Sheep Industry News December 2024

A Sheepherder's Story MARIE MCCLAREN WYOMING RANCHER

Fall Means Goodbye

T he middle of September marks when the herds of sheep begin their descent out of the forest. Every year come the first of the month though, the men start asking when they can start heading out. “Can we leave the 10th? Can we start the trail on the 13th?” And all I can think is, can we stay longer instead? More time riding on the trails where my grandpa left his name. More time learning the coun try that I’m not as familiar with, but our guys know like the backs of their hands. More time on top of my beloved Mt. Isabel, taking in her expansive views and drinking from her spring. Every September I try to sneak in every extra minute of mountain time that I possibly can. I cherish every trip, every herd counted and the beautiful scene of sheep grazing on the steep mountainside just a little bit more, knowing that my time up here is coming to an end. I absolutely love September. The cooling weather and changing leaves, counting all the herds, and spending more time with the sheep and the herders. But I hate that September means having to leave the mountains. I dread knowing that I won’t be back to the forest until the next July, when the sheep herds make their way there once again. Every year it seems to come sooner, summer shorter and somehow it seems I’ve spent less time up there than the year before. I long to learn all the ways of the sheepherders by living in a tent with the herd for multiple days, rather than just an overnight visit. I want to learn how they keep track of 2,300 ewes and lambs amidst the thick timber. I want to learn where all the springs are at each campground, the routes they use to take the sheep to water each day, and how to cook a good meal and their perfect rice on a wood burning stove. I want to watch the sheep graze, to see exactly what plants they prefer. I want to read a good book on top of Bull Hill as the sun sets and I listen to the constant blatting of the ewes finding their lambs. But then it’s September, and before I know it, we’ve worked the last herd of sheep through the corral at the base of Sheep Mountain, the point that marks the south end of the mountains. Where I can look north and replay my time there: every meal, every packed horse, every lost sheep. I remind myself that July really isn’t too far away, and we’ll all be back again. Trailing back up Commissary Ridge, sleeping back in our camp at Nugent Park, and counting sheep at first light on top of Indian Ridge. It’s not goodbye my dear mountains, because I will be back soon.

I arrive at the frost-covered, wood corral with the morning sun still rising. A semi is backed up to the chute and the old ewes are climbing their way up to it. The old ewes we classify as “botella verdes” and “botella azules,” meaning green and blue bottle dob marks. We put this mark on their backs with paint when we worked the herds. These paint marks signify that these ewes could still raise another lamb or two, but their teeth are too short or broken to be wintered on the desert for another year. Range operation sheep lead a tough life. They are out on the range year-round, even through the winter. They never get fed hay, unless we have too much snow for them to find feed like we did in 2022-23. We do feed them whole corn as a supplement each day. They must paw through the snow and pick for last year’s dried up vegetation. This feed still provides nutrients required for the animals, but it is awfully hard to eat it without a good set of teeth. Then, after a long cold winter of working for every bite, the herds are trailed 100 miles home to start lambing. The old ewes making their way on the truck have lived this life for six-plus years. They’ve provided us with beautiful fleeces and multiple lambs. I’ve assisted some of them in lambing, watched them run in excitement toward us for their corn, and petted their soft faces while working them in the corral. When working with the sheep every day, you begin to recog nize them as individuals. You can tell certain ones apart. You notice their different personalities and tendencies. They are each known, ap preciated and valued far higher than the price we get for them shows. These ewes have contributed in supporting the ranch, my family and everything that we love; and on this chilly October morning I’m watching them leave. I look a ewe in the eye that has raised nice big triplets for us four years in a row, and then watch her disappear into the trailer. I look at a ewe who appears tired and worn out, knowing she probably looks that way from keeping track of two lambs to and from the forest. I quietly thank her for her service before never seeing her again. My eyes fill with tears as I prod ewe after ewe up the ramp and say goodbye for good. By the time the truck pulls away, I am bawling. I am the hyper sensitive one of the family – although all Julians I know are sensitive – and wish that I didn’t have to be apart of this one day on the ranch. As I calm, I remind myself of the many lambs these beloved ewes have raised, many of them being ewe lambs that replenish the herd when their old mothers must go. I remind myself that they’ve done their fair share, served their part in this often-complicated circle of

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