October 15, 2010 Spring 2005 – Calving Season Continued…

In March 2005 our local gift shop began selling my new book Beyond the Flames. We’ve also been giving copies to many friends, including the folks who own the local feed store. They lost a son in a car accident the year before, and were trying to comfort a young woman who had just lost a child. After reading our book, in which I told about the support group at the burn center in Salt Lake (for recovering burn survivors and their families), and how much this had helped us and many others, they were inspired to start a support group in our community for parents who have lost children. Lynn and I were very pleased to know that our story has been a help to other people.
Michael and Carolyn’s cows were nearly done calving when our little herd of cows started calving in late March. We’d brought our cows down from the big field above our house and sorted out the ones that looked like they would calve first, putting them into the big “maternity pen” near the house where we can check them easily during the night. The day we sorted them one young cow, named Freddy, was very restless, getting up and down repeatedly and wandering around. We put her into the calving pen by the house at 4:30 a.m. (Easter Sunday morning), where I could watch her out the window, using my flashlight, since it wasn't daylight yet. We were worried about her calving so early, several weeks ahead of her due date.

By 5:30 a.m. she had a bloody discharge so we put her in the headcatcher and checked her. The cervix was fully dilated, with the calf starting into the birth canal, but his head was slipping off to one side. The calf was tiny, but still having trouble coming into the birth canal, so we thought he was dead. He was very small and thin, probably needing 3 more weeks' growth in the uterus. Michael helped us pull the calf, which was still alive upon delivery, with a strong heartbeat, but we couldn’t get him breathing. His air passages were full of thick mucus and though we tried to clear them, and I blew air into one nostril (holding the other nostril and mouth shut), it didn't seem like the air was getting to the lungs--it was coming back around into the mouth. The calf never took a breath on his own and soon died. But one of the twin calves that Michael and Carolyn were raising on a bottle was in a handy pen nearby, and before we let Freddy out of the headcatcher we brought the twin (Bambi) to her and it nursed. We rubbed birth mucus from the dead calf all over the little twin and when we turned Freddy loose she thought the orphan calf was hers. They bonded nicely.

We thought that was the happy ending to the story. But Freddy was still in pain and did not pass her afterbirth, nor any bowel movements. She loved the adopted calf, but was so miserable that she spent all her time lying down; we'd periodically get her up and make her stand up long enough for the adopted calf to nurse. By evening we knew she needed medical attention, so we put her in the headcatcher again and gave her a gallon of mineral oil and 2 gallons of water (to try to get things moving again in her gut), antibiotics, and a shot of oxytocin to help her "clean". Sometime after midnight (early Monday morning) Michael and Carolyn checked on her again and she'd had another calf! Another tiny premature calf, but this one was alive and had his head up, and the cow had licked him dry (his short, velvety hair was completely dry). He was too premature and weak to stand up, so we carried him to the little trailer house to warm him and give him a bottle of colostrum. He weighed only 30 pounds and was at least 3 weeks premature.

He developed pneumonia from being chilled (and because of immature lungs), and spent several weeks in intensive care. Michael and Carolyn they took him home the second night, to make a better place for him in their basement. Their kids were out of school for a week (Easter vacation) and little Heather (age 13) spent a lot of time with the calf, rubbing and petting him, which seemed to help stimulate him to try to live. They trickled a little milk down his throat every 2 hours with a dose syringe. Young Heather worked with him a lot, trying to get him to suck her finger—and finally got him sucking a bottle again. She stayed with him the most of 2 days, reading books, listening to music, and he seemed to enjoy the attention. She named him Red Chile Pepper, and we gave the calf to her.
He soon became stronger, trying to stand up. Before long he was running and bucking around the basement and they made a barricade to keep him in his corner. Nick liked to get down on his hands and knees and play with the calf, butting heads with him. Meanwhile, Freddy was doing better, too, passing manure and eating and drinking again, and enjoying her adopted calf.

Then in early April we had a newborn calf that suffered a broken leg. The cow stepped on its hind leg soon after it was born. When the little heifer tried to get up, she couldn't put any weight on it. We had to hold the calf up while it nursed the first time. We put a splint on the leg, but our makeshift job wasn't adequate so we had our vet come out and put a cast on it. Then the little heifer was able to get up and around, and nurse on her own, and even tried to run and buck.

Our only previous experience with broken bones in a young calf was one our neighbor gave us 30 years earlier; he had a newborn calf that got stepped on, breaking off about 4 inches of its lower jaw (which was just hanging there, by the skin). He was going to shoot the calf, then thought about us. We've always tried to save every animal. So we drove to his place and brought the calf home in our old volkswagon. Our kids (who were quite small then) and I held onto the calf in the back seat. After we got the calf home, I tried to reposition the broken-off part of the jaw as best I could, fitting the bones back together, then we taped it in that position with stretchy adhesive tape. We knew we could feed the calf via stomach tube, inserted through the nostril, so it wouldn't matter that his mouth was taped shut. We'd been using a stomach tube to give fluids to calves with scours (back in the days before someone invented esophageal feeders with a probe that goes down the throat). Our patch job on that calf worked nicely and his jaw healed in less than 3 weeks--and you'd never know it had been broken. If you felt the bone carefully, you could feel a small pea-sized lump on one side of the jaw, probably where I hadn't gotten the bones back together quite perfectly.

Our calf with the broken leg had to live in the barn with her mama--she could not be allowed to get the cast wet or it would disintegrate. A few hours after our vet put the cast on, it started to rain, so we were glad we have a barn. To make sure the cast stayed dry, we watered the cow several times a day and took the tub away after she drank, since calves always like to dunk their feet in their mama's water tubs!

That was a spring for broken bones. Our son Michael damaged his ring finger on his left hand April 9 when they were rounding up their cows and calves to brand. It was a cold, windy day, and he hadn't ridden his young horse all winter (that was his first ride in the spring) and the horse started bucking. Michael was trying to hold the horse’s head up, and the pulling pressure of the reins—which also jammed his finger into the saddle--tore the tendon loose from the bone in that finger, tearing out a chunk of bone with it, retracting the bone fragment up the finger. His ring probably kept it from going clear back up into his hand, but he soon had to take the ring off, before the swelling was too great to get it off.

He didn't know whether the finger was broken or dislocated (he couldn't bend it after that, and it swelled immediately) and didn't go to the doctor because he continued on with the roundup and branding, and the next day had to help a neighbor brand. His days were so busy he didn't go to a doctor (even though the finger was huge and black and would not bend) until 9 days later, when the swelling finally went down enough that he could feel a piece of bone moving around in the upper part of his finger, and a splinter of bone at the end of his finger. So he had to go to a specialist in Missoula, Montana to have surgery on it, to pull the tendon back into place and screw that bone piece (with the tendon attached to it) back on.

He was stressed and upset because he needed to be here to feed his cows. But we assured him that Lynn and Andrea could do that while he and Carolyn were gone. Andrea came to the ranch right after she put little Emily on the school bus, and I took care of her younger kids while she drove the big truck. We managed to do their chores and look after the cows that were still left to calve.

