It's been a dry winter so far. Enough so, that even though this is only my third winter here, it's felt wrong and I have been more and more tense as each clear day arrives. A pressure, like that before a thunderstorm, has been building up in me. I've been keeping it under wraps, so as not to snap at my family, but each day I stand outside and ask: "Why, why don't you snow more?" It's felt as though the early snow on the ground has been left to taunt me. I've been taking it personally and, until today, I have been really quite cross with Winter.
As usual I've been checking and double-checking the NOAA weather forecast to see what could be in store for us, and this week seems to be our best bet in ages for the 'chance of snow' and 'snow likely' forecasts to actually come true.
So I took advantage to run a loop on the state land across from our house before the storm came this morning. Within a quarter mile dozens of ravens and a bald eagle rose from the ground and wheeled around me. These birds are often the first indicator of a predator's kill and their presence must always be respected. Sure enough deer parts were spread out over the ground, although my senses told me they were the remains from a hunter rather than a cougar or other big animal. I felt unfazed and carried on, feeling guilty that I had disturbed the birds.
As I climbed the hill, what little snow we have got deeper and the quad track I was following disappeared. But the hill was crissed-crossed with many, many coyote tracks and I made my choice to follow these to see where they led me. The coyotes headed out of the state land and onto private property so I turned and followed the whitetail deer tracks which led back down the hill. So engrossed was I with following these tracks I didn't notice the camouflage tent until I was almost upon it (well, it was camouflage).
It unnerved me. And I veered away quickly, afraid almost to look at it, so nervous that any noise my dog made caused me to flinch and my stomach lurch. It seemed so odd the tent was there. We're well out of the main hunting seasons and it's below freezing most of the time, so not exactly camping weather. Once I was far enough away, I took stock of the situation and reminded myself there was no fire, no signs of life and no human footprints. And I took comfort in my bear spray and the skinning knife attached to my running belt.
Then I got angry. Here I was contently following animal tracks, but I was relieved that I had not seen any human tracks. Even if I had come across bear, moose or cougar tracks, while I would have been on alert, they would not have instilled the same fear that I sometimes get from human tracks. It is so frustrating that, especially as a woman, the biggest threat to my safety out here is from that of my own species. It's wrong. And there is nothing I can do about it except be aware, prepared and keep my 'spidey' senses on high alert when out alone.
I looped round and met the old road that cuts through the land and headed back down towards my house. Some ravens had returned to the deer carcass but the eagle had not returned. In its place a flock of small birds, no doubt too afraid to eat when it was there, had joined the feast, and I felt less guilty about disturbing them earlier.
And I'm glad they all had a chance to eat when they did. Shortly after I returned home, the winter storm came, and I'm sure the carcass, the tracks and perhaps even the camouflage tent are beneath the snow now.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Running So As Not To Sweat
It took less than five minutes before pain took over my fingers. Despite two pairs of gloves the cold had worked its way in and I could feel my hands starting to harden like blocks, getting almost unbearably painful before becoming numb. The skin below my eyes tingled as the sweat lightly frosted on the rims of my sunglasses and stuck to my face.
"Turn around at the cattle grid". I told myself. My husband and I had agreed to run/hike or ski at least a mile every day for the month of December, to keep ourselves motivated and avoid the steady piling on of pounds which accompanies the quieter months away from running and biking events.
The cattle grid turnaround marked our 1.3 mile minimum and I could easily have justified heading home from there, despite four miles being my goal for the day. The 15 degree temperature was augmented by a north wind and although it was subtle, it brought a biting wind chill. I have run in temps as low as -1 F but never had I felt as cold as this.
At the cattle grid I pressed on, knowing I would be unhappy with myself if I quit. I've been told numerous times that I have a determined streak, and while I take it as a compliment, I am cautious about this quality being altogether good - many times through life I have gone determinedly in the wrong direction, ignoring my gut instinct and blinkered from good advice. And many times I have ended up not where I wanted to be. However I listen more to my instinct these days and I was questioning whether it was the right decision to carry on. I was beginning to sweat and I was concerned it would make me colder. My running slowed as I tried to prevent more moisture building up on my skin.
"What's the point?" I asked myself. "I'm going to be walking if I go any slower, why be out here?"
