Editor’s Note: The following is an excerpt from A Cowgirl’s Conservation Journey by Heidi Redd with Larisa Bowen, published by The Nature Conservancy. After she graduated college, Redd joined her then-husband Robert Redd in owning the iconic Dugout Ranch in Utah’s canyon country. She would go on to run the ranch by herself for nearly two decades. When the ranch was threatened by development, she worked with The Nature Conservancy on a unique partnership, one that has resulted in land protection as well as research on sustainable grazing. This is the story of her very rough first Christmas on the ranch.
“The farmer has to be an optimist or he wouldn’t still be a farmer.”— Will Rogers
The year 1967 was full of first-time experiences in my new life as a rancher. I quickly learned that a fair portion of what unfolded at the Dugout was simply out of our control. Too many other forces—from Mother Nature to industry trends to the land itself—were vying for a spot in the driver’s seat. Accepting our humble role was important, and so was adapting to the unexpected.
That first year, this lesson was driven home by a record-breaking winter. The snow began to fall in November, putting us all in the spirit for the coming holidays. Snow was always a reason to celebrate in the desert. December brought even more snow, fueling our festive mood, but by mid-December, the blanket of white began to look and feel ominous.
At the end of that month, major storms stalled over the Four Corners region, leaving 36 inches of snow on the ground in the low country. The National Guard was called in to drop food by helicopter for stranded residents of the Navajo Reservation.
The blizzard was dangerous for people and deadly for livestock. It was about a week after the big storm before the San Juan County maintenance crew was able to open the road out of Indian Creek to the highway.
In a normal year, we wouldn’t ride our horses out to check on the cows until February. But this year was far from normal. Robert and I knew we needed to fly over Beef Basin and Dark Canyon Plateau to assess the cattle’s condition, so we drove to Monticello and hired a plane. It was the first of many flights I would make through the years to do an aerial welfare check on our herds.
The view from the sky confirmed our fears: the cattle were cut off and struggling in heavy drifts. We knew we had a short window of time to reach them with food and water. Earlier that fall, we had stocked the line camps with hay and range block, a weather-resistant food source that could give the cows life-saving fat and vitamins. Now we had to find a way to reach those camps.
A Rescue Mission by Snowmobile
The snow was too deep for horses to navigate, so we rented snowmobiles from an outfit in Cortez. We also stopped into an army surplus store, where we bought Air Force insulated pilot pants. The bulky material swallowed all 5 feet 2 inches of me, and I felt like I was wearing a sleeping bag. I could barely walk, but I was grateful that the pants would keep the biting cold at bay.
Back at the Dugout, it took us a full day to prepare for our rescue mission. First, we made a trip about half the distance toward Dark Canyon Plateau and stashed extra gas in the shelter of a big rock before returning to the ranch, where we packed a change of warm clothes, snowshoes, bedrolls, and food for three days. We each carried a gallon of gas.
I’d never driven a snowmobile before, and the big machine roared and veered under me as I tried to get a feel for how to maneuver. This was no horse! Our good friend Rusty Musselman was the sheriff at the time, and we briefed him on our plans. He offered to fly over the area every day to make sure we were okay. If we had difficulty, we agreed to stomp out an SOS in the snow.
I found myself wondering how big our mayday letters would need to be in order for Rusty to spot them from a Cessna flying at 5,000 feet.
The day we left the ranch, the sun shone and the sky stretched out like an endless azure ocean above us. On the ground, though, the storm’s toll was shocking. Our 45-mile journey took us into a world devoured by winter. The trees were silent white ghosts, branches slumped in defeat, and the countryside was smothered in bleached silence.
The drifts had buried everything. We never saw a fence or gate. There were no indications of any roads and no signs of wildlife. Nothing moved except us. As our snowmobile skis ripped and roared through the powder, I felt like an intruder. It was a sobering view of Mother Nature’s power.
