My husband, the Sheepherder
When my husband Richard was a little boy on the Navajo Reservation, his mother Amy, would take him out sheepherding. He'd sit around playing with sticks and stones that he called his toys. As he grew older he took the responsibility to watch over the sheep. His mother would send him out with pieces of dried meat and tortillas or fried bread and sometimes dried corn and plenty of water.
Sheepherders take the flocks to water or where there's grazing and good grasses to eat. When he took me down to Cactus Valley he would show me some areas where he would watch his sheep and showed me various types of grass that appealed to them. He talked about his favorite dog Skippy who protected him and helped him.
There were times when mountain lions and wolves would prey upon a lonesome sheep or lamb but Richard was armed with sling shots and rocks he'd hurl at them and yell and sometimes scream for them to leave. He said it was hard work taking the sheep out and not get back for sometimes days at a time.
The first time I went to Cactus Valley on the reservation, I was surprised that the road going down was for a single vehicle and sometimes it would angle down 45 degrees and go back and forth winding precariously making no allowances for other cars. I was glad it wasn't' a busy road. His mother Amy was saddling up to go out with the cattle and had smeared red clay over her face. This was her way of protecting her face from the sun. She was a great horsewoman and handled herself well driving the cattle or tending to the sheep when Richard wasn't there.
Richard took me down further into the canyon that day and showed me the river bed where the cattle would try to get water. It was usually pretty dry in the summer months but with flash floods and monsoon seasons it wouldn't take long to fill up. I loved that canyon, quiet, practically uninhabited, dusty at times but beautiful nonetheless with scrub brush, sage and tall grasses. Richard would say sometimes he'd go down to watch the cattle and couldn't find them because the grass was so tall.
I loved hearing Richard's stories of him growing up and the times he would play cowboys and Indians and use real bows and arrows and guns. He and his brothers would get on horseback and they'd spend an entire afternoon shooting at each other. When his uncle found out, they all were sent to one of the fields and he made them all dig ditches, four feet deep and three feet wide. They all got a whipping for that and never did it again. I guess they just had too much time on their hands.
Sheepherders take the flocks to water or where there's grazing and good grasses to eat. When he took me down to Cactus Valley he would show me some areas where he would watch his sheep and showed me various types of grass that appealed to them. He talked about his favorite dog Skippy who protected him and helped him.
There were times when mountain lions and wolves would prey upon a lonesome sheep or lamb but Richard was armed with sling shots and rocks he'd hurl at them and yell and sometimes scream for them to leave. He said it was hard work taking the sheep out and not get back for sometimes days at a time.
The first time I went to Cactus Valley on the reservation, I was surprised that the road going down was for a single vehicle and sometimes it would angle down 45 degrees and go back and forth winding precariously making no allowances for other cars. I was glad it wasn't' a busy road. His mother Amy was saddling up to go out with the cattle and had smeared red clay over her face. This was her way of protecting her face from the sun. She was a great horsewoman and handled herself well driving the cattle or tending to the sheep when Richard wasn't there.
Richard took me down further into the canyon that day and showed me the river bed where the cattle would try to get water. It was usually pretty dry in the summer months but with flash floods and monsoon seasons it wouldn't take long to fill up. I loved that canyon, quiet, practically uninhabited, dusty at times but beautiful nonetheless with scrub brush, sage and tall grasses. Richard would say sometimes he'd go down to watch the cattle and couldn't find them because the grass was so tall.
I loved hearing Richard's stories of him growing up and the times he would play cowboys and Indians and use real bows and arrows and guns. He and his brothers would get on horseback and they'd spend an entire afternoon shooting at each other. When his uncle found out, they all were sent to one of the fields and he made them all dig ditches, four feet deep and three feet wide. They all got a whipping for that and never did it again. I guess they just had too much time on their hands.
Copyright, 2008, Kathryn Tyler Little
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