At the Ranch - The Idaho Rancher's Wife

The Fine Line Between High Expectations and Room to Grow

September 16, 2026 by Allison Eliason Leave a Comment

Every year we grow a pivot of corn to turn the cattle into when the snow starts to fly. The tall stalks provide great feed without the cows having to search for it beneath the snow. It also saves days of feeding hay that we’re more than willing to keep stacked in the yard.

Rather than turn the cows out on the entire field, we portion the corn into smaller sections so they’ll clean up the feed before moving to the next. Using an electric fence, it’s a fairly simple process to rotate around the field every week or so—simple enough that even the littlest ranchers come out to help.

We start by mowing down the strip where the fence will go, making sure there isn’t anything that will touch the wire and ground it out. Then we string the wire across the field, getting an idea of where the fence will sit before pounding in the small fiberglass posts.

The one challenge with doing this in the winter is that more often than not, the ground is frozen, making it surprisingly difficult to pound in even those little posts. It’s frustrating for any rancher, but especially for a young one.

Last winter was no exception. After wrestling with another stubborn post, our youngest son stopped, looked up at me, and asked, “Do I have to do it as good as you?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer. And I’ve thought about that simple question many times since.

As far as the job itself goes, the answer is yes. The fence has to work. A post that’s only halfway in won’t keep the wire standing, and a fence that won’t stand won’t keep cattle where they belong. The cows don’t care whether the fence was built by a ranch mom or a seven-year-old. But at the same time, how could I possibly expect someone with only a fraction of my experience to do the job exactly the way I do?

That question follows us through almost every season on the ranch.

This summer our sixteen-year-old has been doing much of the swathing. For the most part, he has done an excellent job. One afternoon, though, my husband and I drove through one of the fields and noticed several narrow strips of hay left standing between the swaths and I was surprised. He had enough experience to know not to miss them. We found ourselves asking, “What was he doing for that to happen?”

The easy response would have been frustration. After all, those missed strips meant the job wasn’t done right. Instead, they became a conversation.

Was he distracted? Was he watching behind him instead of ahead? Was he trying to hurry before the weather changed? Whatever the reason, it became another lesson that couldn’t have been taught nearly as well from the pickup seat as it was from seeing the results in the field.

I’ve come to realize that raising kids on a ranch means constantly walking the line between maintaining high expectations and allowing room for growth. The standard itself can’t change because the work matters. Cattle still need to stay in the pasture. Hay still needs to come off before the storm. Equipment still needs to be cared for.

But the teaching changes.

Sometimes it means explaining the job one more time. Sometimes it means slowing down when we’d rather hurry. Sometimes it means pulling out a crooked fence post and trying again. We don’t lower the standard. We simply recognize that learning is part of meeting it. I’ve always believed people tend to rise to the expectations placed before them. If we expect very little, we often get very little. But if we expect our children to do meaningful work—to contribute, to be responsible, and to solve problems—they will do it.

This fine line between high expectations and allowing room for growth isn’t one you only find on the ranch with budding ranchers. It’s everywhere we find people trying new things, given new responsibilities, or growing into their opportunities. Yes, the child learning to pound fence posts and teenagers learning to swath hay, but also a new employee learning a trade, a first time volunteer trying to find their footing, or even ourselves stepping into something we’ve never done before.

Maybe that’s why I’ve kept coming back to our son’s question. “Do I have to do it as good as you?” I think the answer is both yes and no.

Yes, because the work still matters. A fence still has to hold cows. Hay still has to come off the field. The job still needs to be done right. But no, because becoming capable takes time. Experience isn’t something we’re born with; it’s something we earn one lesson, one mistake, one conversation, and one success at a time.

I’ve come to believe that holding high expectations and extending grace aren’t opposites. In fact, I think they belong together. High expectations give us something to grow toward. Grace gives us room to get there.

Maybe that’s the balance we’re all trying to find—not lowering the standard, but recognizing that today’s learner, if they’re willing to keep trying, can become tomorrow’s expert.

Direct-to-Consumer Beef Is a Lane, Not the Highway

August 26, 2026 by Allison Eliason Leave a Comment

Every time the beef industry finds itself in another conversation about cattle prices, meatpackers and the future of the American rancher, one solution seems to come up again and again: Why don’t consumers just buy their beef directly from ranchers?

On the surface, it makes sense and a win for both sides. Consumers get what they want straight from the producer, giving them confidence in what they are buying. On the producer side, bypassing middle man from the feedlots to the meatpackers, ranchers could keep more of the money and have more control over where their cattle go.

Direct-to-consumer beef is a great option, and for some producers it is a successful business model. But as someone who lives in the middle of the beef industry, I know firsthand it isn’t the simple solution it is sometimes made out to be.

