The ranch had 43,000 acres of BLM permits and two townships of Forest Service grazing allotments. Because of that we were required to farm, raise our own hay. Since it was desert and our wells only pumped a maximum of 10 gallon a minute, that left dry land farming. We raised Rye Hay.

In the fall we tried to get everything plowed and planted. In the spring when the rye started up one could tell what had to be reseeded.

The outcome of the crop totally depended on the amount of rain and snow we had, and when it fell upon the fields. When raising rye we had a horse or cow roaming the fields. The day the animal started jerking the plants out by the roots was the time to cut the stuff. A excellent crop was 1.5 ton per acre.

We initially baled the rye, but that was a never ending battle. First it was a Case Baler with a Briggs and Straton engine. The thing started with a crank. You learned quickly not to have your thumb all the way around the crank. Back fires were common and painful. The danged engine was always not starting. Now I am not a mechanic in any since of the word. I was laying across the magneto, probably waxing eloquently with my ignorance. My brother turned the crank, and I can tell you that danged thing was hot and I got a jolt. Everyone laughed, except me. Pay backs were hell. Ron was actually pretty good with engines. He was laying on the magneto and working with something and this time and I turned the crank. I was the only person that thought it was funny.

So to start. The field was plowed using a D Model John Deere, two cylinders. It was a crank start and would actually run on one of its two cylinders. Sort of a crank until it pops. Then there was the drilling the seed into the fields. You towed this drill thing behind a tractor. Couple things. First one had to make certain the thing was allowing the seed to fall and that there wasn’t a plugged hole. Then another detail. One had to make certain that there was enough seed to complete a round in the field. If you ran out it was a walk to the pickup to get more seed.

Next the field was cut using a self propelled swather. I never did run that thing, Ron did the swathing and once had to fend off a rabid coyote. After that I think he carried a rifle. Next it was baling the stuff.

The baler was a wire hand tie. One guy sat on a seat on one side and fed the wires thru the hay. The other guy on the other side sat on a seat and tied the hay into bales. One had to reef on the wires when tying them. Too loose and the bale would fall apart. The work was dusty and dirty. I tried goggles once. Did not work, danged rye got in my eyes anyway. Of course if you got a rye beard stuck in your throat it was a problem. My grandfather got one stuck and for all the liquids and gagging the beard was stuck. The remedy. Get a raw egg and swallow it. The egg white will wrap the beard up and down it goes. He did that while I gagged. The goal was a hundred pound bale. Of course the hay must be dry, because if it isn’t the bales combust and the hay stack burns up.

Next is the hauling the bales out of the field. The theory is to stack the bales on a truck or trailer and then stack the bales in a big stack. However, rye hay is very slick. It would slide off the truck and the stacks would fall apart. Dad finally found a guy who drew a diagram on how to stack and/or haul rye. That worked and I think I can still recall the diagrams.

Then we went to chopped hay. Each winter my grandfather would tow the chopper to Bend and totally dismantle the thing and put it back together. The chopped rye was blown into a wagon. Our wagons held about a ton and a half of chopped Rye. The rye was unloaded into an auger and then blown into a stack. My brother, cousin and I could unload a wagon in under 5 minutes. Only a couple things could go wrong. Ever driven the tine of a pitch fork thru your boot, foot, boot and into the wagon bed? Yup it gets your attention. Then the problem of being too fast was to put in too much hay in the auger and plug the blower pipe. Normal folks would probably be slow and careful and dismantle the pipe and clear the plug. We were not normal, or patient. The plug was usually at the top of the pipe in a corner. So two would hold the ladder up, not leaning against the pipe, we would not want to bend the pipe. The third person would climb the ladder and using a box end wrench take the joint apart, clear the hay and reattach the pipe. One more thing. Never drop a bolt, washer, nut or wrench. They can’t be found in a stack of hay and town for parts was an hour away, each direction. We never fell off the ladder or broke the pipe. When the stack was getting high a person had to stand under the pipe and fork the hay to the side. Side note: Cows loved chopped hay.

