PART ONE

In my internet wanderings, I one day came upon a description of an adventure a Kelpie owner had when she met up with a man whose business and life it was to graze down commercial orchards in the northern Central Valley. He moved his flock of 1500 to 2000 ewes along public roads, with dogs keeping the sides, driving his ATV in front while this lucky woman kept up as best she could on foot, behind. Later she drove the equivalent of a sag wagon, idling along in a pickup behind the flock, picking up the newborn lambs that couldn’t keep up the pace. I couldn’t imagine a more fulfilling life than living in an Airstream with my dog, spending every day doing nothing but hanging out with ruminants.

Apparently this dream isn’t shared by very many people in the United States. When I spoke of it, even to people who worked sheep with dogs, the response was usually that nothing imaginable could be more boring, squalid, and lonely. By and large the only people who will work as professional rangeland sheepherders these days are monolingual Peruvians, whom I suppose have few job options. I don’t understand this. For me, modern life, filled with cars and pavement and electronic entertainments and food shipped from across the globe and frappechinos and nuclear waste and space stations doesn’t do anything for me. Quite the opposite. I can think of a few pieces of the industrialized world I have a certain fondness for, such as indoor plumbing and western medicine, but the vast majority of it I wish had never come to pass, and would love to never have to participate in. I had always, since forever, wanted to make my escape, somehow, somewhere. I had never been successful.

Not too long after this, the county Resource Conservation District called up to solicit the aid of the environmental group I was managing, for a riparian habitat restoration project they were coordinating for the developer of a shopping center. We had done several successful such projects together already. This time, the landowner had contracted with a vegetation management company to initially clear the site of invasive non-native plants—using goats. Ah.

I looked it up. There were four companies working in my county alone. I picked one somewhat at random and emailed the head of the business, asking about apprenticeships. She wrote back offering me a job.

When I spoke to her on the phone, she said they really needed shepherds. Their young business, which covered six or seven counties, was growing so fast they could hardly keep up. I said, but my dog is a real novice and so am I. We’ll train you if necessary, she said. I made an appointment with her son Jason, who was living near me managing a long-term project out of trailer on a ranch. He was the dog guy.

It was a special pleasure that it was close. It only took me half an hour to drive down through the coastal farmlands to the remote ranch where my appointment with destiny was to take place. Since I had started my herding adventures, I had learned more about the famed freeway system of my natal state than I had in my whole previous life. But this was practically in my backyard—my county, my weather, roads whose names I had known forever, past the strawberry and lettuce fields and apple orchards being harvested, and not far from the fairgrounds where I had just last week looked over the quilts and the jam, watched a sheep being sheared, endured a chainsaw lumbermill demonstration my husband had been fascinated by, and had eaten chicken kebabs with the Arts and Environment Minister from my church whom I happened to bump into. Home.

The ranch was at the end of a long, long winding dirt road into the mountains. I’m not sure what, if anything, was ever ranched there; there were no buildings or permanent fences. Just four square miles of coastal mountain range, deeply forested near the creek, chapparal on the dry slopes, and very steep everywhere. Finally, a trailer came into view, with a nervously wagging and barking Border Collie in a pen next to. His young master appeared around a bend in the road, waving. Why don’t we just go down to the goats and see what she does, Jason said. Sure, why not. She’s never seen a goat in her life.

We all got into his junk-filled dusty pickup and started off down a very bad road farther into the canyon. Bonnie had never ridden in the bed of a pickup before, but she took to it like a natural. The goats were waiting for us, all hundred and fifty-odd, looking inquiring, hoping it was the hay truck. It was. But when Bonnie appeared, they were somewhat appalled. I asked what I should do, and he said, oh, just send her. So I did.

Poor Bonnie was way out of her league, and so was I. There were so many goats, and she wanted to gather them, but they slid away into the underbrush. While she was flushing out one, dozens disappeared uphill into the impenetrable chapparal. I called her in. The few remaining vanished. Silence.

But Jason didn’t seem discouraged. Let’s see how she does on my practice sheep, he said. Okay. The practice sheep, numbering four, were in an irregularly shaped corral of several acres, which was dotted with things like tree stumps, woodpiles, snarled wire fencing, and broken glass. They were far more alarmed at Bonnie than the goats had been. Bonnie raced away to fetch them, and they turned and fled in terror. No matter what she did or what I tried, she could not bring them, and at last I called her in so the poor sheep could get their breath.

Well, it’s a new place, new sheep, he said. We’ll try her again in a bit. He brought out his Border Collie, who was about Bonnie’s age, and did some fancy Border Collie work with the sheep. Then I tried Bonnie again. This time, she did bring them. She lost them once, but with desperate effort got them gathered up and brought them again. She got them stopped, and then got them almost walking in a line, for a bit. They were the lightest sheep we had ever worked, and the most difficult environment, but she did get them under some control.

I think she’ll do fine with some more experience, he said. She definitely has the ability. You could keep some of your own sheep here to practice on, if you wanted.

What a concept, my own sheep! I still didn’t know exactly what “work” would entail, but he assured me there was plenty for dogs to do. Feeling bewildered and more than a little demoralized, I went home to think about what I should do.