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When Emerald Strikes the Clover

It is haying season in the west. Last winter many people simply ran out of hay and livestock went hungry for a while. Not only was it generally unavailable, if you could find it the prices were doubled. Several neighbors ended up paying $10.00 a bale for mediocre hay. We had enough hay of our own production for our needs, so the shortage did not affect us. The season has changed and we have swung into action on the Quarter Circle K. Our first crop is in and the second is on its way (Photo is of one of our fields).

Last winter I wrote poem called “When Emerald Strikes the Clover” which was a wistful anticipation of the coming of Spring. What I never mentioned in that poem was that when the alfalfa (clover) grows, the work begins – starting with the repair of haying equipment. I have recently completely rebuilt my hay mower and wanted to share a tip on sickle bar riveting that someone, someplace may find useful. Once that’s done, I’ll add the poem.

Whether you are using a swather or a sickle bar mower to cut hay, both work on the same principle. They each have a long cutting knife that cuts a swath from five to thirteen feet wide. (A swather is a combination implement that not only cuts, but conditions and rakes the cut hay into windrows in a single pass.) The cutting motion is based on a scissor-like action between the stationary rock guards and the blade comprised of two-inch triangularly shaped knife sections individually riveted onto a bar (two rivets each) which is either activated by the tractor PTO (power take off) or the swather itself, if it is a self propelled model.

At any rate – here is the tip. During the mowing operation one of the knife sections is bound to break a rivet and will need to be re-riveted. Breakage may due to hitting a rock in the field or through normal wear. The remaining rivet of the two will need to be removed. To do this, use a clinch cutter that we use in horse shoeing. This tool has a sharp punch on one end and a metal cutting blade on the other end and is made to be struck with a hammer to cut off the clinches of old horseshoes to facilitate their removal. Clinch cutters work just as well to cut sickle bar rivets. Grind the punch end down to the exact diameter of the rivet hole for rivet stem removal. When a section needs to be removed, cut the head of the rivet with the cutting blade end of the clinch cutter by holding it in place and striking firmly with a hammer. The head will pop off. Then take the ground end of the clinch cutter and tap out the remaining stem of the rivet. To replace the section, hold the section and the rivet in place using two hammers – one on the bottom of the rivet acting as a mini-anvil and the other used above to forge-set the rivet head. I am sure that all of this sounds totally Greek to those that have never needed to do this, but for that have, we are talking the same language. I know that there are other ways of doing this, but this works pretty slick and I hope it helps someone out there. If it does, send me an email. I have a bunch of other tricks up my sleeve as well when working with sickle bar mowers.

When Emerald Strikes the Clover
by Paul Kern

The haystack now is melting down,
I see the hoar frost flee,
The wind cuts short her howling moan,
Dark days are blowing over.
A snowbird sings and so will I –
When emerald strikes the clover.

It's calving time and lambing too,
They struggle to breathe free,
Most will live but some just won't,
Cold days are nearly over.
Just hang on for a few more weeks -
Till emerald strikes the clover.

The horses stand in mud unshod,
Their coats hang long and shaggy,
Winter moustache on my bronco's lip,
The shoer is driving over.
They'll be ready again for work -
When emerald strikes the clover.

Springtime fills most every step,
These muddy boots will take,
Don't mind too much the windy cold,
But am glad when it's all over.
I live for days when life ebbs back -
And emerald strikes the clover.

The haystack now has melted down,
And frost takes to the wing,
Breezes wafting light and slow,
Blue skies have taken over.
A songbird sings and so do I -
When emerald strikes the clover.

A Morning After Rain

Wintertime in January and February can get pretty tiresome in the intermountain west. Though we enjoy the four seasons and have plenty enough to do - horse-drawn sleighing, skiing, snowmobiling and the inevitable indoor home repair projects, it is nice to occasionally cast a glance to the springtime. I wrote this short poem last spring as I had been out to my hayfields early in the morning and came away just striken with the simple beauty of the alfalfa plants glistening in the sunlight that morning after rain - somehow, it just all seemed right and good. The photo is of that same hayfield, but after the first cutting. You'll notice that we do hay the old fashioned way (sans bales) and with pitchfork in hand.

A Morning After Rain
by Paul Kern

I didn’t know alfalfa could be so pretty,
When the plants are just half grown,
But it was that morning after rain,
When shadows left a dewy kiss,
And I whispered as I caught my breath -

I live for days like this.

