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The rainıs gonna come ...ı
STORY & PHOTOGRAPHY BY LIN ALDER
A deafening clang of metal on metal rings in my ears as Herb Bundy slams the gate of a rusty squeeze chute, its paint a chipped green
As the calf inside kicks in protest, dust from the bone-dry soil on this Arizona Strip ranch engulfs Herb and the bovine before a stiff wind whisks the cloud south toward the Grand Canyon. I watch with a mixture of awe and horror as Herb and his son, Heath, punch a plastic identity tag through the calf's ear, cauterize the two spots from which horns would otherwise grow, brand, and vaccinate the youngster. Then they flip cage and calf horizontal to the ground and castrate.
It all takes less than four minutes. Herb yanks open the gate for the stunned calf to wander out while another son, Roy, pushes the next calf into the green chute.
"Heifer," Roy yells. As Herbıs wife, Eve, adds another handwritten point to her heifer vs. bull annual scorecard, I am relieved to know I wonıt have to watch another castration
I drove 45 miles southwest from St. George, Utah, to meet Herb, a fourth-generation Arizona Strip rancher and one of the last to pass the trade to his sons successfully. In a lifestyle assailed by the formidable challenges of anti-grazing politics, fickle beef markets, and drought, that's enough to make him a minor legend. Thirty other men about Herb's age once were involved in ranching on the Arizona Strip, the oppressively arid five-million-acre swath of Arizona north of the Grand Canyon. Only two of those peers are still connected with the business.
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The March/April 2003 Issue is out. Find it at Las Vegas bookstores today.
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