Our operation, like thousands of others across the country, is a cow-calf operation. We raise calves, manage genetics, care for our rangeland and work to produce healthy cattle before weaning them and starting the cycle over again. That’s where our experience, infrastructure, labor and capital are invested.

What we aren’t set up to do is retain ownership of those calves for another year or more, background them, manage finishing rations, absorb the additional feed and weather risk, arrange slaughter dates, ensure USDA-inspected processing, handle cold storage and distribute beef to consumers.

Instead we specialize in our part of the chain and send our beef on. That’s why feedlots exist. That’s why processors exist. The different parts of the beef industry were developed around different areas of expertise, and there is efficiency in that specialization.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Direct-to-consumer beef absolutely has a place. It can work well for smaller or diversified operations, producers who want to vertically integrate, and niche markets such as freezer beef or grass-fed programs. For the right operation, it can be a profitable and meaningful way to connect directly with consumers.

But it isn’t a realistic alternative for the majority of cow-calf producers, and it isn’t capable of replacing the broader beef supply chain. The average American family isn’t buying a whole beef at a time. Grocery stores and restaurants need a consistent supply of individual cuts of beef, and moving that much beef from ranches to consumers requires a much larger system. Asking every cow-calf producer to become a feedlot, processor, cold-storage facility and distributor doesn’t solve the problem. It simply moves an enormous and unnecessary amount of financial and logistical risk onto the rancher.

That doesn’t mean the current system doesn’t have problems.

The beef industry operates under a packing sector dominated by a few large companies, and decisions made by those companies have a direct effect on cattle producers. Plant closures, changes in slaughter schedules and reduced competition all have the potential to change the market a rancher is selling into.

That’s where I think the conversation needs to be.

Rather than suggesting that every rancher find a way to sell directly to consumers, we should be looking at how to create more competition within the existing system—through regional processing capacity, better price transparency, meaningful price discovery and antitrust enforcement that actually protects competition.

I don’t want to discount direct-to-consumer beef. I like knowing where my food comes from, and I understand why consumers want that connection with the people raising it. But we also have to recognize that the beef industry is made up of a lot of different operations, each filling a different role.

Direct-to-consumer beef is a lane. It just isn’t the highway.

If we want a strong American beef industry for the future, we need solutions that work not just for the rancher selling a few beef directly to families, but for the thousands of cattle producers whose job is to raise the cattle that eventually become the beef on all of our tables.

A Letter to a Teacher

August 20, 2026 by Allison Leave a Comment

Dear Teacher of My Ranch Kid, Four Years Later,

Well, here we are again. Four years ago, I wrote you a letter apologizing for my ranch kid. I warned you that after a summer spent on the ranch instead of buried in books, there was a chance they might walk into your classroom a little behind.

I owe you an update.

The ranch kid has grown up a little. The ranch has continued its very unconventional educational program. We still don’t do worksheets. We still don’t have a summer reading schedule. And I can confidently say that nobody has ever handed my ranch kid a packet and said, “Complete problems 1–25 before lunch.”

Instead, the ranch has continued teaching lessons that don’t come with a grade. For starters, the ranch has provided an advanced course in responsibility. Cattle don’t care if you’re tired. Calves don’t care if you have plans. A broken fence doesn’t care if it’s 100 degrees outside. Hay certainly doesn’t care that you were up late the night before.

Apparently, this is one of the ranch’s favorite lessons because it always seems to be taught when no one really wants to learn it. If we were to give a grade, we might not have quite earned an A+ yet, but thankfully we can be sure we are always enrolled in that class.

The ranch kid has learned that hard work doesn’t always look impressive as much as they try to glam it up. Let’s be honest, as some of the youngest ranchers on the job, they get the grunt work. And that’s on purpose. The only way for them to truly appreciate the air conditioned tractor is by racking up countless hours in the hot sun from the seat of an open cab tractor. Or jobs like moving hand lines, picking rock, and pulling rye. It’s character building, at least that is what grandpa used to say.

The ranch has also provided a practical education in problem-solving. I can’t say that all of the problems were of natural happenstance. Yes, cows get out of their own accord, and equipment has their own break downs. But getting stuck in the mud because you were sure the four wheeler would make it through 8 inches of mud could definitely be avoided.

Out here, there isn’t always an answer key and dad is rarely available to come to the rescue, if you even want him to know there is a problem. We may laugh at the amount of used barbed wire, baling twine and duct tape is used to fix a problem but this is what we call critical thinking.

This summer has also offered an extensive course in agriculture economics. The ranch kid has learned that money doesn’t magically appear because you need something. Or especially, when they just want something. The bumpy field can’t just be dug up, smoothed out, and replanted. Renting a rock picker is much more expensive than the free labor of ranch youth. Buying a new swather really would be nicer than fixing up the old one but just isn’t in this year’s budget. And maybe not in the next five.

