Perserverance Pays Off

Skyler finishing up on a cross-country run.

I went to a high school track meet the other day to watch our grandson, Skyler Young, participate. While watching him I was reminded of a story I had read last fall in a church newspaper. I did some web surfing to get more information on this story because I thought it would interest some of you.

            It seems that for quite a few years Australia was host to a 543.7 mile (875 kilometer) ultra-marathon endurance race. This race started in Sydney and ended in Melbourne and took five days to complete and usually only attempted by world-class athletes who have trained specially for this race.

            In 1983, 61-year-old Cliff Young showed up at the start of the race, dressed in overalls and work boots. Cliff picked up his race number and joined the others at the starting line. Many people told him he was crazy and that there was no way he would finish the race to which he replied, “Yes I can. See, I grew up on a farm where we couldn’t afford horses or tractors, and the whole time I was growing up, whenever the storms would roll in, I’d have to go out and round up the sheep. We had 2,000 sheep on 2,000 acres. Sometimes I would have to run those sheep for two or three days. It took a long time, but I’d always catch them. I believe I can run this race.”

            In order to complete the race in 5 days it was understood that the competitors would run about 18 hours a day and sleep the remaining 6 hours.  However, Cliff claimed he would run straight through to the finish without sleeping.  He didn’t run like the trained athletes did, his gait was actually an odd shuffle. Each night he came closer to those in the lead, and by the final night Cliff was in the lead. He was the first to cross the finish line setting a new course record.

After the race Cliff told reporters that he just pretended he was searching for sheep and trying to outrun a storm. When he was awarded the $10,000 for winning the race, he was surprised. He wasn’t aware there was a prize for winning.

            Cliff entered the same race a year later and came in seventh. Having a displaced hip during the race did not stop him from finishing, though it did slow him down.        

            Today the “Young shuffle” is used by many of the ultra-marathon runners because it is considered more energy-efficient. And during this Sydney to Melbourne race, the competitors no longer sleep. (http:www.elitefeet.com/the-legend-of-cliff-young)

            Cliff Young suffered a stroke in 2000 after competing in a race that he was unable to finish. He passed away November 2, 2003 at the age of 81. Until the time he had the stroke he participated in a number of races.

            Here was a farmer/rancher who persevered: he didn’t back down when people said he couldn’t accomplish what he set out to do; he didn’t worry about not having clothes that matched everyone else; he paced himself according to what he knew he could do; and he won.

Isn’t that what farming and ranching is all about? Farmers may not be involved in well advertised races, but they do race against time, weather, and the markets. A wet spring like this one may slow them down some, but as soon as they are able, they are out in the fields getting the soil ready and the seeds planted. And the usual attire is overalls and boots.  Yes, they continue to move forward, maybe only with a shuffle, and quite often with a lack of sleep. During the busy times it is not unusual for many farmers to become sleep deprived.  But they persevere, and by doing so they too win the race.  And the prize at the end of the race often is the good feeling of knowing a job has been accomplished.

MOTHER'S DAY

 Published in the Intermountain Farm and Ranch, May 6, 2011

       Mother’s Day is probably my least favorite day of the year. I have never felt that I was a good mother, and hate listening to all the accolades paid to mother’s that are wonderful, knowing I don’t measure up. Don’t get me wrong, I love my children and would do anything for them, but I don’t feel that I set a very good example for them to follow. A few years ago we had a special incident on Mother’s Day that made me realize the love that animal mothers have for their young. That incident has caused me to view Mother’s Day differently.



A newborn calf with it's mom.



Moving the cattle to spring/summer range is not always easy. The upper pasture we take them to is twenty miles from where they have spent the winter. We used to trail them up, but have found it is less labor intensive to haul them in trucks. The cows and calves need to be separated, as we take the cows in one trailer, the calves in another. Making sure the pairs get there the same day is the goal. And usually we meet that goal. Boyd has a little red book where he keeps the record of the numbers of the ear/brisket tags for all cows and calves. As the animals are loaded onto the trailers, that book is checked.

A couple of years ago we ran into a problem. When the last load of cows was dropped off at the upper pasture, we noticed one cow from an earlier load standing by the gate, calling for her calf. That in itself is not unusual because the calves and cows have to find each other after they are unloaded. Checking around, everything else seemed to be okay: fences up; gates shut; feed and water available. 

