Paul Marchant

The newest tractor on the place is 40 years old. We call the 2003 Ford the “new pickup.” The closest thing we have to a side-by-side ATV is the ’93 Chevy 3/4-ton with a modified flatbed we use to feed the cows.

I grew up on a diversified little outfit. Along with my uncle’s family, we ran a couple hundred range cows, a mink operation and a little dairy where we milked 30 or so cows.

I had a free weekend, and I’d worked it out so I could help my dad move cows from one unit of the forest allotment to another.  My folks had just bought the ranch in southern Idaho’s Oakley Valley a year or two earlier while I was in college, and it would be several years before I would make that same ranch my permanent home.

His color was just ordinary old bay, but he was a real looker – big, stout hip; nice, neat, pretty head; solid, heavy bone; four black feet and built like a brick house.

Back in the day, when I was a fair-to-middling high school football player, I did my best to take heart in a phrase our coach often used in his efforts to get the most out of our small-town team.

As I stepped out at 6 a.m. to get some chores finished before my planned excursion into town that morning, I relished the sight of a clear sky despite the below-freezing temperatures.