Michael was also upset about having that arm in a cast for 6 weeks to keep the hand completely immobile as it healed. A rancher can never be sick or absent from the job. But Lynn helped Carolyn feed the cows and Michael could drive the truck. He still managed to do a lot with one hand, driving the tractor to load hay, helping with neighbors’ brandings, and was also able to do some irrigating, even though it was a challenge to wield a shovel.

That spring my dad was facing surgery, too—on his shoulder. At 86 years old he wanted to have it repaired so it wouldn’t be so painful, and so he could continue to do a few things. Life sure doesn't get easier as we get older, but maybe our spirits get stronger so we can handle it. But the challenges never end. It seems like when we get to where we can struggle over one hurdle, another one looms higher. The journey is quite amazing, and it's just a good thing we don't know (when we're younger) where it leads. We would not have the strength, courage and wisdom to handle it.

I thank God that we are given the ability to handle life as it comes along, but it's not easy, and we seem to need lesson reinforcements all along the way. I guess it's for the best that we get toughened up and softened down as we go along. If we were suddenly thrust into old age and various physical challenges, we could NOT handle it. We seem to need the wisdom, tolerance, mellowing and love that are gradually gained through the adversities we meet along the way. As our bodies weaken, our spirits can grow stronger. I sometimes wonder if a person could truly gain maturity without the challenges. We humans seem to take the easy road if we can, and maybe we need the lessons in order to truly grow.

October 1, 2010 Calving Season 2005

We had a nice Christmas, spending the afternoon and evening out at Andrea's place enjoying those grandkids, and feeling very blessed to still have our daughter, and to have those lovely children.

January 2005 started out cold. Even with our wood stoves going, it was often down to 55 degrees in my office in the early mornings when I was typing, so Lynn got me a tiny electric heater that sits by my desk. I was finishing a book on handy hints for horsemen (Stable Smarts), and working on the final stages of The Horse Conformation Handbook. My book Beyond the Flames had been published, and I was writing many letters, sending some of those books to friends who’d ordered them at Christmastime.

During January I was busy doing several writing projects--articles for horse and cattle magazines, and checking over the edited manuscript for my book on getting started with beef and dairy cattle. I hoped to get most of these projects done before we began calving. We calved in January for more than 30 years (to have the cows bred in April before they went to summer BLM range) but after we sold most of our cows to our son Michael (and he began using our range permit) our herd was small enough to stay home on our private pastures and we can calve whenever we want--so that year our cows were bred to calve in late March.

Granddaughter Emily had her 7th birthday in January and little Sammy turned 2 years old. Lynn and I planned to go out to Andrea’s place for a combined birthday party but we all had colds and decided to postpone.

In early January we helped Michael and Carolyn work their cows (giving the important vaccinations prior to calving) and they moved their cattle to our lower fields, in preparation for calving. They also brought a load of poles and several fence jacks to make portable jack fence panels. Young Heather and Nick spent a couple evenings after school helping them build the jack fence to create a wing out in the field, for getting the pregnant cows in through the corner gate whenever they needed to bring one to the calving barn. With the wing to funnel them toward the gate, they can't run off and get away so easily. The panels can later be picked up with a tractor and loader and removed from the field so they won't be in the way for haying. The kids helped hold up the long poles while Michael nailed them to the jacks.

Those kids were getting big enough to be a lot of help to their parents. They help on weekends, sorting out cows to put into the "maternity field", watering the cows and new calves in pens and barn, shuttling cows with new babies down to the lower field. I remember when our kids were that age; we made a good crew, and it looks like these guys are, too. That's the nice thing about being on a ranch--you get to do lots of things as a family. Even though it's "work", some of the projects can be pretty exciting (almost too exciting sometimes, with wild cows). That winter, they often ate dinner with us on Sunday nights after they got done with their chores. Since they were using our calving facilities and spent a lot of time here during calving, we got to interact with them quite a bit and that was fun too--sharing all our wild cow stories. And the grandkids got to hear some family history about all the crazy things their Dad and aunt Andrea did growing up.

The first new calves arrived in late January and by the first of February Michael and Carolyn had 21 new babies, including 3 born down in the lower field. Michael brought those babies up to the barn in a big plastic sled. They had several sets of twins. One pair was born down in the field and he put both calves in the sled to bring them to the barn, with mama following. Our own cows hadn’t started calving yet, so Lynn and I weren’t doing night shifts yet. On my birthday we drove out to Andrea’s place for a few hours and enjoyed seeing her kids, then that evening Michael and Carolyn and kids came for supper at our place after they finished their evening feeding.

By mid-February, 85 of their cows had calved, with about 160 more to calve. One cold night, another newborn calf had to be brought up from the field in a sled pulled behind a 4-wheeler, but that particular cow wouldn't follow her calf to the barn. Most cows are good mothers and follow along, staying right with the calf, but this cow (one they bought the year before) was wild and ran off, and they couldn't get her in from the field. She's the kind that would jump over a fence or crash over a stall partition in the barn, so they left her out in the field and brought the calf to their little trailer house to warm and dry, and fed it a bottle. When they took it back out to the cow, she didn't want it--kicking it viciously. They decided to give the calf to Swifty, a sweet little cow that lost her set of twins the night before. The wild, mean cow will become hamburger.

Swifty is much nicer and belongs to granddaughter Heather (age 13 at that time) and everyone was feeling badly that she'd lost her twins. Those calves were presented backward and all tangled together, and dead by the time Swifty’s labor was obvious and Michael brought her in from the field to put in the chute and check her and assist the birth. Swifty adopted the rejected calf; she still wanted a baby.

The 50 heifers Michael and Carolyn bought (to increase their herd numbers) were wild and flighty, so they were living in a corral near our other barn, which could provide shelter for those new babies. There's a lane between the corral and the barn, so it wasn’t too hard to get a wild heifer into the barn, especially since our dear old "Rhiney" (Rhinestone Rhonda) was living with the heifers. She was 15 years old that spring and we’d used her for many years to lead our heifers into the barn. We sold her to Michael and Carolyn in one of the batches of cows we sold to them, and they used her for the same purpose.

She would march into the barn, heifer following, then turn around and come back out, so you could slam the door on the heifer. If there were no other cows in the barn, we could leave Rhiney in there with the heifer, in an adjacent stall, to keep her company if the heifer was really wild and needed a buddy in the barn. So Rhiney was still earning her keep, and they were hoping she wouldn’t calve until late in the season, so she could continue to do her job. She worked for wages--we always had to give her a "cookie" after her job (a flake of alfalfa hay). Then she willingly marched to the barn whenever we called her name.

Andrea and kids were doing well that winter, and little Danielle was growing fast. At 3 1/2 months old she weighed more than 12 pounds--making up for being so tiny when she was born. Emily was enjoying 1st grade and learning to read. She often read her books to me over the phone and was quite proud of her accomplishments. She decided to sign up for wrestling (the grade school has a wrestling program) and she was excited about that. She was very sturdy and strong for her age, and was able to outwrestle most of the boys in first grade!