However, here in the valley we heard a calf bellering all night long for his mother. That is a sad sound. The next morning we were sure a mistake had been made as there was also one cow that had a full udder and she was adding to the noise level. Taking his little red book out, Boyd walked through the remaining cows. Sure enough, we had a cow and calf that didn’t belong to each other. 

            That was a Sunday morning, Mother’s Day at that. Deciding to take the mismatched cow and calf to the upper pasture after church, we commenced to do what needed to be done and attended our meeting. As we approached home after church, there was a cow walking on the road toward us. And she wasn’t just meandering, stopping to eat grass, etc. She was walking as though she had a strong incentive to get to her goal. Turning into our lane just ahead of our car, she went straight to the gate leading into the pasture. Just standing there mooing, her calf came running from the back pasture. All it took for us to do was open a gate for cow and calf to be reunited. Who said that cows or for that manner any animal, don’t love their little ones, that they don’t have feelings and emotions. We certainly watched the display of love that morning.

After we ate dinner we loaded the cow and calf plus the other cow whose calf was at the ranch, into the stock trailer to take them to the summer pasture. When we arrived, there by the loading chute was a calf crying for its mother. And its mother started answering its cries before we had turned the pickup off.  They were all unloaded and off went a happy mom with her little one beside her, and a happy reunion for the other cow and calf.

            And to think this happened on Mother’s Day, a day that we honor our mothers and all they have done for us.  Has your mother walked twenty miles all night to find you?

The Therapeutic Value of Dirt

THE THERAPEUTIC VALUE OF DIRT

Published April 22, 2011 in Intermountain Farm and Ranch 

            Getting one’s hands dirty is so much a part of the farming culture that I just take it for granted.  You don’t accomplish much on the farm or ranch without dirt getting on your hands, under your fingernails, and on your clothes. I will admit that because of the dirt I don’t have the beautiful fingernails that my urban sisters have. 

My kids always played in the dirt.  They had their trucks and tractors, and farmed their little farms just like their dad farmed his big one. Sometimes they would come in for a meal as dirty as their dad did. When the kids were young, I had a verse on my fridge that read:

No matter how much I scrub and clean,

No matter what good plans I start the day with,

My kids always look like the kind of kids,

I wouldn’t want my kids to play with.

I often hear young mother’s say to their children as they go out to play – “don’t get your hands dirty,” or “stay away from that pile of dirt.”  Isn’t that taking away the fun of playing outside?  My father-in-law once said to me, “There’s nothing wrong with good clean dirt.”  I believe that!

            I can remember making mud pies as a child.  We would stir the mud and water and form the pies.  Then we would put dandelions, grass, even bugs on the top to decorate them, and bake them in the sunlight, (probably one of the first uses of solar energy).  I guess they were more like mud cakes.  I think we even tried to eat them a time or two. The only time Mother got upset with us for playing in the dirt would be on a Saturday afternoon after she had washed and put up our hair for Sunday.  Then if we went out into the dust, and especially if we played house and swept the dirt floor in our make believe house causing the dust to fly everywhere and into our clean hair, she would get upset.  Other than that we were allowed to wallow in the dirt.  Oh what fun!

            The other day I went to a meeting.  When I returned home I was frustrated at how little was accomplished.  It seemed like everyone just visited about things that didn’t pertain to the business we were there to accomplish.  It frustrated me as I had things at home that  needed to be done. By the time I got home I was “chomping at the bit,” so to speak.  So I changed my clothes and went out to work in the strawberry patch.  Kneeling in the dirt, feeling the warmth coming through my jeans was comforting. Digging, weeding, transplanting, feeling the dirt run through my hands, all those things had a healing affect on my mind.  It didn’t take long for me to calm down and put things in perspective. 

            Perhaps when we work in the dirt, we can look at life more realistically.  Simple things become real and precious.  The challenges in life don’t seem as big. The hectic pace we travel disappears as a feeling of calmness takes over.  Why worry about things we can’t control?   Why worry about what did or didn’t get accomplished at a meeting?  Why let a so-called wasted afternoon spoil the rest of the day for me? 

            Maybe we all need our own personal sand pile to play in at least once a day where we can sit and let the sand infiltrate into our shoes, our socks, even our underwear.  We could make sand castles, pretending we were at the beach.  We could throw the sand in the air and laugh as it gets in our hair, eyes, and ears.  You know, that might be as beneficial as sitting in a psychiatrist’s office and a quick shower will wash away all the bad effects of it.  Inexpensive therapeutic therapy!