by John Mattingly
I don’t admit this in the mixed company of cattle ranchers, but I used to have goats. Yes, the fact is, I had many goats, such that it was the profits from various goat operations in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s that enabled me to get into the cattle business and expand my farming operation. I owe much to goats, but that’s another story. Suffice it to say I have always had a great fondness for the species. They are clearly among the more intelligent mammals (and I include most politicians in a group that goats could easily challenge), in addition to being a species that helped humans progress, giving them milk, meat and fiber – endowments that ultimately resulted in a larger brain for homo sapiens. Mother never told me, “Be sure to eat your goat meat,” but we all know the rest of the story.
Some of you may recall a piece I did in April of 2008 for Colorado Central expositing the virtues of being a goat-oriented person, of setting realistic goats for oneself, and so forth. I remain a goat-oriented person, and so, when the chance to visit some local goatkeepers presented itself, I jumped at the chance. Well, not literally, though being around goats has been known to increase a person’s overall agility.
Bob and Janelle live year-round in the mountains above Creede. Bob manages Santa Maria and Continental Reservoirs, and Janelle home-schools their two children, keeps a homestead style house, and, among a host of other chores and community activities, they all participate in the milking and keeping of a couple dozen goats for milk, cheese and yogurt. There’s a deep quiet in people who live this way, as it’s a life requiring patience, curiosity and resourcefulness, characteristics often found in people who keep goats. Maybe that’s why someone famous once said, “The more I see of people, the more I like goats.”
I hadn’t milked a goat for perhaps 30 years, and when I offered help with the chores, the opportunity was awarded with a Tom Sawyer chuckle. Afterward, as the goats headed out to pasture, the kid goats romping off to the lead, my hands really felt the strain, especially at the base of my thumbs.
Bob and Janelle’s goats have a great life browsing among the rocks, grasses, and high-altitude forbes and bush. As we watched the goats disperse into the surrounding terrain, foraging here and there, occasionally bleating to each other, the morning sun came full over the hills. One older nanny hobbled along to catch up, and it was about her that Bob told me a heartwarming story. She was one of their matriarchal nannies, the mother of many good milkers, but a year or so back, Bob found her lying in the gateway, where she’d tried to pass ahead of a horse who didn’t agree.
“I thought she was dead,” Bob said with a nod. “She was flat to the ground, her legs barely moving sideways in the dirt.”
He got his gun, just in case, then drove his truck down to the corral. Seeing that she still breathed, he couldn’t bring himself to put her down, so he loaded her into the truck bed and headed for Doc Howard, 20-some miles away. By the time he arrived, the goat had lifted her head and before long she took to her feet, and from an unsteady stance bleated nervously, as if to say, “Where are the other goats? Take me home!”
“She no doubt broke some bones,” Bob mused, “And to this day, she’s a little slow, but she’s still milking and still going out every day with the herd. Just a bit slower.”
My visit was topped off when Janelle whipped up a smoothie of blended wild berries and goat yogurt. Taking a chair in the dining room of the cabin, looking out the wide window on the rocky terrain being patiently interrogated by the goats, life felt like it was going along at a pace that allowed for just the right amount of speculation.
“Been a funny year,” I suggested. “Wet in June, dry in July, frost in early August … “
“Yup,” Bob agreed. “It’s been another funny one like that.”
It dawned on me then that there needed to be an addition to that famous saying about people and goats – the more I meet people with goats, the more I find reason to have faith in people.
John Mattingly cultivates prose, among other things, and was most recently seen near Creede.
