Shhh! Scribbler at Work

Between Milkings...

(prompt: 'full' 6/4/2018)

It's the last day of silage-making season. I sit on our tractor, holding the engine heater switch, waiting for the motor to warm up, idly looking at one lonely longer nail. Hmmph... certainly not the hands of a secretary anymore. Some transition from a typewriter and telephone to operating huge machinery like a tractor. Fresh air instead of air-conditioning, and broken and grubby fingernails instead of those well-manicured and nail-polished beauties of once upon a time.

And the interminable learning curves - milking and breeding a solid dairy herd; recognising and accepting when your ministrations to animal accidents and illnesses weren't enough and only the vet would do. Feeding and fencing, building and growing - the list went on... and on. And once a year, making silage.

Wikipedia says – 'Silage is fermented, high-moisture stored fodder which can be fed to ruminants (cud-chewing animals such as cattle and sheep). And – 'Silage may be stored in pits, bunkers, stacks or as large round bales'. Our choice was the wedge-shaped stack.

The first part involves waiting for the engine to warm enough before switching on the ignition key, taking a deep, slightly nervous breath. Over my shoulder looms the tall 'Hurricane' forage harvester - a golden oldie now, bravely wearing a memory of the original paintwork, along with a number of rust spots - but still cleanly slicing off all in its path as it faithfully trails behind the tractor. It arches up and back like a giraffe neck. And even taller is its faithful follower, the catching bin, ready for 3 tons of freshly cut pasture.

Finally, with a shudder or two the tractor roars into life. A shift of the lever engages the mighty mowing power. The cutting blades turn and swing, slowly gathering speed. Faster and faster to their wildest rotations... and the clatter builds to a near-deafening roar. I'm thankful for those ear muffs. Steadily I lift the hand accelerator lever to the ¾ mark, exactly the way Kanute taught me. Up go the revs, higher and higher, until the moment arrives. Tractor into gear. Hand brake off, foot off the clutch pedal slowly but surely, and we start moving through the pasture grown tall in the past months the stock have been barred entry. By the end of the day, that vast expanse of paddock will be smooth as a prized front lawn.

On our other tractor, Kanute lifts great heaps of mown grass from each load I dump and drops them on the stack - now a monolith rearing from the side of the sloping paddock. The pronged lifter on the back of his tractor is a buck-rake, swinging around as he builds and compacts each new layer.

I hate the compacting part. Hate and fear it desperately. Especially the moment when he backs up to the high edge (now over 3 metres tall) to compact the stack. The hefty steel buck-rake hangs far out over the edge, seeming to defy all laws of gravity and balance. But the worst is still ahead, as Kanute changes into forward gear and the tractor slips back even further. Just when all seems lost, the wheels grip and he lurches forward again. Impossible to view this calmly. I clearly pictured the tractor somersaulting over in slow motion... but it never did. Best not dwell on that.

Focus instead on my harvesting. I turn often to keep an eagle eye on the towering forage harvester and bin. I never adapt to operating all that cumbersome machinery, and yet I love the feeling of power and excitement. I relish my ability to line up a spot on the bonnet of the tractor to get the maximum width cut. Several older farmers around grudgingly compliment me on this evenness.

Paddock corners need careful attention, especially the bottom one, as the bin leans alarmingly, causing my scalp to prickle as my heart thuds painfully. This moment never becomes easier. Back on the straight length again, there's time to relax briefly and enjoy the cooling wind on my heated face and neck. How I love the fresh, clean smell of the newly mown grass. The catching bin ensures I don't relax too much, remembering how much angst it always creates. There's a constant need to gauge its capacity, choosing the exact moment before it's TOO full, and yet managing to finish the end of a round. It's perilously close many times before I stop and disengage the power drive. As the noise winds down, I realise how loud it has been, as my ears continue to ring.

A short moment to savour the silence before driving as close to the stack as possible, stretching impossibly far back to grasp the handle to open the whole back section, and the load drops with a dull thump. A few quick taps on the accelerator pedal jerks the tractor to shake out the remaining grasses, and slam the door shut. A wave and a grin to Kanute, and I'm off again.

Round after round goes by, leaving an ever-shrinking area. I often smile as I drive. How claustrophobic would that office of yesterday feel after experiencing all this freedom and space as we work in harmony with our world? The seasons, weather and animals combine to dictate our daily jobs and every new day brings something different. All is orchestrated to the rhythmic pattern of life and death.

An errant stone, picked up by the cutters, clatters through the funnel and brings my full attention back to the fact I'm cutting the last row. One last criss-cross of the paddock to clean up the corners, then back to the stack. Ahh... the supreme joy of turning everything off, and climbing down.

At this end of our day, I'm stiff and sore, and suddenly painfully aware of my spine's stiffness. I gratefully watch the last load being added and witness the final compaction for the day. The silage-making is truly over for another year. We walk around the stack, admiring the quantity and quality of the grass, and then climb to the highest point of the stack to admire the view from this newly created vantage point.

With arms around each other we look out over our 'girls' happily grazing in another paddock. In the incredible quiet after all the noise of the day's toil, we hear the sweet songs of birds, as though they too are celebrating the sounds of silence; and far away a lamb calls for its mother. Along with the aching tiredness is the deepest satisfaction in a job well done. There are few greater rewards than this.

All that's left now is to get the cows in and milk them... AGAIN!