Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: TUESDAY, May 25, 1993 TAG: 9305250141
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: DWAYNE YANCEY STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: MUSTOE LENGTH: Long
Even before dawn, the day was promising: Clear, calm and crisp, just right for driving cattle.
Frank Stephenson read all these signs approvingly -- the sharp cold biting through his workshirt was the best one yet, especially given the forecast for a sweltering noon -- and wrestled a saddle onto his favorite horse.
Out in the pasture, beneath the grainy twilight, the cattle were already edging closer, dark shapes whose anticipation filled the valley with a cacophony of sounds -- hooves stamping the wet turf, deep moans lodged in the animals' throats, the gurgly hiss of steam rising from their nostrils.
Both the cattle and the cattlemen had done this so many times, they knew just what to do. Frank Stephenson handed his brother Tom a walkie-talkie and gave him the only instruction he'd need to give all day: "Frequency 37." nn
Subtract the electronic gear, and this scene is straight out of the Old West -- and the Old East, for that matter. For generations, the Stephensons have grazed cattle on the verdant slopes of Highland County, rotating their herds between a winter pasture and a summer pasture.
The catch is the former is along the banks of the Jackson River at Mustoe and the latter is in the hills around Meadowdale, some nine miles away.
The Stephensons could truck their cattle from one field to another, but with hundreds of cows to be loaded and unloaded -- along with calves, jostling to keep up with their mamas -- that chore could take all day or more.
So instead, the Stephensons simply saddle their horses, open the gates and let their cattle strike out down the middle of U.S. 220 in an old-time cattle drive. At worst, it takes only half a day for the cattle to hoof their way home. What about the traffic? Well, the driver of even the biggest 18-wheeler on the road tends to give way when he sees a herd of cattle stampeding toward him.
"I'm 43 years old, and I've done it since I was big enough to walk," says Frank Stephenson. "It's a matter of necessity. We're not doing it for a novelty."
True, but do something often enough, and even work becomes a tradition. Here in Highland County, the Stephensons' cattle drive is an annual rite of spring, one that brings out folks to wait by the roadside and watch the bovine parade trot by.
Neighbors practically clamor to help, the cattle drive seems like so much fun. Jerry Rexrode, a local masonry contractor, was so eager to go on this year's cattle drive that he volunteered just as soon as the one last year was over with.
Then there's Dave Yates, a moving-company owner who heard about the drive from a friend and came all the way from Charlotte, N.C., for a chance to ride in the roundup. So what did his friends back in the city think about him going on a cattle drive? "You know," he drawls, "I had a bunch of buddies wanting to come."
There are three Stephenson brothers, and the two who stayed on the farm don't quite see why there's so much interest in what to them is just another day at work. Or, as older brother Steve puts it: "This seems like a big deal till you do it so damn much, then it's just a pain in the ass."
The tradition exerts a strong pull on the Stephenson clan nonetheless. These are Frank's cattle, but everyone pitches in to move them, even those who don't have to.
So Frank's 21-year-old niece, Crysta, spends the morning before her bridal shower on horseback. "For them it's just kind of another day at work, but for me this is pretty special," she says.
And Frank's baby brother Tom, the free spirit in the family who forsook farming to roam the country working construction jobs and brags "the longest I've ever held a job is for two years," makes a point of returning to Highland County each May just to wave the warning flag. "I always try to get home for it," he says. "That and spring gobbler season are the two things that mean a lot to me."
Truth be told, even Steve, for all his grumbling, must get a kick out of this deep down. Just look at the way the Stephenson brothers dress for the cattle drive and you can tell something about them.
Tom shows up in a "River Jam" T-shirt he bought at a country music festival somewhere in Tennessee. "Patti Loveless stole the show," he remembers.
Frank's wearing what he always does: plain, hardscrabble, no-nonsense denim.
Steve? He steps out of his truck in full cattle-drive regalia: chaps, white cowboy hat, a pink scarf tied around his neck.
"Frank's a farmer," Tom whispers. "Steve's a cowboy."
Farmers wouldn't be farmers if they didn't fret about something, and the part Frank frets about most is the beginning.
Once the cattle get on the road, the drive is easy -- the nine trailhands traveling by foot, horseback and pickup truck just need to keep the cattle moving forward. But trying to round up 170 head of cattle in a vast field and persuade them to thread through the needle's-eye of a gate, that can be the tricky part.
Tom, whose job it is to lead the drive, stationed himself in the middle of U.S. 220 with his blaze-orange flag and watched the choreography unfold.
Most of the cows have made this trip before; the oldest animal is a venerable 15 years. "They know when we pull in there in the morning what's going on," Frank had insisted. "They'll get excited."
That sounded like a sixth sense -- or maybe, nonsense -- when he said it the night before. Yet sure enough, the moment Frank clanked open the gates, the cattle began streaming in from the far corners of the field, as if organizing themselves.
Now down in the field below, the herd oozed forward in a giant bovine blob, nudged along ever so slightly by three riders on horseback. Playful calves darted in and out of the crowd, and every so often their mamas would break out into a sprint themselves.
"It's chilly, and they're feeling good," Tom explained.
An adventurous Angus struck out in front of the others, and the rest dutifully followed along behind. "The lead cow -- she's already eyeballing the gate," Tom radioed.
Suddenly Frank's voice crackled back over the walkie-talkie. "Jerry!" he shouted. "Don't let 'em out yet! Don't let 'em out yet!"
Things were going too good: If the fast-moving lead cow slipped through the gate and headed down the road too soon, the cattle in the back of the herd would try to take a short cut to catch up -- by bolting toward the fence, instead of the gate.
