Drag Queen

            One of the biggest challenges of living on a dirt road is keeping it passable. In the summer, it turns to dust and blows away, or sticks like a magnet to the vehicles and we drive it away, leaving behind big holes and exposed rocks.

            In the winter, it floats away, the rain creating gulleys and washouts that rival the Grand Canyon. As it dries, the mud turns to a consistency that is half cement and half quicksand. Wheels leave deep grooves, mule feet leave deep pockets, all of which, as they dry, have the capacity to pop tires and stub toes.

            The ranch is over 300 acres in area, so you can imagine the road system it has, all of which is critical to keep open so the Forest Service has fire access. This creates the need for an art form I never knew existed – dragging the road. Think of a zamboni on an ice skating rink for the concept, only much less glamorous.

            The first step is choosing the exact time to do it – after the quicksand phase, but before the toe-stubbing point. Since Dave is often gone, I had to learn the procedure so as not to miss the ever so small window.

            The next step is pulling the drag at just the right distance from the bumper to keep it from bouncing over the lumps (too tight) to having absolutely no control over where it goes (too loose). Many true drags are all metal piping pulled with chain, or fancy tractor attachments. Our system is more primitive – an old steel “I” beam tied with rope to the trailer hitch of the Jeep. Needless to say, it took me quite a while to perfect this step, with growing frustration because as I dragged, the knots would pull tight and bind up occasionally, making re-tying them truly aggravating.

            The third challenge is tying the drag with just enough angle so that the dirt that collects along it slides off to one side, in theory filling in holes as it does. This step is critical, as I found out quickly. If you pull the drag without enough angle, the dirt piles up in front of the drag and flips it. And remember – SOLID STEEL. I wasn’t able to just jump out of the Jeep and flip it back over. Instead, I’d have to untie it, find a way to drive to the other side of it, hook it back up, flip it, drive back to the right side, and re-hook it. Sometimes this meant a good quarter mile detour each way. Can you hear the curse words?

            Now why, you might ask, not just drag it upside down? Because the damn rope frays and suddenly – TOINK! – you and the drag are separated. More curse words.

            Ironically, after my initial failures and frustrations, I found the work quite soothing. My type “A” little mind enjoys creating a neat and tidy surface out of chaos and mayhem. And in the calm after the storms, it is usually clear and beautiful. What a great excuse to throw the dog in the back, crank the radio, and drive three miles an hour through the mountains, enjoying the fresh scent after the rains and the short-lived green season. Even when Dave is home, I still elect to take on this project. Which has earned me the nickname of the “Drag Queen.”

Water, Water, Everywhere and Not a Drop to Drink

I grew up on a lake that was hidden in the mountains of Southern California. It was basically like summer camp all year long. After-school activities ranged from bicycles and roller skates to kayaks and sailboats. Idyllic, except during winter, when the rains overran the banks and our house flooded. Sometimes it was only a few inches over the docks and driveway, which was fun because it did little damage, but usually kept us home from school for the day.

But other times, it meant 4 to 6 feet of water in our bedrooms, which wasn’t so much fun. In fact, to this day, I wake up from a dead sleep for anything more than a light drizzle, because for so many years that meant it was time to get up and start moving furniture.

For the most part, it was really hard to move away, but the relief from the winter stress was actually quite surprising. Rain no longer had such a negative connotation.

Until this week. You would think that living on a mountain at an elevation of nearly 2000 feet would make you immune to flooding. But I should have recognized that the same pond full of frogs that first wooed me up here also had the potential to turn wicked.

We had already experienced nearly 30 inches of rain this season, so the pond was at max capacity. Then 10 more inches fell in a 24 hour period. It burst its banks on two sides, blocking both roads that surround it, and then became a river that flowed through the barn, under the barndominium, and down the third road. I wasn’t too worried about water getting in the house because we are posted up about 8 inches and the river was only 4 inches deep, but I was concerned about the posts themselves becoming unstable and sagging in the deluge.

Eventually the rain stopped, and so did the river. The pond was still more than double its former self, but the road was passable with the quad. So I decided it was probably time to check the rest of the ranch for damage.