When in doubt, fix it up and make do. I return to the bailing twine and duct tape.

We had a more advanced course in consequences now that we are taking on more responsibility. These lessons were not the theoretical kind. More like the immediate kind. Leave a gate open on the coop? You get to gather the wild chickens. You stay up late playing? The work still starts with the sun and now you get to do it tired. Haphazardly drop your phone in the storage tank? You get to go swimming for it.

The ranch has a… lasting way of making cause and effect remarkably clear.

One of the most needed lessons on the ranch has been the ongoing course in patience. We need to retake this class. Breakdowns, breachy cows, and consistently overdrawn timelines have provided plenty of class time. Most test days proved that patience is short and had an inverse effect on language. In essence, less patience resulted in more curse words and yelling. I’m going to turn to you for lessons on more appropriate synonyms, better grammar, and complete sentences. I don’t know if that will help our course in patience but at least communications might improve.

There has been a fair amount of science, too. Not always the kind with goggles and carefully controlled experiments. Usually ones like- the purpose of locking a trailer to the hitch is to keep it secured and avoid bouncing off as we drive across the bumpy range. Another has been to painstakingly following the path of electricity to the broken taillights to find why in tarnation they aren’t working. Getting older has also meant a more advanced class of reproduction. Let’s just say we solidly know where babies of ALL species come from and could even explain IVF.

Perhaps the most valuable lesson the ranch continues to teach is confidence. Not the loud, “I know everything” kind. Yes, we still have some of that. But I’m talking about the quiet kind. The kind that comes from being trusted with something important and realizing you can handle it. A ranch kid who once followed someone else around eventually becomes the person a younger sibling now follows. The kid who once needed every step explained eventually gets handed a job and told, “You know what to do.”

That lesson doesn’t fit neatly on a report card. Neither does learning to show up when you’re tired. Or to finish what you started. Or to take responsibility when something goes wrong. Or to keep working when the job isn’t fun anymore. Or to recognize that the work you do today may not pay off for months. Those are lessons the ranch teaches exceptionally well.

So, Teacher, when my ranch kid walks into your classroom in a few short days, I may not need to apologize quite as much as I did four years ago. The summer reading list may still have been more of a suggestion than a schedule and the handwriting may still leave something to be desired. And there is a very good chance the backpack contains something that should have been thrown away several months ago.

But my ranch kid learned. Teacher, I’ll let you handle the books, the essays, the equations and everything else that happens inside those four walls. We’ll keep working on the things that happen outside them. Between the two of us, I think we might just have this education thing figured out.

Sincerely,

A Still-Proud Ranch Mom

More Than a Kid Horse

June 23, 2026 by Allison

These old ranch horses might not be worth much on paper—but I wouldn’t trade them for anything.

Our kids have put in the miles on their horses these last few months, jumping in to work with the crew almost like they were grown cowboys and cowgirls. In a way that can only make a ranch momma’s heart swell, they have put in the long days right by our side, coming home hot, tired, and dusty.

This could be a note about how proud I am of them, and don’t get me wrong, I am. But I’m also grateful for those four-legged partners that have carried them across the range all those long days. Looking back, I can see countless times those kid horses earned their keep in ways that had nothing to do with getting the actual work done.

Having a determined child who was not about to wait to enter the branding pen meant that we had to have a horse that was ready, willing, and able to take care of him in any situation. We needed to put him on a mount we knew we could turn our backs on and everything would turn out okay, every time. It wasn’t until midway through the season that I realized we had chosen just the right mare for the job.

On this particular branding day, we were short-handed, battling the wind, and had already tallied half a dozen days out on the range working. My boy was eager to swing into the saddle and start roping. Following his dad, he scooped up heels left and right as they teamed up to bring in the calves. It was almost like he couldn’t miss.

As every kid does, he wanted to “do it himself,” meaning he wanted to heel a calf and drag it from the herd to the fire all on his own. After finding a calf paired up, he threw his shot, managed a catch, and stacked his dallies only to learn he had caught the calf by just one foot. Startled by the rope, the calf started running around, ducking right behind his horse.

It wasn’t the first time this had happened in the branding pen that day, but it was the first time it had happened to him, and he wasn’t sure what to do. Without even being told, that mare simultaneously did two things to take care of the situation. First, she tucked her tail under faster than you could blink to keep from getting “rim fired.” At nearly the same time, she spun around to keep the calf in front of her, avoiding the kind of tangled wreck that can happen in a hurry.

