Living on Foggy Mountain

On Saturday morning we castrated all the ram lambs. It wasn't as drastic as that sounds, no blood or sharp knives, although drastic enough. My husband caught up a lamb and held it sitting on its rump on the corral fence. My job was to take this tool called an "elastrator" that resembles heavy duty pliers, put the smallest, tightest rubber band on its four prongs, spread the prongs stretching the rubber band wide, and place it over the poor lamb's testicles, letting the band return to its original size. Within a few weeks, the testicles will have dried up and dropped off, a supposedly painless procedure, though I have my doubts.

Our ranch is 106 rocky, tree-strewn acres. We're 1500 feet up from the valley floor and on a clear day we can see the very top of Mt. Tamalpais though San Francisco is hidden a bit beyond. Most mornings we walk a mile-long loop up around the far end of the ranch and then down again to the house. Some mornings we're startled by a flock of wild turkeys, their feathers puffed up in fright, their anxious calls like nervous church ladies. Other times we'll see a herd of wild pigs snuffling their way along, seeking grubs, bugs and acorns among the leaf duff scattered beneath the oak, madrone and bay laurel trees.

It is a gift and a blessing to live in such a place. There are times we don't leave it for three or four days, depending on work schedules or those necessary errands we can't do by mail or phone. Even when I must leave, the beauty of it, the peace it offers stays in my mind. When I return, I stop to open the bottom gate, a mile from our house, and find myself breathing a long sigh of relief, knowing that home is only minutes away.

Living in such a place also means hard work, lots of it. If the water pressure fails, we must follow the pipe lines, check the water tanks, inspect the spring boxes. When one of the sheep escapes, someone has to walk the fence lines until a hole is found and fixed. If a tree falls, we let it age, and then we cut, split and stack the wood that will warm us that winter. In the rainy season, we walk the ditches and shovel out the leaves and debris that block the culverts. The work keeps us mindful of the natural order of things, mindful of our place in the natural world, aware that our bodies were meant to be used.

People visit us and envy our peaceful, pastoral life. Being "good hosts," we sit with them and drink iced tea while two red-tailed hawks circle overhead and the lambs jump and play in the orchard pasture. When they're gone, we return to the work for the day—transplanting tomato starts, pruning grape vines, whatever the season requires. Most days, though, if only for a few moments, we pull up the lawn chairs to rest and talk and admire the world around us.