Crop insurance agents came scurrying around like ants, and in their wake, most of the farmers swathed and baled what was left to clear it off the fields. One neighbor fully intended to haul his barley bales home but didn’t get around to it before the early snow, so five months later it’s still in the field. We got it for bargain-basement price on the condition that we haul it out of his way before spring planting time.
This is not your average Iowa grain field. It rolls over hills, through draws and halfway up the side of a 200-foot ridge. The only way out with a loaded truck is to climb the rest of the way to the top of the ridge and onto the flat above via a dirt track, over frozen ground and a thin layer of snow. And wouldn’t you know it, in the fog.
Our truck is a 1977 International Loadstar with a tag axle and no four-wheel drive, upon which my husband mounted a rack for hauling round bales. Since it has been known to get stuck on a gentle slope when the grass is dewy, we assumed there was no chance the truck would crawl up the steep grade. My husband prepared to push me to the top, a feat he accomplishes with the tractor, using a round bale in the grapple fork as his bumper.
These are the moments that make a woman question her life choices. As a romance writer, I run across scads of ladies who fantasize about living the western lifestyle with the hunky cowboy of their dreams. I try not to laugh directly in their faces.
The divorce rate in the rural sector would probably drop considerably if premarital counseling included a “ranch wife suitability test.” It would consist of one question. The man would ask, “Honey, would you hold this tractor bucket pin while I whack it with a 5-pound hammer?” If she trusts him enough to say yes, go ahead and rent the church.
I have survived enough of these endeavors that I can generally squelch my inner control freak. I’ve also learned to hold tractor bucket pins with a pair of pliers, not my fingers.
As I started up the ridge with my loaded truck, I could only see 10 yards in front of me thanks to the fog, and behind me not at all, due to the hay bales that stuck out past my rearview mirrors. I had no way of communicating with my husband, which left me at his mercy, with no say in when we started, how fast we went or when we stopped.
When I reached the base of the ridge, I dropped into first gear and aimed uphill, figuring I might as well give it a shot under my own power. To my amazement, I trundled right up the road, the ground being frozen just hard enough to give me traction.
When I reached the flat at the top, I stopped to wait for my husband. I heard the tractor coming, but instead of pulling up alongside, I felt a bump and suddenly I was rolling forward and there wasn’t a thing I could do except go along for the ride. After about 100 yards he stopped, finally realizing we were at the top of the hill. Seems he got disoriented in the fog and thought I was stuck halfway up. Luckily there are no large cliffs in the immediate area.
I had to haul the bales 6 miles home, unload, come back and try to locate him in the fog, amid the hills and gullies of the unfamiliar field. Each time I drove blind circles until I’d eventually locate him, napping in his tractor beside the next row of bales he’d lined up for loading. Then I would turn around and try to find the gate and the road, clear up on the side of the ridge, without wandering off into a slough in the process.
The good news is we made it through the day without doing any lasting damage to the equipment or our marriage. The bad news? We’ve still got over 100 bales to go. When I glumly mentioned this over dinner, my husband smirked and patted my hand.
“Don’t forget, honey. You’re living the dream.” FG
Kari Lynn Dell is a third-generation cowgirl, horse trainer and rodeo competitor. She writes from her family ranch on the Montana Blackfeet Reservation. Read more of her scribblings, novels and latest adventures on the northern frontier here.
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Photos by Kari Lynn Dell.
