It was fall of 2006 and, for as much as I wanted to finish my almost done cabin in Talkeetna, I just had to escape. A huge log chipping operation was going on well within hearing distance of what had been a semi remote and peaceful place for me. I could not bear listening to the BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! of backing up semis and logging equipment and the 24 hour drone in the distance where I once had heard silence. So I went to Mexico.
I found an ad in The Caretaker Gazette for a caretaker needed on a 17,000 acre ranch in a remote part of the Sierra Madres. After minimal e-mailing where I told about myself in just a few sentences, Cindy, the co-owner of the ranch, had accepted me. “I just had a hunch about you,” she told me later.
As caretaker my basic job was to be a presence near the living quarters, make sure certain animals got fed, and do basic maintenance and carpentry projects as they came up. Other than that my imagination was the limit of what I did with 17,000 acres, 400 head of cattle, 50 or more horses, mules, and mini horses, 20 bison, plus chickens, pigs, and dogs.
I was rarely alone. The owners and their kids came and went, volunteers and interns came and went, and Mexican employees came and went.
A couple of weeks into my stay a group of cows and calves were rounded up. It was time for the calves to be weaned. They were left in the corral and the moms were herded back to pasture. For a week there was much forlorn mooing and crying from the calves in the corral and the moms who hung out nearby. Eventually most of the moms forgot what happened and wandered off to join the rest of their herd. But one black and white cow was extra persistent and stayed longer than all the other moms.
Around this time, I was starting to feel settled in at the ranch and ready for new experiences. I wondered about the feasibility of milking one of these cows and learning to make cheese, something I had always wanted to do. The problem was these weren’t a milk cow breed. These cattle were called Corrientes and they were bred for rodeos: for nice looking calves to participate in calf roping events and bulls with well shaped horns for being lassoed. They were tough cattle who could fend for themselves in this rugged country and deter the mountain lions that prowled the fringes. These cows only produced the milk their calves needed to grow up. But Cindy, always supportive and enthusiastic about new ideas, said it was worth a try and now was the time. We went out to the pasture on the other side of the corral and checked out the moms who were hanging around. The black and white one who was the most persistent about being there for her forlorn calf was our immediate pick to be a milk cow. Of all the cattle I had seen on this ranch she happened to look the most like a milk cow. And she was the rare one who didn’t have horns. That seemed like a plus from a safety standpoint. How would a cow like this take to being milked?
Cindy asked Simon, the main ranch hand, to bring the cow into the yard once or twice a day so I could milk her. It was no big deal for him since he was usually out riding around, salting cattle, checking fences, etc. He would just push her into the yard when he headed back. She stayed in the nearest pasture, the one adjacent to the corral. All the other cattle were in pastures further away. I was impressed at how consistent Simon was about bringing the cow in every day. Nonchalantly he rode his white mule, herding the black and white cow along, whistling a tune.
She became known as Missy, the first name that popped in my head. Missy had never had anyone other than a calf touch her udder before and simple compliance was NOT a trait that Missy was born with. But at the same time she didn’t want to just NOT comply. I think she liked the attention. At milking time I would put a rope around her neck and tie her to a fence post. No problem. I would win her over with a little salt. The cattle looked forward to salt and only got it once in awhile in the pasture. I moved around Missy’s back end with care to give her hind legs a wide berth. I learned that lesson the hard way as was evidenced by the purple bruises on my shins. When I was at her side I didn’t worry about it figuring cows can’t kick to the side. Well, Missy was not an ordinary cow and developed quite a little karate kick. She would lift a leg, bending at the knee, curling her hoofed foot and jab out from the hip.
ZZIINNGG!
“OWWW!!!”
Sometimes I would catch her pretending to be innocently chewing her cud but actually shifting her weight to 3 legs and lifting that 4th one, hoof curled under, and shaking it menacingly, waiting for me to get closer.
