Excerpt from the autobiography of Taft Rowberry WRATHALL
(1909 - 1985)
[Written approx. 1980 (age 71)]
Sheepherding
Some philosophers have recommended that each of us have in the repertoire of our experience a pleasant experience or situation we can recall to mind which can serve as a fanciful "refuge room". We can then, in our thoughts, retire to it when things in life get a little rough. I think this is a good idea, and I have found my "refuge room" associated with my experience with the wind.
Included in my father's [ James L. Wrathall (1860 -1932)] property was a ranch called the Boxelder Ranch located about 10 miles south of Grantsville at the mouth of South Willow Canyon. For awhile one summer I was a sheepherder for some of my father's sheep near this ranch. I was required to let the sheep slowly graze over the area while keeping them together and coyotes away. Although it has nothing to do with the story of herding sheep, this area seemed to be infested with rattlesnakes and I recall on one occasion, as I walked about a quarter of a mile along a trail on this ranch, of hearing rattlesnakes four different times in the bush just off the trail. I have thought since then that it was foolhardy to be walking on that trail in my barefeet. As I herded the sheep it was hot, there were few trees to get under and the sun beat down unopposed. As the sheep slowly grazed along the hills there was one particular spot I always looked forward to reaching. It was just over the rise of a hill at which point a refreshing breeze from the valley below would hit my perspiring forehead. I would open my shirt and let the cool breeze pour down my bare chest and at the same time I would take in the peaceful view of the valley below. The whisper of the breeze through the sagebrush, the smell of the sage and the feel of that heavenly fresh, cool breeze was indeed a memory to keep.
Usually once a year, in the springtime, large herds of sheep would pass through [town] on their way to their summer grazing area near Lakeside. It was possible, when this happened, to buy pet lambs. Sometimes the mother ewe would die, or a small lamb would become separated from its mother and wander away. We could usually pick up one of these orphans for a price between nothing and 50 cents. We would then play mama and feed it every day from a baby nursing bottle. From a weak, unstable, scraggly shape of wool hardly able to stand in the wind, [the lamb] would soon be frisking about and kicking its heels up. A lamb's tail seemed to grow even faster than the rest of its anatomy, so it would eventually become a burdensome weight of cockleburrs and dirty wool. To avoid this cumbrous appendage, while yet a small lamb, its tail was carefully laid across a block of wood and cleanly separated using a sharp hatchet. .... These adopted lambs would become great pets, and follow us around like a dog. When the inevitable day came [ and] it was sold, it was done without fanfare to lessen the sadness. When we returned one day from an absence, the lamb would be gone. We knew why, even though nothing much was said about it. We were sad but accepted it.