She titled her story The Last Roundup, but Valorie McLeod later explained that, though her husband, Rod, and his brother Wayne might reduce the herd, they’ll probably stay in the cattle business. They just won’t be using a particular northern pasture where they had taken the cattle to graze this year.
The McLeods raise about 150 cows on their ranch 50 kilometres southwest of Weyburn, Sask. Last month, they trucked the herd home.
Valorie sent us the following story about the experience, which might mirror those of many ranching families.
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The Last Roundup
We were both wide awake before the midnight alarm went off. With thermos and cooler in hand, we were ready to start our journey.
We can see our breath as we wait for the diesel tanks to fill. The shifting gears on the tractor unit are loud in the stillness. Onto the highway, our journey has begun.
“Pass me some coffee, it will help to keep me awake,” he said, and onward we travelled.
Is daybreak coming soon? We see only greyness to the east and the odd sprinkle of rain on our windshield.
Turn off the gravel road, now holes, mud and bumping along to our destination. Five and a half hours have passed and we have arrived, at 7:20 a.m., at our last roundup.
We don our rubber boots and enter the corrals. The cow-calf pairs are milling about, sensing change. Soon two riders on horseback appear with their slickers, chaps and wide-brimmed hats.
Up the chute they go. The sorting has begun. He takes gates one and two, while I man the entrances to our cow and calf pens.
I can feel the vibration of the bellering cattle through my chest and feet. There is incessant bawling of mama cows calling to their lost babies, while the calves circle in their own pen with white froth still on their noses, evidence of recent breakfast.
I hear the faint sound of a voice; it’s calling out which pen the animal should enter. I cannot hear, so we resort to hand signals.
Wait, my cow pen is full. I have to switch pens and the gate to the empty pen is stuck, the wood swollen with raindrops.
Finally they are all sorted, with cows and calves penned separately.
Back up the cattle truck, as the raindrops turn into a slow drizzle that washes everything down, including the people.
Up the chute the cattle go, with three dogs encouraging their direction. Eight calves first, up into the nose, now eight more into the upper deck, then four calves in the dog house on top. Next, 12 cows on top, then 12 more in the belly, now five more calves on the back, plus one cow to balance the weight. We load the second cattle pot with the same numbers.
We leave at 11:30 a.m. with three valleys to master under the weight of our full load. The dull rattle of the jake brake rings in our ears as down, down, we go, shifting, always shifting. The sun is beginning to set as we make our way up our lane.
The frightened animals bolt off the truck, mothers searching for calves and calves needing their mothers. They are thirsty and hungry.
Off they go to pair up, while we humans head for the house after being up for 18 hours straight. Home sweet home!
He tries to comfort me with his words.
“This is the last roundup,” he says.
I wonder.
