by Bobbi Phelps
We returned home for lunch, and afterwards, I introduced Susan to her temporary horse, King. Mike had borrowed Don’s horse, a large reddish-brown gelding, for Susan to ride during the week. King emerged as the alpha horse and intimidated Smoky from the moment they met.
“Whenever you see a single wire around a corral,” I explained to Susan at the edge of the pasture, “it’s probably hot.”
“What’s that mean?” she asked.
“It’s electrically charged. If an animal touches it, he’ll be shocked. The horses know that and will stay away.”
“Have they been shocked?”
“Yes. Definitely. But once they’ve been shocked a couple of times, we don’t bother turning on the electricity. They won’t get anywhere near it.”
“How do I know whether it’s hot or not?” Susan asked.
“All you have to do is touch it.”
“But I don’t want to get shocked!” Susan exclaimed.
“That’s why you touch it with the back of your hand. If you’re shocked, your hand grabs air,” I explained “But if you touch it with the front of your fingers, you’ll grab the wire.”
“You certainly know a lot about farming,” Susan said.
“Yup, I do now. But I was a complete novice when I first arrived,” I said. “I’m still learning. It seems to be a never-ending quest.”
After the electricity lesson, we rode Smoky and King to the gravel pit. It was a pleasant ride, seeing BLM prairies around us and high mountains in the distance. The immense landscape never changed as the isolated valley was so widespread. The cloudless, blue sky stretched from horizon to horizon. It was definitely bigsky country, not another vehicle crossed our paths as we meandered along the dirt road.
As usual, I wore a riding helmet, short boots, and half chaps over my straight-legged jeans. Susan sat on a Western saddle and wore jeans and sneakers. As we trotted down the dirt road in front of our house, Smoky shied at invisible shadows next to large boulders lining our path. This was a constant challenge for me as I never knew when he’d jump sideways, fearful of some unknown terror. We rode into the rocky maze of the gravel pit and through a jumble of rocks. When we exited the other side, Susan noted the extent of our remote valley, flat and vast without another tree or stream in the area. This was the barren land I had grown to love.
On our return, we put the horses into a slow canter. They knew they were going home and picked up the pace. Once inside our pasture, we dismounted and I unfastened Smoky’s saddle. I snapped the stirrups up to the top and placed the saddle on the ground near the fence. Then I helped Susan remove the heavy, Western saddle from King. Holding their leather reins, we walked around the interior of the field, cooling off both horses. After we rubbed them down, we undid their bridles. In the barn the amber spiral of fly paper was completely studded with black dots. With two horses enjoying the enclosure, the flies had multiplied like gnats on a banana.
The following day we woke to puffy clouds as morning light slipped from the sky. Once breakfast was completed, I dropped Matt at Kay’s house and took Susan to Twin Falls. Immediately upon entering the city, I drove through a carwash. A cloud of dust covered my car, not only from dirt and gravel roads, but also from fine earth powder seeping under our garage doors. Farm machines regularly shifted through nearby fields and with them came the ever-present dust.
After driving through the tree-lined downtown, we crossed the railroad tracks to park in front of the Livestock Commission Company. I ushered Susan to the rear of the building where we climbed a wooden staircase to platforms, protruding out over several holding pens. Each enclosure contained an assortment of animals: horses, hogs, sheep, goats, and cattle. After we left the holding pens, we entered the front door and heard the auctioneer calling out numbers from his microphone. Sitting in folding chairs on a raised row, we watched the proceedings. First, we saw sheep herded into the thirty-foot, circular space. The auctioneer, along with his assistants, stood on a platform above the sale area. A man with a red electric cattle prod, known as a hot shot, walked in the sawdust-covered enclosure. As sale prices were called out, he waved the wand to move the animals in a circle, then ushered them out a separate door. As that door closed, another opened. A Hereford cow and calf entered. Their brown and white markings were distinctive and seemed to bring a good price. The next animal to sell was a large black Angus bull. The price skyrocketed. Then a few more Herefords were shown. And so, it continued.