A raven flew low in front of me, followed by two more. Glancing to where they came from I saw what looked to be a discarded roll of carpet which the ravens had been picking at. I felt angry, not just at the people who had thrown it out there, but at the birds for wasting their energy and time on something which could not keep them alive. "What's the point?" I also asked them.
I reached the two mile mark and turned around, happy to be achieving the mileage goal but unhappy with the workout, this was supposed to be a tempo run, where I kept my speed up and worked hard - and here I was running so as not to sweat.
Occasionally people also say: "What is the point?" to those of us who opt for the harder route in life rather than the easy path - whether through tough sports, living in harsh environments or stepping back from the culture of comfort the western world enjoys. What is it about - for want of a better phrase - 'living on the edge' that is so worthwhile when people have to struggle to achieve it. Sometimes, like on this run, I ask myself the same question. But in this case I was also asking myself why I was allowing myself to give in to the fear of what would happen if I got too cold, for not allowing myself to take the risk and find out - I was only two miles from home for God's sake, live a little. I already know why I choose the harder routes and I'm not sure it's something you can explain to someone who doesn't already understand.
I reached the point where the ravens were massing and stopped abruptly. I realized what I'd thought was a roll of carpet was actually the carcass of a deer, its skin rolled back and its flesh and bones exposed. The ravens were not wasting their time and energy, they could clearly see what I had not been able to at first and were filling their bellies with meat, keeping themselves alive.
I started to run again, only this time I didn't worry about sweating. I flew. My hands dampened and instead of freezing like I anticipated, warmed up. My fogged-up sunglasses slid down my sweaty nose and my whole body tingled with warmth. I felt alive as I reached my driveway.
Do I feel better than those who choose not to put themselves in hard places, or even harms way, to achieve meaning in life? No, we all have different strengths, needs and limits. Just like we all have our demons and dark sides. Some people find life's beauty in art or music, or their raison d'etre in good food and great company. None of us are the same.
Do I personally feel a better mother, wife and person after making myself physically work hard, to triumph over my inner doubts, to not give up? Do I feel alive and fulfilled after being the deep, dark woods fighting fear, fatigue and the little voice in my head that says 'just quit'?
Yep, works for me.
"Turn around at the cattle grid". I told myself. My husband and I had agreed to run/hike or ski at least a mile every day for the month of December, to keep ourselves motivated and avoid the steady piling on of pounds which accompanies the quieter months away from running and biking events.
The cattle grid turnaround marked our 1.3 mile minimum and I could easily have justified heading home from there, despite four miles being my goal for the day. The 15 degree temperature was augmented by a north wind and although it was subtle, it brought a biting wind chill. I have run in temps as low as -1 F but never had I felt as cold as this.
At the cattle grid I pressed on, knowing I would be unhappy with myself if I quit. I've been told numerous times that I have a determined streak, and while I take it as a compliment, I am cautious about this quality being altogether good - many times through life I have gone determinedly in the wrong direction, ignoring my gut instinct and blinkered from good advice. And many times I have ended up not where I wanted to be. However I listen more to my instinct these days and I was questioning whether it was the right decision to carry on. I was beginning to sweat and I was concerned it would make me colder. My running slowed as I tried to prevent more moisture building up on my skin.
"What's the point?" I asked myself. "I'm going to be walking if I go any slower, why be out here?"
A raven flew low in front of me, followed by two more. Glancing to where they came from I saw what looked to be a discarded roll of carpet which the ravens had been picking at. I felt angry, not just at the people who had thrown it out there, but at the birds for wasting their energy and time on something which could not keep them alive. "What's the point?" I also asked them.
I reached the two mile mark and turned around, happy to be achieving the mileage goal but unhappy with the workout, this was supposed to be a tempo run, where I kept my speed up and worked hard - and here I was running so as not to sweat.
Occasionally people also say: "What is the point?" to those of us who opt for the harder route in life rather than the easy path - whether through tough sports, living in harsh environments or stepping back from the culture of comfort the western world enjoys. What is it about - for want of a better phrase - 'living on the edge' that is so worthwhile when people have to struggle to achieve it. Sometimes, like on this run, I ask myself the same question. But in this case I was also asking myself why I was allowing myself to give in to the fear of what would happen if I got too cold, for not allowing myself to take the risk and find out - I was only two miles from home for God's sake, live a little. I already know why I choose the harder routes and I'm not sure it's something you can explain to someone who doesn't already understand.
