Daughters of Drought

It’s been 28 days since our last rain. I know because I’ve counted on my yellowed old calendar. I know because the last storm was something out of a dream. I almost thought it was a dream. It may as well be one now.  

This last rain, it was one of those storms that rolls in with hours of rumbling warnings, a show that starts like the orchestra of an opera warming up before the first act– a stroke of string that will inevitably send itself into an overture. I heard it first, echoing thunder, around five in the evening, then I smelt it when I was out feeding the cows. There indeed were clouds in the west, and they were steadily starting to occlude the setting sun. Rain, to me, always feels like a blessing because I know we’re always in need of it. I smiled and brushed the errant strands of hay from my face and clothes, counted the cows (six) and ambled over to the rain barrel to give what was left in the bottom to my animals. My cat, Cinder, bounded to me from where she had been playing with my baby cow, Lucas, to come help me with the barrel. That usually just consisted of making sure there weren’t any mice underneath it. She sat and stared at the rim of the barrel that touched the ground, making sure nothing popped out, while I scooped the old water into the cow trough. The cows, having eaten as stereotypically as they could have, paraded into the barn as they sensed the wind pick up. It was time for me to seek shelter, too.   

Just as soon as I crawled under my ragged old quilt around nine, a smatter of rain began to come down. Cinder lay on my stomach, buzzing with more of a snore than a purr. I smiled and thanked God for the wonderful lullaby of kitty and rain with my last breath before falling straight asleep. I dreamt peacefully until I was cracked awake by a thunderclap that shook my house. Cinder was already hiding. The dark of my room became fizzy with flashes of white light– the storm’s symphony was surely at a crescendo. I never was afraid of storms like this. It only felt powerful and, even still, only made me feel gratitude for the moisture we were receiving. I went to the window to see the sheets pour down, and through them, I saw something that did scare me. 

Through one flash, I glanced a wet mess of tan fur moving away from the barn. All my cows were black, so I knew it wasn’t one who had gotten spooked and somehow escaped the pen. This was something else. My heart pounded as I waited for the next flash. I was thinking it could have been a coyote, but I waited for more light to confirm.  

It came seconds later, illuminating the animal that had moved up further up the hill beyond the barn.

Fuck. 

It was a mountain lion, its long, black-tipped tail the only thing visible from the back as it moved. 

I breathed deep as I watched it slink through the lightning like a grotesque stop-motion film. It took about a minute for it to disappear over the hill. I assessed– should I check the cows now while it was still out there? It didn’t seem to have been carrying anything in its mouth. I also felt like I would have heard the cows getting upset had it made it into the barn. I erred toward keeping dry and safe and I would check the cows in the morning.

It was the first thing I did. The clouds had dissipated and now the sun shone through droplets off the trees and fences in my yard. I pulled on my dirty muck boots and ran to the barn. It smells so good out, I thought passingly, but I couldn’t enjoy it until I knew my animals were safe.

Well, three cows were already out of the barn and mooing for their breakfast. None of them were Lucas, though. 

“I know, girls,” I said. “Let me just make sure you’re all here.”  

I entered the barn and the smell changed entirely. Wet cow emanated into my nostrils and my eyes adjusted to the dark. Three black shapes trotted toward me, one of them quite a bit smaller than the others. 

“Thank God,” I’d said aloud as Lucas’ wet nose careened into my hand. “Let’s eat.”         

I did my duties and went back inside to ink a giant raindrop on August 1st to commemorate and track the weather like I usually did. Snow got a snowflake and an inch estimate, rain got a raindrop. Any other anomaly got a star and a note with “hail,” or “fog.” Sunny days were left blank.

I also drew my best rendition of a mountain lion face. I shivered and hoped I never had to draw it again. 

The rain and its scent are just a memory now. 28 days later, the world is dry buffalo grass and cracked soil. The sun, at this point, has left me feeling barren like the days on the calendar. The sun rises in a haze and sets without color. Not only have we not had the rain, it’s been hot. I’ve been letting the cows out from the pen just so they can go find shade underneath the trees and maybe a breeze. The cottonwoods down by the river have begun to lose their leaves near their crowns. They undress in the heat, just like humans. The week after the big storm I wasn’t worried we’d dry out. I held hope for a pregnant sky. I tried to find confidence and sacred solace in the remembrance of monsoon season.  With every day that I devote my time to my ranch, I get more worried and pray for the rain to return. I’ve dealt with drought years before, but they make me feel like I’m on the edge of losing everything. Without water, there’s nothing. 

