January
11, 2022
Even the things we love and admire the most can benefit from being
observed in a different light, from a different angle, at a closer range, from a
higher or lower elevation. Simply put, sometimes
we need a different perspective to help us see with new eyes. Such was the case with my beloved mountain.
No
one owns a mountain any more than we own any part of the natural world. We might be entrusted with a piece of land or
the care of an animal for a short while we live on this earth but even then, it
doesn’t really belong to us, no matter that a legal deed or bill of sale says
otherwise. We are stewards and only for
a second when compared with eternity. It
would be more correct for me to say that the mountain owns me. It commands my attention, bends my will, calls
my name, seduces me.
For
the last three years (except for a handful of days when I was away from home or
weather was too inclement for me to make the hike), I have climbed to the top
of our property so that I can feast my eyes on Buffalo Mountain. Locally, we just refer to it as THE
BUFFALO. The name is fitting. It stands against the sky, a protruding hump,
solitary and proud. On several
occasions, Mike and I have gone to the natural preserve and climbed the
mountain. It rises to an elevation of
3,971 feet and may very well be one of the most unique natural areas in
Virginia. Its boreal, windy climate and treeless
summit are home to subalpine vegetation. South facing slopes are home to rare wildflowers
and native, meadow grasses. The mountain
preserve is home to a total of 15 rare plant species. A mealybug classified as Puto
kosztarabi was discovered at this natural preserve and has
not been found any other place in the world.
All of these facts are indeed fascinating, but I have to admit that for
me, the mountains aesthetic beauty as it rises against the horizon is what magnetically
and mysteriously pulls me in, day after day.
Mike
and I took a drive, in part to just get off the farm for a few hours and to
satisfy our curiosity. Not far from our
home, hidden and remote, lies over 300 acres of neglected property. This
adventure felt a bit clandestine, and it made me smile. We went right past the
private property signs on an unmarked road that was so overgrown, narrow, and
washed out that it didn’t feel safe even in our old four-wheel drive, off road
truck. I smiled and thought that perhaps
a pack mule would have been a better choice.
The property was for sale, but we didn’t’ call a realtor. It felt like sneaking but there was no one from
which to hide for no one has lived there for years and the current owners who
only frequented the place on rare occasions, obviously have not been there in a very long
time. We wanted to see it and get a
feel for the place without real estate agents breathing down our neck, knowing
we weren’t seriously interested, or at least we didn’t think we were. We were curious, had some free time, and
needed a diversion. As we stood on the
property, I wondered if real estate agents would even dare to bring a client
down the near impassable road, onto the overgrown property and in view of the decaying
home. Who would tackle this overpriced, overgrown, and neglected property? The listing agent had been quite deceitful,
posting photos from years past instead of taking new photos. The house and property barely resembled the
older photos. If we were younger by
about two decades, I would have begged to live there, but I know my limits, and
mostly I respect them. Yet, I wanted to
throw caution to the wind, and live in wild, reckless abandon. I wanted to stay. I wanted to say that we could buy the old
house in desperate need of repairs, clear the land, save the old barn from falling
and reclaim the pastures. I wanted to live
where cell phones don’t’ work, where internet is nonexistent, and electricity
would go out every time the wind blew. I
WISHED that I were younger and could live that dream. Instead, I quieted the desires, willed myself
back to reality.
But
there, on the forgotten piece of property high above the conveniently settled
swampy hollows someone had fallen in love with my mountain. They built a cabin with a view so sharp it pierced
my heart. What desire and dedication it
must have taken to build that cabin so high up, to carve out that elevated
piece of property when others were taking the easier way in the hollows! I feel the spirit of those who had settled
this place so long ago, calling to my soul. I felt a keen connection to these
people who had loved this place and their ghosts whispered to me, taunting me
to stay. I tore myself away from the
view and climbed in the truck without a backward glance. It was time to go home.
Walking
Buddy later that evening, I gazed at the Buffalo from the backside of our
property. It was beautiful. Even the
things we love and admire the most can benefit from being observed in a
different light, from a different angle, at a closer range, from a higher or
lower elevation. Simply put, sometimes
we need a different perspective to help us see with new eyes. Such was the case with my beloved mountain.