I reached the point where the ravens were massing and stopped abruptly. I realized what I'd thought was a roll of carpet was actually the carcass of a deer, its skin rolled back and its flesh and bones exposed. The ravens were not wasting their time and energy, they could clearly see what I had not been able to at first and were filling their bellies with meat, keeping themselves alive.
I started to run again, only this time I didn't worry about sweating. I flew. My hands dampened and instead of freezing like I anticipated, warmed up. My fogged-up sunglasses slid down my sweaty nose and my whole body tingled with warmth. I felt alive as I reached my driveway.
Do I feel better than those who choose not to put themselves in hard places, or even harms way, to achieve meaning in life? No, we all have different strengths, needs and limits. Just like we all have our demons and dark sides. Some people find life's beauty in art or music, or their raison d'etre in good food and great company. None of us are the same.
Do I personally feel a better mother, wife and person after making myself physically work hard, to triumph over my inner doubts, to not give up? Do I feel alive and fulfilled after being the deep, dark woods fighting fear, fatigue and the little voice in my head that says 'just quit'?
Yep, works for me.
Thursday, November 21, 2013
Be Careful What You Wish For
I always expected I would arrive in Alaska and she would welcome me with open arms and I would know, immediately, I had landed exactly where I was supposed to be. I think in my mind there would probably be a small angelic choir heralding my arrival, possibly rainbows and unicorns - you get the picture.
It wasn't quite like that.
In fact as we prepared to leave Anchorage airport for the second time in a month I felt, well, a bit disappointed that it had not lived up to my ideals.
Now before I go any further, this is not a blog hating on Alaska, it's a blog about misplaced expectations. If you are from Alaska or know it, please feel free to facepalm, roll your eyes and say "duh" - my friend from Barrow has already laughed and said: "Shona, you have only just begun to scratch the surface of Alaska." I know I sound ridiculous, so no snidey comments okay?
In my head I have always seen the 49th state as a wilderness full of rufty, toughty characters living off-grid, miles from their neighbors and eating mooseburgers for breakfast. (Alaskans, this is where you should start with the facepalms.) And I know there are many places there where that is the life. But not the two places we had the opportunity to move to.
Alaska is vast ("duh") and is therefore very varied (roll eyes). And it really is wild. Both places we visited for my husband's job interviews, Kodiak and Valdez, seemed like little communities holding onto the coast, banding together, closely together, because everything else out there really is OUT THERE and is ready to chew you up and spit you out if you are not up to standard or show the proper respect.
As someone who spends a lot of time out in the hills, often alone, I was afraid of being out there on my own, I wasn't confident that I was ready for what Alaska could throw at me ("duh"). And I was also aware that moving to either of these places meant moving to town because there didn't seem to be anywhere except town and wilderness - it was a dramatic divide, no 20 acres 14 miles outside town like we have here - and I like living outside of town and out of pissing distance of my neighbors, even if my neighbors were going to be the people we met up there who were wonderful, real and kind, just the type of people I like being around.
It was at this point I realized the Okanogan Highlands were fulfilling most of my Alaskan dreams already.
Wild country - that box was ticked.
Cold, snowy winters - tick.
Bears, wolves, moose - tick (okay we may only have one or two grizzlies and Kodiak Island has something like 3,500 of the biggest brown bears in the world, but who's counting?)
Ice fishermen, dog sledding, grumpy old PTSD vets living in the woods, families living in the hills hauling their own water, trails, hunters, lakes, mountains, forests, good down-to-earth people - tick, tick, tick..
It became a lesson in be careful what you wish for and be grateful for what you have.
We came very, very close moving to Kodiak. But in the end what held us here was the realization we already have what we want. Right here, outside Tonasket, and it's home.
For now. My children keep asking when we are going back to Alaska and I've been told Fairbanks would be a good match for us. And Kenny Lake and Delta Junction....(Facepalm, "duh" and roll eyes)
It wasn't quite like that.
In fact as we prepared to leave Anchorage airport for the second time in a month I felt, well, a bit disappointed that it had not lived up to my ideals.