When I woke up this morning, I knew something was wrong by the feeling of my throat and the smell in my nose. I didn’t even have to look– there was a fire nearby. My worst fear had happened. I jolted and peered through my window to see where it was. Just over the hill where I had seen the lion nearly a month ago was my neighbor, Alice, and her ranch. The fire was definitely somewhere on her property. I ran to my phone that I hadn’t looked at yet. Fortunately, I had a text from her from three hours ago.

“Don’t worry about intentional fire. Cat got two goats last night. Trying to ward her off.”

I stared at my phone. I knew it was the same lion I saw– I felt it. 

“Sorry about the goats,” I replied. Then I just decided to call her. 

“Mornin’, Elsie,” Alice picked up.

“Mornin’, Alice,” I replied. “Although I suppose it’s not a good one. Which goats did she get?”

“Esther and Baby Bell,” Alice sighed. “I found Baby’s leg dropped just over the fence. Esther is just gone.” 

My heart sunk. I knew how much Alice loved her herd of goats. They all had names and I had known most of them since they were kids, too. 

“Shit, Al,” I offered. “I’m so sorry. Do you need me to come over?”

“Nah, honey. I’ve got the hands talking to the Sheriff to get me some flares and pheromones to keep that damn cat away so I don’t have to start the biggest wildfire this state’s ever seen. Sheriff isn’t going to fine me this time for the fire because he feels bad about the goats.”

“I was gonna say, fire’s not the best idea right now,” I looked again at the smoke, seemingly starting to die down.   

“Girl, you’re preaching to the choir. My dumb ass just started it without thinking of anything. Was already going when I realized that I was probably gonna get in trouble or get somebody hurt. I'm having the guys use the rest of my water tank to put it out right now, goddamn it.”

That was the thing about Alice. She was very “shoot now, ask questions later.” I smiled at her, though she couldn’t see. 

“I’m sorry about it, Al. Least we know that your instincts are working.”

She laughed and it sent her into a coughing fit. “Something like that. You need anything, dear? How’s that little Lucas?” 

“Just fine,” I replied. “He’s a big boy now. You should come see him before he gets leased out for breeding.”

I wanted to keep Lucas as a bull because it meant he could breed and not get slaughtered. I was too fond of him for him to become my steak, or anyone else’s, for that matter. 

“Alright, honey. Maybe soon. But right now, I’m gonna go bury Baby’s leg so that the cat won’t come back looking for it.”

“Okay, Alice. I’m so sorry, again. Call me if you see it again or if you need anything.”

“Bye, Els. Me, too. Stay safe. I know you’ve been out with your herd recently, too.”

We hung up and, ironically, I got dressed to do exactly that.      

Although I have my well, it takes a long time and a lot of me pumping for the deep water to swell up to the spout. It’s just as easy to herd the cows down to the river so they can drink their fill. It’s only a half-mile down from the main, now bone-dry, pasture. The river is far below its normal level, more so just a thin braid of creek that slices through the willows at the moment, but it’s been a nice break from the heat. It’s shady and much cooler down there. I think we all enjoy it.

By the time I got outside with my pack full of water for myself and some late breakfast, the smoke had dissipated. Seems like Alice had successfully watered her fire down and I no longer smelled the soot of it.

Man, it was hot. I threw open the gate to let the cows out and they lazily plodded down the hill in the opposite direction of the crest and Alice’s place. They knew where we were going.

Cinder, my loyal shepherding cat, ran from the doorway of the house to come with us. Her pounce startled the cows and they scattered down the hill into the little ravine that held the blessing of water. I chuckled.

We came to the rock-shore of the creek. Moving as just a tiny rivulet now, the clear water barely made any noise between the bushes. I sat down on one of the bigger rocks near the base of my favorite cottonwood tree. It was an old one– if I were to hug it, my arms wouldn’t reach even halfway around its trunk. It had a notch of a hollow at about the midpoint between me and its canopy that I knew sometimes held baby owls– or, at least, that’s what I thought they were. The past summer I had heard them fussing but never saw them. Such is the mystery of nature sometimes.