I was a little amazed that this simple ranch horse had it in her to navigate what could have been a really tricky situation. We knew she would take care of our boy while roping—trailing the calf right, stopping when he went to dally, and dragging it to the fire—but we didn’t realize she was ready to keep him square in the saddle in just about any circumstance.

It isn’t only in the branding pen that I have seen these kid horses step up to take care of my kids. With all of the spring and summer turnouts and cattle drives, even our littlest is game to come along and ride. It’s exciting that even at seven years old he wants to brave a long, dusty day on horseback, but it is also worrisome. I’m always torn between the help I need to give and the responsibility I have as a momma to keep them safe.

When the kids are riding along with me, I work hard to take the best route for them, keep them close, and avoid leaving them behind if I can help it. Every once in a while I have to gather in a stray pair or bring up a pocket of cows to the herd. Usually they trail along together and everything turns out great.

But lately my independent child has decided he wants to be the one to go after the stray animals. Without a word, he will spur up his horse, duck into the trees, and be gone before I know it. Then, not long after, he will pop back out trailing the cattle he went in after. I used to worry in those moments, but I’ve learned that trusty steed has things under control. Now, instead of fretting that everything is okay, I’m full of pride when I see what my little cowboy can do.

These old ranch horses might not be worth much on paper—they aren’t fancy bred, haven’t won any awards, and probably wouldn’t catch anyone’s eye. But I wouldn’t trade them for anything. Their value isn’t measured in dollars. It’s measured in confidence, independence, and peace of mind.

They are the horses that teach kids how to work, how to solve problems, and how to handle responsibility. They are the horses that bring them home safe after a long day, forgive their mistakes, and quietly take care of them when Mom and Dad can’t be right beside them. Around here, those old kid horses have carried far more than calves and cowboys across the range. They’ve carried my greatest treasures, and that’s worth more than anything money can buy

All Bluff or All Fight

June 12, 2026 by Allison

Some cows just throw dirt and make a lot of noise. Others mean every bit of it.

Having spent my whole life around cows, it takes a lot for one to make me nervous. I’ve seen my share of cows that have a big bluff, but little fight. They throw some dirt, put their head up in the air, and beller, but that’s all they do. This spring however, I’ve had more than enough opportunities to learn the line between all bluff and all fight.

Let’s back up for context. My husband and I had an opportunity fall in our collective lap that allowed us to buy a few cows of our own. With the busy spring work, I knew the feeding, checking, and tagging would likely fall on my chore list, something I was actually excited about. I figured the kids could pile on the 4-wheeler with me so we could trail through the cows, count and tag the newborns, then put a bale in the feeder each day.

It was all a pretty simple plan. Which should have been my first warning.

I learned very quickly that these cows had what I can only describe in a positive way as strong mothering instincts. Red Angus are known for their maternal traits. Some of them are apparently overachievers, a fact I learned firsthand as I sat holding a calf while its mother came sprinting at me, bellowing for the whole herd to hear.

I’ll admit the first few times those momma cows got loud and in my face, my heart thumped a few extra beats. Regardless of the adrenaline surge, I got my work done quickly and unscathed. I might have even patted myself on the back on a few of the rowdier, nose-to-nose cows. And the silver lining, those moments helped me form a very informed opinion of which cows were worth keeping and which were definitely on the cull list.

With a handful of calves on the ground, we began loading them up and taking them to summer pasture, a chance to see a whole new side of them. A side I didn’t like at all.

More than once we had to take a deep breath and regroup when the handful of pairs we were bringing into the corral scattered like chickens with a fox in the coop. As the weeks wore on, we had to change tactics just to get the cows in the corral and still live to tell about it.

The first of our ornery cows was #41. We knew from day one she was full of more than bluff. Her calf had slipped through the wire fence, a blessing in disguise. I opted to tag the calf first before pushing it through, and I was glad I did because the fence was the only thing standing between me and a very unpleasant introduction.

When it was her turn to be sorted, #41 ducked and dodged us more times than I could count. And then she got mad, a moment I distinctly remember because she turned straight for my son on his motorbike with every intention of causing damage. My momma bear instincts kicked in and all rational decision-making left the building. Let’s just say we both won that fight—she didn’t end up in the corral, but I got in enough good licks to feel vindicated. The 4-wheeler may tell the story differently.

#41 must have sensed we meant business when we showed up on horseback with ropes in hand, because she trotted right into the corral without a fuss. We thought maybe we had turned the corner. Turns out she was just lulling us into a false sense of security, because when it came time to load her in the trailer she reminded us of her deep-seated hatred for us. After just a few steps into the pen, that darn cow threw her head in the air and had us hopping the fence like a jackrabbit with a pack of cow dogs on it.

