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died right in the middle of the canyon. I was horrified. I was not going to be a rancher who killed cows by running them to death. I resolved to make major changes in our handling of the cattle.
    But how could we get the cattle to change their perception of us? One way was to invest in more cowboys and faster horses. But that would continue to promote unwanted commotion and distress among the animals. Another way was to bait the cattle with feed, a common practice among ranchers. During the year the heifers lived in the pasture growing from six-month-old calves to eighteen-month-old cows, we could go out with a truck, honk the horn, and spread a trail of corn or hay. Over time, the cattle would recognize the sound of the blaring horn, associate it with food, and not get all jittery. But that didn’t address the imminent problem. Cowboys on horseback would still incite panic, and off we would be to the races.
    I decided the next time we weaned calves, we would put them through an intensive gentling program while they were still in the headquarters corrals. Get them to recognize us. The cowboys thought my marbles had bounced on the ground and gotten buried in the dust. But the boys wanted their paychecks. So after we weaned that next group of calves, three cowboys and I saddled up, went into the corral, and talked to those babies. Real calm, real friendly.
    We held the group of 150 in a corral corner, then started driving them down the side. Of course they broke and ran all over the place, so we gathered them again, all the while chatting like we were best friends. Every time we tried to drive them, they’d scatter. Twenty minutes later, the calves were pooped. We gave them a break but came back three more times that day and went through the same drill. After four or five days, the training started to stick. They began to follow a man on horse and a horse’s butt. They no longer feared us. If a calf left the group, one of the cowboys would race after and run her hard, not harming her, just making her uncomfortable. The lesson learned? If you go off on your own, life is uncomfortable; if you stay with the herd, life is good. Pretty soon they’d follow the lead around the corral, then through the gate and out to an adjoining small pasture. It was an exercise in repetitive teaching, like teaching kindergarteners to stay in a line and file into the lunchroom. By the time we turned those cattle out for the year, they were the best-behaved bunch on the ranch.
    I stopped pacing, plunked in my desk chair, and took a sip of cold coffee. “But we still didn’t have proof the training worked,” I said. Les grunted in acknowledgment. I stretched my feet up on the desk. A slice of sunshine hugged the tip of my boot. “During the next twelve months, we’d drive out in a pickup periodically to check on them, make sure the windmill was pumping water, restock their salt supply if necessary. So the time comes to gather them. I take a full crew out, not knowing what to expect because those heifers haven’t seen us on horseback for a year. In the past, when we rode within a half mile, the cattle would look up and rev up their jets. But this time, we get to the half-mile mark, spread out ready for action, and those cows? They don’t lift a head. A quarter mile, and all is calm. I’m about ready to fall off my horse. Now we’re right around the herd and some of those heifers finally glance up as if to say, ‘Oh, hello, it’s you.’ So I say right back to them, ‘Hey girls, glad to see you. Glad you waited for us.’ The cowboys defaulted into their mode for rounding up gentled cattle, and the day ended without a hitch.” My waggling boot knocked over a jar of pencils.
    What had surprised me even more is that when the babies of those heifers grew up, they weren’t afraid of us either. Their mamas did the cowboys’ jobs. Training became twice as easy. The whole program fed on itself and, little by little, year by year, required less