Icy early morning. I’m driving to the nearest little town, crossing vast acreage of rangeland. Miles upon miles of high-altitude grazing fields surround me. It’s well below freezing, about 20 degrees Fahrenheit. I’m cruising, listening to music, enjoying hot coffee in my travel mug. Out and about as a morning person – not a stretch for me. I’ve got to get my snow tires checked out – a big storm is moving in and studded wheels will make all the difference.

The valley is gorgeous. Sky and clouds are reflected in frozen sheets of wetland waters. A few brave, overwintering waterfowl poke around in the reeds and rushes.

On the left side of the narrow county road, I glance a drove of cows with white, crispy frost covering their backs. Crystalline mini-icicles dangling from their brown coats. A few mamas with babies begin to ambulate very slowly as the freezing morning breaks.

Marveling at those frozen coats, I think to myself – what is a hide? It’s not hair, per se. It’s not fur. It’s a hide.

I continue blazing across the valley to next encounter the sentinels. The sentinels, as I call them, are a series of red-tailed hawks on fence posts, windmills, weather vanes, poles on the side of the road. Big, majestic, healthy hawks who’ve been hunting well with the exposure of mice on the fields of late, just like my cat with her recent feeding frenzies. One-by-one, some right at my eye level, these regal raptors haven’t moved from their perches of safety all night; they’re waiting for the sun to peek through to warm their beings enough to move again.  I slow just enough to notice they, too, have a frosty layer of ice on their feathers.

Rounding another bend, I notice on the right side of the road, on the other side of the barbed wire fence, a mama cow is mooing toward the center. And on the opposite side of the county road, also fenced in, a baby calf is mooing in return. They’ve gotten separated and are trapped in two different fields – each crying out for the other. But those fences are sturdy, for good reason, and they’re not able to reach each other.

I sense immediately this is a bad deal. Unless the ranchers find out, baby and mama could be forgotten out here for days. Baby could die without mama’s milk. I’d heard about a similar death this past summer in other fields near our town. I’d chatted with some very pissed-off local ladies, heartbroken at finding a dead calf in a field after no one had tended the open range for days. Baby was stuck, separated from mom.

So, I know now: I gotta do something. I gotta take care.

But who to call?

I mentally review the names of the ranching families I know of. But specifically, whose fields am I crossing now? No clue. Plus, I’m about to lose cell signal. I slow the car to a crawl, take a “pin” of my location on Maps, then use my best good idea: one last crack at Google with a weak signal and I pull up the website of the county’s local association of cattlewomen. They would be a great start, I figure.

Lucky for all, the current president’s name and number are smack dab on the home page. I dial and she immediately picks up – early, early morning means nothing to most ranch people. The cattlewoman is kind, happy I called. She asks my general locale, which ranches I’ve just driven past. I describe my location to the best of my ability, and I text her the pin. She promises to follow through. Whew. I’m feeling hopeful for mama and baby.

About an hour later, snow tire errand complete, I’m driving back home the same way. The hawks are still on their fenceposts, still sentineling, still watching me. I see the baby calf still out there, trotting along the fence, looking distressed.

Photo by Sparky Stensaas

I take another pin, worried calf will get lost if (s)he gets further afield. I keep going slowly, start looking for a ranch house, figure I’ll knock on a door. Down the road a ways, I make out a cowboy on a horse, galloping along the fence. I slow down my car, flag him down. I put on my hazard lights, pull over, hop out, and explain the situation. Cowboy has on a hat, a light vest, no gloves. I’m barely cold, myself. This is a fine temp – my body has adjusted to high altitude winter these past years.

He’s cheery, calm, cool, collected – been out looking for same cow. I tell the cowboy where I last spotted the calf, so many yards down the road. He explains he got a call late last night. A good Samaritan had come across said calf in the road and pushed him back through the fence to protect it from getting hit by a car; only thing was, it happened to be delivered to the wrong side, separated from mama. It was too dark to tend to last night. But baby was gonna be rescued now. All would be well. Cowboy was on it.

“Watch out for my dogs as you drive down the road. They wouldn’t cross the ice to follow me on the horse so they’re likely out there wandering around the highway.”

“Sure thing!” I say, satisfied, and set out. I turn the radio back up and set off. A smile settles somewhere inside as I return to counting hawks on fenceposts.