Now before I go any further, this is not a blog hating on Alaska, it's a blog about misplaced expectations. If you are from Alaska or know it, please feel free to facepalm, roll your eyes and say "duh" - my friend from Barrow has already laughed and said: "Shona, you have only just begun to scratch the surface of Alaska." I know I sound ridiculous, so no snidey comments okay?
In my head I have always seen the 49th state as a wilderness full of rufty, toughty characters living off-grid, miles from their neighbors and eating mooseburgers for breakfast. (Alaskans, this is where you should start with the facepalms.) And I know there are many places there where that is the life. But not the two places we had the opportunity to move to.
Alaska is vast ("duh") and is therefore very varied (roll eyes). And it really is wild. Both places we visited for my husband's job interviews, Kodiak and Valdez, seemed like little communities holding onto the coast, banding together, closely together, because everything else out there really is OUT THERE and is ready to chew you up and spit you out if you are not up to standard or show the proper respect.
As someone who spends a lot of time out in the hills, often alone, I was afraid of being out there on my own, I wasn't confident that I was ready for what Alaska could throw at me ("duh"). And I was also aware that moving to either of these places meant moving to town because there didn't seem to be anywhere except town and wilderness - it was a dramatic divide, no 20 acres 14 miles outside town like we have here - and I like living outside of town and out of pissing distance of my neighbors, even if my neighbors were going to be the people we met up there who were wonderful, real and kind, just the type of people I like being around.
It was at this point I realized the Okanogan Highlands were fulfilling most of my Alaskan dreams already.
Wild country - that box was ticked.
Cold, snowy winters - tick.
Bears, wolves, moose - tick (okay we may only have one or two grizzlies and Kodiak Island has something like 3,500 of the biggest brown bears in the world, but who's counting?)
Ice fishermen, dog sledding, grumpy old PTSD vets living in the woods, families living in the hills hauling their own water, trails, hunters, lakes, mountains, forests, good down-to-earth people - tick, tick, tick..
It became a lesson in be careful what you wish for and be grateful for what you have.
We came very, very close moving to Kodiak. But in the end what held us here was the realization we already have what we want. Right here, outside Tonasket, and it's home.
For now. My children keep asking when we are going back to Alaska and I've been told Fairbanks would be a good match for us. And Kenny Lake and Delta Junction....(Facepalm, "duh" and roll eyes)
Friday, September 14, 2012
Unfaithful
Is it possible to be completely in love and yet still not feel you have found the "One"?
I must be clear here, I'm not talking about my marriage. I am, instead, referring to how I feel about where I am living and a guilty secret I am carrying around with me.
I have fallen head over heels for the Okanogan Highlands. I've seen it through all its seasons now. I have survived my first real winter, enjoyed every drop of Spring rain - knowing there would be months without it, breathed deeply the smoke from late summer wildfires and now I have the sense of full cycle that Autumn brings, that Winter is coming. Again.
I have been befriended by many people who inspire me, strengthen me and add color and companionship to my life. Who make me think, make me laugh, keep me going through the harder times. My kids love their school and have been welcomed by the local children, my husband has once again established his Thursday night mountain biking adventures, something he enjoyed even when we lived back in Scotland.
The greater community is my type of people: The kind who wave when they drive by - a simple gesture acknowledging another human being, the kind that are fiercely independent but at the same time look out for you and don't pass by you if they think you might need help. Noone cares about what you wear, what you drive or even what you do for a living, they are interested in you as a person. As I said, my kind of people.
I spend hours running on little-used trails in the mountains, learning about all the wildlife and plants here. Eating berries as I pass by, meeting bears, moose, Bighorn sheep, coyotes, owls and eagles. Sometimes I think: "Wow, it feels really remote out here." And then I remember, yes, actually it IS really remote out here!
And occasionally, fleetingly, as I run I hear, and feel, a sound best described as a 'thrum', a drumbeat which I am convinced is the Earth's very resonance, her lifeblood. I dip dampened fingers into the thin soil and suck off the dirt just to see what it tastes like, I run my hands through the grasses, leaves and tree bark in a silent greeting. This is the closest I have ever felt to just being part of the earth, part of nature, part of all of life rather than something separate, distant or superior.
And yet.....
And yet I am being pulled north. At night I dream of Alaska, leaving here by foot, with the verges on the roadsides bursting into flames as I pass. I read books about that country and listen eagerly to the stories my Alaskan friends have to share. I trace maps and follow weather forecasts from various towns up there trying to determine if this great place is the "One". Everytime I see an Alaskan car license plate I am envious.
