June has been glorious! The Sun River Valley and benches to the north have received more rain than our Adobe Creek Basin, but the two inches that blessed us have been game changing. Of course, thistles and quack grass have responded as enthusiastically as poppies and irises, but I’m onto them and working hard to throw the competitive advantage to favorites.

Most recently, our wickedly thorned yellow rose has taken center stage. A survivor from the Fleming family homestead—now our Prairie Island—I dug it years ago from what is now a pasture and transplanted it into a flower bed, where it has thrived. I wear long sleeves and heavy leather gloves to prune it, cut it back, and pull quack from its midst. Despite my protective gear, it always draws blood. Now it is thwarting my best efforts to propagate cuttings that fellow gardeners have requested. I’ve poked cuttings into potting soil and into vermiculite; I've tried cuttings that remained partially attached to the matriarch while encased in wet potting soil and wrapped tightly with plastic wrap. All efforts included rooting hormone for encouragement. Most recently, I punctured several potatoes, stuck cuttings into the holes and buried the potatoes in potting mix. Supposedly, that’s how pioneers carried ancestral rose cuttings west to new homesteads. If the “tuber” technique fails, perhaps the potatoes will sprout, and we can enjoy baby potatoes dug from my pots.  

Whether we successfully propagate roses, potatoes, or neither, “June is bustin’ out all over,” early flowers are resplendent, and our homesteader rose is putting on a show.      

Each year lambing season brings both joy and sadness. One particularly bright spot this year came in the form of a tiny lamb. Her full-sized twin brother was up and sucking in short order. The diminutive “Flea,” however, was slower to get up and not tall enough to reach her mother’s udder. I milked enough from the ewe to provide a good first meal and repeated the milking/bottle feeding every few hours.

In my experience, such early bottle feeding is a sure way to end up with a lamb that refuses to nurse. It seems that the tentative exploration that new-born lambs do—seeking and finding the udder on their own—is essential. And if that seek-and-find experience gets replaced by early bottle feeding they cannot be taught or forced to nurse, no matter how hungry they are, no matter how cooperative the mother is. The adage about leading a horse to water is exemplified by lambs who refuse to nurse from their mother, even when they are boosted up to the udder, their jaws are manually pried open, and a teat is popped into their mouth. The most-saintly shepherd could be driven to curse in frustration at the many effective resistances that a ten-pound new-born can devise. They sag and droop; they turn away and plant themselves in backwards mode; they lunge and fall off the teat after having been forced to close their mouth on it.

In full recognition of the inevitable—that Flea would become bottle dependent—I continued to feed her. A day later, after around-the-clock bottle feedings, Flea refused her bottle. Hm-m, I asked: “After all that TLC, is she simply choosing to starve?” Several hours later, I witnessed lambing barn magic: Flea standing tall, neck extended, sucking mightily from her mother. Because of her miniature stature and slow start, Flea and her family got a bit of extra time in their private jug pen before mingling with others, first in a small mixing pen with four other ewes and their lambs, then in a bigger outdoor pen, with access to barn shelter, but crowded with more ewes and lambs and, finally, in pastures with free-choice grazing, freedom to run with mobs of other lambs, and freedom to encounter danger from coyotes, eagles, hail storms, etc.   

Of course, as lambing season progressed, I accumulated numerous other lambs that became bottle “bums.” More than ten percent of our lambs are triplet-born. Ideally, we leave all three lambs on the ewe for at least 48 hours to get the full benefit of colostrum—that liquid-gold, first milk that is loaded with fat, vitamins, and antibodies that are essential for a good start. After that, one lamb is selected, or “bummed,” placed with similar orphans in a separate pen, and bottle fed with milk replacer every three to four hours. For reasons of efficiency, our bums transition from individual bottles to a 6-nipple bucket ASAP. Though that transition lacks pomp, circumstance, or ceremonious speechifying, it represents an epic graduation in the mind of any shepherd charged with bum feeding duties! So too, the transition from milk to less expensive pelleted feed. My entire bum brigade is now weaned off milk and eating pellets. Occasionally, they tag along behind me; after all, I delivered their eagerly welcomed bottles and buckets day and night for weeks. And sometimes they follow the dogs—who tidied their rumps and licked milk froth from their faces. But increasingly they are identifying as sheep and affiliating with a group of yearling ewes with young lambs that come into a corral at night.

I love the intensity and workload of lambing; we had a good season, pastures are green, and the lambs look great, but a respite in May and early June were much needed. I used the time to draw, paint, and garden, before the routines of summer arrive.