By Mike Nolan
Owner of Mountain Roots Produce In Mancos, Colorado
In reflection, 2002 has always been the watermark, pun intended, of what a true drought looks like in Southwest Colorado. Water allotments were low or non-existent, the missionary ridge fire raged in La Plata County, and dryland agriculture of Dove Creek was nothing but dry land. Today, 2002 is what everyone, not just those engaged in agriculture, use as a reference point for how bad things can get.
Now, in 2018, we’re again in a perpetual state of drought. It never totally breaks, it is always on our mind, and it seems to be surpassing all our previous reference points. I honestly could not tell you which drought has been worse for our region. Southwest Colorado has changed a lot in 16 years and maybe because our population and economy have changed and grown so much that we feel this drought more intensely.
This is my 14th year farming vegetables fulltime. Things on the farm are never the same year to year (one of the major dynamic attributes that drew me to agriculture), but things are especially different this year.
We’re coming off a few great years on the farm. We’ve established new markets, hired employees, built a new pack house, and purchased equipment. We’re hopeful that we can weather this drought, even though it’s a very light year for our income. But the reality may be that we’ll have to go to the city and find work to make our payments if the drought doesn’t improve.
We always try our best to be resilient with our soil, our business, and our relationships, but this year is a real test. There’s less crop in the ground and more tears than usual, but we are lucky and grateful that we haven’t had to sell part of a herd or loose a crop entirely. I’m just praying that our moisture comes in the form of water droplets and not ice pellets.
Soil health is our greatest asset and our primary goal here on our farm, and this year we feel like we are taking two steps back. We always put our fields to rest in a fall cover crop. Last year we sowed a mix of triticale, vetch and peas in mid-September, but it didn’t germinate until March and we disced it in because we were worried it would rob the little winter moisture we had in the soil. Our cash-crop production has gone from seven acres of intensive vegetable production to two. We cannot justify paying an employee like we usually do, so even with scaling back, the work feels daunting and seems to be dragging.
Last “winter” and this growing season have been really hard on my farm partner/girlfriend/best friend Mindy and me. We spend every waking and non-waking hour with each other and for us, a drought year like this, is particularly challenging. Spending a year in what we call “farm stasis” and just going through the motions, not really improving our systems, is wrecking us emotionally. We hope it is temporary and we’ll get through it. We are lucky to live in a valley that is always there to pull you out of an emotional ditch. One of my most cherished mentors and matriarchs in the Mancos Valley told me back in May… “Droughts in life come in all different shapes and forms… this won’t be your first and it won’t be your last. Learn from it as best you can and weather them together.”
When I wrote the first draft of this diary, it was very self-centered. It was all about me, my operation, my struggle. It’s true, I’m having a hard time this summer, but as time passes I see how the drought is affecting everyone in my valley and region. It’s important for me to remember that I am not alone, and even though non-agrarian lives are not dictated by water and soil moisture as much as mine, times like this are trying and we are all in this together.
We are finally starting to get a monsoonal pattern show up in the last week or so. Mindy and I are so grateful words don’t eve do it justice. A few weeks ago when it rained, I was in the house and I thought we had blown an irrigation riser or something in the house plumbing had failed. Our last measurable precipitation was just after Labor Day 2017, and the sound was so unfamiliar that my heart started racing. That is not a feeling I want to keep revisiting.
All in all, we will get through this drought. I just hope that the conservations around how drought affects the bottom line of farm and ranch families, our local economies, and agriculture continues through winters of deep powder and rain every summer afternoon. Our conversations about drought seem fleeting at times and we need to change that.
I also hope that as communities large and small, rural and urban, will recognize how droughts wear on us emotionally and physically. Let’s all take care of each other, and even though the soil is parched like some have never seen it, let’s not let our hearts dry up.