Obviously we lived to tell the tale—a tale highlighted by the fact that bluff was a five-letter word that five-letter cow didn’t know.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t even the worst of them. A week later we went to move another group of cows, and had an encounter with one that was lucky we still turned right to pasture instead of left to the butcher shop. I had my suspicions early on about #34, but had excused her high-headed chase after a long haul from Montana and a trip through the chute to be branded. She was loud and snorty tagging her calf, but not the worst of the bunch.

#34 was on my keep-an-eye-on-her list, but thirty seconds into the day she graduated to the don’t-turn-your-back-on-her list. She walked into the corral pleasant as could be, then promptly turned to run back out the gate, smashing the motorbike that attempted to block her way in the process. Since we don’t back down from a fight, we “convinced” her back into the corral where the fight continued. It might have taken an hour to get her loaded, perched on the fence the whole time, but we won in the end. I’m still not convinced the butcher shop wasn’t the better option.

The following day we had a few of the last heifers to run through the chute, and they too thought we’d enjoy scaling the fence. I don’t know if there was a sign on our backs that said “Try me!” or what, but apparently word had spread through the herd. In a small moment of fatigue, I might have shouted, “I’m so tired of being chased at!”

There are only a few left to turn out, and my hopes are high that the worst is over. If nothing else after a spring spent climbing fences, dodging charging cows, and wondering if there was a bounty on my head, I’ve come to a conclusion: some cows are all bluff, some cows are all fight, and fences exist for a reason.

Back at the Ranch: Lookout Livestock Branding Day

April 20, 2026 by Allison Eliason

Most branding days we’re up early and headed out for a long drive to wherever the cows are running on the desert range. But once a year, we get to stay a little closer to home—saddling up and heading straight out the gate for Lookout Livestock branding day.

This herd is relatively new to us. About seven years ago, a neighbor approached us about buying him out, and knowing opportunities like that don’t come around often, we jumped at the chance to expand right here close to home. We decided to keep things separate from our other herd, forming a new operation with its own name and brand.

Even though we’ve only been running these cows a few short years, it didn’t take long for things to fall into place, including the annual branding. We have great help, great food, which lends to a great time!

Reservations and Runaway Cows

February 18, 2026 by Allison

Ranch romance doesn’t always look like candlelight.

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

We had Valentine’s plans…

But the cows broke through!

Boots polished, hair in place,

Dressed up for our night,

Reservations waiting

Under the city lights.

But then we saw them—

Or maybe we didn’t,

A herd of wild backsides

Slipping out of sight.

Nothing says romance

Like a runaway cow chase,

Down the winding highway,

Our hearts racing to match the pace.

Flying out of the pickup

Before it came to a stop,

I’m fairly certain

The Rancher thought I was hot.

Finally to dinner,

Out on the town,

With a hint of manure

Dusting my cowgirl gown.

Maybe this is romance,

Rough, wild, and true—

A night just for us,

Until the cows break through.

It was cloudy and starting to get dark—no surprise we were running a little later than we’d hoped for our Valentine’s night. It didn’t take long to see the cows had broken through the fence… again. And for no real reason except that they wanted more than what they already had, as cows often do.

With a curse and a grumble under his breath, The Rancher sped down the road to get around them. It didn’t take much to shift gears and get them moving the opposite direction, but with cows spilling off the road into the borrow pit, I realized I needed to hop out and chase on foot. Of course my fancy town booties were NOT the footwear of choice, but there was little to do except go regardless of tweaked ankles or scuffs.

It wasn’t long before others realized the problem and joined in, everyone feeling the frustration of a herd that never quite stays settled. Of course they wouldn’t all simply go back in the field. A large handful busted through more fences, complicating an already irksome evening. Running through tall brush and scooting through barbed wire, I prayed the nice clothes I rarely get to dress up in wouldn’t fall victim to the circumstances.

Some on foot, some on four-wheelers and motorbikes, we finally funneled the cattle through brush to find the gates and get them back where they belonged. But the truth was, if we left them there, they were just going to get out again. Not because of the hole they had just made—we had panels and wire ready to patch it—but because once they learned they could break through, they knew they could do it again.

So we adjusted the plan.

Instead of simply fixing the fence, we decided to relocate them to the corral—a sturdy metal pen far less likely to give to their unrelenting pressure. The Rancher and I headed to set gates and turn the herd while the others bright then from the pasture, not just fixing the problem for the night but hopefully creating a more long-term solution.

Once the cows were finally penned, we took a breath and admitted it could have been much worse. They got out, yes—but we caught it within minutes. We had plans, but dinner could be pushed back. It could have been a disaster.

The frustration was real.

The chaos was real.

And yet somehow, the night didn’t fall apart.

What makes these moments memorable isn’t just the humor or the absurdity—it’s how we show up for each other when it’s not easy. When things go sideways. When plans are interrupted. When the evening could easily end in frustration.

