Coming to know us
It was almost dark when the semi-truck of haylage bales arrived at the end of the driveway. In anticipation of this, the freshly shorn ewes were moved to the pasture under the house so as not be in the way during unloading. Hungry, wet and chilled they waited there most of the afternoon; backs humped, ears and heads dropped away from the prevailing rain from the west. As the truck’s lights rounded the corner and illuminated up the driveway, the sheep started bleating and ran towards the truck. You could hear their excitement and anticipation as they escorted the truck up the driveway, from the pasture-side of the fence. They eagerly watched from the other side of the fence as the truck traversed the driveway and descended the hill to the unloading area in front of the barn. Black smoke billowed from the exhaust pipes and you could smell the burning rubber of tires as the truck inched forward. Tires sank deeper in the mud with each rocking movement of the truck as it attempted to make the circle in the turnaround area. It inched forward then back, forward then back and eventually there was no movement at all except the rumble of the engine – the truck was stuck. The driver decided to “abandon ship” for the evening and to look at the problem with fresh perspective in the daylight. His ride came and he went home for the night.
We worked quickly in the rain to remove the straps holding the bales in place for transport, and unloaded a bale with the tractor. We cut the wrapping and spread it evenly in rows in the drier area near the upper barn as best we could by the lights of the tractor. By now the ewes had given up hope for feed, from their side of the fence, and retreated to the shelter of the blackberries and oaks that rimmed the top of the pasture. They had retreated quietly.
Joe stayed with the tractor on the feed ground; he left his lights on in hopes of guiding the herd to feed. I returned on foot to the pasture and opened the gate where the sheep were housed. I walked along the bottom of the field, beside the base of the hill of oak trees, brambles and blackberries – quietly calling the girls. “Blhrrrrrrr, Blhrrrrrr, come on girls blhrrrrrrr, blhrrrrrr, ” I called as I slipped and stumped in the uneven wet ground. Though they’d only been here 3 weeks I used this call every time I entered the pasture to feed, put out mineral or move them. My dad used to do the same thing with the cows and eventually they came to know and trust his voice.
At first it was quiet – quiet enough that I could hear the sound of the rainy mist hitting my hood as I walked calling the sheep. It was senseless to send a dog into the darkness after the ewes, so I walked alone. The moon was trying to peak through rainy mist, and offered just enough illumination that I could see outlines of shapes. Within moments the sheep started calmly talking back to me. I stopped still and continued my call. Branches snapped and leaves rustled as the sheep descended out of the blackberries and oaks. They came single file in an orderly calm fashion along the crest of the hill and down towards me – all the while we continued our soft dialogue. I could see only their silhouettes and steam rising from their bodies in the dimmed moonlight as they quietly passed. At the bottom of the oaks, they trailed up the basin of the meadow and then milled around the edge of the lower barn marching quietly on their way. I waited for the last of the sheep to pass, then took my place in line behind them. Once around the edge the barn, they ascended the steep hillside to feed ground where the sheep spread out along the rows of haylage.
The tone of the herd changed and immediately the bleating stopped. Heads down they chomped enthusiastically on the long awaited meal they so desperately needed to raise and maintain their body temperature. Their bodies were stressed and it was as if they knew this nourishment not only tasted great, but was necessary for self-preservation and survival. Enough feed and calories is particularly important for the first few days after shearing until the lanolin raises again to the surface and offers the necessary watershed and heat regulation their bodies need.
With sheep on finally on feed we breathed a sigh of relief. I turned and quietly walked through the ewes towards the house as they fed. They didn’t move as I plodded my way through them; they didn’t bolt or run, and only a few raised their heads to acknowledge my presence and passing. Now maybe it was because they were so ravenously hungry, but I don’t think that was all of it. I feel like these ewes are coming to know and trust us as. I inhaled deeply to capture the breadth of the moment. Sweet fermenting haylage, steamy wet sheep and the comfort in knowing we’d done our best as their shepherds today. What feeds one, in turn nourishes another. I’m grateful for this life, this family and these beautiful sheep. Thank you God!
