Growing up on a dry land ranch was at times shear work. Dad enlisted the help of three cousins. Bob from Washington. Bob and Mick from Oregon. Mick was the youngest and he had a bit of trouble adapting. For instance the rule was if you put something on your place you had to eat it. Mick took a hamburger patty that contained chopped onions. He began picking the onion out and made a little pile. We warned him that he would have to eat the onion. He refused and got ready to leave the table. Dad stopped him and told him to eat the onions. He refused and the standoff ensued. We left the table leaving Dad and Mick. There was a lot of complaining on Mick’s part. I don’t know how long they were at the table, but the onion was eaten.

Bob, from Washington, was a city boy. Man could he run. He would leave the house and run about four and a half miles to the highway, and back. It must have seemed like it was uphill both ways. In reality it was uphill coming back. He had more stick to it than me. I only ran for important things, like chasing lost sheep and high school sports, that didn’t include track.

During hay season we spent some long days hauling hay. Several years there was chopped rye hay. Granddad would run the chopper and blow the hay into a wagon. The wagon got full and was towed to the stack area where it was backed up to an auger. Three boys is all that would fit across in a wagon. The hay was unloaded with pitch forks. The only injury I can recall was when I pinned my foot to the wagon floor with a pitch fork. I think we averaged about 5 minutes to unload the wagon. There was a trick. If you got too much hay into the auger the pipe would plug up. Did I mention there was a fourth boy in the stack spreading out the hay and making the stack.

If we got in too big of a hurry and the pipe plugged and all work stopped. A long extension ladder was placed in the stack yard. The ladder could not be leaned against the pipe because the pipe was not supported. Three boys held the ladder and the fourth climbed the ladder to the curve in the pipe. Using a nine sixth inch wrench the climber took the pipe apart. However, that was not the tricky part. If a wrench, bolt or washer was dropped it landed in the chopped hay and the hay ate the danged thing. Since we were 40 miles from a hardware store it was critical that nothing was dropped. The plug was cleared and the pipe reassembled and we were back in business. Did I mention that the most disliked job was working on the stack. Blowing rye hay and dirt were terrible. In your eyes and inside your clothing.

Our work days started fairly early. We wanted to be in the field when it was cool. We would work until about noon and break for lunch. The theory was we would then stay out of the field until it began to cool in the evening. It never worked that way. We ate lunch and got a short nap and were back in the field no later than two. Then we worked until late evening, whenever that was. Did you know that the hottest part of the day is between 2 and 4? We wore long sleeved shits, partially for protection from the rye, but mainly because the desert air is thin and we sunburned. The ground on the ranch was covered with fine pumice. The sun reflected off the pumice and actually burned the whites of our eyes. One would think sunglasses. Back then the sunglasses we could afford all had plastic lenses, and they dissolved in clarity due to the pumice. We did wear hats with about four inch brims for sun protection.

We had baled hay too. The baled hay was on the ground where the baler dropped it. The guy on the ground would roll the bale to get to the wire ties. As the bale rolled a cherry headed cricket was often found. Off the truck one of us would jump and grab the critter. I don’t recall ever killing a cricket. However there was a catch. About a third of the time the grabbing of the cricket got interesting. The intended victim cricket would actually be a scorpion. The mid air boy would see the stinging thing and do some pretty fantastic maneuvers, and we never laid hands on the scorpion. We did kill them. We didn’t have to worry about snakes. The pumice was too hard on their bellies.

The boys on the ground bucked the bales to the boy stacking on the truck. The fourth boy was the driver. Always a challenge. Get close to the bale, but not too close. Move the rig forwards, but not too fast. Driving was OK, but being inside a cab without air conditioning was pretty miserable. Besides, what was air conditioning. At the stack things were changed up. More boys were stacking. The rye hay was very slick so it had to be stacked with a pattern for each layer, or the stack would slide apart and you had to start over. Dad found a guy who made a diagram for us to follow. Of course there were stack games. Like throwing a bale off the rig and trying to knock the stacker down. The bales weighed about 110 pounds.

At night we slept in the bunk house which was couple hundred feet from the house. One time we decided to be defiant and sleep in. We knew dad would have to walk to the bunk house and get us. However, that never happened. Dad stepped out of the house and yelled. We didn’t stir. Then we heard the crackle of and electric stock prod. We were up n a flash. Lesson learned.