On our way back to the ranch, I headed east on Falls Avenue and turned north toward Shoshone Falls. We parked near a concession stand in front of the waterfall and walked down a dozen steps to a metal platform extending out over the canyon. The panoramic view of the magnificent surge and crash of the Snake River over the cliff was breathtaking. We listened to the sound of water smashing around gigantic boulders and plunging downward, dropping more than two hundred feet.
“It’s higher than Niagara,” I told Susan.
She took a few pictures as the mist from the waterfall rose into the air. A rainbow appeared in the sky and she took more photos. Finally, we climbed the metal stairs back to the parking lot. In an hour, we’d be home and ready to begin dinner.
After another morning of riding the following day, I talked Susan into walking with me to Larry Yamane’s field, a property adjacent to Sky Ranch.
“Do you like beets?” I asked.
“Yes. I love them.”
“Great. Our neighbor grows them. Let’s walk over and dig some for dinner,” I said.
Taking a shovel and walking with Susan and Matt a hundred yards to Larry’s land, I dug into the soil. The dirt crumbled from the shovel and I smelled the fresh loam surrounding the beet.
“Wow!” Susan said. “They’re gigantic.”
“The sandy soil is perfect for beets and potatoes,” I said as I stepped on the shovel’s edge and circled the pale brown beet. It was the size of a small football. There was no need to dig any more. This one would be enough.
The beet was so large I had to boil it in my New England lobster pot. After an hour, I stuck a fork into its middle to see if it was ready to eat. Nope, it was still too hard. I cooked it for another hour then sliced it into cup-sized chunks and boiled it some more while Susan chopped tomatoes, celery, and green peppers for a salad. Matt followed us around the dining table, holding cloth napkins while we placed silverware and milk glasses in front of each chair.
Once Mike returned home, I baked some potatoes and broiled a steak, topping it with garlic butter. Salad, milk, bread, and butter were placed on the table. Dinner was ready. We sat in the dining room and Mike showed Susan how to pierce a potato. “You use a fork, not a knife. It helps with the taste and texture,” he exclaimed. Then he told her about the ranch’s preparations for harvest. “It starts soon, about the middle of August.”
“What’s this?” Mike asked as he poked at the beet on his plate.
“It’s one of Larry Yamane’s beets,” I answered, proudly acknowledging my expertise of local farm crops.
“Are you kidding? Those are sugar beets,” he grumbled as he pushed it to the side in disgust and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “They’re not garden vegetables.”
Luckily, Susan had made a large salad and Mike had plenty of meat and potatoes to satisfy his hunger. Susan and I tried the beets, and yes, they were super sweet. You could barely taste the beet flavor as the sugar sweetness overwhelmed the vegetable. Idaho is one of the top producers of sugar beets, beets that are grown for human consumption as sugar, after they are processed. Not before.
There was another tourist attraction I wanted Susan to visit. It’s known as “Balanced Rock,” and is found in a deep canyon, south of Castleford. As a freak formation of nature, the rock is fifty-five-feet wide at its top and is held aloft by only a four-foot-wide connection at the bottom. It looks like a hand pointing. The section of the “wrist” seemed unbelievably tiny to support such a large boulder.
Parking with my car facing a rock w
all, Susan and I walked up the trail to the rock. After taking numerous photos, we returned to the car. Once seated, I turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. I tried again. Still no reaction. We were stuck and sandwiched between two rock outcroppings. I walked to the road and flagged down a rare, passing trucker to see if he could help. He reached for his walkie-talkie and called AAA but he had no connection. We were too deep inside the canyon.
“I’ll radio Triple A when I get on top,” he said.
We waited almost an hour but no emergency vehicle arrived. Finally, two truckers stopped.
“Can you help us? My car won’t start,” I asked. “We should be able to push it backwards. Then, I can jumpstart it.”