Jerry Shifflett, a local farmer who was posted at the gate, rushed to stop the cattle, but it was too late: The lead cow had already burst through the open gate and was out on the road, headed toward Meadowdale. Half the herd poured through the gate behind her, moving so fast they left the rest of the cattle behind in the field, looking dumbfounded and unsure whether to follow. The trailhands watched in despair: Instead of one herd, now there were two, each with a stubborn mind of its own.
"Don't let them go more than two or three fenceposts from the gate!" Frank radioed his hands out on U.S. 220.
Too late again. The lead cattle, impatient to get to greener pastures, surged down the highway, 10 fenceposts or more. Tom, on foot, ran down the road, shouting and waving his flag, the only thing he could do to stare down the headstrong lead cow and hold the determined animal in place.
Then it happened. Just as Frank had feared, a rambunctious cow stuck at the tail-end of the reluctant herd still in the field spotted the leaders on the road -- and broke ranks to catch up with them.
"Oh hell," Tom muttered. "There goes one down the field." One? One became two, then two become four peeling away from the herd, racing toward the fence -- and away from the gate.
Instantly, a brown blur streaked across the field after them: It was Frank, spurring his horse and galloping after the runaways, trying to stop them before the remainder of the herd decided to follow.
At this worst possible moment, two sets of headlights flashed over the hill on U.S. 220.
Jerry Shifflett waved the vehicles on through.
Just as the cars began easing into the crush of cattle milling around in the road, Frank caught the flank of the breakaway cows in the field and turned them back toward the gate.
"Funnel them through!" Tom shouted, cheering on the riders. "Funnel them through!"
This time, the cattle were more cooperative. They nosed their way into the opening, tentatively at first, then burst through once they realized where they were going.
The second car was still negotiating the four-legged obstacles in its path when the rest of the herd spilled through the gate and onto the highway.
"Come on woman! Go through 'em!" Tom shouted frantically at the driver. "Here comes the rest of the cattle!" She didn't hear him, but no matter: The moment a spot of daylight opened in front her, she sped on through. The look on her face suggested she hadn't enjoyed the experience.
She made it through just in time. Behind her, 170 cattle hungry for new pastures rumbled down the asphalt.
It was all Tom could do to keep out in front of them and warn the vehicles coming the other way to stay put until the thundering herd passed. nn
As the sun rose, the pace slowed. Before long, the herd was stretched out so long and thin it took 30 minutes to pass a single point.
Frank and most of his hands stayed at the rear, prodding the stragglers with an inarticulate chorus of hollers and yelps.
Hia! Hia! Go'n! Hia!
"I'll lose my voice," Frank said. "I holler so much this day I can't hardly talk."
Hia! Hia! Go'n! Hia!
Frank kept his eyes on one calf that was having trouble keeping up.
"Where's this one's mother?" Jerry Rexrode asked.
"He belongs to an ol' black cow, No. 98," Frank assured him. "She'll be back to look for him in a little bit."
Every now and then, cars and trucks eased through the herd. Most were neighbors, who rolled down their windows to exchange local gossip and razz Frank about taking his half out of the middle of the road. Traffic usually isn't a problem for the cattle drive, Tom says. The locals know what's going on, and the out-of-towners are usually so petrified they stop dead in their tracks, or make a quick U-turn and speed away.
Houses are few and far between in Highland County, but whenever the drive passed one, the occupants were usually standing there, watching the procession.
In front of Sally Humphries' house, Frank decided No. 98's calf was losing steam. He climbed off his horse and went to wrestle the calf into the pickup truck. Sally stepped out of the yard to hold the reins until he returned.
Frank sheepishly thanked her for her trouble. "He should have stayed here," he said.
Sally seemed to enjoy the chore. "I thought I'd come out and help," she explained. "This is an every spring ritual."
A few more miles up the road, 3 1/2-year-old Casey Marshall stood wide-eyed and silent in her front yard with her parents. "She thinks it's neat," said her mother, Dawn. "She was more interested in the horses than the cows, though."
At Corbitt's Store at Mustoe, a crowd had assembled. Or, at least a crowd by Highland's sparsely populated standards. Postmistress and storekeeper Margaret Hamilton clutched a camera; salesman John Sweet shouldered his video camera.
"I always take a few pictures when they come up the road every year," the postmistress said. "They know where they're going. They never veer off to the side. That's what amazes me. They know where they're going."
It's true.
Only rarely do the cattle stray into yards or fields, and then it's usually by accident, because that's where the lushest grass leads. Generally, the cattle keep their heads down and trot steadily forward.
Hia! Hia! Go'n! Hia!
As the morning wears on, the cattle tend to favor the right lane. That's where the shady spots are, but they shuffle along in single file as if they're following the rules of the road.
At Vanderpool, where the road forks, there's a trailhand on horseback posted at the intersection. But it's clear he's there more to direct the cars than the cattle. One by one, the animals automatically, uncannily veer left without any prompting and trudge up the hill toward home.
"They don't need any road signs," Steve said, watching the cattle make the turn. "They know the way home. All you gotta do is open the gate and they go in themselves." nn
Some years, if the weather's hot, the drive takes six hours or more. This year, the cool prevailed all morning, and the last cow went through the gate after just 3 1/2 hours on the road.
The drive was over so soon, the trailhands didn't have time to eat the sandwiches they'd packed for a snack. Venison. Frank shot the deer himself.
Instead, the trailhands dissolved away. Steve had a cattle auction to go to. Frank and Tom went to load up some bulls and truck them to yet another pasture.
The cattle laid down to rest amid the dandelions in the tall grass. But for the Stephensons, there was more work yet to be done.
by CNB