Southern Rockies Nature Blog: The Man Who Is Buying the Colorado Prairie

Southern Rockies Nature Blog: The Man Who Is Buying the Colorado Prairie: Click to enlarge (Source: Bloomberg) Stefan Soloviev is only the 26th largest landowner in America, so he has a way to go to catch up with J...

Agrarian of the Week, Wendell Berry

Surely known to everyone who might stop by this blog, polymath intellectual Wendell Erdman Berry of Kentucky is a farmer, a novelist, poet, essayist, environmental activist, and profound cultural critic.  His writings have had an enormous impact on a variety of areas, not the least of which being American agrarianism.

Last edition:

Subsistence hunter/fisherman of the week, and Agrarian of the Week, Tom Bell.

Lex Anteinternet: Mid Week At Work: A Christmas Carol.

Lex Anteinternet: Mid Week At Work: A Christmas Carol.: 

Mid Week At Work: A Christmas Carol.

Business!” cried the Ghost, wringing its hands again. “Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were all my business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!”

A Christmas Carol

Lex Anteinternet: Blog Mirror: Collapsed

Lex Anteinternet: Blog Mirror: Collapsed:

Blog Mirror: Collapsed

Well worth reading:

Collapsed

You can see my reply there as well, which I've set out again here:

"Last year it would have not been a problem but this year I'm not in great shape due to family issues"

Me too, except it's my own health, starting with a surgery in October 2022, and another in August. Haven't really recovered, although I should have.

Maybe you never really do.

Anyhow, was walking out of the high country at a pretty good clip as a rainstorm came rolling in. Lost my footing on a rock, fell, rolled over, and cut myself pretty bad. Just me and the dog. No cell reception, and I've given up carrying my gmrs radio as there's nobody to call if I'm hunting alone.

Rolled over, wasn't damaged and hiked out bleeding. It hasn't been a great year.

Glad you were okay.

I don't mean to be hijacking somebody else's blog, but since October 2022 I haven't been myself.  I wrote previously on my surgery followed by a second surgery.  Since the first surgery, my digestive track hasn't recovered, and it's clear that it's not going to.  I'm sick every morning.  Not some mornings, every morning, save, oddly enough, for a few days I spent at trial where I couldn't afford to be.*  Most days I'm better off not eating any breakfast anymore, as it's just going to make me sick.  I was already developing an intolerance to milk, but now it's through the roof.  I can't even eat cereal with a little milk.  The stuff I'm used to eating in the morning, which was always a pretty light meal, is a no-go completely now.

And the second surgery resulted in a medication that I'm pretty sure isn't adjusted right, right now.  Everyone has told me how thyroid medication is supposed to make you feel great and give you energy. Well, that isn't working for me.  Researching it, there are a tiny minority of people who actually never feel good following a thyroid surgery and for whom the medications don't work to address that.  Given that almost no medication ever works well for me, I wouldn't be at all surprised if that was me.  Hindsight is 20/20, but I really wish I'd foregone that surgery now and have borne the risk of cancer instead.  At age 60, and from a short-lived group, the risk probably was worth it.**

Worst of all, frankly, being sick all the time impacts your attitude in ways you can't really appreciate until it's obvious.  I've been there recently. Short-tempered and not having a good long term outlook.  At work the other day I blew up on two colleagues who have been running a really irritating religious debate for years, in the hallway, for what they conceive to be the entertainment of the unwilling listeners.  Our poor Mexican runner has to listen to this constantly, and I finally had enough and just exploded on them.  The point isn't that their juvenile behavior was okay, but that my reaction was so stout.***I shouldn't have done that, and that's just a minor example.

I usually look longingly forward to hunting season, but this year I've just not been too motivated after a certain point. Being tired has a lot to do with that.   And when you are like that, you are a pain to those around you, at least to some extent.  Some can see and appreciate that, others not so much.  It's hard to appreciate it yourself until something forces you to.  I looked forward to all summer to the season, and enjoyed deer hunting, but usually by now I've done a pile of duck hunting.  I've gone this year. . .twice. Every Saturday, the dog looks at me with confusion.  The funny thing is that all week long I still look forward to getting out, but when the weekend comes, I go down to work like old lawyers do, and when Sunday comes, well I haven't gone to Mass the night prior, so I get a late start doing whatever I'm going to do.

As noted above, not only am I tired, but I'm not in shape the way I usually am.  I've fallen so rarely out in the sticks that as a short person, I'm one of those people who were sort of goat like, climbing in terrain where hunters and fishermen wouldn't normally go and not worrying about it even though it was patently dangerous.  As a National Guardsmen, I recall once somebody remarking how me and another NCO were mysteriously able to negotiate difficult terrain at night, silently.  We were both avid hunters.  To take a fall, and a pretty bad one, on terrain that I'd been over a million times was a shock.