With two husky men beside me, we pushed the Subaru backwards and up the slight embankment. Susan sat in the driver’s seat and turned the front wheels toward the road. From there it gained a good position to jumpstart the car. Susan and I switched places and I changed the gear from neutral to second. With my foot on the clutch, the car rolled further down into the canyon. As soon as the speed increased, I released the clutch and the engine came to life. It worked. I honked and we both waved to the friendly men as we proceeded down the hill. At the base, I finally had space to turn around. Once turned, I steered back up the winding road to the top of the canyon on our way back to Sky Ranch. Susan was impressed by the helpful truckers. I informed her that it was normal, and I agreed with her assessment. Living in rural Idaho meant people helped each other whenever possible.
On the last night of Susan’s vacation, King decided to return to his home. He broke through the electric fence enclosing our pasture but didn’t know the direction to his barn since he had been trailered to our place. Smoky followed in his footsteps. The two horses dashed up and down the hard-packed gravel road in front of our house, flying back and forth under heavy clouds. It was past eleven when we first discovered they had broken out. We had no street lights, and on that particular night, no moon illuminated the area. It was pitch black. The two horses were like fireflies, periodically flashing their bodies and then disappearing down the dark road. We could hear them coming. Galloping feet advancing toward us at full speed. I squinted at the sound and held Matt’s hand, keeping my five-year-old close by. Our flashlight beams pierced the night as the noise came nearer.
A form appeared and King sped past me at a full gallop. I shielded Matt and Susan behind me. Neither horse wore a halter and both were frightened by the cluster of people standing near their pasture. Mike had called Terry and Melvin on the radio. They joined Susan, Matt, and me near the road in front of the house. Another ten minutes passed but the horses never slowed. The sounds of galloping hooves continued. The men tried roping them as they passed but the dark night made it impossible once they vanished from the glare of our flashlights. Smoky, the older of the two, began to slow. He trotted to the fence and stopped.
“Let me try,” I said to the others. “He knows me and I have oats.”
I walked slowly toward Smoky, using soothing tones and calmly talking. He stood still, knowing my voice and hearing oats rattling in a can. I held a lead rope behind my back, and shaking the can of oats in my other hand, I enticed him to me. He took another step forward and faced me. As he nudged his nose closer, smelling his favorite food, I slowly wrapped the nylon cord around his neck and cinched it tight. It was over.
Smoky followed me back to his pasture while King plodded behind. I ushered them into the small barn while Susan gathered some rags from a nearby container. We treated them to a handful of oats and a small flake of hay. After the men closed the fence gates and departed with Matt, Susan and I rubbed sweat from the horses. These heavy-breathing beasts were now as docile as could be. I touched Smoky’s muzzle and he let out a soft whinny. He was home and happily content.
It was well after midnight when Susan and I entered the living room. We laughed about the latest adventure and recalled the numerous activities we had completed since her arrival. As Susan’s last morning approached, light shown spectacularly on the eastern horizon. Once I pulled the car from the garage, we saw Smoky and King sprawled flat on the ground, soaking in the sun, their tails periodically flicking at nibbling flies.
The hours of galloping past our home the night before had exhausted them. By the time I returned from the airport, they had not moved. I paused, half turned, and looked back at them. Two old horses who had relished their night of freedom were appreciating the warm rays of the noon sun. It looked like two fat drunken sailors lying on a Caribbean beach. They didn’t even lift their heads as I drove past their motionless bodies.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Young Matt Lost during Harvest
In autumn Matt and I often joined Mike on the combine while he harvested grain. This was our quiet time, no television and no telephone. Before I left the house, I’d call Mike on the radio to find out which field he was working.
On one particular Saturday, I took young Matt for a short hike to the arm of the center pivot behind our house. It was about the same time as we’d usually head to Mike’s field. We were accompanied by Jack and followed by Buddy, our black cat. When we returned, I heard the telephone in the garage ringing. It was an Angler’s business call. A few minutes later, I was off the phone, but neither Jack nor Matt were in sight. Buddy rubbed against my leg as I stared out toward the field we had just walked.
“Matt! Matt! Where are you?”
