Shortly after moving twenty cow/calf pairs and a newly-purchased yearling red angus bull onto our dryland pasture, Jim noted that the bull had gone through the fence and was in with the neighbor's cows and their older bull. We sped forth on ATVs, hoping to move him back to "his" cows. We got him separated and our tag-team, eastward chase worked until, 20 yards from the wide-open gate into our pasture, he jump-plowed the fence into the neighbor's dryland pasture and headed west, back toward the cows we'd chased him away from, but on the opposite side of the fence. We raced beside him, and Jim managed to get ahead of him in time to bail over the fence and close a gate into recently-seeded, irrigated crop ground that the bull was headed toward. The gate was not much of an obstacle, but Jim's waving stance in the middle of it was enough to stop his immediate progress. I abandoned my 4-wheeler, climbed over the fence, and sent the bull east again, this time following him on foot and wielding an old wooden fence post and a handful of rocks. He moved along the fence while Jim paralleled him on the other side to discourage any thoughts of another fence crossing. We'd have paid handsomely for a well-placed gate about that time, but none was available. If I'd had my wits about me, I would have suggested that Jim get a bit ahead of the bull and me and cut the wires, after the bull had moved beyond the point where a crossing would put him onto our property. Instead, we got to a corner, and the bull took off to the NW, intending to circle back to his adopted comrades. He was pooped from our previous ATV chase so I was almost able to flank him, all the while entertaining thoughts of deflecting him at the canal bank and sending him back to our ground by an alternative route. Such thinking was wishful or delirious. He out-trotted me and arrived back at the pathetic gate where Jim once again met him with much waving. Again, I got behind him and sent him east along the fence, with Jim driving parallel on the opposite side, a deja vu interlude. This time, however, I shouted my plan for Jim to zoom ahead at just the right moment, cut the wires, and . . . It worked. Bull crossed into our pasture, and Jim took up the chase, dogging him east toward our cows, while I retrieved my 4-wheeler. Then I dogged while Jim repaired wires and closed the gate. Our thoughts? Whew; that'll teach him; mission accomplished; this calls for a nice bottle of wine with dinner . . . until two days later when the bastard again flew the coop.
I stayed home while Jim went looking via ATV. To the west, he scanned with binoculars among the neighbor's cows, now out of sight from our pasture, behind an electric fence, and across several rough canal-like obstacles impassable by ATV. He spied no red bull; likewise to the east. Then Jim and I searched together, accessing the pasture into which the bull had originally escaped via a different route. There rested our bull, cudding contentedly among his adopted herdmates and their older bull, hidden by trees from being sighted on Jim's previous fruitless foray. His location was inaccessible by ATV and nearly impossible from horseback unless we could get in via an adjacent pasture owned by our neighboring Hutterite Colony. The farm boss granted us permission to do whatever we needed, and, by way of their pasture, we located the simplest possible access to our runaway. With bull located and access available, we now needed cowboys--real cowboys, not ATV cowboys--well-mounted, skilled cowboys to head and heel and get our repeat offender loaded into a trailer. After much phoning, messaging, and anxiety to the point of nausea, I located a willing team, and we agreed to meet at 5:00.
The action after we met sounds simple--they roped the bull and got him through the canal and loaded into our trailer with impressive efficiency, and we were home before 6:00. Such spare accounting conceals the reality and its beauty. I intended to take pictures but managed only one before getting lost in the moment. I was mesmerized by the quiet, long-distance loop to the head, the perfectly timed hind leg catch, the finesse of directing the bull's angry momentum into forward progress, the pas de deux of each rider with his horse, of the two ropers working in perfect tandem, of the two young sons of the header, spectacularly mounted on matching roans, moving as a pair to provide just the right amount of encouragement. I am so grateful for and appreciative of their skills.
Later that evening, over a less-than-celebratory glass of wine, Jim and I pondered options. Put up solar-charged hotwire? Probably not, for the turd seems pinheadedly determined to travel and wrangle with other bulls. Ship the shithead and buy a replacement? Not a good option, for it's late in the season to buy bulls and none come with guarantees of fence compliance. Bring the cows back home and drylot them with the peckerhead. What a sorry option! For the first time in years, we have received decent spring moisture; our grass is good, and the cows need to be out on it.
Sorry or not, it's the best idea we came up with, so that's what we did. The cows are getting bred, carry-over hay is disappearing, and I have calmed to the point of name calling, rather than active plotting of vengeance against our red, renegade, roistering, rascal.
My singular picture does no justice to the principals. Jason, the header, is the speck on the left; Matt, the heeler, is the speck second from the left; Jason's two boys are furthest to the right; El Torro, visible only with magnification, is nearly concealed by Matt and his horse.