The most wonderful time of the year | TSLN.com

The most wonderful time of the year

Jeri L. Dobrowski

For the June 27, 2009 edition of Tri-State Livestock News.

Last weekend, business took me on a 425-mile loop on either side of the quartzite monolith-marked boarder separating North and South Dakota. The area received record snow this past winter. Ranchers and farmers managed the best they could as roads and corrals clogged, feed-and- bedding-inventories dwindled, and yet more snow fell. Livestock death losses were high, then the snow melted, causing more agony.

Effects of the bonanza-turned-bane were evident as my husband and I navigated state highways running alongside the 46th parallel. Neither of us could remember a time when we’d seen the Dakota hills and meadows so green, the cattle so fat, horses so sleek, and stock dams universally filled to near-overflowing. No matter which direction we turned, the green rolled on before us. After a tenacious winter that only begrudgingly released its hold, we felt that surely this was the most wonderful time of the year.

The drive was as humbling as it was enjoyable. Sitting in air-conditioned comfort, I marveled at vital ranch headquarters and derelict, abandoned homesteads. It took courage, faith, stamina, and determination – and no small amount of careful planning and good fortune – to make a go of homesteading on the Plains. When all those ran low, it helped to have resiliency, ingenuity, and good neighbors.

More than a century later, we live a life of relative leisure. Much of the day-to-day toil for survival has been resolved; as a whole, we have grown soft and demanding. Let’s reconsider those who settled the West – and live here yet today – producing food and fiber for a hungry, and sometimes unappreciative, world.

Last weekend, business took me on a 425-mile loop on either side of the quartzite monolith-marked boarder separating North and South Dakota. The area received record snow this past winter. Ranchers and farmers managed the best they could as roads and corrals clogged, feed-and- bedding-inventories dwindled, and yet more snow fell. Livestock death losses were high, then the snow melted, causing more agony.

Effects of the bonanza-turned-bane were evident as my husband and I navigated state highways running alongside the 46th parallel. Neither of us could remember a time when we’d seen the Dakota hills and meadows so green, the cattle so fat, horses so sleek, and stock dams universally filled to near-overflowing. No matter which direction we turned, the green rolled on before us. After a tenacious winter that only begrudgingly released its hold, we felt that surely this was the most wonderful time of the year.

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The drive was as humbling as it was enjoyable. Sitting in air-conditioned comfort, I marveled at vital ranch headquarters and derelict, abandoned homesteads. It took courage, faith, stamina, and determination – and no small amount of careful planning and good fortune – to make a go of homesteading on the Plains. When all those ran low, it helped to have resiliency, ingenuity, and good neighbors.

More than a century later, we live a life of relative leisure. Much of the day-to-day toil for survival has been resolved; as a whole, we have grown soft and demanding. Let’s reconsider those who settled the West – and live here yet today – producing food and fiber for a hungry, and sometimes unappreciative, world.

Last weekend, business took me on a 425-mile loop on either side of the quartzite monolith-marked boarder separating North and South Dakota. The area received record snow this past winter. Ranchers and farmers managed the best they could as roads and corrals clogged, feed-and- bedding-inventories dwindled, and yet more snow fell. Livestock death losses were high, then the snow melted, causing more agony.

Effects of the bonanza-turned-bane were evident as my husband and I navigated state highways running alongside the 46th parallel. Neither of us could remember a time when we’d seen the Dakota hills and meadows so green, the cattle so fat, horses so sleek, and stock dams universally filled to near-overflowing. No matter which direction we turned, the green rolled on before us. After a tenacious winter that only begrudgingly released its hold, we felt that surely this was the most wonderful time of the year.

The drive was as humbling as it was enjoyable. Sitting in air-conditioned comfort, I marveled at vital ranch headquarters and derelict, abandoned homesteads. It took courage, faith, stamina, and determination – and no small amount of careful planning and good fortune – to make a go of homesteading on the Plains. When all those ran low, it helped to have resiliency, ingenuity, and good neighbors.

More than a century later, we live a life of relative leisure. Much of the day-to-day toil for survival has been resolved; as a whole, we have grown soft and demanding. Let’s reconsider those who settled the West – and live here yet today – producing food and fiber for a hungry, and sometimes unappreciative, world.

Last weekend, business took me on a 425-mile loop on either side of the quartzite monolith-marked boarder separating North and South Dakota. The area received record snow this past winter. Ranchers and farmers managed the best they could as roads and corrals clogged, feed-and- bedding-inventories dwindled, and yet more snow fell. Livestock death losses were high, then the snow melted, causing more agony.

Effects of the bonanza-turned-bane were evident as my husband and I navigated state highways running alongside the 46th parallel. Neither of us could remember a time when we’d seen the Dakota hills and meadows so green, the cattle so fat, horses so sleek, and stock dams universally filled to near-overflowing. No matter which direction we turned, the green rolled on before us. After a tenacious winter that only begrudgingly released its hold, we felt that surely this was the most wonderful time of the year.