I called again and again. I yelled for Matt and went upstairs to check his room and my office. I ran outside and called again. I stood still, silently listening. There was no sound and no answer. The sun broke through bright clouds and bounced off our brass bell hanging beside the back door. I stepped to it and tugged the bell’s rope. If Matt couldn’t hear it, Jack certainly could. Our Lab would know to come back home and to drag Matt with him. But I heard and saw nothing.
I dashed to the barn and shed and raced around both of them. Nothing. Half a dozen professional hay mowers were cutting the field behind our house. With all the dust created by these giant machines, there was no way they would see a small child. I jumped in my car, honking and searching. Still no child and no dog. I returned home and radioed Mike.
“Mike. I can’t find Matt! Clear.” The radio cracked with static but my message went through. I didn’t care if others heard my plight. I had panicked.
“I’ll be right home. Clear,” he answered.
He was in another field a few miles away. Terry radioed he’d shift positions and take Mike’s combine. Once the change was made, Mike ran to his pickup and shot back to our home. Just as he passed the ranch headquarters, he saw our little tyke singing and skipping toward the main building. Matt bounded down the dirt road with our black dog wagging his tail and prancing right beside him. It was a beautiful day, and Matt was going to see his Dad.
“I think your Mom wants you,” Mike called out his truck’s window as he came to a stop. He walked to the duo and leaned over to address Matt. “And I don’t think she’s too happy.”
He scooped Matt up and placed him in the front passenger seat. He then walked around the rear of the pickup and lowered the tailgate for Jack to jump in. They were almost a mile from our house. By the time they arrived home, I was terrified. I knew what had happened. Matt was not going to wait for me to get off the phone. He had decided to walk to the field and ride the combine alongside his father without me.
I reached out and took him in my arms, hugging him as I brought him inside.
“You’re never to walk by yourself,” I scolded. “With all the trucks around, it can be very dangerous.”
“But Mom,” he responded as he looked up with bright, innocent eyes. “I wasn’t alone. I had Jack.”
* * *
During harvest, everyone worked late—well into the night, until they couldn’t see to complete a straight line through the fields. Fine powder from the fields crowded the air and overwhelmed the land. Streaks of red and yellow filled the horizon, and as the day turned toward eve
ning, the sky changed to a reddish gold. A gigantic, orange moon appeared, hence, the significance of a “harvest” moon.
“Hey, Mike, which field are you in? Clear,” I radioed from our kitchen around five in the late afternoon.
“Go three miles past Don’s house and turn right. You’ll see me in the field on the left, one mile up. Clear.”
“Okay. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Clear.”
As I drove over ranch roads, my car became enveloped in a plume of dust kicked up by a large truck in front of me. Farmer’s called its trailer a “belly dump” because its tank bed did not tilt backward. Instead, the V-shaped bottom opened and funneled grain from the tank into a container. From there, the crop shifted to a metal tube, transporting grain to the top of a storage tower. These silos peeked out from the landscape throughout Magic Valley.
After letting the belly dump move ahead, I parked at the end of Mike’s field and waited for him. Once he turned the combine to start a new row, I trudged over the pulverized soil, bringing enough snacks to hold him until he came home for dinner. Mike opened the combine’s door, and I grabbed a large bar and hoisted myself up the metal steps. Besides food, I also brought the day’s mail. I sat on the small metal bench next to Mike as he drove the giant, red machine through the barley field. The harvested crop was destined for either Anheuser-Busch or Coors Brewing Company in Burley.
“Where’s Matt?” Mike asked.
“He’s at Kay’s.”
“What’s in the mail?” he asked as he opened a Pepsi can.
“Nothing much. A few bills and a letter from Ron and Maggie.” They were the couple who had flown to the ranch in their Cessna four-seater plane the year before. Ron had landed on the dirt road in front of our house and then had helped Mike harvest the last of the ranch crops. He had originally farmed a Midwest homestead and knew how to operate large equipment. He and Maggie owned Bristol Bay Lodge in Alaska and we often fished and photographed at their place during slow times at Sky Ranch. In the winter, they lived in Washington. Because Ron had assisted Mike the previous year, the four of us were able to travel to Central America on the dates we had originally planned.
