A Midwest jingle

So, I am off to Indiana today with Brandon's mom to visit his sister, Amanda.

While I was packing yesterday morning, Brandon made up a little song about my trip. And continued to add verses to it for a solid 20 minutes. And followed me around the house singing it to me.

It went a little something like this:

You're going to see my sis-ter...In-the-Midwest,

And I'm going to miss you...While-you're-in-the-Midwest,

You're going to see some lea-eaves...In-the-Midwest,

You're gonna fly on an air-plane...To-the-Midwest,

You're gonna miss me too-oo...While-you're-in-the-Midwest,

Don't wanna sleep alo-one...While-you're-in-the-Midwest,

You're gonna be co-old..In-the-Midwest,

I'm gonna want you he-ere...While-you're-in-the-Midwest,

Have to irrigate alo-one...While-you're-in-the-Midwest,

You're gonna want me too-oo...While-you're-in-the-Midwest,

...

...

...

There was a lot more.

It was quite entertaining. And creative. And after a while, mildly annoying. I mean, how many verses can a song about visiting the Midwest possibly have?

The most disgusting thing

Our third calf of the season was born yesterday afternoon, in the middle of a giant wind/dust storm which sent temperatures plummeting overnight (finally).

After the wind subsided just a bit and the calf had its first nurse, Brandon and I ventured into the pasture to weigh it.

This is usually always a fiasco due to my lack of coordination and slow reactions, but went surprisingly smooth yesterday.

Brandon tends to get a little frustrated with me reading the weight because it takes me so long to call out a number — while he's holding the calf in front of him mid-air. But the scale ends up inches above my head (because of his height advantage), and looks like it's jumping between a ten pound difference (maybe because his arms are shaking so much).

I finally called out "Ummm, 52...no 54...maybe 56? 54, that's in the middle. We'll go with 54."

And Brandon set the calf down.

I heard a very loud "Ewwww!"

Before I could even see what happened, he said plainly, "This is the most disgusting thing that's ever happened to me."

That stuff on his hand? Newborn calf poo.

"It gets on my pants a lot, but never this much and never a handful of it," he said. It was on his pants, too.

The water hose alone did nothing for this mess. It was a bunch of slimy, almost rubbery, sticky goo. He had to rub his hands around in the rocks to remove any of it.

And that's the most disgusting thing that has ever happened to Brandon Leister. Which is saying a lot, believe me.

A double dog dare

We had a really hard time finding deer this past weekend on the hunt. The evening after Brandon's dad got his spike, I found another one a mere 182 yards from where we were glassing, but passed on him.

We had to get back to tend to hay business, so the next day was our last one out. We didn't see a single deer until noon or so. Another spike, but we weren't even sure if this little guy had even broken the skin yet, so I passed again.

After only seeing one deer in ten hours, and scanning the mountain side that entire time, Brandon began calling them in. Chatting with them. He had his tripod and binoculars set up about ten feet behind mine, and I heard him have the following conversation:

"Come on, Mr. Deer. Come out, come out, wherever you are. Come on, big buck, stand up. I dare you to come out. I double dog dare you."

Maybe we were getting a little crazy at this point?

"Don't squat with yer spurs on"

You know, the old country saying. I've actually never liked it all that much. I do not appreciate the slang spellings like "yer." Surprising, I know, when you think about where I come from. If you asked my youngest brother for the proper spelling of "your," this is probably what you would receive.

Regardless, I found out what this saying was all about this weekend. Desert style, anyway. Something like, "Don't squat in a pile of cactus," is more appropriate out here.

I guess I missed that memo in the Desert Dwellers' Welcome Guide.

Because it's exactly what I did this weekend. In a giant patch of prickly pear.

We were deer hunting. Brandon's dad and I both had tags for the first hunt of the year in this unit. Dean killed a spike the second day of our hunt during what Brandon calls "The Two O'Clock Stretch." (A common time for deer to rise from their bedding spot to stretch a little, maybe feed, maybe water. A five to ten minute window for hunters to have a mid-day shot.)

Brandon and I hiked over to take some pictures for him, help him bone out the meat, and then continue hunting that side of the mountain in attempt to fill my tag.

I was assisting by holding a leg out or something while Brandon worked the knife, and decided to squat down for better position. But I didn't look behind me.

Big mistake.