All six cows moved around me, chomping at the willows that were still plentiful but starting to yellow. I decided to get out my own food. I bit at my sandwich languidly and watched my animals. The cows were happy, and Cinder had found a shady spot in the dirt across the stream to roll around in. I really wouldn’t trade this for any sort of other life. I drank some of my water bottle, leaned against my old cottonwood, and the heat lulled me into sleep.

I woke to the sound of the frantic pounding of hooves on the river rocks. My eyes shot open to see the cows scrambling for the hillside behind me, back towards the pasture and the house. It took less time for them to run up the hill than it did me to come to my senses and stand up. I turned around just in time to see the rumps of a couple of the cows, and Cinder, disappear over the crest of the hill. I hadn’t heard anything before they ran, the meaning of which pooled as a puddle of dread in the middle of my chest. Something was nearby and it could probably see me. I scanned slowly all the way around me, careful not to make any sudden movements. I looked up. Nothing in the trees, nothing near the stream. I made my way, backwards, up the hill to the pasture. When I got up there, I saw my five bovine ladies in the grass and Cinder still sprinting to the porch. I startled the cows as I appeared back over the hill, but once they saw it was me, they relaxed their big eyes and began to try to tear through the dead grass with their big mouths. Where was Lucas?

I half-jogged across the pasture to see if he had gone back to the pen. No sign. He must have still be down at the creek, I thought, somewhere downstream from where we had been. 

I walked the crest of the hill and peered down into the ravine. There was a huge boulder downstream of where we had spent our time that would have prevented me from seeing clearly past it from the bottom of the ravine. However, from the crest, I saw Lucas on the other side of the boulder, legs stanced wide, frozen. I followed his gaze across the ravine. It was then that I heard her. 

The mountain lion was heaving her body in rabid pants down the other side of the ravine. The sound that came from her– some sort of desperate, squeaking grumble– shook a primal part of me. It made my stomach twist. But she was heading straight towards Lucas, and he couldn’t do anything but stare. What I did next was not a thought I had, but rather an action that was moved upon me from something that was not me. I ran down the hill and screamed bloody murder. 

Now, the cat didn’t scare Lucas into a run, but I sure did. He ran straight across the stream and nearly barreled into her. When he realized what creature he almost knocked over, he ran back across the stream and up the hill to where his mom was, stumbling all the way.

The cat didn’t chase him. She simply stopped her walking, and her panting, and settled her yellow eyes directly into mine.

My adrenaline of the previous moments seemed to be gone, or had turned to ice in my muscles.

I’m not supposed to run, I thought. I need to be big, I thought. This is the moment when you need to do what you’ve been taught. 

I couldn’t. My heart finally began to quicken. I squeezed out some form of “Hey..” towards the cat, to which she had no response. And then she began panting again. 

“Hey,” I found within myself again. “Hey!” 

She looked at me quizzically, and began to walk forward.

“HEY!” I finally yelled. She creeped forward, her mouth dripping with each exaggerated breath.

With my yelling having no effect, I threw my arms up and I began to back away. I just wanted to be up that hill. She kept her eyes fastened to me, and was now at the lip of the water. She crouched and lapped greedily as I continued my slow, backwards shuffle. I was as transfixed on her as she was on me. She continued her sips through her breathlessness, and then she quieted. I stopped, too. For the first time in a few minutes, she broke her gaze, and she started to turn away from the water. I watched her put one huge paw in front of the other, breathing normally now, as she padded slowly up the opposite side of the ravine. Her big tail flicked once toward me, some form of dismissal, and she disappeared into the bushes from where she originally appeared. I stood, blinking, heavy, immovable. I realized I still had my arms up. I put them down, finally feeling some sense of bodily normalcy return, and a sob welled up in my throat. 

She was just thirsty. And as much as it hurt Alice, she had only just been hungry, too. 

I cried as I returned to my herd on the hill. I cried as I found my own miniature lion sleeping on the porch, unaware of her kin and the moment I shared with her. I cried as I called Alice and told her the story of how I saw the lion again, but that she was just trying to live. I honestly think I was in shock when I was talking to her, because I don’t remember much. What I do remember is one sentence Alice murmured through the phone: “We all are, honey.”         

And it’s true. We know who shares our river with us.

We’ll all be here, together, for as long as the rain doesn’t fall.

We are all daughters of drought.