I sit on the veranda in the summer sun, the lawn shaded by great cottonwoods planted generations ago, and listen to the meadowlark trill and the dove’s mournful coo. Wildflowers move in the grass on the hill above the house. For some reason, I find myself thinking of winter.

Of snow-covered hills and valleys buried deep. Of wild winds sweeping through, battering everything in their path. Of drifts so endless it was a constant battle to put one foot in front of the other, toes frozen, hands numb, breath shallow.

So many times this winter, I stood at the big kitchen window with a cuppa tea and watched the storms move in from the west, winds howling through the trees, snow swirling in a dance of its very own, and dreamt of summer.

Of waking in the morning and walking outside in shorts and a T-shirt, barefoot, to greet the new day. To hear the birds sing in the treetops and feel the fresh green grass underfoot and know the coveralls, mittens and muck boots were safely tucked away. At least for now.

In the days of frigid, below-freezing temperatures, dreams of summer got me through winter.

Now cows that were dull and woolly, standing with their backs to the bitter February winds, are so fat and lazy they chew their cud and swat flies as you ride by, not bothering to move, hulky teenage calves by their side.

The horses that huddled by the barn and humped up under the saddle are now slick and shiny in the sun, occasionally delivering a nip or pinning an ear, but only just. Because they couldn’t be bothered, really.

In the winter months I’d dream of waking at first light to revel in the cool morning air and having to decide between enjoying a few minutes under a blanket that it was too hot for last night, or getting out to the barn to catch and saddle horses, to rope before it got hot.

Up it is. I’d hate to waste a minute.

Brad loves winter. The deep snow, the impassable roads, the challenge of getting all the cows fed. He looks forward to harnessing the teams, loading the wagon and hauling hay.

I remember the struggle. He remembers getting it done. I remember how cold I was, how deep the snow was, how many times I had to walk. He remembers how well the horses worked, the loads they pulled and how many bales they fed.

Not that he complained when it warmed up.

There’s a raw beauty to winter here, unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It can discourage even the toughest souls. I’ve learned to enjoy the fresh snow, the days without wind and the moonlit starry nights.

But there’s nothing quite like coming out of winter.

I can hear the birds trilling their chorus in the trees over the clang of the tugs as the team trots down the road to the Homestead.

If I listen hard enough, I can hear the earth soften, see the grass unfurl and smell the warmth of the sun. The trees wake from their slumber to look around and stretch their branches toward the sun and sigh with delight. I’m right there with them.

It also means I smell like a goat, the dog is eating afterbirth, and there’s a dead cow on 17. The Polaris won’t start until after 11 a.m., and there’s mutiny in the household when Fletch realizes it means he has to carry the buckets of grain from the barn to the horses over the road.

Buck wants more sleep and for people to stop stealing his secret stash of Caramello Koalas.

“You still have Koalas?”

Jake goes on the hunt. Buck hands me the bag, and we find a new hiding spot.

The newest calves are tagged, the heifers all have one each, and only one, and are all in agreement as to which one that should be. The weather’s so nice right now that we turn them out, hoping they all come back in at the end of the day with the same calf they left with.

The mornings are crisp and Stella pins her ears as I tighten the cinch. I have to remember to keep my mouth shut or I’ll be gagging on horsehair for the rest of the day. The sun’s barely up, hiding behind low clouds of the darkest blue that make me think of snow.

“Ride through the heifers. I’ll take the kids to school and feed at the Frye.”

He left out the bit about stopping at the store for a coffee.

Stella’s hooves ring out on the still-frozen ground as we trot around the north side of the hill. This warmer weather brings out the best in the horses. They can’t decide whether they want to buck, suck back or run off. Today Stella wants to buck. She spends an inordinate amount of time looking for something to spook at, this time an old roll of barbed wire. She skitters across the ice in her haste to get away from it and slides down the hill. When she comes to a stop, it takes a minute for my heart rate to return to normal and my legs to not feel like jelly.

By afternoon the snow is melting and running in rivulets down the road. The tanks are no longer ice, which, if you’ve been hacking at them all winter with whatever you can find in the back of the pickup, is a moment of true joy.

Along with all this re-affirmation of life stuff, and being able to drive the team in gloves instead of mittens, comes dead things, sadly. Like the cow on 17, now a pile of bones. And there will be calves that don’t make it. There’s a deceased chook in the chicken house that’s been frozen to the ground all winter, that I’ll have to get rid of before things warm up, and one of the nannies has lost twins.

But it’s impossible to feel down for long as the earth awakens, like an old man stirring from his winter-long nap, to be greeted by the lovely smile of Mother Nature.

“Well, hello,” he says, delighted to see such a wonder. “How was winter?”

“Ohhh,” she says with a cheeky grin, “I had lots of fun…”

 

About the Author

Ainslie Wilson grew up on a ranch in Victoria, Australia, and now lives in Arthur, where she writes and photographs from life in the Nebraska Sandhills.