Immediately, I had sharp pains in every angle of my glutes. I started grabbing at the thorns, but obviously had visibility issues. I pointed my rear toward Dean and asked for help.

I think my father-in-law was less than thrilled about finding cactus thorns in my back side. He kept apologizing, but I assured him to continue saying, "No, it's fine. Really. Just get them. Please!"

So, another lesson learned about surviving in my new habitat. Always check behind you.

In violation of "Man Law"

Until this week, I was unaware it was possible for a woman to be in violation of a "Man Law," but I was wrong.

We have this thing in our house. In my kitchen, actually. I've mentioned it before. Not fondly. It's called the Man Closet.

This is what it looked like:

Did I mention this was in the middle of my kitchen? Like, directly across from the butcher block.

This was the last piece of evidence of the bachelor pad our home formerly was. Oh yeah, except for the Hunting Room.

Until two days ago. Now the Hunting Room stands alone.

I started this project while Brandon was at home. I was not trying to be secretive. He was ordering cattle medications and electric fence parts online, so I started this project to keep busy while I was waiting on him to start processing my elk meat.

He walked into the kitchen when I had everything pulled out on the counter and said, "What are you doing?"

"Just keeping busy while I was waiting on you."

"This is a man law violation."

"What, an organized Man Closet?"

"No, a woman organizing the Man Closet."

In the conversation that ensued, I found out his main complaint was he wouldn't know where things were when I was finished.

Here, I tried really hard to bite my tongue, and I knew it was the wrong thing to say, but I couldn't hold it any longer and it escaped: "Um, because you really think you know where things are now?"

"Well, at least I know what general area to look in?"

"Oh, like you know to look in the Man Closet?" Oops on that one too...

"You don't even know what most of this stuff is, so how are you supposed to organize it?"

He announced he was leaving for the farm a little later, so I waved two welding rods in the air and said, "Want to take these with you? Because I do know what they are. And I don't recall us having a welding machine stashed around here."

But he replied, "Oh yeah? What's that thing out under the barn you walk by every day then?"

Oops again...

He eventually left me to my work. During the adventure, I found we owned one of these:

And wondered why in the world there were so many scattered brown paper bags from the hardware store and loose nails and screws lining every shelf in the closet with such a handy tool available.

I even labeled every sealed container to ease the confusion on knowing where things are, and hopefully dismiss his main complaint.

Granted, one of them is labeled "miscellaneous small things," because that's about as descriptive as I could possibly get with the random assortment of things I found to place there. But, I even labeled the tool box with "screwdrivers, pliers, heavy duty stapler."

Neither of us knew we had a heavy duty stapler.

The finished product:

I know it doesn't really look all that much better. But at least all like items are stored together (all painting supplies in a box, light bulbs stacked together neatly so as not to topple off a shelf so easily), everything is upright (rather than thrown haphazardly in every direction), and there are no loose nails, screws, nuts, bolts, fasteners, etc., floating around.

I was even able to fit in this crate of things, which had been taking up floor space in our office:

Brandon did admit it looked much nicer, as he knew all along it would, and that it needed to be done.

But then last night, he was standing in front of the womanized Man Closet and said, "Ugh! Where are the screwdrivers?"

"The toolbox. The labeled toolbox that says 'screwdrivers.' Which should be a logical place to look anyway."

When he found the one he was looking for: "I had to open the lid. How annoying."

So it's a man law violation to keep tools contained inside a toolbox?

Noted.

And then it was my turn...

To kill something.

We made the experience about as exciting as it gets for a cow hunt.

Or I'm just guessing, anyway, since it was the first time either one of us had ever been on a cow elk hunt. Brandon and his friends are much too manly to take down a cow, and I didn't come across any elk hunting opportunities as a Texas resident.

We only had three chances to make something happen. The hunt opened Friday morning, and I had a cousin from Tennessee in town Saturday night who I hadn't seen in more than a decade.

We made it into the mountains just in time to catch a few elk headed out to feed Thursday evening and put a game plan together for the next morning.

Brandon's dad and I enjoyed some coffee, breakfast and good conversation for about an hour before Brandon actually rolled out of bed at 4:30 Friday morning (yes, he's the big, bad hunter), which was the time he suggested we leave camp the night before.

When we finally made it out, Brandon and I hauled off the mountain side in the dark, and ended up climbing two other mountains before we were in position to bust out a cow, calf and bull his dad caught going into the trees to bed from his vantage point.