Facing Great Uncertainty, We Have Three Choices: Adapt, Migrate, Or Quit
By Melissa Willis
We are first generation farmers who, along with our young daughter, are slowly working toward our dream of owning our own plot of land on which we can build our lives and, long-term, our business dreams. Our path towards this dream has been a winding one but has brought us to an amazing middle step. You see, we currently care take a 10-acre property in the small village of Villanueva, tucked back in an area called El Valle, a winding valley nestled in the mesas between Pecos and Las Vegas, New Mexico, and we’re hopeful this is our last stop before finding a place to call our own. We are new here, in this valley, with our big move commencing in late February of this year. So, we are still getting our footing on the property and in the community, learning as much as we can though observation and conversations with the locals.
As first-generation farmers, we often find ourselves flying by the seat of our pants, asking as many questions as we can to those who’ve been around much longer than we have. We are learning many lessons the hard way: trial and error, over and over again. But I am driven by my passion for doing my bit to help remediate the damage caused on our planet in such a short period of time, as well as my deep belief in supporting local agriculture and our community’s access to fresh, local food. My wife is driven by her love of the country and the pride she feels in challenging herself to try new things and completing tasks and projects that are new to us and have a tangible result. Our passions drive us forward, ever-determined, despite challenges that unfold before us.
Some days are easier than others and we are grounded in the fact that there are plenty of blessings to count and hope is ever-present.
The property we are caretakers for boasts a young 60-tree orchard, 450 linear feet of raspberries and blackberries, and two acequias (one intended for crop irrigation and one for livestock). We have our own small herd of dairy goats and a menagerie of poultry (meat and eggs). The water rights here are extraordinary and our mayordomo who manages the system is committed to pulling water through the ditches equally for as long as possible, despite the record lows of the spring-fed Pecos River from which our acequia comes.
The orchard and berries are set up on drip irrigation from the well, as per the landowner’s design, and for which we are extremely grateful. The fields (two established for cultivation to date) are intended to be watered with flood irrigation and were planted with winter wheat last fall before our arrival. We let this crop sit in the field until recently to avoid soil loss and the necessity of irrigating a crop in the face of uncertain acequia levels. By all intents and purposes, we are in a good place to ride out this drought and have been conserving as much water as possible while pulling our share only when necessary, letting the rest flow by to those who need it more than we do.
Our acequia has run freely every day all season long (save for a couple of dry days and the one time a beaver set up shop and had to be run off at the reservoir). Our mayordomo (whose family ties run centuries deep on this land) is committed to keeping water in our part of the valley for as long as possible, though he won’t commit to how long he thinks that might be.
I work in the agricultural community and know firsthand that there are many others who aren’t faring as well.
Without the proper pastures planted yet for our small herd, alfalfa becoming scarce and feed prices sky-rocketing, we went on a hunt for some local bales and met a gentleman a few miles up the road from us who sells unsprayed alfalfa and hay. We hope this will keep our herd fed until we can get some seeds into the soil and grow our own feed. Our first conversation with this gentleman revolved much around the drought, the Pecos River, and the status of our individual acequias (ours is still running, his currently is not). His family has been living in and cultivating this valley for 500 years, so they’ve seen it all. During our conversation he mentioned two things that struck and stayed with me:
1. His 96-year-old grandpa has recalled that the last time a drought was this severe in the valley was from 1955-1965 and it put him off farming for that period, forcing him to find other work.
2. One only has so many summers, so work hard and make the best of them.
While I don’t know what this 96-year-old man did when put off farming over half a century ago, I know he still keeps a “small garden” today, cultivating it tenderly and hoping the acequia will run again soon. Hope and trust abound in this valley, which is comforting.
We are in a unique situation as new farmers because we haven’t quit our off-the-farm day jobs yet. We decided a few years back to try to do it all (farm and work fulltime) while we build ourselves up around this dream to be farmers on our own land. So, while we won’t lose our shirts in this drought, we’re definitely fighting to not lose our dream and do what we can to use the water we have wisely and contribute to the community as best we can.
Many of our conversations these days come back to wondering if we can stay in New Mexico, or if there is somewhere else we might go that would allow us the business model we’ve developed and the lifestyle we long to maintain for our family without the consistent worry of where the water might come from and where arable land prices are affordable. Unfortunately, the models are showing that there may be few places unaffected by the challenges of climate change. Besides, I love my home state deeply and can’t yet imagine living anywhere else and building this dream of ours.