Andrea continued to recover from her burn injuries 5 summers earlier, but "recovery" is a forever thing. The doctors in Salt Lake wanted her to go back to the burn center that spring for a couple more surgeries, to correct some graft contractures (one in her armpit and upper arm, and one on the little finger of her right hand) where the contracting scar tissue was pulling on her joints. She didn't want any more surgeries, however, and kept putting it off.

Lynn and I were feeling our age that winter and started hiking every evening after chores, walk about a mile up our horse trail from the house. Some days we’d go farther, up a steep trail into a mountain pasture. With our smaller cow herd and fewer chores to take care of them, we realized we weren't getting the exercise we used to (and me not riding range every day in summer--now I just ride occasionally to help the kids move cattle). Sitting at a desk typing is not a good way to stay fit. My cholesterol levels had risen sharply after I became less active, and Lynn was overweight, so we made a commitment to hike every evening. I never thought I'd have to resort to "artificial exercise" but our lives changed drastically after the summer of 2000 when we started cutting down our cow herd (selling more to Michael and Carolyn) and doing less active things, like baby tending and helping Andrea, and typing articles full time instead of being outside working so much of each day. So... it was time to do something about it.

As we pondered the changes in our lives, we realized this journey has been amazing. These are definitely not the paths we would have chosen, but Lynn and I feel this trek has made us more "alive", more aware, and more able to love other people. We look back on that abrupt "detour" in July 2000 and now realize that it's the most wondrous (though definitely not the easiest!) route our lives could have taken--the most awesome trip. And it's on-going. Once we made that screeching turn off the main road, we entered an entirely different landscape. It took awhile to really see it and appreciate it, and the path is still opening up, but what a change it's been from that freeway we were whizzing along on so nonchalantly! So much more now, to see and feel, so much new stuff to try to soak in and assimilate, so many people crossing our path, and now we find we have the ability to see a kinship with them. We can really "see" people now, for who they really are, and know that we are kindred spirits under all the superficial layers we used to wrap ourselves in. The connectedness is awesome, and a lot of these people we meet, we end up sharing our journey with--we trudge along together and find joy and meaning in the travel, and we share a sense of wonder at the breathtaking glimpses of what life is really all about.

Yes, it's been an awesome detour and I can honestly say that now Lynn and I (and Andrea) are not sorry that it happened. We can look past the tragedy, and the changes we had to make, without bitterness or regret. The terrible pain, the uncertainty, the horrible fear and worry as we plunged into the dark unknown, have been mostly dissipated (or made endurable) and replaced by Love and peace, and a calm understanding that there is a hand that guides us. We can tackle the rest of the journey with more confidence, and even with joy, because now we know we are loved. Now we know we can trust. Before, these were intellectual concepts; though we had glimmers of "seeing", we were mostly enveloped in mundane stuff that stood in the way. Now, we know these things in our hearts and not just our minds, and the mundane stuff has been effectively ripped enough that we can step through it and beyond it, and sometimes be truly free of it--free to love, free to be, free to experience the joy of being loved for what we are, which includes a new commitment to be the best that we can be--in loving, in helping other people.

A friend that I came to know because of our mutual traumatic journeys told me she is grateful for the many gifts her accident (that left her partially paralyzed) afforded her. She feels connected now to the pain of other people, and to the possibilities of a heart change spawned by such pain. This is a metamorphosis that comes from entering into and passing through the dark unknown of a life-changing crisis. She said, "To those who walk in that darkness and all those beautiful people who have been changed because they stepped into it and through it with their faith intact, I feel connected. It's not a path I'd have chosen, had I been given a choice, but having come through it a better person, I can honestly say I COULD do it again. It's funny how people will say, 'I could never handle it like you have.' The truth is, they could."

She pointed to the story about a man who carried his cross to Jesus and said it was too heavy and he wanted another one. Jesus told him to put it in a certain room and go pick out another cross to bear. The man was overwhelmed when he saw how big the other crosses were and finally found one he thought he could handle. When he took it to Jesus and said he couldn't believe the size of those other crosses but had found one he was sure he could carry, Jesus said, "That's the one you brought in."

We think we've got it tough until we see someone struggling with a bigger cross, a harder one. Then we realize we can carry our own. It's all a matter of perspective. Each of us has a cross, but no matter what it is, our Lord helps us bear it--so our own is definitely the one we want.

So, I continue my own journey with joy, and a lot more faith. Even though worry and hurry still creep in, it doesn't take much to step out of that trap and shake it off and once again breath the clean, pure air and peace of this blessed detour. Though we shall always walk with a limp because of our encounter (a person never emerges unscathed through such a life-changing detour), we rejoice, for like Jacob wrestling with the angel, we did not let it go until it blessed us. We know we can manage now, in spite of our impairments and inadequacies, our loss, or our wound scars. We know we can manage because we have a wonderful Guide for the rest of our journey, and He will see us through the tough spots.

September 15, 2010 Late Fall 2004 – Another hurdle crossed, and a good Thanksgiving

Andrea was expecting her fourth child in mid November 2004, but started having labor pains more than a month early. An ultrasound check showed that the baby weighed only about 4 pounds at that point in time. Fortunately things quieted down and the pregnancy continued. In late October she had another checkup and the doctor thought the baby was more ready, and made an appointment for Andrea to go to Hamilton, Montana (100 miles away) to meet with a doctor there. Due to problems in our local hospital at that time, most obstetrical patients were being sent to other towns to have their babies. While Andrea made the trip to Hamilton for her checkup, Emily, Charlie and little Samantha stayed with us.

Andrea had labor pains again November 1 and we thought she and Mark would have to make a fast trip over the mountains to Hamilton, but again it was a false alarm. The next day we had a severe snowstorm and bad roads, so we hoped they wouldn’t have to travel that day. On November 4, Andrea was sure it was the real thing this time; she called us at 3 a.m. and Lynn drove 25 miles to her place to stay with the kids until they woke up, and then brought them home to our house. Mark and Andrea headed over the mountains and made it to Hamilton by 6:30 a.m.


She gave birth to a baby girl, Danielle, at 11 a.m. The baby weighed 6 pounds, 2 ounces and was healthy. The birth went fine, but Andrea started hemorrhaging immediately afterward; she suddenly became dizzy and nearly passed out while she was holding the newborn baby. She had to be taken into surgery to halt the bleeding and to remove a piece of placenta that was still in the uterus—that hadn’t been detected with the ultrasound. Her fleeting thought as they took her to surgery was remembering that her grandmother—Lynn’s mother—died during childbirth (and the baby died with her) when Lynn was 8 years old. She bled to death in spite of extensive blood transfusions. This was a very sobering memory for all of us.

A couple months before Andrea was due to have her baby, we had grumbled a little about the fact that politics and problems here in our local hospital made it such that she had to go out of town to have this baby, but in the end it was for the best and we were very thankful. I think the Lord watches out for us better than we can.