A Little South of Dixie

I spent the summer of 1972 as a whitewater river guide on Idaho’s Salmon River – the fabled River of No Return. We escorted our guests and clients through high-water rapids in one-man fiberglass kayaks. We would work in pairs, so that when one of our guests went overboard, one would chase the person and tow him to safety while the other would go after the wayward boat and pull it through the whitewater to shore. We would then regroup, wring out and get back in. Our guests left the trip with a lifetime of wonderful memories. Seldom was there a dull moment – though there were frustrating ones from time to time. For instance I once pulled a woman out of a whirlpool eddy that was strong enough to suck off her canvas sneakers. I felt lucky to have been able to pull her to safety through some tricky currents without going under myself. When we reached the shore, she offered no word of thanks, just a demand that I go back in and retrieve her shoes. Well, I didn’t and she was an unhappy camper from then on.

The Salmon River gets under your skin. This is the river that detoured Lewis and Clark. This is the river that cuts through a series of mountainous canyons so rocky and so steep that there are no parallel roads for most of its length. This is the river of incredible perseverance and power as it carves its way to finally join the Snake, the Columbia and the Pacific Ocean. It is a metaphor to me about overcoming the day-to-day struggles of life. Although it has been quite some years since I last dried out from its waters, it still has a hold on me in my quiet moments. I can almost hear at times the crash and roar of Pine Creek rapids as the waters push on to the sea. I can almost feel at times the wet sand of the river bottom between my toes as I turn my face to the west in the late afternoon sun. My mind’s eye can still see the glance of sunlight on the greenish black water capped with white. The call of the river is a call to arms – to overcome and defeat whatever obstacles are placed in your way. The reward at the end of the course more than warrants the struggle.

In this poem, Dixie is a small hamlet in central Idaho deep in the heart of the Salmon River mountains. The photo is of road's end at Shoup. This is the second poem I have written about the Salmon River. The first was Back to the River of No Return.

A Little South of Dixie

by Paul Kern

A little south of Dixie,
There’s a river flowing west,
With hoary foam and white caps,
Dripping from her breast.

It’s takes a lot of river,
To forge a pathway to the sea,
Where no unhallowed human hand,
Has dammed her – she’s still free.

Through chiseled granite canyons,
That old river still flows west,
And my mind there often wanders,
To ride again upon her crest.

I used to cuss the current,
So wild and swift and free,
‘Til night dreams came a calling,
They are calling now to me.

Unhindered westward on she flows,
And casts her primal trance,
The unruly river is a lively gal,
That calls me forth to dance.

To dance a dance unhobbled,
Under starry western skies,
Where crashing waves through a precipice,
Give hope to weary eyes.

Through granite walls of stony glance,
And canyons of despair,
The river keeps on moving,
As she lashes at the air.

It takes a lot of river,
To forge onward to the sea,
Through dark and narrow wilderness,
She calls and beacons me.

And speaks of oceans,
Calm and wide that lap each foreign shore,
And tells the tale of victory,
Above the crashing roar.

A little south of Dixie,
There’s a river flowing west,

Her waters rage to a peaceful land,
And I shall ride upon her crest.

Mornin' on the Desert

This old family photo, dating from just after the turn of the century shows a cabin in the Millcreek area of the Salt Lake Valley near the old family farm at 3900 S. and 400 E. Today this area is heavily urbanized and paved over with endless miles of concrete and asphalt. The woman standing in the door is noted as a Mrs. Butler, 91 years old and that with one tooth she can still eat beefsteak and Indian corn. Looking closely at the photo, the flower garden stands out as well as the solid brick chimney of the small wooden cabin. In a way it reminds me of the poem often recited by Jerry Brooks -

Mornin' on the Desert
by Kathrine Fall Pettey

Mornin' on the desert, and the wind is blowin' free,
And it's ours, jest for the breathin', so let's fill up, you and me.
No more stuffy cities, where you have to pay to breathe,
Where the helpless human creatures move and throng and strive and seethe.

Mornin' on the desert, and the air is like a wine,
And it seems like all creation has been made for me and mine.
No house to stop my vision, save a neighbor's miles away,
And a little 'dobe shanty that belongs to me and May.

Lonesome? Not a minute: Why I've got these mountains here,
That was put here just to please me, with their blush and frown and cheer.
They're waiting when the summer sun gets too sizzlin' hot,
An' we jest go campin' in 'em with a pan and coffee pot.

Mornin' on the desert-- I can smell the sagebrush smoke.
I hate to see it burnin', but the land must sure be broke.
Ain't it jest a pity that wherever man may live,
He tears up so much that's beautiful that the good God has to give?