Loose ideas and plans around establishing an intricate water catchment system roll around in my head, but without a piece of land to call our own, it doesn’t make sense to invest in any of the infrastructure until we do. I’ve spoken with those who’ve set up successful systems and I am inspired, if not quite ready to act.
In the face of great uncertainty, it seems we have three choices: Adapt, migrate, or quit.
And so we assess the first two and ignore the third because our dreams are strong and we aren’t jaded enough yet to even contemplate quitting.
The rains have begun, spotty but present, so we hope for more rain (but not for crop-damaging hail) and we hope against all hope that our winter will be a wet one, gifting deep snow pack to our parched mountains which will slowly replenish our rivers, streams, and aquifers as well as our spirits and dreams.
Our ancestors survived everything thrown at them. I am confident we will, too.
By Rob Shepler
Los Ojos, New Mexico
As a grower my thoughts are on the future rather than the present. To be sure, we are currently dealing with the effects of a lingering drought that has brought a great deal of hardship to the growers in my state. Two of the growers in our local farmers market have already been hailed out, and yet here on this side of the mountain we are still awaiting the rain.
Our little farm can not afford a loss like that and yet we know that our turn is coming. The current drought has forced all of the predators into our little valley. We have lost seven hens and one calf so far. The bugs are here too, as there is nothing for them to eat for miles. We are pulling our veggies out as quickly as we can as the predation by harlequin bugs is taking its toll on their marketability. They still taste pretty good but ugly veggies are hard to sell.
We know the value of what we have, we know we are very lucky to have a perennial spring-fed water source. My state is currently in litigation at the Supreme Court over ground water rights. If we lose, my friends who grow on the lower Rio Grand will lose their ability to irrigate from their well when the surface water dries up. If we lose, it is pretty much over for their farms.
What does the future hold for our little place? In particular, what will a changing climate bring? I read that a changing climate will bring more extreme events. More intense drought, greater flooding, more severe winters and hotter summers.
My wife Betsy and I talk about adding more high tunnels. We lean more and more towards protecting what we grow. It will also add cost to what we produce but will give us the ability to shade our plants during the heat of the summer and give us a little protection against the early and late frosts that we get here. We have a good bit invested in our market garden: do we dig into our retirement and add more? We get to eat what we grow, so it would ensure food for us as well. Peaches just might be our retirement.
I participate in some grower groups and I have asked the question more than once how are other growers preparing for these future events. I am very disturbed by the lack of response from the thousands of growers of whom I ask in the social media groups. We really don’t have a plan to deal with what we know is coming. I log in and watch the storms pass around us, now the second year for this.
I found an arrowhead the other day while on a walk. It was white and gleaming on the bare soil where a storm of another day had washed the soil away. This treasure I hold in my hand and wonder at the skill of the creator of this item of beauty that was crafted a thousand years ago.
Our friends text us videos of the rain that is now falling on their place. They mean well, I believe they really do. We are happy for them, we really are, but it grates. My wife and I are a bit edgy with each other and we don’t mean to be. Another year of extreme drought and extreme fire conditions and now dry lightning. We are not new to fire as we lost five acres seven years ago. Our important papers are packed and sit along side reserves of dog food and cat food, oh, and a couple of changes of clothes for us. We remember to pack toilet paper.
This little valley looks like Ireland by this time most years. The Mogollon Culture found this valley full of wildlife and hunted here up until about 1450. They probably did a small amount of farming as well. My arrowhead of a thousand years ago was created by another that made their living here on this land. I feel a connection to my predecessor through this arrowhead, this little jewel of a thing.
I am told that it was drought that drove off the Mogollon, the Anasazi, the Hohokam and the Chaco cultures.
I guess that I am thinking of the past as I look toward the future and wonder and hope that our technology might give us an edge over those who farmed here before. Where there is water, there is life. And where there is life there is hope. I think it just might rain tomorrow.
By Sage Faulkner
My husband and I raise cattle and three children on a ranch we lease in north central New Mexico. This ranch is for sale, but the prices are such that cows will not ever be able to make the payments. So, we ranch while we can and we are thankful for the opportunity to raise our children here, at least for the time being. We borrowed money for our own little set of cows and in good years, we run outside yearlings.