When I opened up the well house to check on the water pump, I found it fairly well destroyed. Not by nature – the animals had broken in. The walls were chewed up, there were road apples everywhere, and the solar inverter had been ripped off the wall and the wires frayed. The irony was not lost on me. We had Lake Tahoe at our doorstep, but no well water for actual use.

When it rains, it pours.

Hmmm… but how did the damn mules get in?! The door was securely closed...

When I picked Dave up the next day and related all the drama that occurred during his absence, he decided to head immediately down to the well site to check the damage and see about repairs. It was right at dusk, and as he walked up to the front door, a 400 pound black bear came out the back window.

OOPS. Silly me… sorry honey!

The Mosquito Coast

Working around the ranch today, I got my first mosquito bite of the year. It brought to mind my first attempts to curb the problem...

Besides having several troughs for the livestock, the ranch also has a seasonal pond about the size of a football field. Recognizing the inevitable swarms of mosquitoes to come, along with their potential for West Nile Virus, I decided to look into stocking the pond with mosquito fish. (Ravenous little predators of mosquito larvae.)

            Luckily, it turned out that our county Vector Control gives them away for free. All I had to do was tell them the size of the pond and set up an appointment. I warned the gal on the phone about the road to the property, but she indicated it would be no problem.

            So the morning of the appointment, the phone rang about fifteen minutes before I expect her to arrive. “Um, would you mind meeting me at the bottom of the mountain?”

            Apparently, the road was a problem.

            Now, we had only been living on the ranch a couple months, and I still didn’t have a 4-wheel drive vehicle. I had been using Sassy to get up and down the mountain, but didn’t figure she would be amenable to transporting fish back up the road.

            So I called Dave. “Hey, honey, is there enough gas in the Jeep to get down the hill and back?”

            “Uh, yeah, there should be.”

            A little background on the Jeep. It is a 1980 4WD CJ-7. I love this Jeep. We have driven all over the backcountry in it, had tons of adventures, and it has never left us stranded. (Do you hear me knocking wood?) The windshield can even be dropped onto the hood for an African safari-style experience, which is really awesome provided you remember to keep your mouth shut and your personal windshield (sunglasses) in place.

            However, it is over 30 years old. Some things don’t work quite like they used to. Like the gas gauge. Usually, the Jeep stays on the mountain, and we fill it with random gas cans when we think of it. So we never know just how much fuel is in it. I still didn’t have the “feel” for it like Dave did. Or, like I thought he did…

            So, down the mountain I bounced to meet the fish-lady. After explaining how to release them, she handed me two super-sized bags about half full of water and fish. (Imagine a school carnival goldfish bag on steroids.)

            About a mile and a half back up the road, the Jeep gave a couple of chugs, and stopped cold. Uh-oh. So now I faced a choice. Do I hike up the road alone, pick up Sassy, and come back for the fish, or do I take the fish with me now?

            Using a complicated logic formula that included the heat of the day, the issue of refueling the Jeep, the temperament of Sassy, and my own questionable temperament at that moment, I decided to hike with the fish. It was only a half mile, after all.

            Not only did the bags get progressively heavier, they were really tough to hold onto. The tops were rolled, folded over, and then rubber-banded, just like they do in the fish store. Only, the banded nub on these bags was really small and, as I started to sweat, really slippery. So I stopped and set them down to get a better grip. On a sloping road.

            I watched in horror as, in total slow motion, one of the bags tipped over, the rubber band slowly unraveled, and water and fish poured out all over the red dirt road. Noooo!

            I grabbed the bag only after all but about two fish were left, and quickly started scooping up all the little flopping bodies I could find. (And I had been worried about how the heat was going to impact them?!)

            So now I had a bag with 3 inches of muddy water and a bunch of fish gasping for air. Determined to give them a fighting chance, I poured some water from the other bag into the spilled one. On a positive note, now both bags were lighter, and easier to carry without the stubby tops.

            But, I’m hot, I’m still a quarter mile away from the ranch, my arms are starting to ache, and my temperament has deteriorated to catastrophic levels. So as I walk, I’m ranting under my breath like a crazy woman, and my absentee husband is the prime target, “Sure there’s enough gas!... Who’s hare-brained idea?... grumble, mumble… Leave me up here alone… Come home and find me moved back to town!...”