The doctor in Hamilton wasn't able to find the cause of bleeding, so he immediately took her into surgery and scoped the uterus—to find out whether she had a ruptured uterus or some other problem--and discovered some mushy placenta still in there. So he removed that material, which resolved the serious bleeding. We learned later that our local hospital had the equipment to do endoscopic examination of the uterus, but no one here knew how to use it or read it, so it was a good thing that Andrea had to go somewhere else to have that baby! God does work in mysterious ways, and who are we to think we know best.

She had a rough time after the surgery, but the doctor let her come home the next day. We helped her with the kids because she was in a lot of pain for about a week, partly from the incisions that were made for scoping her uterus to determine the cause of bleeding. Little Charlie (3 years old) had just started pre-school (a Head Start program) 4 days a week, and Lynn often went to town to pick him up at school, since he got out too early to ride the bus with Emily.



When Andrea, baby and Mark went back to Hamilton for her 3-week checkup, the kids stayed with us again, and Emily helped me with the evening chores. She wanted to see her pet calf, Buffalo Girl, who was now with a group of weaned heifers. It had been a couple months since Emily had seen Buffalo Girl, and I wasn’t sure the calf would be as gentle and trusting as she was earlier. She’d become more suspicious of humans after we tagged and vaccinated her with the other calves in September, and no longer let Lynn or me pet her. But when Emily and I walked out in the field and called her, Buffalo Girl came from the far end of the field and seemed glad to see Emily, letting the child feed her a mouthful of hay and pet her. The calf and kid had a special bond; she was definitely Emily’s cow!

At Thanksgiving, Andrea insisted on cooking a big dinner, in spite of the fact she wasn’t completely recuperated from having the baby. We brought part of the food, and Emily was at our house the day before, helping me make a pumpkin cake. That child loves to cook.


We had a lot to be thankful for, that Thanksgiving—our daughter still with us (after several “close calls” in her young life), and our beautiful grandchildren. We were glad to have both our children living nearby, so we can watch our grandkids grow up. We were grateful that our son and his family were utilizing part of our ranch for their cattle (along with another leased place), since Lynn and I were starting to slow down, and downsizing our own cattle operation.

Raising cattle and horses has been one of the abiding passions of my life, but these past few years had widened my focus and I was not as reluctant as I thought I’d be about giving up part of our herd. I suppose I've been guilty of being more of a hermit than most people. I was too insecure and timid as a young person to feel at ease with people--even though I desperately wanted to be. This is probably one reason why I loved animals so much and chose to spend a life working with them rather than with people... since animals were (for me) easier to deal with--always honest and open, easier for me to be in tune with. Yet now I feel those early years were partly a preparation for what I was ultimately supposed to do.
I think God was patiently waiting for me to grow up. Now I feel a compulsion to love and help people as much as I can. The sojourn that began in Salt Lake at the burn ICU was the start of a new door opening, stripping away some of my complacency and contentment (and even the fanatic passion of care I'd been giving to my animals all those years) and I realized I CAN live without my critters if I must, and that my all-consuming drive to take care of them and survive in ranching is really not my whole vocation. It is definitely a vocation and a way of life, but I've been gently pushed into moving on to broader focus.

After the abrupt jerk-around with Andrea's accident, my life took a different direction. It wasn’t very obvious at first, but gradually more and more. My focus changed and I realized I could no longer run away from what I suspect I was intended to do all along, but as a young person didn't have the courage, strength or ability to do.

Where once I gave of myself utterly for my critters (24-hour-a-day focus during calving season, for instance, or riding range daily in summer to check on the cattle and take care of any problems) I now am compelled to focus on people, and love them. I'm still inhibited and fettered by my limitations (as a shy person, I still do best staying home and writing) but I find that perhaps I can use my writing as a way to help others.
Physically and emotionally, it wears me out to go to town or be among people, but I can relate to them better now--with more focus, compassion, tolerance and love, without so much of "me" getting in the way; there's still self-consciousness, but not as much. The pilgrimage that began in Salt Lake is ongoing, gradually stripping away some of my defensiveness and the walls I'd put between myself and other people.

I am a poor tool for helping others, but I feel I’m being led by the same Love that carried Lynn and me through the darkest jungle we'd ever been lost in. I guess God can even use crude and graceless tools (like myself) for His purpose, so I'm humbly trying to find that "fit" in His hands. I know that I find my most peaceful (worry free) and happy moments now when connecting with and loving someone else, trying to encourage a friend who's gone through trauma or a friend who is fighting cancer or some other serious challenge. Somehow, in some small way, maybe we can make a difference for someone or brighten their day, as others did for us. When Lynn and I were struggling and trying to keep from sinking, there were hands that reached out to us and helped us through it.



In 2004 we scaled down our ranching (from 160 cows to 30) and even though I still had a few horses, I didn't ride as often—just using the horses to move our cattle from pasture to pasture here on the place, or to help our kids move cows on the range. They were using our range permit and we no longer put our cattle out there. I never thought I could give this up (at least not until I was physically unable to do it), but Salt Lake changed all that. The fanatic passion shifted. It's nice to still have some animals, but they are not my defining focus now. I spend most of each day writing rather than working with critters, and Lynn has more time for doing a few other things like helping Andrea with all her little kids (he often drove the 25 miles to her place to stay with the kids on days she had to go to town). When one door shuts, another opens. We've been able to survive financially without the big cow herd, due to the increase in my writing (books and articles) and are able to continue helping our kids, and hopefully helping other people, too.
I am slowly, slowly learning not to worry so much, and to just have faith that things will work out, one way or another. Sometimes the way is not clear, and we don't know how it can work out, but God seems to give us answers, or help us find ways to cope, no matter what happens. Some days are harder than others, and sometimes it's impossible to see or know how certain challenges can work out, but I'm learning to trust.

We continue praying for several friends who are fighting cancer and other serious problems, and marveling at how Love is leading them through. No matter what the outcome, some of them are celebrating whatever amount of time they have left. They have been blessed in spite of pain and setbacks, making every day count. The openness, the love, the peace they have, is inspiring. There are all kinds of miracles. A person doesn't have to be saved from death to have a miracle. Sometimes I think the greatest miracle is just the awakening of our soul to Love.

This doesn't mean we won't become "down" and fretful, or grumpy in our painful moments, or angry or petty. Most of us are still like small children in our progress and not very far along in our struggle toward awareness, and we still get crabby and cranky or selfish at times. But I am grateful for the awareness of Love that now can so easily jerk me back to a bigger Reality, once again reminding me that life is so much more than pain or hate or pettiness or judging someone else, and not bound by suffering or death. Those things are temporary. And we can get beyond them. We can celebrate the joy of our connectedness and rejoice in the wonder of such Love that can comfort and support us all.

September 1, 2010 Kids and Calves, and thoughts about our journey…

The summer of 2004 brought more adventures, including 2 orphan calves. One morning that spring when I went outside to do chores I saw a cow in the field above our house lying on her back, with her feet in the air. I ran up there and discovered she was bloated and suffocating, and even though Lynn and I tried to save her, we were too late. Her month-old calf followed us in from the field as we dragged the cow’s body with the feed truck, and we put him in a little pen where we could corner him and feed him with a bottle. Andrea’s 3 kids enjoyed feeding him every time they came out to visit, and 6-year-old Emily named him Nick Nack Paddy Whack Jack.