It isn’t a good year for that, as the snowpack in the mountains above us was almost non-existent this winter. Our part of the state is the deep brick red of extreme drought on the drought maps. The mild winter was good in some ways, we fed less and grazed more, and calving was easy without snow-filled spring storms. The semi-serious joke we shared with friends was that not feeding in January meant we would be feeding in June. We made it through June without feeding, but that reality still isn’t far away. We are fortunate to have some of our winter feed, as the mild winter meant we didn’t use all of it, but we will have to purchase some, and availability and prices will both be a significant challenge this year.
Almost half of this ranch has flood irrigation. Little ditches, or acequias, as they are called here, run across pastures and we manage them with a shovel. In a good year, with ample snowpack, the ditches are full, and we can’t keep up with the water. This year, the ground is so dry that it has deep cracks. When I do get water into a ditch, it often follows the cracks, looking for the quickest way out. Silt fills ditches faster than I can dig them out. Keeping water spread out across pastures has been my frantic chore this spring and early summer: the water in the ditches will not last the whole season. We didn’t get the normal green spring carpet across the pastures this year. Grass didn’t even get a chance to grow across much of this ranch. Irrigation has been the only green here, and filling tanks and watering pastures has been harder than most years.
Our son qualified for the National Junior High Rodeo Finals in Huron, South Dakota. His event is saddle bronc steer riding, and when we came home from state finals, he offered to irrigate as a way to help our family with the extra expenditures of getting him there. It is a hard year for irrigating, but we gave him an easier area to irrigate, though he would often come in frustrated with how little progress he made. He struggled with making dirt dams that would last long enough to push water where he wanted it. Orange tarps, strengthened with oak branches from the ranch, help where dirt dams wouldn’t stay. He worked hard, but the results were tough to see.
I love that our children are learning how to work and get dirty, in dust and occasional mud, with stock and soil. They have always been quick to pray for rain, and to be thankful for it when received. A lot of our family talks around the dinner table this year have revolved around drought. It looks like our new “normal” is a drought every four to five years, so they are aware of making adjustments for such years. They are feeling the impact as their 4-H show lambs cough in the dust and watching our water usage means bathing them less. Their feed costs have gone up, and the handfuls of green grass they normally grab for treats for their animals are hard to find.
Our youngest daughter asked if we would have to sell our cows, and we only answered with “hopefully not.” They are resilient kids, and we are trying to make the ranch resilient. It is all a work in progress, and the drought, while forcing our hand in some ways, adds challenges we were hoping to wait a few more years to work on. We are starting to see neighbors sell cattle. We have more flexibility than some because we run outside cattle. This gives us the option to reduce numbers quickly, but the drawback is that there is simply no revenue for the year. We also gave up a part-time job checking cows for another rancher in the mountains nearby, so our pockets are feeling the squeeze. We made that decision so that we could spend more time with our kids, and while it was the right decision for us, we are having to pinch our pennies double, now. We have watched some families nearby sell out two times in the last ten years. For the first time since we bought our cows, I have thought about what it means if we sell them, if we can even pay off the loan, and what will happen if the cows we call ‘our girls’ aren’t here to help us manage this ranch.
Building a set of cows that fit your place is hard, and it takes time. Cattle can be a tremendous tool for managing the land, but in a drought sometimes we forget to look ahead as we fight the battle at hand. Our attempts to build soil are set back, and the project we started to cover all the bare spots in pastures with mulch to build organic matter has mostly blown away. Elk and deer are grazing right beside our cattle, as fires and lack of feed and water give them fewer options. Grazing rotation plans must be adjusted constantly now, as the irrigation drops, the game comes in, and the grasshoppers appear. There is so much to keep balanced and keeping it all in perspective feels like hard work.
For us, we know that we have a lot of maybes in our equation. That forces us to appreciate what we have today and consider that rebuilding is always a possibility. I am always pretty optimistic, I think most farmers are, or they wouldn’t be in this profession. The rains will come, and we will do our best today with what we have, in the hopes that tomorrow we will get to continue the work that we love, in a place that we love.