I was actually quite lucky at the time.  I was all alone, taking a path that I normally would not have, although as noted I've been on it many times before. There was a thunderstorm coming in.  I was carrying a loaded shotgun.  I fell, and, recalling the plf ***I learned so many years ago, rolled out of it, but not before I'd scrapped myself up pretty badly.  I wasn't sure at first if I'd broken anything.  I had my cell phone, as noted, but no reception, so I couldn't have called for help if I wanted to.  I usually carry a handheld GMRS radio, but I've quit recently as if I'm alone, who am I going to radio to?

Hors de combat, after it started to heal.

Sic transit gloria mundi.

I can recall my father getting like this when he was almost the exact same age I am now.  He died two years later.  He seemed pretty old at the time, so I wasn't hugely surprised.  I guess it's like the Hendrix song, "You may wake up in the morning, just to find that you are dead".

Of course, he was gravely ill for months prior to that.  In retrospect, however, it all started for him with a colonoscopy, the same way that this has started for me.  I recall him remarking as he was in the hospital on how all of his mother's ailments were now visiting him.  She died, if I recall correctly, at 65.

In my mind, I always imagined that at some point after I had reached retirement age, which I have not yet, I'd retire to a life of full time outdoorsman.  Not too many people do that.  There may be a reason for that. Some of us are luckier as we age than others.

Oh well, nature has a way of waking you up and reminding you that some things need to be done.  Getting sick? Quite doing what you are doing, refocus, and soldier on.  Get a grip, reform, reform, and keep on keeping on, but mindful of errors and omissions.

Footnotes

*I've long noticed for some reason a person's system will suppress symptoms of almost any illness when you absolutely have to keep on, keeping on. Usually things come back with a vengeance, or at least fatigue, when the crisis has passed.

**This is not intended to be advice for anyone else, I'd note.

***Re the argument, the entire facility had grown extremely tired of it and the shutting them up was welcomed, save by one of the arguers, who may be permanently mad at me.  Showing my presently poor mental outlook, I don't care.  I'm tired of hearing minority religions insulted when some of the employees belong to them, and I'm tired of having my own faith routinely insulted, which I've endured now for decades.  And while I'm a serious if imperfect orthodox Catholic, I'm also tired of one of these individuals, who isn't that good at arguing, turning to religious topics no matter what is being discussed, to include my assistant simply taking her shoes off in her office the other day, which would not normally lead to a Biblical discussion, but of course did.

I've also had it with somebody thinking that mocking the Spanish language is funny in front of somebody who's an immigrant.

***Parachute Landing Fall.  I learned this, oddly enough, while I was a CAP cadet.

Subsistence hunter/fisherman of the week, and Agrarian of the Week, Tom Bell.

Wyoming rancher Tom Bell, a Fremont County rancher who lost an eye from flak during World War Two, fits both of these categories this week.

Indeed, he nearly defined them.

So, too, the memories of youth return on occasion to bring the warmth of old friendships remembered and old experiences renewed. Some of my fondest memories are of the dog days of August. Then much of the ranch work was done and cares slipped away. School was in the offing but far enough away to leave free time. And even after school hours, there was still time to slip away and meditate beside some branch of the river — a retreat unsurpassed even yet in my mind’s eye.

It was during those days that we often fished. Two boys and a girl, a boy and a girl, two boys, and on many occasions — a boy. Whether together or alone, the memories recalled are always pleasant.

We caught fish, sometimes excitedly, but mostly we just fished. It didn’t really matter. They were the pleasant hours when teenage cares could be temporarily submersed.

Tom Bell.

Bell was born in Winton, one of the variety of Sweetwater County mining towns that once existed before they boiled down to Rock Springs and Green River.  His parents moved him to Lander when they took up farming during the Great Depression.  He graduated from high school in 1941 and lost his eye as a crewman on a B-24 run over Austria.  He graduated from the University of Wyoming with a Masters in Zoology/Ecology in 1957, was a founder of the Wyoming Outdoor Council and the High Country News, as well as being a rancher.

Lex Anteinternet: Messed Up Animal Ecology. Why you can't separate out your favorite animal, and demonize your least favorite, and make a lick of sense.

Lex Anteinternet: Messed Up Animal Ecology. Why you can't separate o...: 

Messed Up Animal Ecology. Why you can't separate out your favorite animal, and demonize your least favorite, and make a lick of sense.

The other night on the local news, some guy from some environmental outfit was yapping about "wild horses", equating "with other wild animals like deer and elk", and suggesting that cattle need to be removed from the range.

One of the things he brought up about cattle were their numbers, in comparison to "wild" horses.

His argument was intellectually bereft, but then arguments in this area often are.

Winslow Homer painting of a (fairly thin looking) plow horse.  Lots of "chunks" were let go in the 30s when their owners droughted out, their descendants still roaming the range today.

There are no wild horses in North America at all.

None, nada, zippo, "0".