At 75 yards, the cow pegged Brandon, but was out of my sight behind a tree. At 100 yards, I had a perfect shot. She had stepped out, but her head was in a dead tree and I wasn't absolutely certain it was the cow, so I held off. By the time I was certain, she was high-tailing it up the mountain, with the calf and bull close behind.

At 125 yards, I had a shot on the move, but couldn't get my rest right. At 200 yards, I had a shot in the back as she went straight up the mountain, but I didn't want to take it due to some confidence issues. And at 300 yards, I had half a second to take a shot before they all went around the side of the mountain, but didn't capitalize.

So basically, I blew it.

That evening, the only elk we saw were at least a mile away right at dusk. Nothing we could make a move on.

Saturday morning was crunch time. We went out on a bluff at daylight just in time to catch another bull, cow, calf trio and a spike heading to the trees. Brandon and I dropped our jackets and half our gear, including my binoculars, with his dad and hauled off toward them. His dad thanked us later for wearing all those clothes when he had to pack them back to the Jeep.

Before we could get within 800 yards, the bull, cow and calf had disappeared. We decided to head down into the trees and come up on the other side of them to catch them coming out. So we set off across the wide open face of a mountain, and Brandon spotted a cow feeding at 300 yards on the next ridge over.

We dropped and got set up, but he had about a six inch elevation over me, which was just enough for the cow to be too low for me to see her over the hill. So we waited.

Eventually, the bull and spike we had seen earlier both made their way across that same ridge, after some cows we suspected were out of sight at the bottom.

Then, about 400 yards away, the cow and calf were migrating toward us. I was just getting ready to move the gun to that cow at 360 yards, when I spotted a closer elk moving out of the trees.

"Is that one of those bulls coming out, or is it a new cow?" (I had to ask, since we left my binoculars at the top, thinking I was just going down to shoot.)

Brandon, after a quick look: "Nope, it's a cow."

Me: "Move the gun on her?"

Him: "Yes, and get ready to shoot."

Me: "Okay, I'm on her. Can you zoom it in?"

He cranks the scope to nine-power for me so I can stay in the gun...

Me: "Keep going."

Him: "That's all there is."

Me: "Oh, crap. She's far away."

30 seconds later, still steady on the cow..."Okay, can I shoot now?"

"Yep, whenever you're ready."

All of a sudden, I turn into a shaking, heavy-breathing mess. I take a few deep breaths and still can't get completely steady, but decide I better shoot before the elk moves on me.

And then I hear, "You smoked her!"

But I loaded another bullet and ran up 50 yards, just in case.

After 15 minutes or so, we made the hike over to find my cow. Sure enough, the only move she made after the shot was a ten yard nosedive down the mountain. This was about the only move possible, since I blew out both her shoulders. At 320 yards. Yes, I'm quite proud of that.

When I told my dad about the hunt, particularly my shot, he said, "Man, Brandon better watch out and think twice about all this target practice you're getting. 320 yards is a long way off for him to be sitting on the tractor."

Anyway, Brandon's dad was able to maneuver the Jeep down the mountain to within 500 yards of the bottom, where Brandon and I had drug the elk to get our meat and pack it out. This was very fortunate, since we had left it more than a mile away straight up a mountain.

The men packed out the meat, and I packed out the gear. They are both still giving me a hard time about this, even though I repeatedly insisted I could help pack out my own elk. I think they just enjoy having something to hold over my head.

We all enjoyed the obligatory Coors Light to celebrate my kill, then made our 1.5 hour drive back to camp.

Hunt over.

And of course, the pictures:

We now have two elk in the freezer, with two coues deer tags left to fill.

I think we'll make it through the winter.

A farmer's confession

We jumped right back on our irrigating schedule following the hunt and weekend livestock judging trip. On the second morning or so, I was trying to get Brandon out of bed to make the morning water change.

I am a morning person. Brandon is not. He wakes early by necessity. If he had it his way, he would work until the wee hours of the morning, when I barely function, and wake near my lunch time.

So, many mornings are quite a battle and usually involve an hour (or more) of me waking him up every five minutes.

This particular morning was no different.

Finally, I told him, "I think I might be a better farmer than you. At least all my water changes are on time."