We made the best of what we had. The night was already simple—no flowers, no chocolates, no candles. Just a tired rancher trying to say “I love you,” and a ranch wife grateful for any moment together, even if the promise of no gates to open fell a little short.

Boots scuffed. Jeans dusted with sage. Hearts racing from the chase instead of the date—we handled the mess, laughed at the chaos, and eventually made it to dinner.

That’s partnership.

That’s love.

It shows up in the smell of sagebrush, in the quiet evening air, in the exhaustion, and in the decision to keep going together. We work side by side when it’s fun—but more importantly, when it’s hard.

Romance isn’t always candlelight or perfectly executed plans. Sometimes it’s teamwork in town clothes. Sometimes it’s laughter after chaos. Sometimes it’s knowing that when plans go sideways and problems appear out of nowhere, you both show up anyway.

And that kind of love?

It lasts any time of year.

The Price of Learning on a Ranch

February 4, 2026 by Allison

How a broken swather, a six-year-old on the tractor, plus a few other hard lessons taught me exactly how knowledge is earned- usually the hard way.

The little Montana town I grew up in was dotted with small family operations. Nearly every outfit welcomed extra help during the summer months while school was out, and I was lucky enough to have neighbors just down the road who took me on. I helped with everything from moving early-morning wheel lines and hand lines to pushing cows, spraying weeds, and putting up hay.

I was young and inexperienced, but willing to work hard and learn. There were plenty of growing pains — jobs I didn’t understand yet, equipment I hadn’t mastered — but at the end of the day, going home tired, dirty, and satisfied made the hard moments worth it.

With acres of hay to put up, I spent my fair share of time in the swather. My favorite was an old red International that looked rough but wouldn’t quit for anything. It did have one flaw: it wouldn’t stay cool. I remember my boss drilling it into me — keep an eye on the temperature gauge, know when to shut it down, and don’t push it past its limits.

Summer after summer, I ran that swather without incident. I stopped strategically to let it cool while moving irrigation lines, taking a quick break, or heading in for lunch. By my final summer, I was confident I had it figured out. Confident enough that I’d quietly crowned myself the queen of the hay crew.

Leaving for college was exciting, but daunting. I clung to every last moment I could spend in the fields. On my final night of work, I put off heading home, lingering in the comfort of that familiar old swather — until it sputtered, stalled, and died completely. It wouldn’t move. It wouldn’t start. Stuck in the middle of the field, I called my boss for help.

It took him only a moment to diagnose the problem. I had overheated the engine, and it had seized up. As the reality set in, I felt awful — for the cost of parts, labor, lost time, and delayed haying. Weeks later, I learned the parts were so expensive and hard to find that the swather was never fixed. The following year, they replaced it entirely.

Maybe, in the end, I did them a favor by forcing an upgrade. But I never forgot the lesson: pay attention to what you’re responsible for, and don’t let overconfidence lead the way. I would have given anything to do it again the right way. Since that wasn’t possible, all that was left was to learn — and never repeat it.

That lesson has followed me into motherhood.

Over the past few weeks, our six-year-old has been desperate for his turn to help bunch bales. He’s watched his older siblings take their place on the open-cab tractor, convinced that he, too, was big enough. Despite being told he was still too young, he didn’t give up. Eventually, his dad decided the best way for him to understand what it took was to let him try.

They headed out together. Dad explained the knobs and levers, walked him through the simple but important instructions, and then stepped back. Slowly, they moved bales into place for the trailer. The work wasn’t perfect — some bales dragged, some were crooked, and the throttle took a while to finesse. But at the end of the day, there was a tired, dusty, proud little boy climbing off the tractor. All it took was the chance to learn.

Learning looks different at every age.

Our oldest has made huge strides in his cowboying. This year, we saw his best roping yet — smooth runs, confident throws, calf after calf caught clean. Midway through branding season, during a big desert branding, it felt like he couldn’t miss. His pride was earned.

A few weeks later, cleaning up the last calves at the ranch, it was a different story. Easy shots were missed. Slack got tangled. At one point, he roped a cow while aiming for the calf beside her. The hit to his teenage ego was sharp — and necessary. It forced him to slow down, reassess, and figure out what had gone wrong. Paying with pride is painful, but sometimes it’s the most effective teacher.

He learned the same way his grandpa did.

My dad still tells stories from his early farming days, when he was certain he had everything figured out. One season, he dug irrigation furrows exactly as he thought they should be — until he turned the water on and realized water doesn’t flow uphill. Only the ends of the rows needed fixing, but they had to be redone by hand. His dad handed him a shovel and walked away. He never made that mistake again.