            About now, half of me is hoping that one of the neighbors will drive by and take me out of my misery. The other half is praying that none of them will get the opportunity to see yet more proof that their new neighbor is truly an imbecile.

            It turned out to be the imbecile option. I meekly sat in the passenger seat with my muddy packages as she continued her phone conversation with a fellow board member, organizing a complicated, week-long event they were hosting. See? I told you they walk among us.

            She dropped me off with a quick wave and an apologetic smile, and I slunk off to the pond and set my poor prisoners free.

            And we still got bit all summer.

Meet the Posse

           Dave bought his first horse at age 12, and disappeared into the backcountry fairly regularly after that. The few experiences I had with equines up to the point of our marriage involved the bruised imprint of two horseshoes between my shoulder-blades in one instance, and being clothes-lined by a runaway mule train in another. Needless to say, I was leery of the beasts. One huge benefit to moving to the ranch was that the animals came to live with us. It gave me the opportunity to better understand them, and also gives me plenty of fodder for future blogs. Since they, and the rest of our posse, will probably play prominent roles in subsequent stories, I thought you deserved an introduction to our cast of characters:

            Smoke: he’s one of the old men of the posse – a beautiful, grey, twenty-something Johnny mule. He’s solid, deliberate, and bomb-proof. One day when I was saddling him, the kitten got bored swinging from his tail and decided to climb his front leg. He didn’t move an inch – just shuddered a little bit.

           Mexico: the even older old man of our posse. Based on the number of people I've met who have either owned him or known him, he must be at least 102. Okay, more like 30ish, but still, he's been around! He was the first mule I ever rode (as opposed to a horse), and still has some trail time left in him.


            Rosa: a secretly sweet Molly mule, Rosa throws attitude at the rest of the herd. She’s always got her ears back, spoiling for a tantrum, but she’s the first to let me rub behind those ears too. She’s the one who ate the window out of my captain’s truck when he visited to review our wedding ceremony.

            Fey: She came to us from Texas with a couple of bad habits – she has a strong addiction to cat food, which, combined with her unnatural ability to limbo under any wire we put up, gets her into a lot of trouble.

            Jalama: she’s the “baby” of the herd. She acts just like an overgrown puppy, curious about everything, following you everywhere, and getting underfoot (or at least in the way) constantly. She loves to steal whatever you set down, and gives it a good taste test before she gives it back. (And only then if you ask real nice.) Cell phones, car keys, shoeing tools, she’s tasted it all.


                 Sierra and Nevada: the newest girls to join our menagerie, they are sweet and gentle, and still not very well known to us. Can you guess where they came from?

            Blue: Blue-dog is a retired hunter, bred in New Zealand to work for a company that travels world-wide to eradicate non-native animals from ecologically sensitive areas. She is incredibly smart, amazingly well-disciplined, and happy to be retired. While she no longer hunts, she does still enjoy stealing the catches away from the cats. Blue didn’t know how to be a dog when we first got her. She doesn’t understand “fetch” (unless it’s a live pig), or know how to play. We even had to teach her how to pee on her own terms, as she had been kenneled her whole life. (Don’t ask how.) Her biggest joy in life, besides running alongside a quad, is dinner. She starts her “dinner dance” around 3 o’clock, contorting her body in ways no 11 year old dog should be able to do, the whole effort contrived to lure you closer to her food dish. 

            Big Max: Moving to the ranch, we knew we needed a barn cat to control the rodent population. Upon describing our situation to the women at the animal shelter, they turned to each other and exclaimed, “Big Max!” Imagine the biggest, furriest, housecat you have ever seen. Now double it, and you have Max. They had to loan me a dog kennel to get him home. When he proceeded to never bring us a kill, we recognized we had been duped, and started joking that we had opened a ranch for retired hunters. (Dave used to be a hunting guide as well.) Now, we don’t know what Max’s life was like before us, but he is tormented by his desire for and fear of affection. He has a teeny, tiny meow (pathetic really) that he incessantly follows you around with, but when you stop to pet him, he runs away. He HATES to be touched, but wants so badly to be close. Fortunately, I stumbled on a solution – you just sit quietly about six feet away for awhile and he seems to be satisfied. The ranch has actually been great for him. While he still jumps at the slightest noise, he is a shadow of his former self (okay, maybe a shadow and a half), and we’ve discovered that he does actually hunt as soon as the sun goes down.

