LA RIVIERE, Man. – The stars are out in full brilliance as Beth and Larry Thompson stroll across their yard to check their herd of cows, which are placidly munching on hay.
It’s calving season. But on the Thompson farm, that means getting a full night’s sleep.
“I don’t understand any cattleman in his right mind who gets up every two hours through the night to check cows, because there’s really no need for it,” said Larry.
A dozen years ago, he tested a method he now swears by. He feeds his cows in the late afternoon, and 85 percent of the calves are born between 7 a.m. and 10 p.m. He’s never lost a calf at night.
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It’s one of the many innovations the Thompsons have put into practice on their cow-calf operation on the edge of the Pembina River Valley in south-central Manitoba. In fact, they were recently recognized for that work by the Manitoba Conservation Districts Association.
“I’ve always teased Larry and said if conservation was a religion, he would be a really religious person,” said Beth, describing his enthusiasm.
Larry has mixed feelings about the word conservation, which he says sometimes conjures up images of “high-falutin'” radicals who go too far with the concept.
“They drive me crazy because I think that conservation can be achieved just through common sense more than anything else.”
The Thompsons choose only conservation ideas that make sense for their 675 acres, most of which lie in the river valley and are prone to flooding and frosts.
Prepare for the worst
When they first took it over from Beth’s dad, he told them to expect one complete crop failure every five years. So, over time, they’ve sown it down to hay and put up about 16 kilometres of fencing for pastures.
“We just haven’t tried to do something with it that it really isn’t suited for,” said Larry.
The Thompsons were among the first farmers to work with conservation groups to fence off pasture from the riverbank. They installed a solar panel and battery to pump water into troughs.
Larry said the system protects the river bank from erosion, but it also means his cows avoid foot-rot and drink clean water.
By using electric fencing to turn a large pasture into small paddocks, Larry can better control weeds and encourage native grass stands by managing where the cattle graze. He has increased the carrying capacity of the pasture by 50 percent.
They’ve also experimented with composting manure.
But the Thompsons are concerned about conservation for more than just practical purposes. They love their land and want to leave it in good shape.
“If I’m having a really rotten day, if I can go down and just drive through the valley and look at the cows, it has a calming effect on me,” said Larry.
“It’s like my little kingdom. It’s important to me to feel kind of just part of it, not like I’m just tearing through it and taking out the good parts.”
Beth grew up on the farm. “My roots are really deep right here, and I think that gets more important to me as I get older,” she mused, wondering whether she could feel the same way about any other place.
Larry remembers the other kids in his Grade 2 class laughing when he announced he someday wanted to become a farmer.
“Yeah, I was a town kid,” he sighed. “I had to learn how to farm.”
When they first married, they lived in the northern city of Thompson, Man., where Larry worked at a mine. But when Beth’s dad offered Larry the chance to farm with her brother about 25 years ago, they moved back home.
Larry learned the ropes of the farm from his in-laws the first year, and studied agriculture textbooks at night to find answers to the problems he encountered during the day.
He farmed with Beth’s brother Eric Atkins until 1981, when Eric took over the cropland and Larry stayed with the cattle and the hills.
They’ve increased their base herd from 60 to around 100 over the years, switched from Herefords to a Charolais cross, and moved from feeding cattle to selling calves.
They load a cattle-liner with calves and culled cows in the fall for the auction mart at Brandon. Selling a few cows after calving and some 900-pound heifers in early August rounds out their marketing plan.
Riding out low prices the past couple years has been tough. Last year, the Thompsons kept afloat with off-farm income.
Beth is a receptionist and bookkeeper for an equipment dealership in nearby Manitou. Larry drives a school bus. And they share a mail route three times a week.
“We hope we’ve been through the hardest year,” said Beth.
She keeps a tight rein on their bookkeeping. “We know where we’re at, even when that’s not pleasant knowledge.”
But looking back over their farming career, the Thompsons say the early 1990s was the only time they made good money.
“Those were the only years where there was enough of a profit that you really felt good when your calves went through the ring at the auction mart,” Larry said.
While material things have sometimes eluded the Thompsons, they say they’ve traded them away for things far more important: The panoramic view of the valley, the swimming holes along the river, the big verandah where they sit and talk about the day.
It was a good place to raise their kids and they’re gratified that their young grandchildren are already starting to love it.
“I think sometimes that’s the only way we can look at it, is the perks,” said Beth.
