I’ve been sharing several photos in a Scenes from the Ranch post every week or two over on social media. These snapshots capture a few events in our daily lives to give our friends, supporters and customers an idea of what life is like out here on the prairie of central Montana. I’ve been less interested in social media myself lately, and realize that some of our supporters may enjoy reading our Scenes from the Ranch outside of those platforms. So here is my first blog share of the same content – just some little snippets of our lives on the ranch.

Like many ranchers, we weaned our calves at the end of October. We fence line wean, which is a gentle and healthy way to separate the calves from their mothers. The cows are able to visit and make nose-to-nose contact across the fence, which prevents nursing. Slowly they all settle into the new normal, and the cows eventually wander off in search of fresh grass. We’ll keep the heifer calves to replace aging cows, and the steers will be butchered at about two years of age for our direct-to-consumer beef sales.

The snow and cold last week made from some great cross-country skiing! Maverick and I enjoyed adventures up on the prairie while the blanket of snow lasted. We’re relieved to see a thick coat of snow on the Snowy Mountains in the distance too. Hopefully it recharges the Musselshell River, which was running low and slow by the end of the summer.

We took the team on a 10-mile drive over to a neighbor’s farm to pick up a load of small straw bales last month. We use straw in the barn as bedding and in the chicken coop so it feels good to have a supply stacked under the eaves of the barn before winter. It was a wonderful adventure to travel so far with the team!

I lucked upon this beautiful bird wing impression in the snow while it was still fresh and powdery. The wing prints were big enough to be from a great horned owl. We’ve been hearing one in the trees behind the house in the evenings.

Our latest e-newsletter is hot off the press! Click here to read it now.

I’m delighted to be featured alongside several phenomenal women in the Audubon Conservation Ranching program. They are highlighting women ranchers in honor of Women’s History month. Following is my profile.

Rancher Name: Heather Bilden

Audubon Certified Bird Friendly Ranch: Coulee Creek Ranch

Location: Lavina, Montana

What is your favorite bird and why?

This is a tough question! It’s like asking me to pick my favorite color – my answer depends on my mood, my surroundings, and the season. In this moment, my favorite bird is the Common Redpoll. Large flocks of them have been descending on our yard every morning for the past few weeks. It is fascinating to watch them move in unison: landing, eating, and then taking off abruptly only to land again just a stone’s throw away. I love their bright red caps and the variety of reddish hues on the males’ chests (what the field guide aptly refers to as a “variable pink wash”). If you ask me in a month, I’ll likely say my favorite bird is the Sandhill Crane, which will be returning to Montana by mid-March. Their rattling calls will echo across the prairie for months and become part of the fabric of our daily lives. We have the pleasure of watching a pair raise their young in our pastures every year, and the transformation that occurs in just six short months is marvelous.

What conservation projects are you working on right now?

This summer we are excited to begin a trial of multi-species grazing with our new flock of Icelandic sheep. About five years ago, we subdivided 4 large pastures into 14 smaller units. We now rotate our cattle more frequently to spread grazing pressure evenly across the landscape and incorporate periods of rest for each pasture. Cattle and sheep prefer different types of plants, and grazing them in succession can improve pasture quality, decrease weeds, and increase biodiversity. Raising sheep will also give us the opportunity to diversify our income stream and provide lamb and wool to our community.

Any advice for women looking to pursue a career in ranching?

It has been vital to me to find and nurture community. Living in rural areas can feel isolating. Our business is just my husband and myself, so we often go through our day-to-day lives without seeing other people. But even in our small community, there are always neighbors that we can call on to help us when we’re in a pinch, and to whom we are eager to lend a hand. I’ve also found a tremendously supportive community in the Women in Ranching program coordinated by the Western Landowners Alliance. Virtual calls, email conversations, and annual gatherings bring this group together. I have a network of knowledgeable, inspiring, and compassionate women ranchers with me wherever I go!

What’s your dream job?

I’m doing it! Being a rancher and selling beef directly to consumers is a dynamic job that keeps me on my toes. I love working outdoors – moving the herd, checking water tanks, and feeding with our team. Even fencing has its moments! I also love connecting with our customers at farmer’s markets and through weekly deliveries to Billings. People in Montana often have stories to share about growing up on ranches and working with horses. Or they may be new to it all and are curious to learn what it’s like to live on a ranch. I enjoy talking with people about the animals we raise, and the connection between healthy landscapes and nutritious food. I also love how our work on the ranch is deeply connected to the seasons. It is very grounding to have routines that we repeat in harmony with nature’s cycles.

Support Coulee Creek Ranch

If you live in the Billings, Lavina, or Bozeman area, you’re in luck! Coulee Creek Ranch will deliver your online order or you can visit a Billings Farmers Market near you during the summer months.

Head over to the Audubon Conservation Ranching page to learn about the other women in the program.

We have just a few 1/8th beef boxes left for delivery in March. Place your order today HERE.

Every morning we pass the lone goose. He has been there waiting on the banks of Coulee Creek for a couple of weeks. He is attentive and as we go by his long neck turns to keep one eye focused on us. My heart breaks for him. Geese mate for life and I fear the worst has happened to his partner. How the minutes must drag into hours and days as he waits for her arrival! How long will he sit there at the bend in the creek before he gives up? And then what? How does a lone goose find a new mate in late spring on the prairie? Wherever I look, pairs are hunkered down together preparing nests and incubating their eggs. If there is a goose singles pond, it is a well kept secret. 