            Bobcat: She arrived on the mountain with her two sisters as rejects from a breeder – a pure-bred got knocked up by a barn cat. Her two sisters, Tiger and Cheetah, went to the neighbors, and we kept Bobcat. From day one, she put Big Max to shame, bringing us rats over half the size she was, hummingbirds (think about the logistics of that!), and anything and everything. I wish I could teach her to refine her palate away from songbirds and chipmunks, but I have to admit that we don’t have any mice issues. And she is one serious hunter. I awoke one morning to a loud clatter, and ran out expecting to chase Fey out of the cat food. Instead, I found Bobcat clinging to the side of our "barndominium," just under the eaves, spread-eagle like Spiderman, with not one, but TWO bats in her mouth.

            Now, all of our animals get along well, and tumble around together. Each morning and evening I walk around the pond, and various members of our posse join me. One morning, about halfway through the olive grove, Bobcat came prancing past me with a lizard in her mouth. Blue-dog immediately went in for the steal, and Jalama, noticing the action, wanted in on it and gave chase too. As the three of them went racing around the pond, my laughter changed to bemusement. I fear the adage that humans resemble their pets – does all this chaos mean I’m just as eccentric?

It’s Raining Ranas (Frogs)

           After an onslaught of amphibians during this last storm, it brought to mind a strong pattern that seems to be building... Ever since one of our first few dates, frogs have been a recurring theme in my relationship with Dave, for reasons I won’t go into here.

            Moving to the ranch just added fuel to the fire. Before we moved, I spent a night camped out alone on the property, just to be sure I was whole-heartedly on board with this new adventure. As the sun set on one of the most beautiful views in the world, the frogs began chirping. I grew up on a lake, and the sound immediately transported me back in time. (Unlike many people these days, I actually enjoyed my childhood, so this was a positive thing.) The darker it got, the louder they got, until you literally couldn’t hear yourself think. I was in love. Goodbye, freeway noise! So long, train whistle! Hello, frogs!

            While we were refurbishing the "barndominium," we lived in a trailer on the property. As time, and the remodel, dragged on, and on, and on, our trailer started having some issues. The primary problem was that the plumbing was intended for use once a year, in a campground somewhere, using the trailer’s battery operated, low-volume, water pump. Being plumbed permanently to a common-variety garden hose was apparently too much pressure for the system, and the “pipes” (they were actually hoses themselves) developed leaks at the couplings, particularly under the kitchen sink.

            We were far more worried about dealing with the real pipes in the barn, and so Dave's quick fix was to drill a through-hole under the sink so that the water would drain out under the trailer rather than onto the kitchen floor. We’d only be living in there a few more weeks, and then we could patch it, right? Riiight…

            This was during the spring, when the pond was starting to dry up, and the frogs were desperately seeking any water source they could find. In fact, one evening I went to feed the dog and discovered that a bullfrog had commandeered her water dish. Not only did the frogs find their way to the mud puddle under the trailer, but also up through the hole into the trailer. (Works both ways, doesn’t it?)

            So it happened unexpectedly one night that when I opened the kitchen cabinet to pull out a pan, Schlook!, out came a flying frog, and Bap!, he stuck to my arm like a gecko.

            Needless to say, I’m sure my shriek was heard all the way down in town.

            This went on for a couple weeks, with me always just distracted enough to forget until, Schlook!, Bap!, Shriek!

            Then it became kind of a game. I’d open the cabinet and dodge out of the way to see if they could make it all the way across the room. I’d always release them into Blue’s water dish (the bullfrog had moved on by then), and they would make the journey back into the cabinet. Finally, after a time, they just became part of the daily routine.

            In fact, by now it was summer, and we had been given an old water tank by one of the neighbors. The top had been cut off, so it made the perfect swimming pool. I could just fit a raft in it, and be spun in a circle like a propeller by the wind.

The frogs enjoyed the pool just as much as I did. They immediately colonized the edges, and as I spun in a lazy circle, Bap!, they would leap off the walls and join me on my raft. Que sera, sera.