The drive was as humbling as it was enjoyable. Sitting in air-conditioned comfort, I marveled at vital ranch headquarters and derelict, abandoned homesteads. It took courage, faith, stamina, and determination – and no small amount of careful planning and good fortune – to make a go of homesteading on the Plains. When all those ran low, it helped to have resiliency, ingenuity, and good neighbors.

More than a century later, we live a life of relative leisure. Much of the day-to-day toil for survival has been resolved; as a whole, we have grown soft and demanding. Let’s reconsider those who settled the West – and live here yet today – producing food and fiber for a hungry, and sometimes unappreciative, world.

Last weekend, business took me on a 425-mile loop on either side of the quartzite monolith-marked boarder separating North and South Dakota. The area received record snow this past winter. Ranchers and farmers managed the best they could as roads and corrals clogged, feed-and- bedding-inventories dwindled, and yet more snow fell. Livestock death losses were high, then the snow melted, causing more agony.

Effects of the bonanza-turned-bane were evident as my husband and I navigated state highways running alongside the 46th parallel. Neither of us could remember a time when we’d seen the Dakota hills and meadows so green, the cattle so fat, horses so sleek, and stock dams universally filled to near-overflowing. No matter which direction we turned, the green rolled on before us. After a tenacious winter that only begrudgingly released its hold, we felt that surely this was the most wonderful time of the year.

The drive was as humbling as it was enjoyable. Sitting in air-conditioned comfort, I marveled at vital ranch headquarters and derelict, abandoned homesteads. It took courage, faith, stamina, and determination – and no small amount of careful planning and good fortune – to make a go of homesteading on the Plains. When all those ran low, it helped to have resiliency, ingenuity, and good neighbors.

More than a century later, we live a life of relative leisure. Much of the day-to-day toil for survival has been resolved; as a whole, we have grown soft and demanding. Let’s reconsider those who settled the West – and live here yet today – producing food and fiber for a hungry, and sometimes unappreciative, world.

Last weekend, business took me on a 425-mile loop on either side of the quartzite monolith-marked boarder separating North and South Dakota. The area received record snow this past winter. Ranchers and farmers managed the best they could as roads and corrals clogged, feed-and- bedding-inventories dwindled, and yet more snow fell. Livestock death losses were high, then the snow melted, causing more agony.

Effects of the bonanza-turned-bane were evident as my husband and I navigated state highways running alongside the 46th parallel. Neither of us could remember a time when we’d seen the Dakota hills and meadows so green, the cattle so fat, horses so sleek, and stock dams universally filled to near-overflowing. No matter which direction we turned, the green rolled on before us. After a tenacious winter that only begrudgingly released its hold, we felt that surely this was the most wonderful time of the year.

The drive was as humbling as it was enjoyable. Sitting in air-conditioned comfort, I marveled at vital ranch headquarters and derelict, abandoned homesteads. It took courage, faith, stamina, and determination – and no small amount of careful planning and good fortune – to make a go of homesteading on the Plains. When all those ran low, it helped to have resiliency, ingenuity, and good neighbors.

More than a century later, we live a life of relative leisure. Much of the day-to-day toil for survival has been resolved; as a whole, we have grown soft and demanding. Let’s reconsider those who settled the West – and live here yet today – producing food and fiber for a hungry, and sometimes unappreciative, world.

Last weekend, business took me on a 425-mile loop on either side of the quartzite monolith-marked boarder separating North and South Dakota. The area received record snow this past winter. Ranchers and farmers managed the best they could as roads and corrals clogged, feed-and- bedding-inventories dwindled, and yet more snow fell. Livestock death losses were high, then the snow melted, causing more agony.

Effects of the bonanza-turned-bane were evident as my husband and I navigated state highways running alongside the 46th parallel. Neither of us could remember a time when we’d seen the Dakota hills and meadows so green, the cattle so fat, horses so sleek, and stock dams universally filled to near-overflowing. No matter which direction we turned, the green rolled on before us. After a tenacious winter that only begrudgingly released its hold, we felt that surely this was the most wonderful time of the year.

The drive was as humbling as it was enjoyable. Sitting in air-conditioned comfort, I marveled at vital ranch headquarters and derelict, abandoned homesteads. It took courage, faith, stamina, and determination – and no small amount of careful planning and good fortune – to make a go of homesteading on the Plains. When all those ran low, it helped to have resiliency, ingenuity, and good neighbors.

More than a century later, we live a life of relative leisure. Much of the day-to-day toil for survival has been resolved; as a whole, we have grown soft and demanding. Let’s reconsider those who settled the West – and live here yet today – producing food and fiber for a hungry, and sometimes unappreciative, world.

Last weekend, business took me on a 425-mile loop on either side of the quartzite monolith-marked boarder separating North and South Dakota. The area received record snow this past winter. Ranchers and farmers managed the best they could as roads and corrals clogged, feed-and- bedding-inventories dwindled, and yet more snow fell. Livestock death losses were high, then the snow melted, causing more agony.

