It is curious how
things come in threes. Scouring the archives of Country Life for the second in
the series of collectors’ editions I’m editing, I came across an article of
1985 that told the story of the great sheepdogs of the Steppes, that guarded
their sheep, owners and valleys in remotest Turkey. Struck by their remarkable
independence and dependability in a landscape where they have been invaluable
for centuries, I imagined that such beasts had succumbed to the inexorable
march of ‘progress’. It was with delight, then that I can report that I have
had two subsequent encounters with brethren of the Turkish Karabash, still
doing the job of their forebears.
The magnificent Turkish Karabash, photographed
for the 1987 Country Life article 'Dogs that train themselves'
I am currently working to make the Country Life
collectors' edition devoted to Dogs available on Amazon,
so you can read the whole article!
The first encounter was in
Montana, when I accepted a kind invitation to stay on the Kalsta Ranch, a pristine
slice of Big Sky Country nestled between the Big Hole River and 8,300ft-high
McCartney Mountain, some 40 miles south of Butte and north of the old cowboy
town Dillon. A beautiful slice of grass and sagebrush, it is especially notable
for its environmental history, which has led botanical and agricultural experts
and students to study its demesne. In the UK, we are used to having reference
to centuries of records, not least from Victorian vicars like Gilbert White ofSelborne. Being a younger country, there are fewer such accounts in the US, but
Thelma Hand, grandmother of the present owner Eric Kalsta, kept extensive
journals that note weather and wildlife in prescient detail from 1936 to 1994.
One of six children of Horace and Maggie Hand, who owned the ranch from 1918,
she married Norwegian Lars Kalsta in 1929. He had been part of the crew
rebuilding the bridge over the Big Hole River that was washed out in a flood in
1927, and the story goes that he, missing the waterways of his old country, was
taken by the sight of her crossing the river in a small boat, and she was
equally taken by his 6ft 4in stature. Their son Gunnar was equally devoted to
the ranch, and his wife Elaine, a fourth-generation Montana cowgirl whom he
married in 1936, was the perfect companion in his work. It is their son Erik
who continues to safeguard and improve the health of this dry, sparsely
populated valley today.
The mountains to the east at sunset
Looking south to snowy peaks under the last blush of the day
The streets of Dillon
He learnt at
Thelma’s knee, listening to her observations of the natural world over
breakfast and, delightfully, her custom of taking English tea. Seasons here are
fierce, with harsh winters and dry summers, marked by natural indicators, such
as the buds on the cottonwood trees and the blue birds that herald spring. As
weather patterns shift and increased use puts more pressure on the land and its
resources, so the Kalstas have adjusted their practices to conserve and restore
the range and its biodiversity. Central to preserving the health of the land is
water management, crucial here in an area that usually receives its water in a ‘gully
washer’, a cloudburst that can deposit as much as three tenths of an inch in
just 45 seconds. Building on the irrigation and flash-grazing advances his
father Gunnar implemented to maximize grazing potential, Erik has built
countour ditches on the slopes to slow down storm water, which stops soil being
disturbed. He has also adapted a Nigerian technicque of building ‘rock weirs’
or ‘stone gabions’, walls built across water drainage zones. All these together
prevent run-off, and the moisture is retained for longer, encouraging the
growth of new vegetation.
Flood irrigation
is an art… There’s a sound plants make when water washes
over them. It’s like
the land is letting out a sigh.
Erik Kalsta
Erik Kalsta
A Mecca for wildlife: a marshy corner newly revived
The Big Hole River
McCarty Mountain is so green. Makes us think of a
story Grandpa Hand used to tell us of grass in the early days. This grass means
everything to us. Peas and pod.
A promise. Spuds blooming. Made ice cream and butter. Men finished haying.
10 acres on Marlo pasture. Lars went to the hills today to salt cattle. Says grass was knee-high and more everywhere. A peach of a rain came this p.m.
Gee, this makes one feel good to know it can rain.
A promise. Spuds blooming. Made ice cream and butter. Men finished haying.
10 acres on Marlo pasture. Lars went to the hills today to salt cattle. Says grass was knee-high and more everywhere. A peach of a rain came this p.m.
Gee, this makes one feel good to know it can rain.
Thelma Kalsta, June 8, 1941
Historically, the
Kalsta ranch has run cattle, but rather than allowing them to range over vast
areas as the earliest ranchers did, the Kalstas keep them close together by
flash grazing. This echoes the way the buffalo grazed, clumping in a group for
protection from predators, and prevents the cattle cherry-picking the tastiest
plants and leaving the scrub to flourish at the expense of good grass.
Concentrated deposits of cowpats also ensure free and natural fertilization.
My grandmother spoke of ‘grass bell-high to a mule’.
Restoring the ground
to that condition, bringing to back from the impact of early white settlers,
is what we’re trying to do.
Erik Kalsta
to that condition, bringing to back from the impact of early white settlers,
is what we’re trying to do.
