April 17, 2022: An Easter story

Right after I turned 21 in 1975, the girls’ father and I bought 20 acres in northern Idaho. We spent the ’74-’75 winter living at Zim’s Hot Springs in New Meadows, Idaho, helping to caretake the property, which was closed to the public. (http://www.zimshotsprings.com). We were what was called “back-to-the-land” hippies, looking for land to homestead. We devoured Mother Earth News and Countryside Journals and talked about ram jet pumps, wind power, and organic gardening.

We bought the land, which was 6 hours north of Zim’s, because of its price (cheap) and its beauty: a meandering spring-fed creek through lush meadows, mixed first and second growth cedar, tamarack and pine in a small canyon 6 miles north of Priest River. We also discovered I was pregnant, something we’d been hoping for over a year. It was a happy time.

On Easter weekend that year, John went north to Anchorage to work for the State of Alaska. I spent a couple weeks camping on our new land before heading to Alaska myself, getting to know the place, looking for cabin and garden sites. I pitched my tent near the creek, which was bordered by chamomile, strawberries, and mint. Their smells permeated the whole area. There was even a small swimming hole.

A local rancher, Jack W., ran about 30 cattle in the valley. His family had owned the entire thing since the 1800s, but he subdivided and sold the front half (20 acres of which became ours), retaining a section in the upper end of the valley for himself. Idaho, like New Mexico, is an open range state, allowing cattle to roam freely. If you don’t want them on your land, you have to fence them out. They visited my camp site daily, and I had to be careful not to leave stuff out they could kick over.

My only neighbors were a husband and wife, relatives of Jack in their 80’s, who lived in a tiny cabin a mile away. Both suffered from tertiary syphilis, and were quite demented, but kind to a young girl. On Easter Sunday, they brought me tampons and home canned beets. A trio of long-haired Zen hippies from Long Beach were also camping nearby, looking at buying some of the subdivided land further up the valley. They would become good friends in the future.

One morning before dawn I wakened to a cow lowing nearby. I’d been hearing it in my sleep for a while. I got up to look and found a mama cow on her side, heavy into labor and struggling. I watched her for a while, could see she was weakening, and knew something wasn’t right. Having recently read James Herriot’s “All Creatures Great and Small“, I was sure that the calf was breech. With the confidence of youth, I decided that I needed to help. I grabbed some Vitamin E oil I had for my pregnant belly and slathered it on my arm along with vaseline from our first aid kit. Speaking to her constantly in babytalk, I waited for the cow to be between contractions and slid/pushed my arm up inside, reaching around until I had a tiny, soft hoof in my fingers. What a feeling that was: I could feel his heart pulsing rapidly through the hoof.

With my eyes closed I moved my hand and arm around, visualizing how the little guy was situated, not straight up and down the birth canal, but crossways. Her next contraction was so strong it cut my circulation off for a couple minutes. I don’t know how bigger people do this: it was tight. I pulled on the slippery leg, got hold of a second one and was able to feel the face. His little body turned toward me over the next few contractions as I pulled steadily. Another push and his hooves and head slid out toward me. I don’t think he was turned too much, and maybe she would have birthed hm without my help, but I didn’t think so at the time.

He came out fast in the end, a very large bull calf. Knocked me right over onto my back and the umbilical cord broke. Red all over, like his mama and still covered in a caul. She was unable to get up yet (cows usually birth standing up), so I carried him to her head so she could lick him. I helped by rubbing him with some of the mint growing around. It took him a minute to breathe, but he did. She passed the placenta without problem. I offered her a gallon of water from the creek, mixed with some honey I had in camp, and, finally, she struggled to standing.

(An aside: we drank freely from the creek for 8 years. Even with the cows and the large population of beavers, we never got sick from the water.)

Mama cow and the babe did well and they eventually wandered off into the woods. I saw them a few times grazing nearby, but they never acknowledged me. I felt a bit slighted by that!

Why do I tell this story now? Alan and I live in a canyon in a state with Open Range laws. Our neighbor has about 10 cows that wander freely, overgrazing the drought-damaged land. This morning I am watching one large Hereford cow, so pregnant her belly looks ready to burst. I hope she has a healthy birth. Happy Spring. Hoping you have a relaxing, pleasant Easter.