October. Clear air, frosty nights and roundups. Especially roundups. Living in the land of massive cattle ranches as I do, with friends and neighbours in the business of ranching, it's pretty hard to miss the fact that weaning, preg testing and fall roundups are in progress. Facebook posts talk of such things; as I drive to Williams Lake, I pass riders behind cows and calves in the bush beside the highway, then a few kilometers of more and more cows strung out along the fence - and heading for home, I suppose. But today it is not the Chilcotin roundups I am thinking about. I am remembering many, many fall roundups in Saskatchewan.
From 1964 to 1971, my husband was manager of the Beechy Community Pasture. In the fall, after the bulls were taken out, the 1500 head (plus calves) that the pasture grassed for the summer must be rounded up and cut into separate herds for each farmer to pick up. Since the breeding and the dry herds ran only in two fields, the first step of the process was to roundup the herds and separate them into four main bunches according to the locale of the owners. We did that in the latter part of September. Then, in October, we rounded up each field of "grouped" cattle, brought them to the main corral and, one by one (or pair by pair), we cut them out and penned them for pickup the next day. It was a big job. The weather for the September roundups usually was warm and we would have enjoyed the rides had we had enough riders, which we usually did not. Five good riders with experience could cover 12 sections of rolling hills and start the cows homeward, but often, when they bunched up at gates, the calves got pushed back and started running back to the last place they had sucked - three or four miles back. Pandimonium reigned as first one, then another, then another rider tried to bring the calves back to the herd and through the gate . . . and our horses were already tired. I remember best the worst case of this, when five of us chased calves back to the herd until our horses had nothing left. I was riding Concho, my son's horse. I knew if she could give no more, no horse could. My husband, on an out-of-shape gelding (we saved our best horses for cutting from the herd) is best remembered for sitting in the prairie wool on the side of a hill beside the dun (who had long ago quit!), flatly stating, "I hate cows." One rider rode to the corrals and returned with fresh horses in the trailer, but we had to ride the field again to pick up cattle scattered all the way to the back of the field.
In 1971, my husband was transferred to Crooked River pasture, and we learned something about a roundup in the bush - that we didn't like it much! Doesn't take long for cattle - especially bulls! - to learn they can "hide" in the bush! Then we had to tie our horse, cut ourselves a club, and go in on foot. Sometimes rounding up a field took several rides, each one bringing back a couple more of the "bushed" cattle, until the last few were either roped and tied to trees to bring in with the trailer or straggled out after winter arrived.
When we left Beechy pasture, my brother, Harold, took over as manager. The first year, I decided I would help him put out the cattle in the fall. I'm sure this was not necessary, but I thought it would help him out. So, with a horse in the back of the truck, two in the trailer and a six-month old baby, I headed out from my new home in Crooked River for Beechy - about 300 miles. What was I thinking? A u-joint in the truck caused a major delay (one end of the drive shaft fell down and jammed stuff back), but eventually, I arrived. Mom looked after Lana in the day; I rode all day, then returned to Mom's house at night. 5:00 A.M. to 10:00 PM. I must have really loved those Beechy Community Pasture roundups!
Harold managed the pasture until retirement - but he retired only from the Community Pasture. For all those years he also ran his own operation - the Diamond Dot Ranch where we were raised - and still does. He, his wife Linda, son Troy and daughter Amber, still know what it is bundle up, slap a saddle on the cold back of their best horse, step in the stirrup and head across the hills to the far corner of a field - the long circle - and round up a bunch of bossy bovines.
"I won't be there to wean the calves," Harold said to me on the phone from his hospital bed last night. He had just been hospitalized in Saskatoon for heart problems. I guess he'll miss one roundup this year, but there'll be others.
Speedy recovery, Harold! You're in the right place at this time. The Diamond Dot - and those roundups - will be waiting for you when you return .
3. Tuffy. This little black terrier cross was a bundle of energy. The story I remember most is how he learned to "Go to the house." Apparently, Mom and Dad had rounded up a bunch of yearlings and were trying to get them through a gate into the barn yard. As yearlings usually are, they were plenty spooky and it was all Mom and Dad could do to hold them together at the gate to start pushing them through. That's when Tuffy appeared . . . and would not "go to the house" as Mom ordered him to do. Of course, they lost the yearlings who scattered. Furious, Mom chased Tuffy on horseback (with Dad telling her to stop or she was going to fall on the slippery, icy ground) until Tuffy didn't know where else to go BUT the house. After that, anyone could tell him to "go to the house" and he tucked his tail between his legs and left.