By Beth Karberg
Osito Organic Orchard co-owner and water resource engineer
When we purchased our 30-acre orchard five years ago, one of the more striking qualities of the property was the excellent water rights that were included. With the entire farm now irrigated by high efficiency micro-sprinklers, we’ve had access to more water than we could use.
Not this year. Though we’re not quite at the level of drought experienced in the Sierra Nevadas in 2014, we’re in uncharted territory this year. Snow pack on the Grand Mesa, which provides the water to our irrigation ditch system, is less than 50% of the recorded median. The runoff that usually swells our streams in the spring never came, and what little snow there was finished melting about a month earlier than typical. It’s been seven weeks since we’ve had any significant precipitation. We’ve reviewed our complex collection of water rights and the historic diversion records, looking at the droughts of 2002 and 1977 to get an idea of how much water we can expect to have this year, and how long it will last, but it’s just a guess.
Our irrigation systems have generally been supplied by a variable, but reliable, supply of snow melt. They’re designed for an adequate water supply, not for droughts. The 29 reservoirs on Grand Mesa that supply our irrigation water after the short high-water runoff in spring, no longer have functional gauges to tally how much water is available, so we rely on the estimates of experienced ditch managers. Water from the ditch system is delivered to our farm through a split box, an elegantly simple way of proportionally dividing water between users, but we don’t have an actual way to measure the absolute amount of water that we are receiving.
Once the water is turned out of the irrigation ditch, we share it with two other properties, again without any way to measure those divisions. This system all works remarkably well when there’s enough water to go around, but it doesn’t meet the needs of managing the system when the water supply is significantly less than we are used to getting. We don’t really know how much water we are getting, how much is passing to our neighbors, or how much water is available for the rest of the season. Even if we were able to reasonably estimate how much water we are taking, and the detailed spreadsheets kept by the ditch manager log our conservative use, I wonder if the water theoretically left in our account will be truly available in a reservoir in September.
What this situation means to our farm this year is yet to be seen. So far, it’s been more stressful and taken more time to manage, but the trees have been watered. We considered not planting new trees this year, but then decided to go ahead and plant the trees we ordered two years ago. We also considered putting in a drip irrigation system on the new plantings but stuck with micro-sprinklers to get the water and soil conservation benefits of cover crops between our tree rows. Others have decided not to put in new trees this year. Farming is always a gamble; the drought this year means the level of uncertainty is just a notch higher, a big notch.
Here are my own bullet points on where we are this year.
· Motivation for water use efficiency and improved water management
· Vulnerability of the Colorado River supply
· West Slope – East Slope tensions
· Farming on the margins
· Cooperating and competing
· Stress & improved management
· Hedging our bets, keep the day job
By Erin Nissen
In 2002 when extreme drought hit the San Luis Valley, I was still in junior high. I had always listened to my dad talking about conserving water and watched how he farmed, but it wasn’t until that year, when our ditch out of the Rio Grande river didn’t turn on, that it really struck me how risky what he did for a living was.
After 2002, my father began dramatically changing how we farm. Even with all of our changes and improvements, the worry that we won’t have enough water the next summer is always there. Despite seeing hardship and worry in this business, I decided to come home to farm after college. I love what I do and can’t imagine a career not farming or in agriculture. But now I carry those same worries. Will there be enough water next year? Should we plant this field, or should we not? And even more looming, will our farming community meet a court-mandated deadline to refill our aquifer, or will the state have to shut down all the wells in our area.
How do you plan for that possible future? Do you prepare yourself to possibly need to sell the farm that you are working on as the fourth generation of the family and go somewhere else? Or can our farm find alternative options and stick it out?
When the water got short, we cut back on how many acres of potatoes and malting barley we grew. We then changed how much of a crop we grow on each field. Currently, all of the 120-acre fields we own and farm are separated into three 40-acre “blocks” with only one growing a cash crop. This has helped with lowering water demands per field, but scheduling irrigations and other management demands have gone up significantly.