Erik Kalsta
Under Erik, with his wife Jami, operations have extended into
sheep-rearing, which is where the giant dogs come into play. Bears, wolves and
coyote all live in the hills, and even mountain lions, the rare Canada lynx and
small, vicious wolverines have been spotted. A mouthful of grass-fed lamb is as
tasty to them as it is to us, and it is nigh impossible to effectively fence
off thousands of acres of rough pasture that backs onto wilderness. Enter the
likes of Judge, a noble beast who spends his days patrolling the edges of the
sheep pasture and chasing off or even killing any predators that the threaten
the flock. He has been joined by several younger underlings, Storm, Winter and Laloush,
the latter being a beautiful bitch who was brought from Tajikistan by an
intrepid friend of the family after various cryptic telephone messages and
long, bumpy rides in trucks across the steppe. There were moments when Erik feared Mafia connections, but all turned out well. After such dramatic beginnings,
Laloush is slightly more cosseted than the others, but most of these herding
dogs seldom come into contact with humans. I crept quietly as close as I could
to Judge to take photographs, but although his glance was friendly, he ambled
off pointedly when I came within about 15ft. He had a job to do, and he wasn’t
about to let some interfering human distract him. How valuable his job is can
be elucidated by the $246,500 recently awarded to an Oregon rancher whose three Great
Pyrenees livestock protection dogs were shot by two hunters of below average
intelligence. These animals are as close to wild as any farm animal will get, guarding
domestic herds for the human owners without the slightest need for training or
guidance. They might not be ideal for a small British farm, where an errant
rambler’s labradoodle might be accorded the same treatment as a coyote, but out
here, where large predators are an ever-present danger, they are invaluable.
The noble Judge
Judge on his grassy throne
The objects of his concern in Big Hole Valley
If you want
something done: ask a rancher. I stayed in a classic cabin built by the Kalstas
with an inviting verandah that looks due west to mountains still snowy in May.
Inside, the centerpiece is a staircase that twists up to a mezzanine bedroom,
gleaming and tactile. When they were desigining the cabin, the architect said
such a corkscrew stair was impossible, so Erik and the ranch staff simply got
on and built it, using wood from the ranch. The result is simply beautiful.
Just the place to unwind after galloping after coyotes
The view as the sun set. Heaven
The most beautiful staircase in Montana!
I could have
curled up with a book on the porch for days, especially if that book is by
hapless hunter Patrick F. McManus, collections of whose hilarious tales I found
on the cabin shelves. Distracting me was the equally hilarious Raisin, a
sheepdog of sorts whose pesky tail simply wouldn’t be caught, even when she
admonished it with a high-pitched barks. A spectacular view, good book and adorable
dog – what could be better?
Raisin displaying her party trick!
She went on for over a minute
Me and Erik, of whom his grandmother would be proud
The plaque awarded to the Kalsta Ranch in recognition of their
outstanding stewardship of the land
Back in
California, the third encounter with the great canine guardians had shades of
Yorkshire. My friends and family will be familiar with my love of the books of
James Herriot, the vet whose stories of treating all creatures great and small in
the 1930s in God’s own country have enchanted readers ever since. In their
humour and self-deprecation, they are similar to McManus’s books of American
back country. I have a tendency to quote them, perhaps too often, but there is
rarely a situation not improved by a bit of good old Yorkshire wisdom. I
therefore seized the opportunity to ride along with my friends Marol, 1st whip
of Santa Ynez Valley Hounds, and Troy, admired veterinary surgeon of the
central Californian hills.
It may have been a tad drier, dustier and hotter than Yorkshire when we wound down a long, unmade road to a ranch inland from San Luis Obispo, but the contented sheep, the assorted dogs slinking out from shady corners and the paraphernalia of rusty farm equipment surrounding a collection of barns would have been entirely familiar. Less so was the patient and his complaint, a giant shaggy hearth rug of a dog who had been attacked by pestilential foxtails. Ubiquitous in the western states, foxtail grass has seedheads that burrow into pads and noses and under skin and stay there like tiny shuttlecocks, sharp hairs preventing retreat. In worst-case scenarios, they can enter the bloodstream and puncture valuable organs, causing infections and even death.
Marol in her natural habitat, whipping-in to the Santa Ynez
Troy concentrating on the trail of a boar!
Me and Marol after a successful morning in 2014 - read all about it here
It may have been a tad drier, dustier and hotter than Yorkshire when we wound down a long, unmade road to a ranch inland from San Luis Obispo, but the contented sheep, the assorted dogs slinking out from shady corners and the paraphernalia of rusty farm equipment surrounding a collection of barns would have been entirely familiar. Less so was the patient and his complaint, a giant shaggy hearth rug of a dog who had been attacked by pestilential foxtails. Ubiquitous in the western states, foxtail grass has seedheads that burrow into pads and noses and under skin and stay there like tiny shuttlecocks, sharp hairs preventing retreat. In worst-case scenarios, they can enter the bloodstream and puncture valuable organs, causing infections and even death.
Is there any farm in the world without its assorted junk,
sorry, vital pieces of equipment?
Neat and tidy fields!
Tending the somnolent beast
James Herriot would no doubt have welcomed the head torch
and gloves, but a Yorkshireman would draw the line
at a pink toolbox
The dog requiring
attention had picked up several on his patrols of the flock, with one paw
bloody and sore and several other areas in danger of becoming so. When we
arrived, his owners were engaged in clipping – or perhaps shearing would be a
more appropriate word – the thick white hair from the problem areas. Hitherto
barely touched by human hand, he lay calm and unresisting, understanding
perhaps that his nurses were trying to help. Troy anaesthetized him in
preparation for digging into the wounds, reminding me of James Herriot tackling
Blanco, the gentle giant who guarded the brilliant but tardy tailor in Darrowby
from devoted but frustrated clients. With him safely asleep, Troy snipped, dug
and bandaged, removing every foxtail and leaving this guardian of the Californian
steppe comfortable and capable once more, if sporting a somewhat outré clip.
The Californian hinterland
All creatures great and small: Marol and her beloved pig Piccolo
Devoted vets, dedicated dogs and ranches that define the term 'sustainable': there's an awful lot of good in the American wilds.