January 16, 2022
The weather forecasters cautiously predicted what could be a major
weather event for our area. They said it
was hard to say how our area would be impacted, but it was possible that we
could get a foot of snow or more. When you own livestock, if you are wise, you
will consider all possibilities and do as much as you can to prepare for these
weather events. Mike worked hard for
several days getting ready for whatever this storm chose to dump on us. He made a trip to Augusta County to pick up a
trailer load of hay; a combination of large round bales, large square bales,
and small squares we could feed inside the barn. A day on the road for him is close to six
hours of travel, much of which is on the dreaded interstate and he always had
additional, necessary issues to address while he is in the area, since we still
own a home, property, and equipment there.
After arriving home late Friday evening, he spent the entire day
Saturday working hard to unload the trailer of hay, clean out the barn and
shelters, put fresh bedding down, fill the hay wagon on the Back 40, separate some
cattle so that we had as many as possible able to feed from the hay wagon, and
bring in additional wood for our wood burning stove. Satisfied that everything was in place, in
working order, and fully prepped, we settled in for what we thought was going
to be a bountiful but peaceful snow.
I awoke early as I usually do, long before daylight. Usually, I get up and begin my day, piddling
around the house, doing laundry, putting away the hand washed dishes that
drained and dried in the sink overnight, making my cup of hot tea, and sitting
down to my computer to write, or edit, or catch up on emails and Facebook. Instead, I had the warm, fuzzy, comfortable
feeling that we would have a slow day and I would start my “snow day” off by
sleeping in for a change. I rolled over
and went back to dreaming. When I awoke,
Mike was dressing with the urgency that is usually his way of tackling the
day. I have to “ease” into my day in
contrast to his literally jumping into his clothes and leaving me anxiously
behind trying to keep up with him. I
sighed and asked him what he was doing, not understanding why he wanted to rush
outdoors. It seemed to me he had an edge
of impatience in his voice, but in retrospect it was probably just the urgency
he felt as he said he wanted to feed before the weather got too bad. It was snowing by this time, large, lovely
flakes falling rapidly, and the ground was just barely covered in white. I felt
the joy that bubbles up inside me each time it snows. My feelings about snow are in stark contrast
to my husbands, but as he has explained to me many times, inclement weather has
always made his job as a farmer much more difficult and uncomfortable since he must
work long hours outdoors. I’ve spent my time working out in the weather as
well, but I have never had to do so to the same extent that he has done it and
I can understand why he feels the way he does. “This time”, I thought, “it is going to be
different. We have everything in place, and we can just spend a few minutes on
morning chores and then enjoy the view from the comforts of our warm home for
the rest of the day.”
A good ten minutes behind him, I finally managed to get my clothes
on in layers and headed outdoors to participate in morning chores. Mikes body language and disgusted gestures toward
the lot where we typically keep the breeding age heifers, young bull, and a couple
of the younger steers told me something wasn’t right. I saw a belted steer standing at the gate and
bellowing. Then, I remembered that the young
steers had been separated out from that herd and were not supposed to be in
that field anymore. Upon further
observation, it was apparent that the two herds had somehow gotten together
overnight. I immediately wondered if I
had not latched the gate properly between the two lots and then remembered that
I had not walked that way with Buddy the night before, instead I had made a
loop and returned through another gate.