            Well, the barndominium was finally finished before the following winter, and as much as I missed my companions, it was nice to have clean dishes for a change. As the rain poured down one evening, I sat covered in a quilt, a cozy fire burning in the Franklin stove. Suddenly, Bap!, there was one of my little buddies, plastered to a window pane on the French doors.

            I was almost tempted to let him in.

Almost.

Sassy Bitch

            In order to get to the ranch, we have to drive a two and a half mile dirt road that is fairly unmaintained, and that gains 1800 feet in elevation. Needless to say, four wheel drive is the only way to go. And after anything more than a tenth of an inch of precipitation, your only hope is a quad.

            When we first moved up, we had neither. While we searched for a used 4WD truck for me, the neighbors were kind enough to loan us a quad. Now, while I am not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and truly appreciate how much they helped us, when we learned they had nicknamed this fine piece of machinery “Sassy Bitch,” we got an inkling of how she was going to respond to our demands of her.

            Sassy had one back tire that was smaller than the others, so she listed to port (left). I learned quickly how to fight to keep her going in a straight line. I also learned how to stop sideways when opening all the gates on the road, as she had no parking brake.

            What I couldn’t seem to get the hang of, though, was predicting rain. Rain events are big on the mountain. Everyone has to stage their cars down on the pavement at the bottom of the road and use their quads on the mountain, or risk getting trapped on one side or the other until the road dries out. The trick is to have the right vehicle in the right place at the right time. It is almost a party atmosphere – everyone watches the news, and then there is a mass migration down the mountain. Some of the neighbors use trailers, others shuttle with family members, but everyone has a system.

            Except me. I was always a day late and a dollar short. The storms seemed to hit whenever Dave was away at work, so I ended up doing the shuttle alone. Which meant hiking one way or the other quite often as part of the shuttle. The hike is beautiful, and great exercise, but in the mud and rain, or in a time crunch for work, it lost its charm quickly. And there always seemed to be a propane tank or a basket of laundry at the wrong end of the road because I had planned poorly.

            When I did actually stage everything correctly, the commute was still a big adventure because Sassy was not a four-wheel drive quad. Her two mismatched back tires slipped and slid all over the slick clay soil, throwing mud in every direction as she went. (But mostly on me, or the clean clothes.)

            The first big rainstorm hit one morning during “rush hour,” when I had no choice but to slide down the mountain to be on time for work. I was only cruising at about five miles per hour, so the first time I hit the brakes for a steep section, Sassy’s slide was in super slow motion – BONK! – into the bank. The second time, I tried to move to the right so a neighbor could pass me, and – BONK! – into the bank again.

            By the time I got towards the bottom, the rain had been falling for quite a while. So when I hit the final steep section, Sassy went into a power slide of her own free will and spun a full 180 degrees before – WHOOPS! – no bank, just off the road completely and into a ditch. Strike three! I’m out! I left her where she lay and hiked the rest of the way.

            The next storm caught me by complete surprise. I woke up at about 4am to rain thundering on the roof. What do I do? Do I make a run for it and sit in a coffee shop until it’s time for work? Do I call in sick? It’s hard to make decisions that early in the morning.

            Because I had just gotten my truck and didn’t trust my 4WD skills yet, I opted to hold off and see how the morning progressed. I ended up finding a co-worker willing to pick me up at the bottom of the mountain, and slogged my way down on foot.

            As I did, I was gratified to pass a neighbor’s car abandoned just past our gate. It was clear from the skid marks that they had tried the 4am gamble and lost. Then I passed another. And another. It was almost eerie, but I did feel vindicated. I’m not a complete idiot; even the veterans got caught offguard on this one.

            That feeling disappeared quickly. When I came home, it was dusk, and Sassy had been at the bottom of the road for a few days. When she sits alone for more than a couple days, she deflates a front tire and refuses to start. I tried and tried, to no avail.

            I thought to jump start her like I’d seen Dave do several times before, but she sat on just enough of an incline that I couldn’t push her on to the main road to give it a go. I pushed and dragged until I felt my back getting ready to go on strike again, and finally admitted defeat. It was now after dark, and there was no way I was going to risk becoming a mountain lion’s main dinner course, so I called a neighbor for help.

