Articles > At Home on the Range

I reckon it's going to take some time to explain how I got to this point, with the muck on my face and the bull charging at me and whatnot.

You see, since the beginning of this trip, my speech has slowed some. But that's what happens when you become a cowgirl: You're so at peace with the wilderness that you just can't muster the effort to quicken your vowels. Folk out here do things differ'nt.

It wasn't 24 hours ago that I was talking to Jason Bradley about this very thing at the Red Deer River Ranches. And by "thing" I mean the 450 mother cows, same number of calves (this is a "cow-calf operation"), 30 horses, seven sheep, two lambs, 28 chickens (three of which lay eggs), two dogs (Jack and Jill), two cats (Fluffy and Superman) and a bunch of big, angry, randy bulls.

As he cooks me up some Coyote Willy Pancakes - "about as good for you as you can get," he says - and coffee made on a fire of diamond willow branches, I think: "This Jason, he's doing right by me." And breakfast just tastes better outside.

It's springtime in Sundre, Alta., about an hour and a half from the Calgary airport. The land here is vast, the grass is green, the sun has risen and it's time for work. This is calving season, which means around 20 are being born each day.

Today I'm going to help Jason run the horses in, and then we'll go out and check for sick calves. (There's a virus going round.) "I see one of my bulls got out," Jason says, "so we'll go out and run him in, too."

It's that time of year: The bulls are getting mighty interested in the heifers. But we don't want them getting too happy together, not just yet. Jason explains that it's a management issue, this business of getting the bulls to hold off on cows in heat. There's a 285-day gestation period, and he wants the calves to be born starting in mid-April of next year. When the frost is gone. So they can roam free on this green grass. In larger industrial operations, the animals are kept mostly inside, so it doesn't matter when they're born. But here, the animals are born now, in the spring, so they have the sun, warmth, grass and water and are free to roam the range. "You hang on to that cow's tail and she'll pull you through," Jason says.

There are no wooden fences here, no corrals, just some 20,000 undulating hectares with a winding river cutting through it all, and snowcapped mountains in the distance. Big sky; streaks of cloud. Makes me wish I had a harmonica.

Pastor Brynn stops by for breakfast and to help tend to calves. A Westerner born 150 years too late, he rides to work on horseback, sports a fluffy moustache and is so mean-looking you just know he's got to be nice. And he is. He heads out to administer antibiotics to the few sick calves.

Jason and I head the other way, in a green Rhino 4x4, to run in the horses. This would normally be done on horseback, "but sometimes you just have to get the job done," he says.

A dozen of the beautiful creatures circle in unison, then a bunch cut off, charging dangerously toward the cattle. Jason floors it, mud flinging, as we ride beside the thunderous sound of hooves, going faster than I've ever gone.

Next, a quick ranch-roping lesson: "Don't throw it like a girl, throw it like a baseball," says Jason, who seems not to realize that girls throw balls like girls, too. He goes on to compare roping to learning golf. "Stance, approach, swing, addressing the ball, thinking about a million things at once and nothing at all." With roping, you're watching your loop, your coils, you're managing your horse and you're watching your terrain. Got it.

I saddle up on Ed, "the best horse we have." Then we head out to put that bull back in and check on the calves. Aspiring herder dog Jack tags along. A black-and-white collie pup, he seems to be smiling, as Jason shouts key commands like "Lie down," and "Thaad'll do." Jack's a handful, but he's learning. Just like me.

They say around here that if you give it five minutes, the weather will change. And it does. The wind whips up, and it starts raining sideways. Suddenly Ed goes sliding down a hill and throws me off his side. (This is where waiver forms come in handy.) No harm done: I hop back on and am riding high in the saddle again, trotting along, checking on a couple of calves, jotting down their tag numbers in Jason's calving booklet. We ride down the road.

Then the rain stops. The sun reappears, and we ride one more stray bull on home.

I know I'm just a tourist, but after a few hours of wrangling, darn it if I don't feel like a cowgirl. Alberta: I wish I knew how to quit you.

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