Goodbye to the mountains. Goodbye to the sheep. Goodbye to our guys.
The middle of September marks when the herds of sheep begin their descent out of the forest. Every year come the first of the month though, the men start asking when they can start heading out. “Can we leave the 10th?” “Can we start the trail on the 13th?” And all I can think is can we stay longer instead? More time riding on the trails where my grandpa left his name. More time learning the country that I’m not as familiar with, but our guys know like the backs of their hands. More time on top of my beloved Mt. Isabel, taking in her expansive views and drinking from her spring. Every September I try to sneak in every extra minute of mountain time that I possibly can. I cherish every trip, every herd counted, and the beautiful scene of sheep grazing on the steep mountainside just a little bit more, knowing that my time up here is coming to an end. I absolutely love September. The cooling weather and changing leaves, counting all the herds, and spending more time with the sheep and the herders. But I hate that September means having to leave the mountains. I dread knowing that I won’t be back to the forest until the next July, when the sheep herds make their way there once again. Every year it seems to come sooner, summer shorter, and somehow it seems I’ve spent less time up there than the year before. I long to learn all the ways of the sheepherders by living in a tent with the herd for multiple days, rather than just an overnight visit. I want to learn how they keep track of 2,300 ewes and lambs amidst the thick timber. I want to learn where all the springs are at each campground, the routes they use to take the sheep to water each day, and how to cook a good meal and their perfect rice on a wood burning stove. I want to watch the sheep graze, to see exactly what plants they prefer. I want to read a good book on top of Bull Hill as the sun sets and I listen to the constant blatting of the ewes finding their lambs. But then it’s September, and before I know it, we’ve worked the last herd of sheep through the corral at the base of Sheep Mountain. The point that marks the south end of the mountains. Where I can look north and replay my time there: every meal, every packed horse, every lost sheep. I remind myself that July really isn’t too far away, and we’ll all be back again. Trailing back up Commissary Ridge, sleeping back in our camp at Nugent Park, and counting sheep at first light on top of Indian Ridge. It’s not goodbye my dear mountains, I will be back soon.
Sheep Mountain in the background.
I arrive at the frost-covered, wood corral with the morning sun still rising. A semi is backed up to the chute and the old ewes are climbing their way up to it. The old ewes we classify as “botella verdes” and “botella azules”, meaning green and blue bottle dob marks. We put this mark on their backs with paint when we worked the herds. These paint marks signify that these ewes could still raise another lamb or two, but their teeth are too short or broken to be wintered on the desert for another year. Range operation sheep lead a pretty tough life. They are out on the range year round, even through the winter! They never get fed hay, unless we have too much snow for them to find feed like in 2022-23, although we do feed them whole corn as a supplement each day. They must paw through the snow and pick for last year’s dried up vegetation. This feed still provides nutrients required for the animals, but it is awfully hard to eat it without a good set of teeth. Then, after a long cold winter of working for every bite, the herds are trailed 100 miles home to start lambing. It’s a tough job where teeth and a strong, able body are required! The old ewes making their way on the truck have lived this life for 6+ years. They’ve provided us with beautiful fleeces and multiple lambs. I’ve assisted some of them in lambing, watched them run in excitement toward us for their corn, and petted their soft faces while working them in the corral. When working out with the sheep every day you begin to recognize them as individuals. You can tell certain ones apart. You notice their different personalities and tendencies. They are more than just 10,000 sheep. They are each known, appreciated, and valued far higher than the price we get for them shows. These ewes have contributed in supporting the ranch, my family, and everything that we love for 6+ years; and on this chilly October morning I’m watching them leave. I look a ewe in the eye that has raised nice big triplets for us 4 years in a row, and then watch her disappear into the trailer. I look at a ewe who looks tired and wore out, knowing she probably looks that way from keeping track of two lambs to and from the forest, and quietly thank her for her service before never seeing her again. My eyes fill with tears as I prod ewe after ewe up the ramp and say goodbye for good. By the time the truck pulls away I am bawling, the hypersensitive one of the family although all Julians I know are sensitive, and wish that I didn’t have to be apart of this one day on the ranch. As I calm, I remind myself of the many lambs these beloved ewes have raised, many of them being ewe lambs that replenish the herd when their old mothers must go. I remind myself that they’ve done their fair share, served their part in this often complicated circle of life, and are leaving as loved and important members of Julian Land & Livestock and making room for the next valued herd members.
In the spring, summer, and fall we have 19 men working for us as sheepherders. They come here from Peru on work visas, and can stay up to 3 years on one contract. We work very closely with these men, and are dependent on them to be able to run our sheep. During shed lambing, I spend all day- from sun up to sun down, every day- from the first of March through the middle of April with three of these men. For four years now I have had both David and Mequias as part of the shed lambing crew. I talk to them more than anyone else during this time. Heck, I think I speak more Spanish than English during lambing season too! We know how each other work, when one is having an off day, and details about each others’ personal lives. I consider these men some of my closest friends. This year for my birthday, they planned the greatest lunch party for me as a surprise and made it a very special day! Not only am I close with the guys I lamb with, although this amount of time with someone creates a close bond, but most all of the men that work for us I consider close friends and even part of the family. We have a guy, Nic, that lives at the ranch year round. He helps with the driving duties and literally anything we need. He has been working for us since 2003, has been to two of my cousins’ weddings, and my grandpa’s funeral. I can’t even imagine the ranch without him. We have one guy, German, who has been with us for 28 years! He started working for us at the age of 21 when my mom was pregnant with me. He has watched all of us cousins grow from babies to now, and I hope that he gets to watch my future babies grow too. He has the most cheerful smile and always gives great big, happy-to-see-you hugs. One of my most favorite things about my job is getting to visit with these guys. Listening to their stories, learning about their lives and families back home, and sharing laughs, meals, and “saluds”. Every fall when we’re done working the sheep for the year, 7 of the men go home to Peru for the winter. They are all excited to go home to see their families and friends and to get 6-7 months off of sheepherding. But I am sad in saying goodbye. I truly hate goodbyes, and one never knows where life will take us, or if we will see each other again. Thankfully, many of the guys stay in contact with me while in Peru. I got to watch the process of David building his house last winter and the house where his mother lives now. Denis sent pictures of them harvesting potatoes and his corn fields; and Oscar had to check in on his dogs that I was feeding while he was gone, and tell me he was ready to come back to the ranch about halfway through his vacation. These men are more than just employees, they are dear friends that I care deeply about. It’s the last day of someone heading to the airport for the year. I help gather dogs into the kennels where they will spend their winter until their master returns. I hate to see how sad the men are in leaving their companions, and the sad and confused look in the eyes of all the dogs. They clear all of their belongings out of their camps, the place they have called home for the past 3 years, and close the door to the empty living quarter where it will remain until they return. As Edwis loads all of his luggage into the back of the pickup I can’t help but cry. We give each other a big hug, but it's not goodbye my friend, we will see each other in the spring.
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