Three weeks later we suddenly had another orphan, when Onyx died (perhaps from a heart attack—she was perfectly fine that morning and sometime mid-day she dropped in her tracks without a struggle) and left little Buffalo Girl without a mother. When we got that calf in from the field, she was too wild and scared to nurse a bottle, and we finally had to give her that first substitute meal via stomach tube.

The next time, she still refused to suck a bottle, until I trickled a little milk down her throat with a dose syringe. Her tummy was so happy for the milk that her scared brain finally got the message, and she started sucking the bottle. We put her with Paddy Whack Jack and the two of them lived together that summer, eating grass in the back yard and pens, and coming happily to anyone with a bottle.


Emily helped feed these calves whenever she came to visit, and she and Buffalo Girl developed a special bond. The little black heifer allowed Emily to pet her anytime, anywhere, and would come to Emily to eat a handful of picked grass. Paddy Whack Jack was pushy and ornery, but Buffalo Girl was always calm and gentle and trusting, entranced by this small child.

That spring Em finished kindergarten and our two older grandchildren finished 5th and 7th grade. Young Heather was student of the year for her 7th grade class. Heather and Nick helped ride range and move cattle several times that summer. They were both in 4-H and enjoyed showing their horses. Little Emily liked to ride, too, and sometimes when I’d come home from riding range I’d let her ride my horse around the barnyard.

I finally started sorting some of the piles that had been accumulating in my office, discovering things (including some pieces of unopened mail) dating back to the summer of 2000. Time passed us by for a while that year, as we struggled to just hang on and do the bare essentials. Our lives were put on hold for many months as we struggled to deal with Andrea’s injuries and everything that needed to be done for her, and it was taking a long time to catch up.

One of the highlights of our summer in 2004 was getting to finally meet some friends from Pennsylvania who came West for a vacation. They stayed here a week to go horseback riding and float the river. This was a farm family we’d corresponded with for 4 years. Dwight was one of the first of many people who wrote to us after Andrea’s burn accident, after he read about it in one of the columns I wrote for a farm magazine. He was burned as a young man, 19 years earlier, while trying to save his family’s barn after a gasoline explosion set it on fire. He’d been through all the problems Andrea was facing, and his letters of encouragement were a great help to her, and to Lynn and me, as we struggled through the first months and years of her recovery. In his letters, he encouraged Andrea, telling her that the terrible itching and discomfort of her grafts would gradually ease, and that life would become good again. He said that in some ways his burn injuries were hardest on his parents, who could not bear to see their child suffering. His letter was one of the first we received from total strangers, offering hope and encouragement.

Other friends (Beth and Mike) came to visit us later that summer, and Beth rode with me to check cattle on the range. We also rode through the burned area on our high range, to look at the aftermath of the range fire the previous year. In some places the grass was coming back nicely, but in other areas where the fire burned really hot (burning down through topsoil to the rocks) the bare areas were filling in with weeds. Much of the ground under the burned trees was still black, with nothing growing yet. The fire burned several miles of fence between our allotment and the Forest range, and some of our cattle strayed into the wrong range. It took many days of riding that fall to find them, and some went home with the neighbor’s cattle.

That fall Andrea went back to Salt Lake for her semi-annual checkup, taking her two youngest children with her, and Emily stayed with us (so she wouldn’t miss school). Em rode the school bus with Nick and young Heather, and every afternoon after school she went with Lynn out to Andrea’s place to do their chores—feed the horse, the dog and the fish. Andrea’s checkup assessing her grafts and health issues went well, and we were glad for that bit of progress.

The dark cloud looming, however, was that Andrea’s marriage was going through increasingly difficult times. We agonized for her and tried to help her and Mark as best we could, but there were limits in what we could do. The challenges that come along in life certainly remind us that we are never really in control, that unexpected winds can come along and blow us into strange lands. But I was so thankful we had some "lessons" in earlier phases of our journey, to know that no matter what happens, we are loved, and the One who loves us will always see us through the storms.

The journey continues to be an emotional roller-coaster. A letter from a dear friend, a mother of another burn survivor, mentioned how after her son’s accident she weeps so readily. In my reply I told her that Lynn and I have both been affected this way, too, ever since Andrea's accident. Our emotions are so thinly covered that they burst through. Like our children's fragile skin, our protective layers that we earlier hid beneath were burned away by the fire, and the patch-up graft we've tried to replace these with is more transparent and easily parted.

It's as though we are more touched by everything that happens; our sensitivities to what happens to other people are now more raw and exposed. We can't ignore the deepness of feelings, or keep ourselves removed from what others are feeling. We are pricked and touched, by joys as well as sorrows. We have become much more feeling creatures. It's as though we've tapped into the very lifeline nerves and arteries of humanity and are much more acutely aware of our connectedness.


Yet we also seem to be a little afraid of this vast openness and connectedness, maybe still trying to protect ourselves from such depths of feeling. I still try to resist suffering, even though I know that it's the best reminder of Love, and the only way to stretch and grow until something deep inside us breaks and enables the heart and soul to expand and hold more.

I sometimes ask myself WHY do we need such constant reminders of the truths we've learned on our precarious journey? WHY must we have to be jerked up short when life gets easy and we become complacent again? Maybe this problem (of so easily slipping into complacency and blindness) is why some seekers of Truth locked themselves away in monasteries and other places of retreat to try to focus more fully on THE WAY and not be distracted by life's trivialities, but I don't think that's the best solution. I think life itself, out in the tough real world, is the best environment for getting the maximum good from our journey, since it periodically forces us to take detours from what we thought was an easy path. It forces us to confront realities along the way, and scramble through thickets, briars and bogs--and take the hand of One who can lead us through the dangerous spots when we realize we can't make it on our own (even though we maybe thought we could).

And it is only out in the real world that we truly bump into one another and connect, and find that we are all children of God, and loved, and that we share so much (especially with our fragile layers ripped off so we can't hide behind our carefully built facades).

As I mentioned to my friend whose son was burned, all that matters is LOVE. But, oh how we try to cover up that truth in everyday life and blunder along without touching. I guess that's why I am actually grateful for the experience our burned children gave us. It opened up such a vast new understanding and caring. Indeed, I know that we are more able to rejoice, in so MANY things, because we have been privileged to know sorrow. Life is a seeming paradox. The deeper that sorrow carves into our soul, the more joy we can hold. We cannot know true joy until we have experienced sorrow.

The past few years have been a blink. It doesn't take much to plunge us back into the feelings of 2000. That experience is still vivid and raw (and each year I mentally walk through the events of that summer and am aware of the anniversaries that roll around). This is the night she got burned, this is the hour she was flying to Salt Lake on the life flight, this is the day she fell out of bed and cracked open the back of her head and the skin grafts on her elbows, this is the day she was moved from the ICU, this is the day Em and I finally got to go see her, this is the day she got to leave the hospital and become an outpatient, this is the day SHE GOT TO COME HOME, this is the day.... No, we can never forget.