The fear of making mistakes can keep us from trying at all. It would be far easier for the cowboys on our operation to do everything themselves — less time, fewer breakdowns, no bent nails or bruised egos. But teaching the next generation how to work, how to pay attention, and how to recover when things go wrong is worth the cost.

On a ranch, learning is rarely free. We pay with time, energy, pride, or pocketbook. But the lessons last longer than the mistakes.

And we can only hope they’re less expensive than a new swather.

Doing Scary Things- Ranch Wife Style

February 18, 2025 by Allison Eliason

The comfort zone- a place of ease, perceived control, and little stress. Let’s be honest, we all want to operate inside our comfort zone where we can keep anxiety at bay, feel confident, and know what we are doing. We fear failure so we ensure success by only doing those things we have already done. But experience teaches that the most growth and learning happens when we step outside that comfort zone. Eleanor Roosevelt once said, “Do something everyday that scares you. These small things that make us uncomfortable help us build courage to do the work we do.”

Life on the ranch tends to give us all plenty of moments outside our comfort zone that we can either embrace and learn through or shy away from and stay stagnant. I’ll admit that embracing those moments feels especially hard when my failures are out on display for so many others to see. It’s ok for my growing children to learn from failure, but as a grown adult, I too often feel like I should just know, well… everything.

Just last week I took the opportunity to do something new and outside my comfort zone. For some, this might seem like a simple daily chore but for me, it was a whole new experience- feeding cows solo. Now I go out and help feed often, sometimes daily. I know the routine, what to feed, how much, but I’ve always been the crew that opens the gates, cuts the net wrap off and such.

What I haven’t ever done is be the guy in the tractor behind the wheel. If we had to choose between my very capable husband and myself in the seat, we choose him because we want to get the job done and move on. And, really, why should I do it when he is there?

Eventually the day rolled around when all of the usual feeding crew were gone. The roping that was supposed to get done with plenty of time for the ranchers to get home and feed, went long, lending to one of two possibilities. Either they would have to feed late after getting home or I could jump in and try to do it myself. I pulled on my big girl coveralls and jumped in the tractor seat, sure that I could feed three bales of hay without disaster striking.

There were a few things I knew I had on my side as I set out- first I had the basics of tractor mechanics down so that I could drive faster than at a snail pace and move the loader in all the necessary directions. Second, if I had questions, FaceTime put me just one phone call away from help. And third, cows don’t care how pretty the feeding is, they just want the hay out.

Getting to the stackyard I found the right hay, and through a little trial and error, managed to get a bale on the forks and grab one with the three point bale squeeze on the back. It wasn’t as smooth and easy as when the guys do it, but I was doing it. I headed up the hill to the hungry heifers, planning in my mind how I was going to go about feeding. I would set the first bale down, cut the wrap off, tip it over, send it rolling down the hill and that would keep the cows out of the way while I put the other two in bale feeders around the pasture. Easy enough.

Everything started off according to plan until it was time to send that bale rolling down the hill. What seemed like a simple little push with the forks was hardly so and because it was taking longer than usual, the cows were now starting to get in the way. To complicate things even more, it was suddenly dark outside.

I was definitely outside my comfort zone, but also so in the thick of what I was doing that there was no quitting.

Scooping up the bale I had intended to roll down the hill, I put it in the first feeder and opted to try again with the second bale, learning from my earlier mistakes. It took a little trial and error but bale number two was finally rolled out and the cows were content to leave me alone while I fed the last bale.

Heading to the feeder, I saw that it was on a hill and while I might be in a tractor, I had better be smart about how I went about getting there. Between the snow and mud, the hill was slick and in that moment, a distinct memory of a teenage girl failing to turn a tractor up a muddy hill came rushing back to me.

Putting the tractor in the low, snail pace gear, I carefully headed down the hill, making sure I had a clear plan out of there after dropping my load. All seemed well as I made my way to the feeder until I stopped the tractor to pull off the net wrap and noticed the tractor continued to slide. I quickly turned the wheels and that was enough to keep it still. I knew I could dump the bale but I wasn’t sure how I would get out of my predicament once I straightened out again.

Four wheel drive. That was the solution. I really should have thought of that before heading down the slippery hill but at least I was thinking of it now. The only problem was that of the millions of buttons, levers and switches, I had no idea which to toggle. And I was sure that the wrong one would probably make the whole tractor implode.

Mustering the courage to make that phone call that admitted a bit of failure, I called my husband and asked for help. Without laughing at my mistakes or making me feel even more dumb than I already felt, my rancher easily helped me get out of my sticky situation. I dropped the last bale, skirted around the feeder, and headed for home quite proud of what I had finally accomplished that night.

