Ranching in the Depression

By Diana Hooley

Winter is here and the world seems full of problems, or maybe it’s just that I have a touch of seasonal affective disorder (SAD). What I need is a case of better attitude days (BAD). I need to see the glass as half full—or at least calorie-free. Sometimes getting out of the doldrums takes little more than recognizing all your blessings and that there are those among us who’ve lived through so much worse. 

I was thinking about all this when I visited Dave Tindall, a rancher who lives in Owyhee County cowboy country just south of our farm near Hammett.  Dave told me stories about his ancestors settling the West in the 1800s and the kind of winters his family endured in the early days.

“We don’t understand bad times,” he said, shaking his head. “Winter was a real trial back then. Oh, we get bad winters now. In 1990 we had a cold snap.  Forty below in some places.  I remember I had to bring the cows in to feed. And in 2017 we got dumped on (with several feet of snow).  But my great-grandpa’s family—they couldn’t jump in a warm pickup and haul hay to their cows. At least we’ve got good transportation now.”

Dave showed me a book that his uncle wrote about his ancestors.  His great-grandfather was a teacher from Delaware who came west to stake a land claim.  I leafed through the book and read about the first rock house his great-grandfather built in the high desert near Grasmere in Owyhee County. The roof was made of willows, hay, and mud.

Inside the home, coarse muslin cloth was tacked to the ceiling to prevent dirt from drifting down on people’s heads.  Lacking trees in the desert, his great-grandparents burned sagebrush and manure in the fireplace. Town was forty miles away.

Amos the cattle dog, Owyhee County. Courtesy Brian and Chris Collett.

Rock house built by Dave Tindall's grandfather. Courtesy Tindall family.

A hired hand near Hammett. Diana Hooley.

"Snowmaggedon" near Murphy. Courtesy of Brian and Chris Collett.

“Life wasn’t easy, but they were young and had dreams.” Dave looked thoughtful. “If you live off the land though, you can’t ever forget that Mother Nature’s the boss.”

Dave said his ancestors learned to expect the unexpected. In the winter of 1919 a mangy coyote wandered into his grandparent’s yard and fought the family dog in the snow, spewing blood everywhere. Dave’s father was just a little boy and loved their cow dog. His name was Doggone, which he earned because any time there was a mess or something was missing that doggone dog was involved.

Dave’s grandmother tried to shoo away the coyote and separate the two animals, but to no avail.  When his grandfather came home, he told everyone they might have to shoot Doggone because the coyote likely was rabid.  Then they learned Doggone had nipped Dave’s father and several cows in the pasture after his coyote battle. The local doctor in their rural community had to send away to San Francisco for rabies vaccine, and though Dave’s father survived, Doggone and all the cows that were bitten went mad and died.

“That happened—but that wasn’t the worst winter,” Dave said.  The worst winter, he told me, was during the Depression in the 1930s when his great-uncle, who also was a rancher in this remote part of the county at Wickahoney [see “The Sage of Wickahoney,” IDAHO magazine, October 2011], had no money to buy feed for his cows. He finally went to the bank in Bruneau but was refused a loan. Banks were struggling as much as everyone else during the Depression. Not willing to stand by and watch his cows starve, the next day Dave’s great-uncle hanged himself.

“But there’s a silver lining,” he said pragmatically. “My great uncle’s daughter Rosella survived all this hardship. She was a tough old gal and lived a good long life, well into her eighties, I believe.”

When my visit with Dave ended, I felt more content about being inside my house, out of the bad weather. I had a comfortable and safe home. I could brew a hot cup of coffee with the flick of a switch. What did I have to complain about?