Windbreak: A Woman Rancher on the Northern Plains - Softcover

Hasselstrom, Linda M.

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0960962638 ISBN 13: 9780960962631

Publisher: Barn Owl Books, 1987

Synopsis

The author describes her experiences during the course of a year on her family's South Dakota ranch

About this title

About the Author:

Linda Hasselstrom was born in Texas and raised on the plains of southwestern South Dakota. Her poems, short stories and articles have appeared in over 70 magazines and anthologies; she has published 2 volumes of poetry and 3 non-fiction books about her life.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

September 1 Low 54, high 85.

Something woke me at 3 a.m. yesterday, and I got up and began to wander through the house, looking out the windows. To the east, the horizon was a flickering red and gold. For a minute I just stared, before realizing it was fore, a towering wall of flames.

I called the fire number while tearing off my nightgown, and by the time I was dressed George had the pickup ready, with a tank full of water and a bundle of feed sacks. We honked as we went through my folks' yard, and I saw the bedroom light go on. We took our regular trail over east, only we threw all the gates back out of the way; behind us in the darkness we could see the lights of the neighbors' pickups and the fire trucks. When we got to my uncle Harold's pasture, we saw a lone figure silhouetted against the fire, bending as he beat at the ground--my uncle's hired man.

Our area is served by volunteer fire departments, and who is manning the trucks depends on who's available when the fire siren blows. Getting the men and trucks together takes time, so we're all volunteer fire fighters. Our standard method is to wet a gunny sack and use it to beat out the flames. When the sparks have been beaten down in one spot, you move ahead and repeat the operation. Every foot of fire is sometimes beaten out in this way if the trucks are busy somewhere else. Any flaming cow chips within five feet of the edge of the fire must be kicked well back into the burned-over zone. They hold sparks for hours, and are light enough to be blown out into the unburned grass.

The wind was blowing hard, and twice it blew flames up into my face, jumping over the spot I'd been wetting down. The roar of the wind, the crackling fire and my own hoarse breathing were all I could hear when I stopped to rest. I deliberately slowed my pace, afraid I'd pass out.

The next time I looked up, I seemed to be alone in the dark. A long tongue of flame had shot down a gully, and I could see pickup lights ahead of it, searching for a way to get to it. Figures appeared and disappeared as the flames flickered. I stayed in the same area, working back and forth along the side of the fire. Once I saw a cow chip spinning over the dry grass, throwing sparks like a pinwheel. By the time I'd caught and soaked it, I had a new trail of fire to put out.

About sunrise, I saw men gathering around a pickup about a half mile north of me. Aunt Jo, Harold's wife, was passing out cups of coffee. I joined them, and listened to fire stories for a few minutes. Several of the men came in coughing like their lungs were on fire, and then lit cigarettes. I kept following the coughs, looking for George, since his breathing is so precarious, but couldn't find him or my father. Finally Jo spotted me. "Come on. We're going to town for stuff for sandwiches."

I was too tired to argue with her. When I piled my first armload of sandwich meat on the counter at the store, the clerk peered at me and said, "For gosh sakes, I didn't recognize you. You burned your face off, honey." She slapped a package of ointment on the counter and said, "Put some of this on it. And Josephine, put that checkbook away. We'll donate this stuff. And come back if you need more."

By the time we got back several new areas of fire had spread east and south, and a slurry bomber was working back and forth over the Badlands. We picked a spot close to where the fire chiefs were parked, talking on their radios, and started making sandwiches. Soon several other women had driven up, with pots of coffee or boxes of food, and the fire fighters began to drift in as if they could smell the coffee.

One of our neighbors still had his pajama top on, stuffed into his jeans. Another man held up the wreckage of his hat; he'd come without a sack, and had beaten on the flames with the hat. My uncle Harold came in for coffee, much to Jo's relief; he'd been helping to drive his and the neighbors' cows out of the fire's path.

I stayed with the lunch crew until late in the afternoon, since I couldn't find either of our pickups, or my husband or father. I saw our nearest neighbors, as well as people I hadn't seen since I was in high school. Close friends and enemies drank coffee, stuffed sandwiches in their faces, and went back to the fire. Every now and then the wind would change, and we'd throw everything in the pickup and get it out of the way, then fight fire for awhile until the wind switched again.

At dark, the front of the fire--fifteen miles away--was under control. By that time the reporters had been out, and the Highway Patrol had blocked a couple of ranch roads to keep spectators out. One child was missing, and officials were afraid he'd been burned. George finally appeared, black smudges on his face and a definite wheeze in his throat. After he's eaten we came on home, and found my father already here and my mother worried about us. George and father had both gone ahead of the fire, to the east side, and fought over there most of the day. They were happy to report the fire didn't get to our pastures over east.

About this edition

• Publisher: Barn Owl Books
• Publication date: 1987
• ISBN 10: 0960962638
• ISBN 13: 9780960962631
• Binding: Paperback
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 233