He said with a sigh, "I know...In the beginning, when we're planting, I'm all gung-ho, crazy worker. But then in the end, I'm like, 'I don't care about you, crop.'"

And I think he actually pouted when he finally got up to change his water.

Katie's perspective: The hunt, week two

Day eight: Bill paying day. As part of my duties, I pay our monthly credit card bill and check the statement. I see Brandon made a mere $47 charge at the Safeway in Payson, AZ. This made me smile.

On my bank and post office run, I notice one of our cows made its way out of the pasture and into the alfalfa field. The reason this is bad is two-fold: the alfalfa field doesn't have a fence and is flanked on one side by a road, and the alfalfa could make the cow bloat up really bad. But, I get the cow back in the fence without any damage.

But the day gets better again when Brandon's mom begs to take me shopping that afternoon. And not just any shopping; super-clearance-like-I've-never-seen-before shopping. Let's just say she didn't really have to twist my arm all that hard.

And then, we get there, and I hear the alert for my picture text messaging go off. I just stopped dead in my tracks, looked at Rayanne, and said, "That's a picture. I just got a picture." She suggested I take a look at it. Good idea. So I crossed my fingers as I dug my phone out of my purse, and sure enough...there was an elk. And Brandon.

The hunt was over! He was coming home. I was no longer Head Irrigator or Hay Salesman. Oh, and we had an elk to hang on the wall...hooray.

This set off a fury of text messages between the two of us as I tried to get all the details. In one message, I asked, "You are taking lots of pictures with my camera, right?" He replied, "Duh. Of course." But, as you can see from the elk albums, Brandon must have a different definition of "lots," because we don't have that many pictures, and half of them came from Dean Rovey's camera.

On the way back from my 10pm water change, I remember I haven't fed our dogs, so we swing by the house. Halfway down our road, Wilbur high-tails it out in front of us, making a beeline for the house — from our neighbor's yard. I think he knew he was not supposed to be there. I decide it's time to pen them up.

But before we make it to my house, we find a cow. Laying in the middle of the road. The same one I put back in the pasture that morning. So, we chase her into the corral at the house and call it a night.

Day nine: I'm leaving for a lunch date with Brandon's mom and a couple other women in a dress and high-heeled sandals. I glance in the rear view mirror and find a cow in the alfalfa field. Again. So I chase her back in. Did I mention I was wearing a dress? And heels? Mid-chase, one of our hay customers calls to let me know he's sending a truck the next day. He asks if Brandon is home yet.

"He's on his way. And it's a good thing, because right now I'm chasing a cow through our field in a dress."

I send Brandon a message to let him know it's time to move the cows to a new pasture. He agrees. (As if he had any choice.)

Brandon returns and brings Dixie and Wilbur each an elk leg. I congratulate him on his grocery bill accomplishment.

Me: "Hey, I saw you only spent $47 on groceries. That was impressive. I'm really proud of you."

Him: Sporting a nervous grin...

Me: "That's not all you spent, is it?"

Him: "Well, it's all I spent on the credit card."
Me: "So how much cash did you have with you?"

Him: "Not enough to avoid putting some of it on the credit card."

Oh well. I totally expected that one anyway.

He also comes up with the best idea ever: pay someone else to irrigate the sunflowers for the weekend so I can go away with him.

Day 12: We begin cutting up elk meat. And we continue cutting, grinding, packaging and sealing elk meat. Thankfully, Brandon's mom chipped in for the entire eight hour ordeal, and we sent her home with one package of ground elk. And an invitation to request more, of course. Anyone need a roast?

Day 13: Dixie and Wilbur begin enjoying the ten gallons of elk scraps I sealed up in the freezer for them. Really. Ten gallon size bags. After I gave one away. The scraps make them quite a bit easier to pen up at night.

Day 14: Life begins to resemble our "normal" again. Just in time for my cow elk and deer hunts — back to back.

Katie's perspective: The hunt, week one

My two-week chronicle of events surrounding the Great Elk Hunt of 2009. A long read.

Day one: Brandon finally heads out for the big hunt. Only about six hours later than planned. I begin my water-changing duties on our sorghum in the evening. It was surprisingly easier than I expected (this field had been a pain all summer), and I managed to not let a single drop of water flow over the ditch while moving checks. A minor miracle.