Effects of the bonanza-turned-bane were evident as my husband and I navigated state highways running alongside the 46th parallel. Neither of us could remember a time when we’d seen the Dakota hills and meadows so green, the cattle so fat, horses so sleek, and stock dams universally filled to near-overflowing. No matter which direction we turned, the green rolled on before us. After a tenacious winter that only begrudgingly released its hold, we felt that surely this was the most wonderful time of the year.

The drive was as humbling as it was enjoyable. Sitting in air-conditioned comfort, I marveled at vital ranch headquarters and derelict, abandoned homesteads. It took courage, faith, stamina, and determination – and no small amount of careful planning and good fortune – to make a go of homesteading on the Plains. When all those ran low, it helped to have resiliency, ingenuity, and good neighbors.

More than a century later, we live a life of relative leisure. Much of the day-to-day toil for survival has been resolved; as a whole, we have grown soft and demanding. Let’s reconsider those who settled the West – and live here yet today – producing food and fiber for a hungry, and sometimes unappreciative, world.

Last weekend, business took me on a 425-mile loop on either side of the quartzite monolith-marked boarder separating North and South Dakota. The area received record snow this past winter. Ranchers and farmers managed the best they could as roads and corrals clogged, feed-and- bedding-inventories dwindled, and yet more snow fell. Livestock death losses were high, then the snow melted, causing more agony.

Effects of the bonanza-turned-bane were evident as my husband and I navigated state highways running alongside the 46th parallel. Neither of us could remember a time when we’d seen the Dakota hills and meadows so green, the cattle so fat, horses so sleek, and stock dams universally filled to near-overflowing. No matter which direction we turned, the green rolled on before us. After a tenacious winter that only begrudgingly released its hold, we felt that surely this was the most wonderful time of the year.

The drive was as humbling as it was enjoyable. Sitting in air-conditioned comfort, I marveled at vital ranch headquarters and derelict, abandoned homesteads. It took courage, faith, stamina, and determination – and no small amount of careful planning and good fortune – to make a go of homesteading on the Plains. When all those ran low, it helped to have resiliency, ingenuity, and good neighbors.

More than a century later, we live a life of relative leisure. Much of the day-to-day toil for survival has been resolved; as a whole, we have grown soft and demanding. Let’s reconsider those who settled the West – and live here yet today – producing food and fiber for a hungry, and sometimes unappreciative, world.

Last weekend, business took me on a 425-mile loop on either side of the quartzite monolith-marked boarder separating North and South Dakota. The area received record snow this past winter. Ranchers and farmers managed the best they could as roads and corrals clogged, feed-and- bedding-inventories dwindled, and yet more snow fell. Livestock death losses were high, then the snow melted, causing more agony.

Effects of the bonanza-turned-bane were evident as my husband and I navigated state highways running alongside the 46th parallel. Neither of us could remember a time when we’d seen the Dakota hills and meadows so green, the cattle so fat, horses so sleek, and stock dams universally filled to near-overflowing. No matter which direction we turned, the green rolled on before us. After a tenacious winter that only begrudgingly released its hold, we felt that surely this was the most wonderful time of the year.

The drive was as humbling as it was enjoyable. Sitting in air-conditioned comfort, I marveled at vital ranch headquarters and derelict, abandoned homesteads. It took courage, faith, stamina, and determination – and no small amount of careful planning and good fortune – to make a go of homesteading on the Plains. When all those ran low, it helped to have resiliency, ingenuity, and good neighbors.

More than a century later, we live a life of relative leisure. Much of the day-to-day toil for survival has been resolved; as a whole, we have grown soft and demanding. Let’s reconsider those who settled the West – and live here yet today – producing food and fiber for a hungry, and sometimes unappreciative, world.

Last weekend, business took me on a 425-mile loop on either side of the quartzite monolith-marked boarder separating North and South Dakota. The area received record snow this past winter. Ranchers and farmers managed the best they could as roads and corrals clogged, feed-and- bedding-inventories dwindled, and yet more snow fell. Livestock death losses were high, then the snow melted, causing more agony.

Effects of the bonanza-turned-bane were evident as my husband and I navigated state highways running alongside the 46th parallel. Neither of us could remember a time when we’d seen the Dakota hills and meadows so green, the cattle so fat, horses so sleek, and stock dams universally filled to near-overflowing. No matter which direction we turned, the green rolled on before us. After a tenacious winter that only begrudgingly released its hold, we felt that surely this was the most wonderful time of the year.

The drive was as humbling as it was enjoyable. Sitting in air-conditioned comfort, I marveled at vital ranch headquarters and derelict, abandoned homesteads. It took courage, faith, stamina, and determination – and no small amount of careful planning and good fortune – to make a go of homesteading on the Plains. When all those ran low, it helped to have resiliency, ingenuity, and good neighbors.

More than a century later, we live a life of relative leisure. Much of the day-to-day toil for survival has been resolved; as a whole, we have grown soft and demanding. Let’s reconsider those who settled the West – and live here yet today – producing food and fiber for a hungry, and sometimes unappreciative, world.