One of the constants in my life out here is the 2-way radio. Even if not on call, most of our EMTs carry them because if one crew goes out we need to have back-up crews available. Therefore, regardless of the activity I will usually have my radio clipped to my clothes. In surgery and colonoscopies it’s on my scrubs, ski patrol my vest, working out my shorts, cooking the counter or the bbq, and now ranching, the back pocket of my Levi’s. This ain’t no city radio in other words, it’s had fish slime, steer manure, flour, mop sauce, blood, and who knows what else on it. It definitely receives a regular cleaning as a result.
First pizza made from scratch, practicing my steelhead craddle.
On Wednesday, I started my newest on-call activity thanks to a friendly ranching family. I met the rancher/cowboy who (I will refer to as Mr. Genuine, as in genuine leather…he’s one tough character) was an inpatient on one of my noc shifts at the hospital. When I had downtime I would talk to him about life out here and listen to some of his stories. A couple of weeks later I dropped by the farm to give them a steelhead and see how he was doing. In turn, he and his wife hooked me up with homemade sauerkraut, eggs, and some elk steaks. I expressed interest in joining the rural OB/GYN service on their farm (bovine division). Any good rural doc ought to be able to yank a “Norman” out of some heifer, or so I think. And February is busy month for that sort thing.
My morning began like most, over snoozing, putting my contacts in, clipping my radio on, and heading out. I pulled into the farm at 6 AM. The couple was just heading for morning chores. Being a city kid, I didn’t have a pair of shit-kickers (cowboy boots) so I had to improvise. Hiking boots made a decent substitute. And so we headed up to the barns, Mr. Genuine driving his four-wheeler, and Mrs. Genuine opening the gates. Tilly and Willy (blue-healers? I am terrible with dog breeds) ran alongside and Daisy Mae (a rat terrier) barked from the house feeling left out. Our first stop was the milking barn. The night before they had 6 calves delivered from Yakima and it was feeding time. Walking through the frost thickened mud we made our way in the dark, dodging large amorphous shadows that broadcast a delightfully fragrant barnyard scent. Those same shadows began moving toward the milking barn.
Inside, the light welcomed us as did the grunts and bawling of hungry calves. The calves were in the back, separated in pens lined with straw. The pungent smell of urine soaked straw and damp earth is a remarkably comforting smell, an old world smell if you know what I mean. Looking around, I see a trough like contraption where the milk cows stick their heads through to feed on grain. There is also a hinged piece of wood that narrows the opening so the cow cannot retract its head until the milking is done. So Mr. Genuine guides the first heifer in and throws a strap over her back. She looked even bigger because of the low ceiling. From this strap he hangs the vacuum driven milker, and then hooks up her four swollen teats. The vacuum is powered by an old one-cylinder engine (nicknamed a one-lunger, which my Dad taught me), which taps out a rhythmic thump in the corner.
A milker like the one Mr. Genuine uses
Now I am not trying to glamorize this form of living or say it’s better than an urban life in New York, but it is certainly not a detached from nature. Farming and ranching are very visceral and engaging. All the smells, sounds, and sights captured within the amber circles of barn light stick with me like the poop between my boot lugs. For me, it is a nostalgic reminder of my childhood experience growing up on a Vashon Island hobby farm. If anything, slapping cows on the haunch and helping ranchers is another confirmation that I am in the right place. Pardon that digression, now back to the action. As her utter runs dry the suction cylinders drop off the teats and when completed Mr. Genuine heaves the heavy stainless steel milker over a 5-gallon bucket and pours the hot steaming milk into it. Hmm, Captain Crunch anyone? Nope, that milk is for the calves only. From the 5-gallon bucket, the milk is poured into galvanized pails with a spout and large rubber nipple on it. This “Galva-mom” is hung on the side of each calf’s pen, where he or she eagerly attacks the rubber nipple. This process is repeated till everyone gets their fill, except for Tobias (a persistent fat calf), who kept bawling and trying to steal the other calves milk, so much for being an angel.
The next set of chores requires dumping grain for the older horses, cows, bulls, and steers. Then we loaded some bales of hay on the four-wheeler for the feeding troughs in the field. After all the ruminants are fed, Mrs. Genuine and I head to the chicken coop. Mrs. Genuine has all these great sayings that she learned from her father, who homesteaded the property in the early 1900s. As we pull the creaky door of the coop open, she says, “My farther always said that a singing chicken is a happy chicken.” I replied, “What did you say,” because I couldn’t hear over the cacophony of noise. Imagine 100 happy chickens singing like Susan Boyle, it was another experience. Like in the OR, I am fascinated by the knowledge of experienced people doing what they understand. Mr. and Mrs. Genuine understand their animals and the natural processes that affect them. And for me, a quasi urbanite, it is interesting to encounter a totally different type of intelligence.
Fest '08 Chicken, refer to Lisa's Blog post on Deutschesfest for a thorough explanation
Once all the animals are fed, we return to the house and go about rustling up our own feed. Mrs. Genuine cooks us a true farmers breakfast (they eat what they raise) of fresh eggs, sausage, toast, and coffee. The rest of the day’s agenda is discussed and Mr. Genuine invites me to come back later to help him vaccinate a newborn calf. After breakfast I head home to change clothes. Then I wander down to the hospital in time to catch a scope. There are few places I can think of where a guy can help milk a cow and explore someone’s colon all in the same morning. I guess I am just that lucky.
The radio remains silent, so back to farm I head. Putting on my mud/manure plastered boots, Mr. Genuine and I hop onto the four-wheeler bound for the field. Tilly jumps on as well but there is not enough room for all of us, so he’s gonna have to walk. Riding out there on the “short horse” we search for the calf. Finally we locate mom and calf over by the fence. Mom is a black and baby is brown. Regardless, we have 3 shots to deliver, an oral antibiotic, and iodine for its umbilicus. In human c-sections, mom is usually totally out or at least numb from the waist down so the doctors can do their thing, but this mom is very awake and not liking our intrusion. She scuffs her hoof and grunts deeply. After chasing them a short distance on the four-wheeler, Mr. Genuine jumps off and tackles the calf. He yells for me to grab the goods. I run over a little unsure of how to help. Holding the back hooves I give Mr. Genuine the stuff for the front end, and he tells me to inject the other two in the back end. Injections in humans are so much easier, at least they understand your trying to help them. Besides pushing a 14 gauge needle through a calf’s skin takes some elbow grease. Yet, we git-r-done and get out.
As you can probably infer from my on-call activities, most days it’s fairly quiet. In fact, making dinner, tying flies, and now wrangling cattle, is inversely related to people getting sick and injured. The days when I barely have time to eat is not a good day to be on the highway or the farm. That’s how it is in a small town. We have days where we are running but for the last week or so it has surprisingly mellow. Now that I write that, the floodgates of stupidity or just bad luck will swing open and we will get called.
Tuesday's 3 fish fly pattern
Keep your boots well oiled,
–AS