At least whatever was wrong, it wasn’t due to my forgetfulness or negligence;
that self-absolution didn’t resolve the problem we were facing. Mike, impatiently ahead of me as usual
already had the ATV and was on the way up the hill. I went to check on the other cows first and
then walked up to the next lot to see if Mike needed help. Huge snowflakes
continued to fall all around me. After
climbing the steep ATV path to the next lot, I could see Mike trying to
separate the two herds and they were not cooperating. While most of them were in the correct group,
there’s always one or two bovines who like to make a game of things. Together, we managed to wrangle the renegades
and move the larger herd back to the uppermost pasture field. Once the job had been completed, Mike who had
taken the lead in the ATV me with following behind to push the stragglers, went
to the watering trough to check it, just as I was finally making it into the
lot. “Great”, he said with disgust, “the
stupid thing’s now working. No wonder
they pushed through the gate. They were
trying to get water.” He worked a few
minutes on it but to no avail. We then
took the Kubota to the various lots to see if the other automatic waterers were
functioning. Thanks goodness, they
were. Mike asked me what I wanted to do
about the situation, and I told him that if he couldn’t get the trough on the
backside to work, then we would just have to put the two groups back
together. There was no major harm in
their being together, but the very small, miniature bull and tiny heifers has
been kept from the larger herd because the taller and bigger animals dominate
them. I knew that together, the smaller
animals would be picked on, pushed away from the food, and left out in the cold
if the shelter got too crowded. But not
having water necessitated our combining the herds. Mike worked for a long time in the bitter
cold, not dressed appropriately (because he had thought the morning feeding
would be a simple, quick routine job). Still,
he could not get the watering trough to work.
So, he put the two groups of cows back together giving everyone access
to the watering trough that was working.
Meanwhile, after completing a few tasks in the barnyard, I went back to
the house and began clearing the uncovered portion of our deck and the
sidewalk. If we were to get a foot of
snow, it was best to stay ahead with clearing the path. I was feeling guilty that poor Mike, who
hates working out in the weather, was once again being the hero and saving my
animals from peril but wanting to hang on to the joy of the beautiful snow day,
I reminisced as I worked. I recalled a
time when we lived in Alaska when a large amount of snow fell in a short period
of time. We were living in a log cabin
at the time and our neighbors were a young couple who worked for forestry
fighting wildfires in the summertime.
Their cabin was even smaller than ours and like us, they had no plumbing.
We did have the luxury of running water
in the kitchen sink. They did not even
have that luxury and hauled in all their water.
I didn’t know them well and they didn’t live there long, but I will
never forget how the man, woman and her young son piled out of that small cabin
when the snow started and began shoveling, keeping up with the falling
flakes. For what seemed like hours they
shoveled and swept their faces bright and their smiles wide. They had the energy of people who enjoy being
outdoors and look forward to adventure.
Round and around they went in the driveway, scraping, clearing, never
letting the snow get higher than a few inches before they cleared the path once
again. Such a simple activity and
dreaded by so many, but they made it look like a desirable venture.
Another snow day came to mind that brought me both smiles and
tears. I don’t recall my exact age, but
I was very young. A huge snowstorm came
to our rural, Missouri home. My parents,
who were not so old that they were completely grown themselves, took me out in
the deep snow and we all played together for what now seems like hours. My dog, Lady, always by my side, romped and
played as well. Together they rolled the
biggest snowball I have seen to this day.
All of us, including the dog stood on top of it when it was
finished. They also constructed an igloo
with a tunnel entry that we crawled through.
What a cherished memory that snowy day has been to me over the
years! I was sweeping frantically, remembering
brings joy but it also brings grief even after all this time. It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes, I
still break down and cry over the loss of someone so precious, beautiful, kind,
gentle, and fun being taken from us so quickly and far too soon. Sometimes, even though I am 54 years old, I
still feel like the little girl who has lost her whole world. And there, sweeping frantically the remainder
of the snow on the porch after I had shoveled the bulk of it, out loud I talked
to my momma. I used to do that when I
was still a child but I have not done it hardly at all since I became an adult. But in that moment, I realized that I had
never had the opportunity to thank her for that day so long ago. Standing on my
porch in rural Southwest Virginia, a million miles away from that time and
place so long ago, I thanked my mother for bringing joy to my life and for
taking the time to make those memories with me. I hope she heard me.
Mike finally made it back to the house, disappointed with not
being able to fix the watering trough, cold from his efforts, and not exactly
enjoying the weather. By this time, the
snow was changing over to sleet.
Periodically, throughout the day, we would get a few more snowflakes,
but mostly we heard the pelting of the small pieces of ice blowing against our
windows. When I looked out, I would see
the almost microscopic balls of ice bouncing across the hard surface of the
frozen ground. The five or so inches of light
snow we had earlier was being compacted by the heavier ice and the driving wind
was glazing the top, creating a hard crust.