"Sagebrush ain't so pretty?" Well, all eyes don't see the same,
have you ever seen the moonlight turn it to a silvery flame?
An' that greasewood thicket yonder -- well, it smells jest awful sweet,
When the night wind has been shakin' it -- for its smell is hard to beat.

Lonesome? Well, I guess not! I've been lonesome in a town.
But I sure do love the desert with its stretches wide and brown.
All day through the sagebrush here the wind is blowin' free.
An' it's ours jest for the breathin', so let's fill up, you and me.

Five Bells Fell Silent at Alcalá

A little more than a year ago I was making frequent visits to both the Blackfoot Indian Reservation in south eastern Idaho and the Windriver Reservation just north of Lander, Wyoming. I became quite well acquainted with many of the reservation Indians and spent hours in conversation with them. I had the chance to travel around the reservations and got to know the general lay of the land of both. Having grown up in Idaho, it was always a source of pride that Sacajewa, a Shoshone was from my home state. What I learned during my time among the Shoshone on two reservations was that she was ultimately buried in the cemetary on the Windriver Reservation. I have visited her grave on several occasions and though some dispute its authenticity, I do not. It is located near to the monument to her son Jean Baptiste Charbonneau, who was the papoose born at the beginning of the expedition led by Lewis and Clark known as the "Corps of Discovery." Sacajewa carried her infant child all the way to the Pacific shore near the mouth of the Columbia River, where she picked up a sand dollar as a souvenir (later given to Chief Washakie and proudly worn in photos - follow link to see).

During Jean Baptiste's adult life, he was chosen to guide the Mormon Battalion to the Pacific coast at San Diego, where they ultimately arrived at or near the Mision San Diego de Alcalá 164 years ago today on January 29, 1847 (Alcalá means "the castle" in Spanish, taken from Arabic). The papoose engraven on the Sacajewa dollar made it to the pacific shores of our country at least twice - once during the Jeffersonian age of discovery and again during the age of Manifest Destiny that pushed our borders to the Pacific Ocean.

So - that is a long and involved introduction to this short but complex poem; without which it wouldn't make much sense. I visited the Mision de Alcalá as a small boy and remain impressed with its ancient grandeur - which changed jurisdiction from Mexican to American. The arrival of Sacajewa's son signaled the end of an era and the beginning of a new one.

Five Bells Fell Silent at Alcalá
by Paul Kern

Five bells fell silent at Alcalá,
And silenced their ancient ring,
When Jean Baptiste – called – Charboneau,
Walked to the sea that mid-winter morning of spring.

This peaceful strand of destiny,
He’d been there and had seen it before,
Now Jean Baptiste – called – Charboneau,
With a battalion of men in rags that that they wore,
Stood silent as they gazed at the sea.

Five bells fell silent at Alcalá,
And silenced their ancient ring.
When Jean Baptiste – called – Charboneau,
Walked the shores of America that mid-winter morning of spring.

My Blue Eyed Bay (Christmas Version)

My Blue Eyed Bay
by Paul Kern

We did some horse tradin' just after the molt,
Kirby got old Dan and me - an unbroke colt,
When I first handled him he lingered to stay,
This was a real good sign for the blue eyed bay.

Still only a yearlin' he wasn't much use,
I just wanted a horse that'd had no abuse,
To get one I'd have to break him my way,
We'd get along fine, me and this blue eyed bay.

Months of workin' him and sackin' him out,
One step at a time each day left no doubt,
He was a good one and had a good place to stay,
I was startin' out fine with my blue eyed bay.

It took five bouts of buckin' 'fore I hit dirt,
When he finally threw me just my pride was hurt,
That was the last time he'd toss a rider away,
It all came together for my blue eyed bay.

Months passed, he grew and he learned each gait,
But to lope with a rider he preferred to wait,
It would come out in time but in his own way,
He was movin' out fast now - my blue eyed bay.

He loped first on the trail on an uphill swell,
That November mornin' it was clear as a bell,
There was more to come I could easily say,
I'd be gettin' there soon with my blue eyed bay.

A horse worth ownin' has to give satisfaction,
A good head, soft eye and a whole lot of action,
You can get all this if you're willing to pay,,
Most horses keep a' givin' like my blue eyed bay.

One holiday mornin' in the soft arena dirt,
A loose rein, no spurs and no need for a quirt,
He picked up his leads and loped circles each way,
This, a true gift from my blue eyed bay.

Now in that same spirit at this special time of year,
True gifts are those given in love without fear,
They come from the heart and in their own way,
So, Merry Christmas - from me and my blue eyed bay!

KC Kern

KCKERN.COM

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