            Her quad was back down the main road at another neighbor’s house. So I hiked down to pick it up. By the time I got there, he had it ready to go, and after a quick lesson on how to shift it, I was on my way.

            It was a dream! 4WD, no slip-sliding, no mud clumps pelting me, no constant steering to the right, and I could even park when opening gates. Who knew?!

            Well, we finally found a deal on our own 4WD quad, just in time for my sanity to remain intact. We returned Sassy to her owners with a new battery and seat. (Did I mention that the mules ate half the seat almost immediately after we got her?) And then we waited in anticipation of the La Niña winter forecast for this year. Bring it on! I’m ready!

            Riiight…

Calamity Jane

            They walk among us. They are behind you in the supermarket, and sitting next to you in the café. They are the incredible women who straddle two worlds – after working nine to five and picking up the kids from soccer practice, they ditch their high heels for cowboy boots and run home to throw hay to the livestock, fix fences, and move cattle to the upper pasture.

            In Montana? Of course.

            Texas? Hell, yes!

            But Southern California?

            Absolutely.

            They live on dirt roads, off the power grid, and sometimes even, without running water. They can break a horse, fix the clutch on an ATV, and bake a cake for the ladies luncheon in their woodstove.

            I have always been fascinated by this world. As a teenager, I sought out books like Pioneer Women. I watched reruns of Little House on the Prairie up to an age I am too embarrassed to admit. I appreciate, and have even dabbled in, the art of quilting. And I have been a country music fan for decades.

            Yet I was born and raised in Southern California.

            It wasn’t until I met Dave that I discovered that this world did indeed still exist in modern times, and within miles of one of the most modern cities in the world. Since then, I have met many incredibly strong, genuine, and graceful women. Some of them still use oil lanterns to light up their evenings, while others have taken advantage of the affordability of solar power to make night life more convenient. Some haul ice from town to keep cold storage coolers working, others use propane refrigerators. Some of them still even haul water to their homes. (Although they use water trucks, not buckets like Laura Ingalls did.)

             I am a recent immigrant to this lifestyle. While I have always been a fan, I was not born to it. But when Dave was offered the opportunity to caretake on a ranch set in the Los Padres National Forest, I was wholeheartedly behind him.

            He, however, had some reservations. Not necessarily about whether I could tolerate it. It was about whether I would survive.

            A little background on me: As a child, it was rare to find me without a scab, scrape, or bruise, and usually all three at once. Not only was I active, I was also a klutz.

            As I got older, the trips to the emergency room only increased. Of course, it was never for glamorous accidents, like breaking a leg skiing slalom on a triple diamond run in Vail. No, my pathetic accidents were things like stepping on a stingray in the tidepools, badly spraining my ankle falling out of bed (a futon, actually), and losing the tip of my thumb to a dog during a game of fetch.

            A former roommate even made note of the fact that each successive move I’d made since college brought me closer to the local hospital. In fact, the most recent move had taken me from seven blocks away to only one. Now I could walk to the emergency room for my weekly visits. As a volunteer, not a patient!

            Usually.

            And now I was moving into the National Forest. Far away from the hospital. Or even a neighbor. (The closest one is over a mile away.)

            Dave set some immediate ground rules. One was to ban me from using any of the sharp knives, which is really no problem since he does most of the cooking anyway. (Yes, I am a lucky woman!)

            He also spent the first two months we were here reminding me at every turn, “Be careful!” or “Watch for snakes!” Which was also no problem, because it showed he cared about me. Or at least didn’t want to be bothered with a trip to the emergency room.

            And so far, so good. (Knock wood.) The only midnight trip to the emergency room has been for the dog. (Who knew an 11 year old dog could get pregnant?! Isn’t that 77 to you and me?)

            And so far, it has been fabulous! One of the first months we were here, as we sat around the firepit watching a bear saunter past the pond, it suddenly hit me. It’s Monday night. A good three-quarters of the rest of the world is inside their homes watching football. Oblivious to the wonders taking place fairly close to their own backyards. And not a single, solitary part of me misses that.

            I know that I still have a steep learning curve ahead of me. But I have some incredible women to learn from. And I hope someday to glide as gracefully between landscapes as they do. If I don’t get eaten by a bear first.