In the winter a person had to climb up on the stack and fork the hay down into the mangers. Jets tested radar and pilot abilities over the desert. One day I was on the stack forking hay when I heard a shriek. I know that sound from being raised on the desert. I whirled and looked and a jet was headed right for me, except he was going to have to climb to get over the stack. I did not wait. I threw the fork and baled off the far side. Yes the jet missed. I should have stayed on the stack and counted rivets. It would have been safer than baling off a 20 foot stack.

I cut my finger on the chopper once, got it stuck in the slicing blade while clearing a plug. Yes the thing was out of gear. My finger hurt and bled a great deal. My grandfather was waiting for me to finish the round and then he would take over. I leaned forward to put the Deere in gear, oops the world went black. I tried that a couple times with the same result. I figured I would out fox things, so I put the tractor in gear with my foot. Pretty smart. When I got to my grandfather he was madder than a wet hen. He pointed out that I had driven all over the field, not following the cut rows of rye. He looked at my finger and sent me to the house about 3 miles away. I got there driving a pickup. My grandfather had wrapped my finger in a handkerchief. When I got to the house I went to the bunkhouse and took a nap. I never said anything and not a person asked why I was back early. The next day I wore a band aid and a glove. I almost jerked the finger off.

It was near the end of hauling baled hay season. I think we way over loaded the truck, it was real high. We dipped into a low spot. The load tipped. That was when we realized the bed was not tight to the frame. The bed really tipped. We started climbing up the tipping stack. Then the stacked tipped the other way, and now we were going down. We reversed directions and climbed up again. When the dust settled the hay was on the ground and we were on top of the bales. It took a couple loads to re stack and haul.

We had a few fields. I think the small field was 90 acres. We developed a couple fields by rototilling sage brush. It was a kick when kangaroo rats would explode and the chase was on. Did I mention that the job was hot and boring. If we were fast enough we would catch the rats and have a pet. When Becky and I got married I had a couple. When we returned from our honey moon the rats were gone. They were tame enough they would sit on my shoulder or head and they would climb down into my hand and fill their cheeks with grain. If startled they would spit the grain out and run to the top of my head. My sister was looking out for Becky. She gave the pets to a high school science teacher and he fed them to snakes….

Talking of jet airplanes. I was plowing a lower field when I heard a sound. Above me was a big air tanker. As I watched jets would zip in and refuel. All of this was as they circled above me. We saw lots of jets. They flew low enough they would split a band of sheep, and then climb like mad to get over Bear Creek Buttes. I was shooting at a coyote once. I got a real scare. A jet popped up from the far side of the ridge in the direction I was shooting.

The government relented and we could purchase alfalfa hay cheaper than we could raise rye. We would buy a truck and trailer of hay. The hay rig would pull in and we would unload the truck. Some fool thought up three wire bales that ran between 125 and 140 pounds. 100 pounds bales were bad enough, but 130 pound bales were terrible, especially when I weighed about 100 pounds. However, we did manage. I would throw off the truck and Ron would stack, or reversed. Kids being kids that was an adventure. If the stacker got too close to the truck, the person on the truck tried to hit the stacker. Ever been hit from 15 feet above you by a bale. No harm no foul, and pay backs were hell.

In Redmond Dad purchased a semi truck and trailer of hay. Dad and the trucker were unloading. They were both too old, at least around 60. They took a break. Levi has allergies, severe. I know Levi unloaded truck and stacked the hay into the barn. Dad and the trucker were amazed. Another time Levi and his friend Phil stopped and helped a couple clear and stack a field of hay. I don’t think they accepted pay. I didn’t hear about that for about a year when I met the folks. They said they had been desperate and out of funds to pay for the hay to be hauled. These two mid high school kids just showed up and hauled and stacked their field, saving their bacon.

The winter (1968) that Becky and I got married we were tasked to haul hay from Fort Rock to the ranch, all back roads. I think there may have been a bit of snow. The trip was memorable for a couple reasons. Becky saved my bacon when she warned me the hay stack was falling on me. On the way back I was of course driving way too fast. A tree branch did not clear the load and we left several bales on the road. We arrived at the ranch and realized our loss, so back with a pickup to finish the job.