We made good time through the low country, then started climbing to Bridger Jack and Salt Creek Mesa, which were at about 7,000 feet in elevation. As we encountered the sloping terrain, managing the snowmobiles got trickier. We slowed down even more to climb another 1,500 feet from Salt Creek Mesa to Elk Ridge and North Long Point. Going up was a challenge, but coming down almost broke my nerve.
The descent from North Long Point to the Plateau was steep and winding, and the road was completely drifted in, leaving us with a perilous sidehill plunge. Robert and I struggled to keep the machines from sliding into the trees. Every muscle in my body quivered as I leaned away from the edge, fought the handlebars and pumped the throttle.
Somehow, we maneuvered our way safely to the bottom. Sweat dampened the lining of my jacket. I didn’t even want to think of the ride out. Grateful for a flat stretch, we continued all the way to the far north end of Dark Canyon Plateau, reaching an old shelter where we would spend the next couple of nights.
As we wrapped up in our sleeping bags that evening, our bodies still feeling the vibration from the snowmobiles, we marveled at our luck in avoiding crashes. Later, in the predawn blackness, I lurched awake as something skittered over my feet. Fumbling for the flashlight, I illuminated the culprits: a tiny grey mouse family, regulars at the shelter. Chuckling, I bid them goodnight and slid back into exhausted oblivion.
A Grim Holiday
The following morning dawned frigid but sunny. Over a cold breakfast, Robert and I wished each other Merry Christmas. It was our first holiday as a married couple.
After loading up the snowmobiles with hay, we went to work. Our goal was to check and open all the gates to allow the herd access to the lower country, put out the food, and find as many of the snow-trapped cows as possible. When we found the first bunch, my heart sank. They were a sorry sight. Clumped together, legs covered in deep drifts and ribs protruding, they had sought a ravine as a wind break. We knew the cows were burning more calories than normal to maintain their body temperature in the freezing cold, and they desperately needed resources.
Scattering the hay quickly, we returned to our feed stash to get range block and take it back to the cattle. The sunshine of the previous day had melted the top layer of snow, but at night it refroze, creating a shiny crust of ice, like thick icing on a cake.
The cows struggled to walk as their weight broke through the ice crust with every step, forcing them to expend valuable energy to reach the feed we set out. It had been almost two weeks since the first big snowfall, and we could see they didn’t have much stamina left.
On the second day, the whine of the Cessna drifted above us as Rusty flew over. We hoped he saw our “OK” sign stomped into the snow. That day we found very few cows or signs of cows. It was as though most of them had vanished into the white void. I doubt we located more than 50 head, only one-third of the cows that were originally out there.
Robert and I spoke little, both of us grim and depleted.
Having scattered all the hay and range block we had stored, we knew we had done all we could. Neither of us wanted to voice the obvious—this winter’s toll was heavy. We focused instead on the practical challenge at hand: getting ready for the long ride out. We tied our bedrolls, snowshoes, and clothes onto the snowmobiles and used our last can of gas. We had only enough food left for a midday snack. The weather continued to hold for us, but the sunny, clear days offered little warmth. I burrowed deeper into my gloves and puffy pants.
For the climb back onto North Long Point, we had to keep a steady pace and relentlessly tilt our bodies into the slope to hold traction on the icy surface. I think I held my breath for the entire ascent. We reached the top with a shared sigh of relief. Although many hours of riding still lay ahead, I knew we’d managed the hardest part. Looking back down at the snow-blanketed Dark Canyon Plateau, Robert pulled out his camera and snapped some shots of us atop our snowmobiles, capturing the adventure for our future children and grandchildren. We dared to hope that if the sunny weather held, more cows might survive.
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Once we were safely home at the Dugout, Robert and I crashed into a fitful sleep, drained not only by the long ride on noisy machines but by the stress of seeing our cows suffering. As it turned out, we lost a sizable number of cattle that winter, as did other ranchers in the area.
Robert and I were heartbroken. But we’d also gained some valuable wisdom. We had signed up to ranch in tough country. And we would have to cope the best we could. We wouldn’t look back or dwell on the loss, but we would try to learn from it and move forward. For the next year or two we gradually built up our cattle numbers, recouping the losses.
