* A story from the old days

I’d only seen stampedes in John Wayne movies. The kind where 2,000 longhorns run through camp and guys in long johns jump on their horses while firing guns into the air. The kind Chris LeDoux sings about: the cattle rise up, and go to runnin’, I spur my pony on and take the lead, and across the herd I can hear Willie yellin’, Hey stampede! The kind that make you think stampedes only live on the big screen and tucked away in song lyrics.

I was…eleven? Thirteen? Seventeen? I don’t remember (clearly), but my first – and last – stampede I was in has certainly been a memory stuck to the insides of my brain like duct tape on glue.

We had just weaned calves. It was pushing November, and it was another late night working in the glow of the corn crib yard light. They were restless. Spooky. Wanting their mamas, pacing the unfamiliar lot, and feeding off the anxiety of their pals.

Dad and I were walking through the lot after having flaked out alfalfa squares in the bunks. There was silence, mostly, as I remember. The snorting of the calves, the occasional beller from a far-off cow. Nothing out of the ordinary considering the freshly separated calves.

And then there wasn’t silence. Maybe it was the shadows. Maybe it was one calf who jumped and the rest went with him. Or maybe they just felt like it. Whatever the reason, the low, thunder-like rumble behind me caused me to turn around to a sea of red calves headed straight for us.

It was a short lot, but they were at full run when they reached us. It couldn’t have been more than a second and, in reality, was probably a fraction of a second from the moment I comprehended what was happening to the moment I was surrounded.

Just as well, there was no place to move to, and no time to do the moving. They brushed past me so closely I felt the whisper of fur on my arms.

And then it was over. They turned at the fence, shot down the length of the lot and then stopped.

Dad had turned too and looked over at me. “Well,” he said.

“Yep,” I replied.

Often the newly weaned calves will spook. Sometimes the fence holds them, and sometimes it doesn’t. But usually I’m not standing in the middle of them when they do spook; I think I’d prefer stampedes stay on the big screen and tucked away in song lyrics.

I am not one-dimensional. No one is, but writing about one particular topic – ranching in this instance – can make it appear like I’m one-dimensional. Heck, sometimes it makes me feel like I’m one-dimensional. Though cattle ranching is a huge part of my life, it’s still only a part.

When I was catching up on my blog reading today, I stumbled across this post, What Fuels Your Passion?, by Ryan Goodman at Agriculture Proud. I started thinking. What am I passionate about? For people who only know me as a ranch girl, are there other things I’m passionate about that would interest them? Surprise them? Start conversations? Lead to deeper friendships?

As a person who is passionate about ranching, it isn’t much of a stretch to see that I’m also passionate about horses and the outdoors. Nor is it odd that I love border collies and the smell of fresh-cut alfalfa, a good rodeo and a nice pair of Wranglers.

But for my other passions?

Writing. Hands down. (Hello. I blog.)

Traveling. Road trips are my favorite. I’ve been on two major road trips (one to the upper east coast and one through the western United States) plus a myriad small day/weekend trips. I am starting to plan an Alaskan excursion and a trip to the southern U.S. I’ve never been to Texas; I have to change that.

Photography. I could spend an hour trying to find the perfect angle with the perfect lighting for a picture of a sidewalk crack. Which could be an indication I’m slightly cracked myself.

Running. *sort of* This one ebbs and flows. Sometimes I can’t imagine life without running. Other times I wonder why the word even exists. There’s a correlation with whether I’m in the middle of a run or not. Weird.

Music. I was a radio dj once, and I’d absolutely do that again. What’s not to like about sitting in a sound-proof room and essentially talking to yourself? I’m an accomplished pianist, and I’m in the middle of teaching myself how to play the guitar. And the harmonica. And the fiddle. The last one is going to require professional help though, mostly by demand of my neighbors.

I also enjoy finance, real estate, sports, self-defense, law enforcement, cooking, and reading.

And I definitely enjoy clean laundry and amazing food.

See? Not one-dimensional, and I’m saying that to myself as much as anyone else. I’m passionate about cattle ranching, but my other passions help keep me balanced. More importantly, they ultimately keep me from being boring.

How about you? Is there more to you than your 9-to-5 job and paying bills?

I think the vast majority of people have an interest in cattle ranching. Or maybe I should say they have an interest in what they perceive cattle ranching to be. Thanks to John Wayne, Louis L’Amour, and the sport of rodeo, a lot of folks have at least a passing interest in ranching.

Several years ago, I was on a sports marketing trip in Phoenix with a dozen of my college classmates. While there, we visited a dude ranch. I enjoyed seeing some of the desert scenery so different from the lush and green rolling landscape of Iowa, but observing my classmates – many who hadn’t ever been on a horse – was really interesting. They all wanted to know more about their horse, the history behind the ranch, where the cattle were, etc.

I really think most people are like that. Chris LeDoux sings, “Even cowboys like a little bit of rock and roll.” – and the same goes for city folks. They’ve got a little country in their souls which puts us all on the same page, right?

I mean, at least in the first paragraph, we’re all connected to that spirit of wide open spaces. It’s a good place to start a conversation.

This spring has been a funky mix of weather around here. And when I say “funky” I mean utterly depressing, full of rain and cool temperatures. Being able to work in the fields has proven to be a minor miracle, and finding a day of good weather to work cows has been a futile search.

But this morning I heard my Iowa hometown had been hit by twin tornadoes. Granted, they were baby twisters, but they caused a lot of damage. My brother’s ranch is only about seven miles out of town, so I called him up to see if he was alive. “So far, so good,” he said, fixing water gaps from the gully-washing 4.5 inches of rain he’d gotten. *gulp* I’d forgotten about the torrential Iowa rains!

“Let me know if you die, okay?” I said.

“Sure. You do the same,” he said as we signed off.

It’s been a wild spring weather wise clear across the nation, and it started me thinking. Sometimes folks look at farmers and ranchers and think, “Man, they’re their own boss, they get to work outside, they grow food. Amazing!” Except sometimes not.

Many farmers and ranchers may be the only name on the side of the truck they drive, but Mother Nature (and the bank?) is the real boss. I love the outdoors. There’s no place I’d rather spend my time, but she’s a tough master. There’s no reasoning with her, pleading your case, or driving a bargain. You do the best you can, and then you have to let it go.

Control: there is no such thing in farming and ranching – or life – it’s really just an illusion we carry around under one arm. No wonder one of my arms is longer than the other.