Day two: My first full day as Head Irrigator for Rocker 7 Farms. Also the day of my first mistake as Head Irrigator. I determine the water needs to be turned off at the sunflowers and sorghum the next morning. So I call the water people, place a new order and make my shut-off request.

Not two minutes later, the nice lady calls back and kindly lets me know I don't currently have water running at the location I requested it be turned off. I check my little cheat sheet of field and canal lateral numbers, and sure enough, I had given her the wrong location. She told me it happens all the time. I think she was trying to ease my embarrassment some.

I receive a frantic call from Brandon as I pull up to the sorghum field to make my third solo water change that evening. It's the night before the hunt begins, and he found a bull. Definitely a shooter. But he can't decide if he wants to shoot.

He was quite obviously worked up, and rambling so fast I had to really concentrate to catch every third word he said.

"He's a good bull. No doubt about it. A trophy by anyone's standards. Everyone's telling me to shoot him in the morning. I just don't know if I want to. I mean, I've had six months of anticipation for this hunt, and all these guys are coming, and I have all this food. I'm just not sure I want it to all be over at first light in the morning. I don't even feel like I've hunted yet. ...."

Day three: Brandon calls to tell me he decided to pass on the first bull. I knew he would. And I settle in for a long week without him because I knew he would use every last day he had.

I load my first three hay trucks, collect our money, and send them on their way, since I also assumed the role of Head Hay Salesman while Brandon was away.

I finish irrigating the sorghum and sunflowers for this round, and start irrigating the alfalfa at our house that evening. Every two hours. All night. Brandon tells me he plans to get up at 3am the next day, and to call anytime that night if I get scared.

So I'm laying there wide awake at 2:45, scared out of my mind. I wait until precisely 3am, since he was getting up then anyway. And he answers. The fourth time I call. But all he says is, "I'm going to take a little nap. Sorry you're scared, but I can't do anything. Go to sleep." Thanks, Dear.

Day four: I finish the alfalfa at our house, and get water ordered for the alfalfa at our Palo Verde field. And I don't mess up on the water orders this time. Improvement. Brandon again sees bulls. Just not any he wants to shoot.

Day five: I continue the irrigating, and work on some writing projects during the day. At 5am, I notice my water level in the ditch looks low. So I secure a measuring stick from a neighbor, and find I'm missing 100 inches of water. 100 inches we've been paying for. I get that fixed, but Brandon has to call the next day to get them to credit our account because I was too timid to pursue it well enough. Again, he sees elk. Nothing to suit his fancy. It's like we have the same conversation every night.

Day six: Brandon makes his usual calls in the early afternoon and when they come in for the night. Both times, I ask, "So, did you see anything?"

"Yes, I see elk every day. But no, I still haven't found one I want to shoot."

"Okay, well you're just making me a little nervous. You only have three days left." The last thing I wanted was for him to come home from his "monster bull elk hunt" empty handed.

And the irrigating continues...very slowly.

Brandon's mom accompanied me on every middle-of-the-night irrigating trip to Palo Verde because she knows how much it terrifies me to go out there by myself at night. And his dad let me drive his truck at night, since it has a side light that lights up the whole ditch bank. Both of these things were welcome gestures.

So, about 11pm, Rayanne and I are making our way back home from Palo Verde. I pass a cop parked with his lights out on the side of the road about one mile from my house. And half a mile later, another. Only the second one pulls onto the road behind me, and doesn't turn his lights on until he has closed the distance between us. The speed limit on this road is 50. I was driving 45. But he throws his lights on to pull me over after following a short distance, and his buddy pulls in behind him. He makes his way up to the truck, and I ask why I have been pulled over, since I can't for the life of me figure out what the reason might be.

The response? "Oh, we'll get to that. License and insurance, please?" (They don't ask for your registration out here.) So Rayanne and I start rummaging through the truck for all the paperwork.

"Where are you headed?"

"Well, we've been out irrigating my alfalfa field, and my house is less than a quarter-mile from here."

I don't think he really believed two women were out irrigating in the middle of the night.

Finally, after holding us up for 15 minutes, he decides it's time to divulge why we've been pulled over. The reason? We were driving a Dodge truck. Apparently, there had been several thefts in Phoenix (40 miles away) lately involving only Dodge trucks.

Are you kidding me? That's really reason to stop two women at midnight? With two cop cars? And follow them for a quarter-mile without your lights on?

