The best cheeseburger of my life was at a diner near Mt. Whitney after my college roommate and I hiked the mountain in one long day. (The Coke was pretty damn good too.) Of course, that cheeseburger could have tasted like cardboard and I would have given up three years of my life for a bite at the time. My tastes are always most acute when they are most starved, and that includes the metaphysical ones. I chalk this up to growing up Catholic. I'll sin like everyone, but I like to justify my sins and dole them out as rewards for hardships. For this trip, that means I only eat out if I've been slumming it for a bit. I've had two full breakfasts so far, on days after I slept in the car. Bacon tastes much better without a shower.
I give in for a cheeseburger in Edmonton, off Wayne Gretzky Drive. (Isn't there something wrong with naming a street after someone living?) The best part is giving Faulkner the last little bite, while he waits there salivating in the back seat for the whole meal. He probably doesn't connect the burger with the cows we've been seeing, but I do. I've spent the last two days on a ranch outside Vermilion, Alberta, and I've learned a thing or two about cattle.
The drive from Deloraine, Manitoba to Alberta was a steady transition from Great Plains to the West. I'm placed back in my womb of the asphalt hum. Feed cows give way to cattle. Flatness gives way to rolling hills and the treeless expanse gives birth to spots of aspen and fir. It's been over 8 years since I've been properly "West" and the atmosphere is strangely familiar ... The West of steady winds, blood on railroad tracks, toothless old men thumbing rides, barroom fights and rusted barbed wire.
This ranch operates as a bed & breakfast (though there were no idyllic couples there while I visited) and a campsite next to a lake. I meet the caretakers Jen and Clay, who are "common law" husband and wife - whatever that means - and Frank, the owner of the ranch. I spend the night sharing cigarettes and beer with Jen and Clay and their 3 dogs. Before I'm ready to take off, I meet Frank and he notes that they're going to brand the new calves today - would I like to help?
These calves are actually about a year old, and Frank has just bought them at auction. They not only need to be branded but (as it turns out) castrated as well! A specialist is coming in from town to do the job. Frank's cattle dog, Tonto, herds the calves into a pen, and from the pen we herd them into a chute, placing large wood blocks between each calf as they head in. Some calves (the ones still with their balls) sense the imminent doom and buck like hell. The toughest ones snap the wood blocks like toothpicks.
The castration process is remarkably easy. First, you lift the tail of the calve while it's stuck in the chute and twist it over the back. This somehow numbs the groin, though how someone first determined this, I have no idea. Once numbed, you grab the balls and slice them open like one of those plastic egg purses. Finally, you pull the "prairie oysters" out and clamp them down with a tool (picture attached for the squeamish) to chop off the nuts. Easier said than done. Finally, some of the cattle need to be branded, and others need their nascent horns covered with disinfectant. The smell of burnt hair fills the air with pungent sweetness.
I should note that Faulkner still has his balls, but he sensed the palpable fear and hid out underneath the pick-up truck most of the afternoon. Once, when he wanders too close to the pen, I pick him up from behind and he yelps out loud. I'm sure he thought he was next ... It takes some time to calm him down afterwards. In fact, he doesn't really calm down until I share that bite of a cheeseburger with him at Edmonton. I promise him that they'll be no trip to the ASPCA for the
time being.
-Tom
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