And for this I feel guilty, as if I am having a dangerous illicit relationship while a perfectly good partnership is being sidelined, one who has more than surpassed my expectations.
I throw it out there to the universe asking for help to figure out what I, and my family, are to do. Should we plunge yet again into another adventure or are we - I - not quite grasping just what is being offered here. All I get back is: "Enjoy the ride."
So I will wait and try to be faithful.
Easier said than done.
I'm sure tonight I will dream of Alaska and the road will burn behind me as I walk north.
I must be clear here, I'm not talking about my marriage. I am, instead, referring to how I feel about where I am living and a guilty secret I am carrying around with me.
I have fallen head over heels for the Okanogan Highlands. I've seen it through all its seasons now. I have survived my first real winter, enjoyed every drop of Spring rain - knowing there would be months without it, breathed deeply the smoke from late summer wildfires and now I have the sense of full cycle that Autumn brings, that Winter is coming. Again.
I have been befriended by many people who inspire me, strengthen me and add color and companionship to my life. Who make me think, make me laugh, keep me going through the harder times. My kids love their school and have been welcomed by the local children, my husband has once again established his Thursday night mountain biking adventures, something he enjoyed even when we lived back in Scotland.
The greater community is my type of people: The kind who wave when they drive by - a simple gesture acknowledging another human being, the kind that are fiercely independent but at the same time look out for you and don't pass by you if they think you might need help. Noone cares about what you wear, what you drive or even what you do for a living, they are interested in you as a person. As I said, my kind of people.
I spend hours running on little-used trails in the mountains, learning about all the wildlife and plants here. Eating berries as I pass by, meeting bears, moose, Bighorn sheep, coyotes, owls and eagles. Sometimes I think: "Wow, it feels really remote out here." And then I remember, yes, actually it IS really remote out here!
And occasionally, fleetingly, as I run I hear, and feel, a sound best described as a 'thrum', a drumbeat which I am convinced is the Earth's very resonance, her lifeblood. I dip dampened fingers into the thin soil and suck off the dirt just to see what it tastes like, I run my hands through the grasses, leaves and tree bark in a silent greeting. This is the closest I have ever felt to just being part of the earth, part of nature, part of all of life rather than something separate, distant or superior.
And yet.....
And yet I am being pulled north. At night I dream of Alaska, leaving here by foot, with the verges on the roadsides bursting into flames as I pass. I read books about that country and listen eagerly to the stories my Alaskan friends have to share. I trace maps and follow weather forecasts from various towns up there trying to determine if this great place is the "One". Everytime I see an Alaskan car license plate I am envious.
And for this I feel guilty, as if I am having a dangerous illicit relationship while a perfectly good partnership is being sidelined, one who has more than surpassed my expectations.
I throw it out there to the universe asking for help to figure out what I, and my family, are to do. Should we plunge yet again into another adventure or are we - I - not quite grasping just what is being offered here. All I get back is: "Enjoy the ride."
So I will wait and try to be faithful.
Easier said than done.
I'm sure tonight I will dream of Alaska and the road will burn behind me as I walk north.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Views
Well I've done it.
I've figured out how to upload photos to my blog. I'm a genius.
The header picture was taken driving up to our house from Tonasket, looking west over the Cascades. It's a view we never get tired of.
And some more:
The sign that greets you when you come out of the national forest onto one of the local roads.
Pretty accurate.
Last year's Harvest Moon with Mt Bonaparte from our back deck.
I've figured out how to upload photos to my blog. I'm a genius.
The header picture was taken driving up to our house from Tonasket, looking west over the Cascades. It's a view we never get tired of.
And some more:
The sign that greets you when you come out of the national forest onto one of the local roads.
Pretty accurate.
Last year's Harvest Moon with Mt Bonaparte from our back deck.
Duncan, the 'monster' I wrote about. For those asking for an update - he now has a hen girlfriend who he brings to the back door for snacks. I guess it's his version of taking her out for a meal.
I'm sure there will be plenty more photos of this beautiful place to add during the coming year.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Monday, October 10, 2011
Monster
If the road to Hell is paved with good intentions then, quite frankly, I think I have the contract to tarmac a large part of it. And, as a result of my deeds I have created a monster.