Cover crops have become a major part of our rotation on the other two blocks, and with them, cattle. We now run 160 pair between the farm and a nearby rented pasture. The cows have been a great diversification for the farm and are a lower water use product. We can grow a good feed crop on less than half the water that it takes to finish a potato or grain crop, although we can’t get the same return that we could with potatoes.
And 15 years after the drought hit we had finally grown back up to the amount of potatoes we grew before 2002, yet we are still cutting back the acres of barley we grow each year. The winter of 2017 left us nervous about water once again and we cut back and did not plant potatoes in two fields as we had last year. That disappointing but it was the right thing to do. We would rather not plant a crop than not be able to finish it from a lack of water.
We enjoy growing potatoes and we are very excited to look for new crops and opportunities. I would say that my outlook for the future is cautiously optimistic. The valley, both as a whole and our farm, needs to continue to take steps to get better at using available water and to find new solutions to problems, but I think we can do it. Each year I see improvements in farming practices around me. Better focus on soil health and water use is becoming more common and cattle are grazing farm land that hasn’t seen livestock in over 30 years.
My great-grandfather bought the original 120 acres of the farm following the Great Depression and it has survived droughts and hardships before. I hope that we can continue as well by being innovative and trying new ways of improving how we farm.
Keeping The Dream Alive When Crops, Cows, And Cashflow Are Suffering
By Kyler J. Brown
My wife, Emily, along with our two young kids, and I live in the San Luis Valley, with our little herd of 40 mother cows. I work for my father-in-law, who owns a Russet potato and Coors barley farm. The San Luis Valley is an 8000-feet high, flat mountain valley that receives between six and eight inches of precipitation annually, mostly in the form of snow. This Connecticut-size basin sits on a large aquifer that has been formed from millions of years of runoff from the surrounding mountains. The high number of wells and pivot sprinklers depend on this aquifer source for irrigation. The Rio Grande River is the main artery that feeds the valley both for surface and well irrigation rights. Other streams such as the Alamosa River, Conejos River and Sagauche Creek all keep farming communities alive and supplied with water. Potatoes, grain, alfalfa, and livestock are our main ag commodities.
We had some good rains last fall at the tail end of potato harvest that made for nice finale to the year. But after that, the winter storms just never came our way. I heard it was La Nina’s fault, but the reality is, it just never snowed. “Normally” (whatever that means anymore) Wolf Creek Pass on the Continental Divide gets 400 inches of snow a year. This year, I don’t think the snowfall broke 200 inches, and very little of that mountain moisture made it down to the valley floor. We had a dry winter combined with unseasonably high temperatures.
By the beginning of February, we started getting nervous. I kept asking other farmers and ranchers about the drought. They called me pessimistic and said there was still time. When I talked to the older generations, they still seemed resigned to the fact that there isn’t much anyone can do to make it snow. As what should have been our two wettest months – February and March – passed, I became more anxious. I talked to a fellow young rancher who was in the same boat as me. He had borrowed money to buy his herd and was now apprehensively looking at a summer with very little grass. The combination of grazing loss with the lack of hay, or dramatic increase in hay prices, could spell disaster for both of us. We were scared and leaned on each other for support.
At least the lack of inclement weather made calving season easy. Though, as I watched my hay pile dwindle, I started to wonder how to prepare for a long dry spell. I tried to talk to a few farmers about putting in cover crops under pivot irrigation to save on water. This practice would benefit the aquifer, especially in low recharge years. The cover crop could also be used as hay or grazing, which would help our cattle, especially when grass is in short supply. There are very few potato farmers who also run cattle in the San Luis Valley. I didn’t seem to get very much interest.
It seemed like we were all tripping over each other to get prepared. I had several offers to buy my hay supply, for already high prices, though I never really considered it because I wouldn’t be able to find any hay to replace it. I could tell the squeeze was coming. April came and the river jumped up a little. For a moment it seemed like things were nice. But that, I guess, was the proverbial calm before the storm. When the weather is ten degrees warmer than normal and you are getting high water in May, it means a long, dry, hot summer is on its way. Every time I checked the weather report, it showed storms going north and away from us. I drove across Southern Oklahoma to get a horse and couldn’t find a wheat field taller than a crushed beer can. I knew it wouldn’t be long before cattle started hitting the sale barn.