I was not a happy camper. I explained to the officer I would be traveling the same route, in the same truck, at roughly the same hour for the next few days, and asked if I needed to plan on being stopped every night. He told me it was certainly a possibility. This was by far the most outspoken I have ever been with a law enforcement officer in my life.

Needless to say, I was very glad I was not alone. I think I would have driven seven more miles until I got to the 24-hour Circle K before I stopped for two cops in the middle of the night. Just because I was driving a Dodge.

Day seven: At this point, I'll admit, I was starting to back down from my "supportive wife" role. The water in Palo Verde had been taking twice as long as it should, and I had been thinking all along I would finish it in time to meet Brandon up north and join him for the weekend. If not, I wouldn't see him until Day 12.

He calls to tell me he had two different bulls in his scope, and decided to hold off at the last minute. Oh, and also? Our crop guy called today, and I need to start watering the sunflowers in two days.

So, I was frustrated with the water, disappointed about my weekend, and probably not the nicest person this day.

Brandon's perspective: The hunt

This is a partial recount of Brandon's hunting story, in manspeak. I say partial because anyone who has called him or talked to him in person knows the story can get much more long winded than this.

It's just a copy of the widely distributed email, so nothing new. But there are a few bonus pictures at the end.

After 6 months of anticipation, I am back from my elk hunt with a story to tell.

The rut was very slow to start this year but we had a great time and made the most of it. I arrived in my unit 2 days early and hunted 6 of the 7 days. Every day we had at least 3 groups of glassers out looking for "the bull". Lots and lots of good bulls, but no "WOW" bulls. On my drive home, I did an honest inventory of the bulls I personally saw and came up with 71 bulls in 7 days. I had every opportunity to shoot a solid 365" + plus bull opening morning but decided to keep hunting, and I am glad I did.

I had tons of help and we covered a lot of country. I had 3 great back-up bulls located in a remote area where there had been no hunting pressure. I could have shot several 340-350" type bulls but kept passing in hopes of finding a bigger bull. The rut was getting stronger by the day and new, bigger bulls kept showing up daily.

On day 6, we had a herd of elk in the timber below us at about 400 yards. Gino called 2 of the bulls up to within 30 yards, and a few of the bulls worked up a canyon away from us. That left 4 distinct bugles in the trees with the cows. We decided to get aggressive and snuck in the trees and into the middle of the elk. We spent over 2 hrs trying to locate each of the 4 bulls in the thick junipers and pines. We had elk within 50 yards of us the entire time. We had eliminated 3 of the 4 bulls but could never get a look at the herd bull. Gino nicknamed him "The Joker" because of his distinct laugh-like bugle. The cows had finally had enough of our cow-calling and left the bedding area. The Joker bull initially went with them and then suddenly stopped bugling. We were bummed to have not gotten a better look at him but headed back to the truck. We walked a few hundred yards back the direction we came from when I caught motion to my right moving through the timber. It was the Joker bull trying to sneak out the back door. As he crossed a clearing at less than 60 yards I busted him and he crashed 50 yards away. It happenned very fast.

As we approached the bull he just kept getting bigger. He is a 7 x 8 with a non typical right side. He has 21"+ 4ths, 41.5" of width, and 52" main beams. His right side has a split 4th and a kicker off his main. I am thrilled with the bull and had a blast hunting with new and old friends.

Special thanks to everyone who helped make this hunt happen; My loving wife Katie, my dad, Gino Wulkotte (Colten and Chris), Chris Harlow, Dean Rovey, Jacob Cannon, Travis Van Haren, Quint Molina, and Greg Elkins.

Here are the pictures:

And coming soon? My perspective. Then you'll see why he had to thank me at the end.

Wilbur does it

Brandon was headed out the door to change water on the sunflowers last night when I spotted his phone sitting on the kitchen counter.

I hollered at him through the open window and told him to wait for me to bring it out.

When I opened the door, there he was, just four feet away. Doing what boys do. In the front yard.

My family had the most awful time trying to break my youngest brother of this habit. It was where he preferred to go. But my approaching-30-year-old husband?

Seriously.

Then, he yells back at me, "Hey, I accidentally got the porch post. Sorry!"

Me: "What do you mean accidentally? Looks like you're positioned perfectly for that."

Him: "No, I was just trying to get the plant, not the post."