Yet, time has a way of softening the edges. We can still plunge right back into that frame of the movie, but we also have the counterbalancing knowledge of how it progressed, how it didn't end right there, how we were led through successive scenes and were brought through the valley of the shadow, and learned to trust (though I still need reminders!! but the reminders do jerk me back to reality and assurance, thank God!!) That's the beauty of the journey. We have a Guide, and now we are more aware of Him, and that He does hold us in His hand, no matter what.

And I know that I can never be the same. I may at times be complacent and forgetful and caught up in the smallness of fret or worry, or dissipate my focus onto things that don't really matter, but underneath it all I realize my purpose in life has changed from what I earlier perceived it to be. Now the only important thing is love, and trying to be connected, and trying to help others who are struggling through pain and dark thickets along their own journey.

Our love for our wounded children has opened up a well of love that is greater than we ever imagined, and we want to share it with others. I feel so small and inadequate to do these things that I now feel called to do, but I also know that even the unimaginable is possible, so I struggle on, to try to make a difference where I can. I am a poor tool, but who am I to question. I think I'm just supposed to trust and follow. Maybe someday us “mothers” should compile a book about "faith by ordeal".

August 15, 2010 More Challenges

The winter of 2003-2004 started out cold.
Our son Michael and his wife Carolyn calved out their growing herd of cows here at our ranch during February and March, using our calving pens and barns. They camped here in an old trailer house, and warmed many cold newborn calves in that trailer, next to the wood stove. The little bedroom served as a holding stall for several calves that needed more time in a warm place, including the extra calves from several sets of twins. Those calves eventually got a mother, adopted by cows that lost their calves from various problems.

Andrea’s little family continued to have their share of problems. The evening before her first birthday, baby Samantha fell off Charlie’s bed and hit her head on the floor. Andrea rushed her the 12 miles to town, to the emergency room at the hospital, fearing that Sam might have a concussion or neck injury, but her head and neck seemed ok. The next morning it was obvious that her leg was hurting; she cried whenever that leg was moved or bumped. The emergency room doctors hadn’t checked her limbs; they’d been more concerned about her head.


Andrea tried all that day to reach a doctor, and finally took Sam back in to the hospital emergency room that evening for an x-ray and found that the leg was broken. After it was splinted, Sammy started crawling again, since it no longer hurt so much. She was so active, however, that it hadn’t started to heal by the time they took a second x-ray a couple weeks later, so the doctor put a cast on the leg. It didn’t slow her down at all; she crawled just as fast dragging that cast as she had before the injury. But the leg healed very slowly and the cast had to stay on 2 weeks longer than the doctors predicted.

Lynn and I struggled through our calving season in March, getting up at nights to check on the cows, realizing we were becoming much older and more tired than we cared to admit. Helping our children (Michael and his family with their cattle, and Andrea with her struggles to take care of her growing family in spite of her disabilities) took a lot of our time and energy, but we rejoiced in being a family.

One thing that helped me keep going during the hard times was the continuing deep friendship with the mothers of two other burn victims—whose paths we crossed during the summer of 2000. One of them lost her daughter to burn injuries and the other mother struggled with the ups and downs of her son’s fight for life during 3 months in the burn ICU. We three mothers began corresponding after that summer (more details about this in my book Beyond the Flames), and we became an informal support group for one another. We shared our journey—our fears and struggles--as one mother tried to cope with grief and loss, and two of us wrestled with the ongoing traumas of our wounded but healing children.

I continued to thank God for the unexpected and wonderful blessings that evolved from our plunge into that pit of despair the summer of 2000, and one of the most appreciated blessings was the friendship that grew between us 3 mothers. As I wrote to one of them in February 2004, “I feel that in many ways we are kindred spirits, and getting to know you has been a delight and a comfort; I feel that the support we give one another is something that God intended and I am so very thankful for it. It has certainly helped me through my rough times and is part of the many-faceted "tutorial" that has helped me grow. You will be forever a part of my unexpected journey.”

“I sympathize with your feeling of tiredness and just wanting to let go--and have a long rest of some kind. Our bodies seem to keep betraying us as they wear out! And it seems like such a long haul sometimes. It would seem that eventually we should have earned the privilege to slow down, but it just doesn't happen! There are too many demands upon us and they seem to just keep coming.”

“The one bright spot, however, when I pause to look back at all we've been through and all we've had to do in the past few years, is a feeling of awe--in trying to envision how we actually did get from A to B. I know I've had some Outside Help. And that's the little ray of hope I keep holding onto... that the Help will keep coming when I need it, and I can continue to struggle along and make it through the rest of the journey.”


Indeed, that was the greatest thing I learned from this life-changing ordeal: that I can trust, and not worry. Even when I forget—and start worrying about the little things—the larger lesson soon confronts me and I realize that my life, and that of my family, is in God’s hands, and that I need to let go of my fretting and stewing and simply love and trust. There will be some rough times, but ultimately we will make it through this journey because we have a Guide who loves us.

I’ve come to believe that our mission now is to help one another, to make the journey a little easier for someone else, as others have helped us. We realize now that life is all about sharing, and helping one another through the tough times. Our various trials do help us get things in perspective (if we so choose--I think some people just sink into despair and self pity, and never see the gifts that adversity can bring). The bad parts of our journey can certainly help us appreciate the good parts, and realize that we've had some wonderful times along the way. Like one old cowboy said of life, "It was a great ride while it lasted!" Indeed, none of us know how long it's going to last, but if we can do our best with whatever time we have left, it certainly makes us feel happier, more purposeful, more complete.

When we stop to think about the good parts, the many blessings, the love of family and friends, we realize those things make it all worthwhile and make the bad parts much more endurable. Adversity can also make us realize what we still have (the glass being half full, rather than worrying about it being half empty, so to speak). Andrea, for instance, is a great inspiration to me because she came through stuff I consider unendurable--and she not only endured, but is glad to be alive and to have a chance to do some things. She knows she will always have some health problems and impairments, but rather than worry about those, she concentrates on what she CAN do and goes on with her life, grateful for what she has, and the opportunities to help other people.

The thing that impresses me most about the "journey" our family embarked on, that summer of 2000--when plunged into a strange land without a map--is the Love that surrounded us, that gently guided us, that brought us through the terrible turns in the trail, even when we couldn't recognize the trail or see our Guide. I have always had a certain amount of faith in a Creator who loves us, but never really understood the depth of that Love, nor the good He wishes for us (and the selfless love for one another that He wants us to be able to enjoy), until the rug got jerked out from under me and I didn't have the strength or resources on my own to make it through the jungles and bogs that suddenly surrounded me. There is NO WAY I could have dealt with this stuff on my own; I am too weak. We had a lot of help that summer, and it continues to enrich our lives, in a deeper understanding of what life is all about. No matter what happens to us, we are loved. In spite of pain or grief or death, we can come through it. Not on our own power (at least not on mine...it's pretty puny!) but with love, like the love a father has for his child. And we know we can trust in the Father’s love.