For some, this was a simple chore, something they could probably do with their eyes closed, although I don’t recommend it. They made it seem easy but as I went through the very steps they did, it seemed so complicated and almost dauntin. I hope you chuckle about this little ranch wife willing to help even when the job is outside her comfort zone. But more importantly I hope you learn a few lessons from her.

Learn that you can accomplish far more than you think you can. You just have to try. New things are hard and scary- they are supposed to be! But, trying, jumping in with both feet is the only way to grow. Learn that people are here to help you. Asking for help isn’t admitting failure, even though it feels like it. Learn that the only real confidence in life comes from conquering those moments of fear, big or small. I might not be on the “A team” when it comes to the feeding crew, but if the job needs doing, I know I can do it. Next time, I just might have to start a little earlier and find the four wheel drive a little sooner.

Just Bad Luck Days on the Ranch

June 25, 2023 by Allison Eliason

“If I didn’t have bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all!” There might not be a truer phrase for a rancher to admit to than that. Some days it feels like all the stars have to align for the work to get done without any hitches, hiccups, or holdups. Whether it is Mother Nature the parts man or ornery old boss cow, someone, somewhere is cooking up a disaster to derail even the best laid plans. You can always count on the fact that in the middle of the cattle work, farm work, machinery fixing, fence fixing or anything else on the never end to-do list, something, without fail, will go wrong. And while I don’t have any research data to back me up, I’m pretty sure that the probability and the size of such a disaster goes up exponentially when its a high stakes situation, and goes up even more so when there is zero time for a breakdown and a do-over.

Okay, yes that may be an overdramatization, but you have to admit that there are days when things, not only don’t go right, but seem to go especially bad. It’s those sort of days you might have to concede the victory to fate, turn in early so nothing else can go wrong and laugh at the day to keep from crying. Looking back, we have had our fair share of bad luck days, some we can laugh at now… some that we still need a little more time.

This last winter felt like one stroke of bad luck after another. I mean, to begin with, it had to be bad luck that after years of drought and praying for moisture, it all comes pouring down in one, unending winter. Of course, we never look a gift horse in the mouth, but if I could have been in charge of the timing of said moisture, it certainly wouldn’t have come in a near record breaking winter fashion.

In a season where we really needed all the things to go right, I swear everything would go wrong, especially on the days when we were far from home and help. We put one fire out after another (not literally fires, but that surely would have warmed things up while we were freezing our fingers off). If it wasn’t the tractor door shattering (on a rented tractor, no less) to keep the work from being done, it was the blown hydraulic hose on the back. If it wasn’t the flat tire on the backhoe that kept us from feeding, it was the massive sinkhole that swallowed the newly fixed tractor. Not only did the gator break down but the snowmobile wouldn’t start either. You’ve heard of the hand Midas that turns everything that it touched to gold? We had the exact opposite. We touched it and it died, quit, or broke.

Sometimes it isn’t the hand that is cursed, it’s just the machine that refuses to stay in running condition. Our problem child of a pivot is simply dubbed “the old pivot” although it might be more accurate to call it the-leaky-run-down-dilapidated-old-pivot. As soon as one hole is plugged or fixed, a new pinhole starts gushing. Aside from its leaky bits, there are computer problems and electrical problems. You might say that running an old pivot just signs you up for breakdowns, but I think this pivot runs at a higher level of breakdowns. If we have any luck this year, it’s getting that old thing replaced… hope I didn’t just jinx it!

We might just make our own bad luck for the number of times we say things like “we are all caught up with the shop work” or “all the cows are settled.” It’s like those darn cows know when we breathe a sigh of relief and work to stir things up. If I had a dollar for everytime we think the cows are settled and then get a phone call that says the cows are out, we could pay someone else to keep them in. They are masters at finding the down wires, gates left open or just barging their way through. And with the sort of luck we run, we get those cows back in but can’t find the hole they are crawling through, so they just keep getting out.

Mother Nature especially likes to throw a wrench in our carefully planned out days. Despite knowing the old adage that you bale hay while the sun shines, it always seems we get into the wrong project for the weather. We meticulously check the forecast, make plans to best fit the conditions of the day, only to find the weatherman was wrong once again. It’s spraying weeds or cutting hay because it’s sunny for days on end to only have thunderstorms suddenly come in, day after day. Or planting fields just before the predicted storms never roll through. We move cows or plan to brand, sure it’s supposed to be a nice, sunny day, only to be caught in Idaho’s blustery wind, something we should learn to count on anyway.

Oh the luck of a rancher. It seems the ball never bounces our way. But truth be told, we are far luckier than we deserve with the great industry we have to be a part of. We have the great fortune of working the land, having the satisfaction of working as a family, and doing a work we love. There may be moments, some days more than others, that it feels like we have nothing but bad luck. But I will take these bad luck days on the ranch over any other day. Who needs luck when we live a life so blessed.