I hiked upstream from the lone goose’s hangout earlier this spring. Not far away, perhaps only a quarter mile, I found the remains of a dead goose. At the time, I marveled at the lightweight bones, the unique fused pelvic girdle, and the wide, long feathers that were piled together in a heap. Probably made a good meal for the coyotes, I thought. But now as my heart breaks for the lone goose, I wonder if that pile of bones was his partner. The cycles of nature make sense to me intellectually; some animals die so that others may live. But when I see the lone goose again each morning, I ache. 

There is a delicate balance that keeps the web of life perfectly in tune. We exist as part of this web, though you wouldn’t know it while walking around on pavement in the cities or down brightly lit grocery store aisles, selecting perfectly picked and packaged food that has traveled the world to our tables. Out here in the country, we are no longer just consumers. We are an authentic part of something bigger. It is not as tidy as human society. It is messier, with the raw spots open to the wind, rain and sun. Fairy tales with predictable happy endings have no place out here. 

How can I reconcile the immense joy nature brings me with the death that is an integral part of the system? I have put wildlife out of its misery when it was evident that the alternative was a long slow death. With a shovel in hand and tears running down my cheeks, I have beheaded fatally-wounded naked baby birds. I cannot answer the question of whether there is life after death, heaven or hell, nirvana or reincarnation for myself, nor for the baby birds who lived but a short while on this earth. Those greater questions go unanswered, floating away on drifting clouds. What feels right when faced with death is deep reverence for the life that was. And so I end each mercy killing with a burial, the placing of the body within the earth from which it came. Here it will decompose and spring forward as life anew. I tuck the bodies away where flies won’t consume the flesh, laying eggs that emerge as naked fat white grubs where once there grew magnificent feathers. Is this my fascination with tidy endings, the human attachment to neatly packaged goods and ideas rearing its head? Or – quite possibly – my actions spring from an innate desire to weave together the loose ends of the web of life, completing nature’s perfect pattern. 

Yesterday a swarm of bees on our gate post, and today I took some time to write…

“Maybe the sun will shine today” croons the smooth male voice on the radio. I can hear the rain over the music. It is coming down in steady sheets, hammering the roof and windows. An unusual north wind blows strong, barreling down the coulee where we live.  

Part of the garden is planted. The seeds tucked neatly under the earth. Rows of beets, spinach, and beans are gladly soaking up the moisture. Meanwhile, the young tomatoes and cukes hunch miserably under white cloaks that shield them from the worst of the wind. Of all the things to plant on Saturday, those went in the ground first! The peppers and pumpkins starts have a prime spot up on a card table in the wood shed. They are cold, but safe from the buffeting winds and from curious chickens. 

Yet it’s been so soggy the chickens haven’t gone ten feet from the coop today. The dogs and I took a short walk to the garden and on down the driveway to the end. We  looped back along the cliffs on the southeast side of the coulee. By the time we returned to the cabin we were drenched. Now they sleep, curled tightly on their beds by the fire. And I sit enjoying a day of rest while it rains. There is nowhere else I’d rather be. 

Here comes our single digit winter, descending on us with brisk, stiff winds. The mercury plummets as nature rages outside. No doubt about it, we are privileged to block the buffeting wind out so completely. The roof shakes and the windows rattle. My mind turns to the animals outdoors – a small blanket of snow, groves of trees, and rock outcroppings all make temporary shelters from the wind. They are better adapted to the cold than I. Tomorrow I won’t venture out for long.

It is the first evening of February, now well after dark, and I am cozied up on the couch under blankets while the fire blazes.

And yet, just yesterday in January, I strolled across the prairie in balmy 50 degree weather. How can I capture the tenderness of that moment? It was so very still. I paused to breath and a raven called. It rose out of the pine coulee in front of me and floated overhead, drifting across a patchwork of sky and clouds. The naked prairie was dotted with bright golden snakeweed. Far to the north the Snowy Mountains jutted above the prairie, crystal clear and blanketed in snow. I could see for miles.

At times, I’m cloistered in by the cold and snow. Winter weather takes me on a rollercoaster ride of possibility. Tonight I huddle close to the fire with gratitude.

Oh, November! Following on the heels of the golden glory that was October, you feel utterly oppressive. It is as if you have pulled a cold grey blanket across the sky, and tucked it in close to the earth.

Goodbye to the sun! It has slipped so far to the south that our bodies could no longer make vitamin D even if it were to show its glowing face. Goodbye to the brightly colored leaves that delighted my eyes as fading chlorophyll revealed hidden carotenoids and anthocyanins. A few dry leaves yet cling to their branches, colored only by basic brown tannins. Goodbye to all the wild things that busied themselves this last month getting ready for winter. No more caterpillars, crickets, millipedes, nor spiders, which just a few weeks ago had the prairie crawling with life. A handful of hard frosts later and the earth is still.

We have made our preparations too. Hay is baled and stacked. Firewood is split. Strawberry plants are tucked under a blanket of straw. Hoses and sprinklers are empty, wound up out of the way. A new addition to our shed offers protection to our machinery and other sundry goods. We have tidied up our outdoor lives as we move the focus indoors.

With the turning back of our clocks, it is light earlier, a welcome change. At the other end of the day, it is dark soon after five. Time to seek refuge by the fire and eat hearty meals that chase the cold away. Time to lengthen our slumber and give thanks for the roof over our heads. Another busy season has passed. We’ve circled around the sun into the chilly dark days of winter.