Continuing On… late summer and fall of 2003

After the fire in August 2003 that burned part of our rangeland, we were short on pasture for the cattle. The calves were lighter than normal, due to the dry year and having to come home from the range early. The hay crop was very short, after bringing the cattle home and putting them in some of the hayfields. One bull was missing for a month, but showed up at the ranch later. He was missed in the hasty roundup and eventually came down through all the open gates.

Andrea worked hard that summer at her place to grow a nice garden, and Lynn went out there several times to help her pick and can vegetables. She stayed very busy with her 3 children—Emily was 5 by then, Charlie turned 2 in late August, and baby Samantha was becoming mobile and crawling around. That Fall Andrea was able to come out to the ranch again and ride her horse a couple times when she found someone to baby-sit the kids.

In mid-October Lynn went with Andrea to the hospital in Salt Lake, for more tests, and I kept Emily with me. Andrea was having problems with some veins in her upper chest (and collar bone area); they were swollen and blocked (one of her jugular veins has a 3 inch long blockage). This was probably aftermath from the IVs that were in there so long, during her summer in the burn ICU. The circulation had to re-route around it. She has a lot of circulatory problems; in one place on her leg a vein has become an artery because the artery was destroyed when the muscle burned away, and now it is right under her skin! It’s amazing how the body can compensate for various impairments.

She was also having chest pain and her heart was doing strange things. The doctors in Salt Lake did a lot of tests but didn't have time to do all they wanted, even though they worked her in to see several specialists that day and did tests until 6 pm. They were not able to figure out exactly what was wrong.



Five-year-old Emily stayed with me here at the ranch, and helped me do the chores and feed the weaned heifers. We had to sell Norman that fall, so Emily got to choose a heifer to replace Norman—her special pet cow. Norman was an unusual critter, named for the calf in the movie “City Slickers”. When she was born some years earlier, she was too small and tiny to survive outdoors in the cold weather, and spent the first month of her life in a cardboard box in the house, fed with a bottle. Later we gave her an adoptive mother—a young cow who had lost her own calf—but Norman never really thought of herself as a bovine. She grew up to be a good cow, but was also a family pet. She was so gentle that our grandkids could sit on her back. She ended up being Emily’s cow, so of course we had to make some kind of trade when Norman got old and had to be sold.

In November Andrea became very ill (weak and dizzy) and Emily stayed with us again while Andrea was in the hospital. The doctors never did figure out what was wrong, and finally let her go home, but we kept Em a few more days to make it easier for Andrea, who had her hands full taking care of little Charlie and baby Samantha. Em stayed with us 10 days that time, while Andrea slowly recovered from whatever it was that made her so sick. Em rode the school bus to kindergarten, and Lynn drove in to town to pick her up at noon each day.

It seemed like we simply bounced from one crisis to another that year, just as we had been doing ever since Andrea’s accident 3 years earlier. But we were able to keep it in perspective and get through it all, and at the same time try to help encourage a number of other people, including several friends who were going through worse trauma, grieving over the loss of children. One of the things I was beginning to learn through this pilgrimage/detour in our lives that began abruptly with Andrea’s burn injury was a realization and awareness of the outpouring of Love that we can open up to, through these great wounds in our soul.

As humans, our wounds are all different, but I have confidence now that the One who loves us most can heal them all. The scars are always with us, and that's not entirely a bad thing, because I think those scars remind us of the fact that we CAN be horrendously wounded, and heal. The scars can remind us that our spirits can be battered and bruised, but come through it, perhaps more focused on the One who does the healing.

So many things that were important to me before (that I thought held top priorities in my life) are not so important now, and I am glad for this. It's a sort of freedom that I didn't have before. Some of those things were heavy baggage, maybe loading me down so much that I couldn't get far enough away from them to see what's more important. Now I think I'm more able to "fly" rather than being chained to all that stuff I was dragging around. A lot of those things are still important, but not so much that I can't let go of them if necessary.

The truly important, most wonderful thing about life on this earth is the love that lifts us up from trivial cares and worries--the love that connects us with other people. The love and compassion for other people is what matters most, and is the thing that works best at getting us out of "ourselves", leaving some of that baggage behind.

Life is full of paradox. I’ve come to feel that there are no absolutes except love. To have joy, we seem to have to suffer; to really live, we must almost die. To really have life and the best appreciation and enjoyment of something, we must be prepared to give it up. There seems to be some wonderful good come from everything bad, though it can be hard to see at first.

Sometimes I think our greatest comfort, our greatest peace, comes from trying to help or comfort someone else. This is truly the connectedness that frees us from our own pain. Life is full of struggle, and it's never easy.

Without adversity or a challenge of some kind, however, many of us really don't grow in spirit; we don't mature much in our thinking, especially in relationships with other people. If things are too easy we don't seem to get past childish wants and needs. Without pain or confrontation of some sort, we don't stretch or try to overcome the challenges. Most of us have to be challenged--to reach beyond the ordinary, beyond the easy way. Often the people who do best at something are those who had to overcome handicaps to get there, and maybe the same is true in our understanding and ability to love.

It’s too easy to become satisfied with trivia and complacency. We generally don't reach beyond our own selfish little world until we’re forced to. Maybe the greatest good in tragedy or pain is that it can be the knife that shatters the wall we put around ourselves. It can peel us down to the core. And without the comfort of all the layers we've wrapped around ourselves, we have to reach for help--and in doing so learn that we can reach out to others and maybe help them, too. Seems like we really can't be helped or help someone else until we open up that protective coating of selfishness and complacency that we so readily pick up. Trauma and loss can certainly crack our shells. Then I guess it's up to us whether we grow, reaching out in fear and trembling, then finding that maybe we didn't need that shell after all.

After Andrea's accident and the jerk-around of our lives (our journey took a very different course after that), it seemed we started on a pilgrimage of discovery. Lynn and I thought we knew where we were going, we thought we knew what life was all about, but we really did not know. The abrupt new path we were thrust upon--with scary twists and turns--opened up a new dimension we really hadn't been aware of. But it took awhile to see beyond the fear and trauma. We were still novices on this new journey, but we were traveling the path with more insight, and glad for the opportunity it gave us to open our eyes, our hearts. We have been lifted up and blessed by the love we've found, and the sharing of this with other wounded souls.

For us, the experience of tragedy was the true "start" of our lives, and we are very grateful for our many blessings. We are thankful that we still have our daughter, and have been subsequently blessed with several wonderful grandchildren. We are thankful for the people whose paths we cross, and all the love we’re encountering in this ongoing journey.