Periodically throughout the day, I would slip outside to check on the momma
cows and their calves along with our older bull who were staying out of the
weather and in the barn. We had even fed
them small square bales inside the barn so that they didn’t have to go out if
they didn’t want to. Senior cow,
Princess, had her own space along with her companion Mary Ann. They all stood or lay quietly chewing their
cuds. I checked on the chickens, whom we
did not bother to let out for the day, making sure they had water that wasn’t
frozen solid and plenty of food. I
pocketed the occasional egg, forgetting to remove it when I got indoors, remembering
later to retrieve them and put them away.
And I shoveled and swept the porch and sidewalk as the sleet continued
to fall and the snow continued to drift back driven by the powerful winds. I thought to myself that I had probably
shoveled the same snowflakes five times as they drifted and filled back the
paths. Small limbs littered the yard and
danced across the ice and snow as the high winds pushed them onward until they
found a final resting place.
Late afternoon, Mike was heading up to check on the cattle on the
Back 40 and I said I would ride with him.
The ATV path is steep and by this time things were slick. I think it took us half a dozen tries before
we made it through the gate into the next lot.
We would go a few feet, get stuck, spin, back down the hill, get a
running start, go a few feet further than before, back down the hill, get a
running start and do it all over again.
At the gate, I told Mike not to stop to pick me up when he made it
through. I knew he would never get the
running start he needed if he stopped for me.
I watched the ATV spinning, grabbing, creeping inches at a time, slowly
going up the hill as I closed the gate and began walking. He went as far as he could go and then
stopped. That would be it. If we wanted to go any further, we would have
to walk. One lone, little heifer joined us,
and I worried as to why she wasn’t with the rest of the herd. She had ice on her back and ice on her
face. Her eyes looked out at me as if to
question who in the world had ordered this weather. We supposed she had come down to the only
working watering trough to get a drink but still I worried about the rest of
the herd on top. Mike took off on foot,
leaving me far behind. Even though I
walk the hills every single day, I have never reached the point where I can do
it effortlessly. My heart pounds, my
breathing gets heavy, and my footsteps slow.
I tried to keep up, but it just wasn’t happening. Most of the combined herd was in the shelter
when we arrived, standing there looking cold with the same expression that Misty
had given me just a few minutes before. “Where
are our comforts?” they seemed to be saying.
Of course, not all of the cattle were in the shelter and the hay wagon
was on the backside of the back lot. To
account for all the animals required more walking as dusk began to fall. The wind whipped around us, the ice hit our
faces, we dragged our heavy boots through the snow and ice being careful not to
slip. We counted the cattle at the hay
wagon and I wondered about Flash. I hadn’t
seen him at the shelter and I didn’t see him here. We trudged back, not talking except to each
express our opinions of where the young bull might have gone. I worried he was being bullied by the larger
cattle in this combined herd and that he went off by himself in the cold. Mike said he was probably in the main shelter
and we just hadn’t seen him. Sure
enough, when we got back and counted heads, he was hiding behind the taller
cattle and not easily seen.
With the ATV safely back in the long barn where we store
equipment, the chickens shut up securely for the night, and all the cattle
checked, we made it into the house about dark.
That morning, in spite of the fact I always make my bed first thing in
the morning, I had straightened the bedding and turned it back at the top
exposing the pillows in an inviting manner fully intending to have a short
venture outdoors and then return to the warmth and comfort of a day in bed. I dreamed of writing, sipping hot tea and
gazing at the large, fluffy, falling snowflakes. Alas, that wasn’t at all what happened. Instead, after fixing supper and handwashing
the dishes, I lay across the bed reading a few pages of an e-book I had
borrowed through Libby (a free service through the local library) and then
decided I was too tired to get up to watch my favorite show, All Creatures
Great and Small. Instead, at 9 pm when I
could hear the program beginning in the other room where Mike as sitting, I
turned off my bedside light and went instantly to sleep.