The rooster who now resides almost permanently at either my front or back door waiting for food is a prime example of my intentions going horribly wrong. If he was a person, I would have been responsible for turning him from a capable, athletic man into a couch potato munching on Cheetos.
Sorry dude, I didn't mean for this to happen to you.
It began when Duncan (named after my father and brother) was ousted from top dawg position among the chickens by his son Johnny Rotten (yes, we also had Sid Vicious, but we ate him when he started living up to his name). Of course we felt so bad for him (by we I mean me and my children, my husband is far to practical for what follows here). Turned on by his own flesh and blood, hounded mercilessly away from his ladies who didn't give a hoot, or should I say squawk, what was happening to him. It was tragic, terrible to watch. So...
So we started luring him to us with scraps of food to keep him out of harms way. It was like all his Christmases and birthdays rolled into one great fiesta. He soon forgot his harassment but also forgot his ladies. And his chickeness. And his ability to forage. You name it, he forgot it - except that house doors mean food.
And now I can't get rid of him. Currently it is pouring rain (far cry from the sunshine I last wrote about) and he is standing, soaked, at the back door, I can see his reflection in my computer screen and he's just staring through the glass at me, waiting. If I open the door he comes in, has a drink from the dog water bowl and wanders around. Fortunately he seems to understand basic potty training, I think, I hope - so far so good.
But at least he's small and manageable and easy to remove. Once one of our ewes gave birth in a snow storm at 3am in record-cold temperatures (of course). We were only alerted to the situation by her field mate frantically baaaaing to wake us and the little first lamb was already hypothermic when we got there. Although we tried to warm him up in the barn it just wasn't happening. So of course he became 'house lamb' for a brief period of time and I went a bit over the top. Fortunately my husband put a stop to my overly-enthusiastic intervention after finding the little guy and myself curled up fast asleep in our bed. I spent the next two days reinstating him with his mother, which, although hard work, was preferrable to having a sheep spend its life trying to get back into what he considered his rightful home.
Hopefully I have learned my lesson with Duncan and from now on I will be practical, sensible, definitely not well-intention, when it comes to the livestock.
We'll see.
The rooster who now resides almost permanently at either my front or back door waiting for food is a prime example of my intentions going horribly wrong. If he was a person, I would have been responsible for turning him from a capable, athletic man into a couch potato munching on Cheetos.
Sorry dude, I didn't mean for this to happen to you.
It began when Duncan (named after my father and brother) was ousted from top dawg position among the chickens by his son Johnny Rotten (yes, we also had Sid Vicious, but we ate him when he started living up to his name). Of course we felt so bad for him (by we I mean me and my children, my husband is far to practical for what follows here). Turned on by his own flesh and blood, hounded mercilessly away from his ladies who didn't give a hoot, or should I say squawk, what was happening to him. It was tragic, terrible to watch. So...
So we started luring him to us with scraps of food to keep him out of harms way. It was like all his Christmases and birthdays rolled into one great fiesta. He soon forgot his harassment but also forgot his ladies. And his chickeness. And his ability to forage. You name it, he forgot it - except that house doors mean food.
And now I can't get rid of him. Currently it is pouring rain (far cry from the sunshine I last wrote about) and he is standing, soaked, at the back door, I can see his reflection in my computer screen and he's just staring through the glass at me, waiting. If I open the door he comes in, has a drink from the dog water bowl and wanders around. Fortunately he seems to understand basic potty training, I think, I hope - so far so good.
But at least he's small and manageable and easy to remove. Once one of our ewes gave birth in a snow storm at 3am in record-cold temperatures (of course). We were only alerted to the situation by her field mate frantically baaaaing to wake us and the little first lamb was already hypothermic when we got there. Although we tried to warm him up in the barn it just wasn't happening. So of course he became 'house lamb' for a brief period of time and I went a bit over the top. Fortunately my husband put a stop to my overly-enthusiastic intervention after finding the little guy and myself curled up fast asleep in our bed. I spent the next two days reinstating him with his mother, which, although hard work, was preferrable to having a sheep spend its life trying to get back into what he considered his rightful home.
Hopefully I have learned my lesson with Duncan and from now on I will be practical, sensible, definitely not well-intention, when it comes to the livestock.
We'll see.
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