My father-in-law and I had applied for NRCS EQIP program funding to build cross fencing and dig two wells on the property where I graze our cattle. The thinking was that by decreasing our pasture sizes and increasing our ability to rotate the cattle, it would allow us to expand over the years. Now, it seems like these same tools could be the thing that allows us to keep our herd in drought years. The ability to manage overgrazing and stockpile feed for lean times might keep me from having to sell out.
Throughout the branding season the drought worsened. I spoke with a friend who had already sold one trailer load of cattle and was prepping another load to go to sale. He seemed to have a plan and he was executing it. Other ranchers didn’t seem to know what they were going to do if they couldn’t go to their summer ranges. It didn’t comfort me when fifth-generation ranchers admitted that they didn’t have a drought contingency plan. It made my own situation seem all the more in flux. What kept surprising me was how neighboring potato and grain farmers were going about business as usual. They might not be getting much ditch water, but the were going to plant and pump like a normal year. And this isn’t a normal year.
I purchased my cattle two years ago when the opportunity arose to lease a piece of river bottom pasture from my father-in-law. It was a great opportunity, as well as a risk. I wrestled with how I would financially swing this decision. With the help of a commercial bank loan and my parents chipping in, I bought 42 pair and two bulls. I was a rancher for the first time in my life. Now it’s two years later and I’m no richer. I have four years left on my cattle payments. That annual note seems to hang over my head all year. I told myself that if the cattle could just get through those first six years I would be sitting in better shape. Every year it seems to be such a stretch to get the revenue from calf sales to cover feed, fuel, vaccines, and my note. A drought is not what I needed.
My father-in-law and I have talked extensively about the drought. As we got closer to planting grain, he made a last-minute decision to leave a half-circle – that’s 60 acres – out of barley. This decision saved my bacon. He said if I bought the seed I could plant a cover crop in that 60 acres and put it up for hay. I had done that two years prior and we had good results, both with the feed and the farm ground. I’m not sure how long the grass on the river property will hold and when I’ll have to start feeding hay. Factoring in the cost of the seed, getting someone to bale it, and maybe having to feed a lot longer, it will still be expensive.
This financial limbo is at the heart of many conversations among young farmers. We take the risks and then work our butts off to make viable businesses. Then a little ole drought could come along and takes all that away. We could be worse off than if we had never taken the risk in the first place. I hear of ranchers selling cows left and right these days. I guess that is the contingency plan: sell. It might take 10 years to rebuild numbers, but that must just be the cycle of land and livestock.
It has been frustrating to see that cycle while other farmers who are able to pump water continue as if it is normal. But this experience has given me a clear eye about what happens to human nature in dwindling resources. Some folks steal pasture from friends. Some are trying pick up deals on cows at others’ time of loss. Some folks are doing their part to irrigate conservatively for the long-term good of the valley. Other folks are getting every drop they can to their head gate be damned! And still some help friends who have lost pasture and are trying to weather through the summer and not lose their herd.
As I walk through the river property as well as the little hay meadow on my place, I see the weeds have exploded. We have always had a persistent problem with Canadian thistle, but this year it is everywhere and budding out early. The nightshade and wild iris seem to be doing well anywhere that got a little early water. There are many weeds I don’t know the names of, but I have feeling I am going to get to know now. The grass is definitely taking a hard hit, and the opportunistic species are “making hay!” I have been trying to train myself to have a “grazer’s eye” for the feed capacity of a pasture. I am still unconfident in reading the grass well enough to know how long to keep the cows out grazing. I do know this drought can have long term effects if I let my own cattle set the pasture back for years to come. The weeds seem to be sending me a clear sign: don’t stay in one place too long.
If I make it through this year, I plan to keep the lessons I learn from this drought close at hand. I hope I never get greedy and arrogant, because Mother Nature has tricks up her sleeve to put you in your place. I have never been much of a praying kind of guy, but I do a lot of rain wishing these days! Good luck out there and I hope green grass and rainbows head your way, and mine.