“Ha! Ha! Ha!” I would laugh. “Nice try, Missy!”
She would go back to chewing her cud acting like she had never paused from that normal bovine activity.
How much milk would I get from a Corrientes? At least a pint per milking, sometimes a quart if I missed a day. If I milked her twice a day I could maybe get a quart in one day but that was questionable and it was a lot of extra work. Usually I’d just milk her once a day and this was enough to keep her producing. Anyone familiar with real milk cows like Brown Jerseys will just laugh since they can produce a couple of gallons a day.
Milking was the first adventure. Making stuff with the milk was the second adventure. I started out making yogurt since I already knew how to do that, but I really wanted to make cheese. There were no books on the subject at the ranch, but there was some basic satellite internet and I found some cheesemaking recipes. I didn’t entirely have the proper ingredients. I had vinegar or lime juice for an acid but no rennet at first, so I was only able to make a crude cheese.
Valerie, a volunteer there at the time, teased me about the cheese I made, “I didn’t know there are cheeses that don’t melt! Ha, ha, ha!”
“But it is really good,” she added, to console me. Research into the topic revealed that I had stumbled on making queso blanco, a fresh Latin American cheese made from milk coagulated with vinegar. It was thoroughly appropriate to my location since I was in Mexico. I hadn’t made a mistake I had made an official cheese!
But the cheeses I really wanted to make were mozzarella and ricotta, the ricotta being a byproduct of the whey left over from the mozzarella. Even though I was in Mexico I am 50% Italian with greater than 50% Italian taste buds and was determined to make these cheeses. At some point Cindy managed to get some rennet from a Mennonite farmer when she was in town. Rennet is necessary to coagulate milk for any cheese more complex than queso blanco. However, it is critical when making mozzarella and ricotta to get the temperatures just right and I only had a soil thermometer with increments of 25 degrees. For a few weeks I tried to make mozzarella and every time I got queso blanco. Although a perfectly delicious mistake and thoroughly appropriate to the tacos and tamales we usually ate, it wasn’t mozzarella.
Only a week or two after starting my milking routine a stumbling block appeared. Simon, a really nice guy but, unfortunately, a bit lazy, was not doing his job of tending to the cattle and repairing fences. His heart wasn’t in it and he was released. Now it was up to me to get Missy if I was to continue my milk adventures. I had minimal horseback riding experience in the past but was quickly getting reacquainted with it at the ranch. I started out riding Spot a gentle, sound, and steady horse, perfect for a beginner.
My first day of getting Missy by myself I couldn’t find her. The second day turned into a lengthy, exasperating adventure. I had put a bell around her neck and usually the bell could be heard. Brandon, a volunteer, had been out riding around giving Rosie, an inexperienced horse, some riding time, and he had looked for her, too. No sight nor sound of her. I thought of one out of the way place she may have been and saddled up Spot to go look for her. Well, as soon as I rode out into the pasture there was Missy right out in the open, looking like she had decided, herself, to come be milked. I was baffled as to how she got there, so close, without being heard. Well, I figured, I’ll just quickly herd her into the corral and milk her since that seems to be what she wants. HA! She really came looking for excitement. I tried to nonchalantly steer Spot around her backside to push her into the corral. Just like Simon did so effortlessly. Well, Missy might obey Simon but not me. She whirled around and tried to herd Spot and me! And Spot is bigger than her! There was a stand off and then Missy sidestepped us and trotted off into the trees. We followed, dodging oak and juniper branches. We chased her along a fence. I knocked off dead branches as they appeared but suddenly there was one that was not dead. I couldn’t duck and got pushed off of Spot. Luckily, he was going slowly at the time but I still tweaked my neck and had a sore stiff neck for a week. Spot patiently waited for me to get back on, as did Missy, just up ahead, peering back at me as if to ask sarcastically, “So what’s your next smooth move, cowgirl?” I glared at her as I jumped back on. Missy headed right through a hole in the fence.
