There’s a routine to spring calving season based on numbers. Once tiny hooves start hitting the cold ground, a rhythm takes over until the last mama cow has delivered her baby. Each day is different, but they’re all based on counting.

I can still picture being sandwiched in the middle of the bench seat between my grandparents as we made the rounds through pastures to check on the progress. My grandfather kept one hand on the steering wheel with a pair of binoculars ready in the other.

We would slowly roll through the field, stopping abruptly for my grandfather to take a closer look at a cow. He’d raise the binoculars and quickly read off the number on the ear tag as my grandmother dutifully recorded the information in a spiralbound notebook.

When a calf was spotted, we’d ease close enough that my grandfather could quickly get out, lasso it and tag it all while keeping an eye on the mama cow, especially if she was a first-time mother. They could get a little angsty during the ordeal.

We checked the herd five or six times each day, starting with the morning feeding and ending well past dark if weather or other circumstances demanded. The vast majority of field checks happened without incident. All the cows were readily spotted along with the same number of calves from the previous count.

The adventures started when the numbers didn’t match up. While most mothers were more than happy to show off their calf, occasionally there’d be one who had witnessed the roundup procedure and took it on herself to keep her progeny hidden. Thankfully, cows aren’t masters at hide-and-seek.

While a mama might not show off her calf, she didn’t stray far from it so a hidden calf also meant the mother was away from the herd as well. In the main calving pasture, this usually meant the pair was hunkered down near the edge of a thin stand of trees. Spotting the mom didn’t present much of a challenge, but it was incredibly easy to mistake a fallen limb for a black baldy if its white face was tucked away.

We didn’t have to assist with many births, but it was always a tense time when pulling a calf was necessary, especially if there wasn’t time to move the cow to a temporary pen. Even more rare was finding a lonesome calf rejected by its mother. I only remember a handful of calves that were brought to the barn for bottle feeding, one of which didn’t make it.


Other times calves were lost to coyotes, weather or birth defects, and a few cows succumbed to injuries sustained while giving birth. The losses were never easy to take, but they were also strong reminders of why we counted. Every cow. Every calf. Every time.