There are a little over 64,000 feral horses, all in the West, in the Western United States.  If we include burros, which at least nobody pretends are a wild animal, there are 82,000 feral equines.  

All wild equines stem, at the very oldest, from animals that were brought on to the continent in 1519.  Quite a few probably don't really have any Spanish blood in their veins at all, and hail from horses much more recently brought in. There's fairly good evidence that in the upper West horses came down out of Canada, not up from Mexico.  

Some poor coureur des bois awakened one more, in other words, and thought "Chu dans marde! Mon cheval est parti!"

"Bourgeois" W---r, and His Squaw" by Alfred Jacob Miller, depicting a coureur des bois and his Native American spouse.  This is a famous painting, but we're not supposed to like it now.  One art museum notes about it:  "These words, which shaped how Miller's contemporaries viewed the watercolors, reveal the racism and sexism embedded in 19th-century exploration and colonization of the western part of what is today the United States."  Oh, horse crap.  Most trappers were culturally French, and the French had intermixed with the native population from day one.  This could just as easily be "guy and his wife."  The comment itself imposed an Anglo-American view on a Franco-American and Native American landscape.

Moreover, the introduction date to the Native Americans, at least on the Northern Plains, is much more recent than supposed, and even then, they didn't take them right up.  Indeed, among the Shoshone it produced a big argument, with the arguers, mostly young men, taking off and acquiring the name "The Arguers", i.e., Comanche.

In the 1930s, a lot of farmers in the West droughted out and simply let their horses go, including stocky draft horses, i.e., "chunks". Then again, in the 1970s the numbers of wild horses expanded as recent imports abandoned pasture pets out on the range and went back to their homes in Port Arthur, or wherever, and even now some of that happens.  The majestic broom tail of the range today may have been Little Becky's 4H project before she left for UW, died her air purple, and started protesting for Hamas.

Okay, so what about cows?

Long horn in a herd of Angus or Black Baldies.  I'm not really sure how this bovine ended up in this herd.

They came in at just about the same time, or earlier.  Cattle were brought to the Caribbean as early as 1493 by Columbus, which is really early.  "In 1492 Columbus sailed the Ocean Blue", but in 1493 the livestock truck, basically, pulled up to the dock.  Cows can and do go wild, but nobody gets very romantic about it, and there isn't a Wild and Free Ranging Cow Act.  Nobody goes by the moniker "Wild Cow Annie".  A wild cow we had went rogue and recruited other cows to her rogue wild cow band, which shows how wild they can get.  A neighboring rancher, caught her and shipped her as a menace. We got the check, and were happy for that end.

There are about 90,000,000 head of cattle in the United States as of this past summer, down from 100,000,000 in 1998.  

Okay, that's a lot of cows.

Which bring back our ignorant protagonist's point.  Before Columbus came and said "let's stock this range and lose some horses doing it", he seems to argue, the rangeland was empty of large ungulates.

Um, nope.

There were something like 50,000,0000 to 75,000,000 buffalo.

But, gee, Yeoman, that would mean that the entire ungulate supporting range of North America has always had a lot of large ungulates on it. . . 

Yep, that's what it means.

Current there are about 20,500 Plains bison in wild herds and an additional 420,000 in commercial herds, which we are supposed to pretend are wild herds.

Given our inability to accurately state how many head of anything were on the Pre Columbian landmass, what this basically tells you is the ungulate population hasn't changed very much.  Overall populations of large wild animals, i.e., "big game" are way up, however, due to water projects and farmed fields.

So the entire Cow Bad/Horse Good argument is pretty flawed.

Now, the line of last defense on this is that cows cause global warming. That's because cows fart.

Buffalo don't.

Umm. . . 

Well, buffalo do, but up, only Febreeze.

Well, no, they fart methane too.

In reality, all mammals fart, but some fart more than they otherwise would due to diet.  You already know this due to your coworker who has, every day, the Lumberjack Special at Hefty Portions for breakfast, followed by the Ejército del Norte special at El Grande Conquistador for lunch, a quart of scotch around 2:00 p.m., and goes home and has his spouse's Roast Wildebeest Surprise for dinner (all Keto approved, of course).  The only real argument here, therefore, is that maybe cattle ought not to be finished off on corn, which they probably wouldn't normally do unless somebody left a gate down. That likely makes them gassy.

Lascaux painting of aurochs, approximately 36,000 years ago.  Note also the deer/roebucks and horse depicted.

Taking this out worldwise, I'd note, cattle are native to the entire rest of the plant in some form, save for Australia.  Wild cattle ranged Europe, Asia and Africa.  They aren't new here, and they've been wondering around chewing their cuts and farting for longer than we've been a species.

So back to environmental destruction.

The first real notable example of it was Cottonwood bottoms in the American West.  During the winter, buffalo hang out in them.  Feral horses took it up.  And mounted Native Americans, who previously had a pretty limited impact on the environment, did too.

But you can't really say anything about that.