July 5, 2010 – Ten Years Later: Remembering Fires

As I write this, on July 5, 2010, it has been exactly 10 years since the night of the fire in which Andrea was burned. In some ways it seems so long ago, and in other ways just like yesterday. On this milestone my husband Lynn and I pause to reflect on all that has happened to us since that horrific detour, and we are thankful for our many blessings.
This time of year always brings sobering thoughts—sharp and painful memories of that life-changing fire, as well as concern for the approaching fire season in our arid West. During the past several decades, many regions have suffered terrible losses from wildfires (loss of forests, rangeland resources, private property, livestock, homes and human lives). Wildfires on public lands have increased in incidence and intensity, partly due to dry conditions during drought years, and also because of the build-up of dry fuel as logging operations have been shut down on most Forest Service lands and grazing uses have been reduced on public rangelands.

After the horrible fire season in 2000, our county suffered a number of devastating fires again in 2003. That summer was hot and dry—it was our 4th year of severe drought. The Tobias fire started in early July, a few miles up the valley from our ranch, burning thousands of acres of range and timber, miles of fences, and some cattle that were trapped in the fire. The Cramer fire later that month was even more tragic because it took the lives of 2 young firefighters. One of them was the son of good friends of ours. Our entire community was devastated.
Then on August 11, lightning started a fire on the mountain just above our cattle range on Withington Creek. Fire crews began trying to control it, dumping water by helicopter, and dropping fire retardant from big bomber planes. Strong winds kept the fire burning in spite of these efforts, and it continued to grow. Some of Michael and Carolyn’s cattle (our son and daughter-in-law) on our high range pasture were in danger, so Lynn helped get those rounded up and down to our lower ranch pastures. The 3 of them worked until midnight with horses, dogs and a pickup (using 2 way-radios for communication) to get the cattle out of that canyon to bring them down, but it got dark before they got them all. Andrea watched the flames from her side of the mountain, shooting more than 100 feet above the skyline. It brought back harsh memories.
At daylight the next morning, Michael, Carolyn and Lynn went back and gathered the cows and calves they’d missed in the dark the night before. There were still 120 cows on the Baker Creek side of the mountain, however, and we weren’t sure if they’d be safe. Michael and Carolyn spent the rest of that day on their horses on the ridge, with cell phone and radios, ready to let us know if Lynn should drive up that side of the mountain to start opening gates—if they had to bring those cattle home, too.
The Forest Service personnel told us the fire wouldn’t come down the mountain that direction, so for the next few days we just monitored what was happening. Michael had to get back to his haying jobs. Lynn spent a lot of time up the creek with the fire crews and helped them locate better places along the creek for their pumper trucks to get water--to haul to the tank they’d set up on the mountain—for the helicopters to dip from.
Firefighters kept the fire from spreading very much until 5 days later when strong winds took it toward town, threatening a housing subdivision. Those homes were quickly evacuated. Then the wind changed, saving the houses and bringing the fire back toward us. Fire crews in Withington Creek pulled out immediately. They got out of the danger area just minutes ahead of the raging fire, and evacuated the neighbors above us on the creek.
Earlier that morning the air had been calm and the fire seemed under control, so Michael and Carolyn had gone to their kids’ 4-H horse show at the Fairgrounds, 18 miles away. By afternoon, however, we realized the fire was coming toward our range again. A huge mushroom cloud of smoke spewed upward, 25,000 feet into the sky, easily visible above the top of the big hill above our house. I called Michael and Carolyn on their cell phone, and they left their kids, horses, and trailer in the care of friends, and rushed home.
Lynn hurried up the mountain in our old jeep, to start opening all the gates so the cattle could come down. Michael and Carolyn grabbed their other horses and galloped 2 miles up the road and then up through our 320-acre pasture to the high range. It’s a steep climb, but they didn’t spare the horses. Black smoke boiled up out of Withington Creek. The wind brought the fire roaring up out of the canyon to the top of the ridge, where it lapped over onto the Baker Creek side. Lynn began to worry more about being able to breathe than being burned up; the black smoke was thick and choking. The roar of the fire was incredible—like the sound of a dozen 747 airplanes all taking off at once.
He made it to the top of our range in the jeep, just ahead of the fire, and started shooshing cattle down our side. He took the jeep places no driver had ever dared go—honking and yelling—and parked it periodically to run after groups of cattle he couldn’e drive to. Michael and Carolyn soon got there and began gathering the cows below him. They had 2-way radios but could not hear one another because of a hill between them, but Lynn was higher on the mountain and could hear them both. He relayed their messages to one another, telling where different groups of cattle were located and where to go to find some they’d missed.
At home on my radio I heard snatches of their frantic conversation—Lynn yelling at Michael to tell him that the fire was coming up behind them, that they might have to make a run for it, and to leave the cow he was having trouble with (she was fighting the dog) and to go back over the hill where there were 30 head that he might have a chance to save.

Andrea called me on the phone, worried about what was happening up on the mountain and hoping they were all right. She knew first-hand what terrible danger they were in. I was also getting a lot of phone calls from friends and neighbors asking if they could help gather the cattle. I had to refuse their offers; there was no time. No one else could get there quickly enough with horses, and we also didn’t want to put anyone else at risk. Someone who didn’t know that range allotment could easily get lost and be in harm’s way.
Thanks to the radios, good horses (that were very fit and able to gallop continually in steep terrain), well-trained dogs, and great determination, Michael, Carolyn and Lynn rounded up most of the cattle in that rugged, timbered pasture in about 2 hours—an area that usually takes 2 days to gather them.
The fire was on the ridge right behind them as they brought their groups together and hustled them down the mountain. If they’d been just 15 minutes later they would have been cut off the by fire. Burning tree branches and embers rained down on them; Michael’s shirt was burned full of holes.
At one point it looked like they’d have to leave the cows and make a run for their lives, but a last-minute change in the wind (a miracle!) saved them, and saved our neighbor’s homes at the same time. The fire came within a few hundred yards of the first house, and stopped. The fire on the ridge blew back on itself and stopped, sparing the timber and grassland on the Baker Creek side.


Cows that were missed that day did not perish. Michael and Carolyn were able to gather most of them the next day, and the remaining few they didn’t find came down later on their own, through the gates we’d left open. The fire raged out of control in upper Withington Creek for several more days and spread southeast along the mountain range, burning 11,000 acres, but we were safe. We’d lost a lot of grass and several miles of fences, but we rejoiced because no one got hurt. It could have ended so differently!
As we struggled through that ordeal, we realized that even though the fire threatened our ranch and our livelihood, it was a walk in the park compared with a perilous trek through the burn center, or through the valley of death and the loss of a loved one. We realized that we can handle, with more grace than before, the curve balls life throws at us—because we are not as tightly bound by the things we thought were so important earlier. We can purchase hay to replace the lost grazing. We can replace cows. We can rebuild fences. The things we often tend to worry about or think of as devastating are not such a big deal. There was no better reminder of this than our friends’ loss of their son, and the near loss of our daughter 3 years earlier. Anything else is trivial.
The challenges that come along in life are good reminders that we are never really in control. Unexpected winds can blow us into strange territory. I am thankful that we had some lessons earlier in our journey, to know that no matter what happens, we are loved—and that our Guide will always see us through the storms.