Night patrol

Agriculture Magazine, March 2020 - Page 15 Night patrol: Calving doesn’t stop when

the sun goes down

PATRICK MANGAN Ravalli County Extension Agent

I wear my sweatshirt, my jacket, my boots. I grab a flashlight off the shelf as I walk out the door, one of those big, long police flashlights. Tonight my patrol is for life. I’m off to check on calves and lambs, make sure they are welcomed into their first hours of life by both their momma and one of my kind.

The snow squeaks as I walk across the barnyard. It’s cold tonight. The kind that causes concerns for pipes, new life, and ranchers. As I round the corner of the barn I am plunged into the darkness of night. No lights here, or at least not human lights. A field of snow stretches before me. One I need to search on this February night. I leave the flashlight in my back pocket, letting my friends guide me. It’s a moonless night, somewhere between a full and new, still below the horizon. But I can see my way. The snow covered field glows with the light of far off places, stars hovering across the sky I walk under. I walk along a make shift path trammeled of cattle feet and tractor tire, both of which have previously moved through the deep snow I navigate. I walk north toward the covered shed, my first stop. As I look up, the Great Bear is nowhere to be found. He must be hibernating. But the seven hunters are there, guiding me along, making their sweep across the sky. Follow us, brother, they say to me, we will search with you, though our prey will be different. I follow along in their hunt, finding my own quarry at the north end of the field; the covered shed. As I leave the hunters I use the flashlight, like a spear jabbing into the night. Sets of eyes young and old fill my view. Calves and mothers laying in the protection and straw. No one brand new here on this trip, no one in their first night. I move through the other haunts of the field, looking in all the corners, in all the places to go be with one’s self when giving birth to a new calf. All is clear, no one new. As I head back toward the house a new companion joins me, the big dog, Canis major. It’s his turn to walk beside me through the field. Beside the dog is Orion, decked out in his armor, ready for battle. I feel the bite along the edges of my ears, reminding me I have forgotten my own armor, a hat. Its 3 degrees now, enough to cause concern. It’ll be colder later; -8, then -13, or so they say. Time to find my hat, because I’ll be back out both of those times for the same patrol I am finishing now.

Taurus gives me a quick blink of his eye as I near the barn. He will watch over my herd for the next two hours.

A quick trip by the pen of sheep uncovers a surprise. The young lambs are all out running, playing, and enjoying the cold night, forsaking the warmth of their own little shed.

Who can really speak for the mind of lambs, other than lambs? Not the farmer apparently. Then boots come off by the door, so I don’t get manure and snow on the floor where my spouse will complain and ridicule, then coat, and gloves, ready for the next trip. I set the clock for 120 minutes, and find a way to warm up and grab a little sleep until then.

* Ranchers always work long hours in Montana. But none seem as long as those during the calving and lambing seasons. Ranchers do nightly checks through the pens where expectant mother cows and ewes are waiting to give birth. In the cold nights, a gentle hand from a rancher can mean the difference between life and death for the newborn. It means multiple trips out into the cold, sometimes staying up all night to care for the livestock ranchers are stewards to. This narrative describes one of my night patrols.