Me: "Well, why were you trying to get the plant in the first place?"

Him: "Wilbur does it."

Me: "Do I really need to explain the difference there?"

Hunting footage

Not the bull that will soon be hanging in our house, but here's some footage of the guys calling one in, courtesy of Dean Rovey:







Or catch it on YouTube here.

No room at the inn...for animals

After Brandon finished day one of the cattle show, we went in search of our hotel arrangements so we could high-tail it off the fairgrounds as soon as he finished the market lambs.

The white-haired lady we spoke with informed us we had a reservation for the next two nights at the Prescottonian Best Western. A bed, paid for by you? Fine with us. But she proceeded to apologize, saying she would have had something nicer, but this was the only hotel around that allowed animals.

Then she turned to me and said, "Not that I'm saying you're an animal." Which is, of course, exactly what we were thinking, right?

This hotel was a good 25 miles from the fairgrounds, and we passed 20 others on the way there. At one point, it seemed like we were on Hotel Drive or something. Brandon said, "Well, Hampton, Marriott, Holiday Inn...too bad they don't let animals in."

And we're still not sure why they insisted upon finding us a hotel which allowed animals. Brandon doesn't recall telling them he was bringing along a goat to accompany him or anything. He didn't even tell them I was coming, so no reason for the confusion there either.

I'll take a steak with that salad

Since we didn't decide to eat at any of the furniture stores we passed, we continued on our quest for supper.

Finally, Brandon said, "Hey, there's a Texas Roadhouse. Their salad sounds good. Actually, their salad sounds really good. They have the best ranch."

Because when Brandon says someone has a good salad, he's really talking about the quality of their ranch dressing.

A good three minutes later, as were turning into the parking lot, he said, "And I'm going to get their ribeye with my salad."

I let this go as long as I could. Then I started laughing. He asked what was so funny.

"I just can't believe you said, 'Hey, let's go to a steakhouse. I really want their salad.'"

Brandon: "I said ribeye too."

Me: "Um, yeah, you did. To go with your salad."

What are you hungry for?

Brandon judged another county fair this past weekend, and I was able to accompany him at the last minute when we found someone to irrigate our thirsty sunflowers. We figured it was worth spending half his livestock judging earnings to hire some labor since we hadn't seen each other for eight days.

On the way to our hotel the first night, after a day of looking at cattle and handling sheep, we were looking for a place to grab a bite to eat.

So we went through the routine:

Brandon: "Italian?"

Me: "Nope, just had that."

Brandon: "American, Mexican?"

Me: "Those would work."

Brandon: "Greek, pizza?"

Me: "No Greek, no pizza. And where the heck did Greek come from?"

Brandon: "Steakhouse?"

Me: "Maybe."

So we proceeded to look for any American, Mexican or steakhouse restaurants.

At one point, I saw a pink-looking building with the word "Casa" on it. But I couldn't tell what was behind the "Casa." So I said, "Look, there's a Casa...Casa...Casa something...Casa what?"

As we drove by, Brandon said, "Oh yeah, Casa Decor. Fine imports. Let's eat there. Maybe they'll have a couch we can nibble on. Or an end table."

In my defense, the sun was setting right behind the place, and I do have a prescription for glasses, which I refuse I fill until I really just can't see. And how many Mexican restaurants are pink and called "Casa" something?

But Brandon wouldn't let it go. As we continued driving, we came upon a big sign for some model homes.

"Oh look. Casa de model home. Bet they have a nice entrée."

And a mile later, "There's another furniture store. We could eat there."

We did eventually find something other than leather or cherry oak for an appetizer.

The other day

This past Thursday afternoon was the first time I had seen my husband in roughly eight days, since he was off killing an elk. (More on that later.)

So we spent the weekend catching up on each other's lives. I learned about his elk adventure, and he learned about my days irrigating and working on the computer. And, I felt the need to catch him up on the happenings of the world while he was in the mountains.

Since we don't have TV, all of my news, interesting facts and conversation pieces come from things I read online. So several times, I would begin a new conversation with something like this...

"I read the other day that..."

"Hey, the other day I read..."

"So I read the other day..."

Finally, after two days of this, Brandon mocked me, "'I read the other day,' geez, did you do anything while I was gone besides 'read the other day?'"

And the next time I went to open my mouth, "Let me guess. You read the other day?"