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The Basque Sheepherder by William A. Douglass (The following is an excerpt from the recent University of Nevada publication Basque Sheepherders of the American West: A Photographic Documentary.) Herding and Trailing Thanks to Hollywood films and dime novels, much is known about cattle ranching in the American West. Surely there is no more romanticized figure in the mythology of the region than the cowboy. Conversely, the sheep rancher and sheepherder are shadowy personages, seldom depicted at all and then usually in negative fashion. Who has not heard of the cattlemen versus sheepmen range wars? Literary considerations notwithstanding, the historical reality regarding settlement of the American West was conceivably more complicated. To be sure there were a few major confrontations, such as the “Johnson County War” in Wyoming, but it is in their constant retelling that the impression of a general antipathy emerges. The truth is that in most areas settled cattlemen and sheepmen (as opposed to the tramp operators) managed a mutual accommodation. Depending upon changing market forces some outfits ran both cattle and sheep, or periodically converted from one to the other. If the distinction between kinds of ranching was somewhat blurred, cattle and sheep husbandry represented quite different ways of exploiting the available range land. In large measure the differences derived from the very nature of the animals. There is only a minimal herding instinct in cattle and, consequently, they must be controlled rather than cajoled. If they are not constrained in their movements by miles of barbed-wire fencing, they are likely to scatter too widely. If cows are to be driven from one place to another, several mounted riders are required to bunch and then hold the herd together. Sheepherding is a more subtle art which rests upon a delicate understanding between man, dogs, and the sheep band. Given the flocking tendencies of sheep, a single skilled herder and dog may control as many as two thousand animals without the assistance of fence lines. At the same time, sheep are much more fragile than cattle. Their vulnerability to predation by coyotes and cougars makes them highly reliant upon human protection. “Mobility” is the watchword that describes the very essence of open-range sheep husbandry. The two-thousand-head band must be moved constantly if it is not to exhaust its own immediate supply of feed. Therefore, whether taking his charges a mile or two from bedding ground to the day’s grazing area, or trekking the band for dozens (or even hundreds) of miles between the outfit’s summer and winter ranges, the herder is “on the trail” almost daily. In this respect the Basque sheepherder has more in common with the nomadic desert Bedouin than with the American cowboy. As with any occupation there are men with a particular knack for the trade and others who fail to grasp its fine points. Experienced herders claim that each sheep band has its own characteristics which must be appreciated in order to provide effective guidance. The good herder learns to anticipate the natural rhythm of the band, working his will gently upon its movements. Proper management means that the animals are never bunched so tightly as to trample the feed underfoot. Excessive use of dogs makes a band nervous and hard to control. “Dogged” sheep are likely to go “off their feed,” affecting the weight gain of the lambs. A man’s pride is on the line when his lambs are sent to market in the autumn. The shipping scales tally more than an outfit’s yearly profit; they also measure the skill of each herder. Reputations hang in the balance as each man competes to produce the heaviest lambs. Camp Life The casual visitor to a sheep camp feels that he has stepped back in time and entered the untamed era of the American West – a world inhabited by solitary men in worn Levi’s and scuffed boots leading a truly Spartan existence. Whether in the summer camp set amidst spectacular mountain scenery or the winter bivouac on the expanse of seemingly endless desert, the herder’s home is but the frailest challenge to the supremacy of the wilderness. The cowboy, that other human denizen of the open range, usually returns each day to the safety of the bunkhouse or line cabin to enjoy the security of permanent shelter. The herder’s protection, however, is the canvas cocoon of his bedroll stretched out beneath the canopy of a tent or sheep wagon. “Portability” is the watchword, for everything must be moved regularly so that the guardian of the band is never far from his charges. Consequently, the camp outfit is restricted to bare necessities – a few provisions and cooking utensils, a change of clothing, rifle, saddle, and tack. Yet the impression that camplife for the Basque sheepherder has changed but little over the past century is misleading. Formerly, a herder might go for weeks without seeing another human being, moving his camp about on the back of a burro. Today’s herder is more likely to be resupplied by a camptender every four or five days, who then uses a pickup truck to move the herder’s gear to the next campsite. The mechanized lifeline makes it possible for the daily diet to include a variety of meats, canned food, and fresh vegetables washed down with a soda pop or wine. This is a far cry from the days when the herder’s fare consisted of bread, beans, dried fruit, mutton, and coffee. The herder’s sense of isolation is also ameliorated by the transistor radio with which he may listen to Spanish and, in some parts of the American West, Basque-language broadcasts. Furthermore, improvements in the Basque school system in Europe make today’s herder more literate than his predecessor. He therefore sends and receives letters and is likely to have a few Basque- and Spanish-language newspapers, magazines, and popular novels, and even a book of poetry. Then, too, there is the occasional herder with a cassette recorder struggling daily with a taped English language lesson. The changes, while not particularly dramatic to the outsider, cause veteran herders to regard the present crop with disdain, dismissing them as pampered neophytes who have never truly experienced the privations of sheepherding. In some little corner of herder’s heaven the old-timers gather to cluck their disapproval, probably with no small measure of envy. Still and all, despite his modern “conveniences” today’s herder continues to lead his life perched on the outer edge of the physical and psychological frontier. While it is possible to catalogue the tangible dangers threatening the sheep band and its custodian – dangers such as drought, blizzard, predation, snake bite, accident, and illness – the herder’s major adversary is the less palpable burden of sheer boredom. Most men subjected to the herder’s lot have denied themselves immediate gratification in favor of long-term personal goals. In a real sense they are “putting in time,” and time weighs heavily upon a man’s soul in the solitude of the open range. Herders sometimes speak of the necessity of slowing down their mental process in order to avoid becoming bitter or anxious as they contemplate the seemingly interminable procession of months or years remaining on their contract. Some carry calendars to mark off the days, much like the convict in his prison cell; others prefer to lose track of time, dividing their awareness into the mini-world of each day’s duties and the larger scheme of the annual cycle of activity. Contemplating a summer in the high country becomes far more relevant (and tolerable) than fixating upon a particular date in August. Lacking the intimacy of regular human contact, the herder develops a special relationship with his animals that is scarcely comprehensible for the urbanite. Rather than shouting at horse, dog, or sheep band, he is more likely to converse with them, sharing the plan and eliciting their cooperation. Efficient management of a sheep band demands total teamwork between man and animals, a balance that is not achieved easily. Some herders have been known to quit when informed by their employers that they were to transfer to another band. Similarly, it is unthinkable to take a herder’s dog from him except at his own request. The herder has other ploys at his disposal as he attempts to retain his sanity. Generations of Basque sheepherders have recorded their presence on the western ranges in enduring fashion. In the high summer country, camp is usually made along stream beds graced by groves of Aspen trees. Over time these trees have become veritable living galleries of images and messages as successive herders note their passing by serrating the back of saplings with a knife. Expansion of the trunk as the tree grows brings out the artist’s intention. Similarly, on the barren, windswept ridges it is not uncommon for the herder to build a pile of rocks. In Basque these are referred to as arri mutillak, or “stone boys.” In such fashion the Basque sheepherder humanizes an otherwise unrelentingly pristine natural environment. Thus, whether wandering through an aspen grove or contemplating a stone monument, he enjoys a certain illusion of not being alone. Rather, despite his solitude, a man can commune with the ghosts of past generations and enjoy some small sense of purpose as he leaves his own mark as a legacy for future herders. |
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