Reflections from the edge of climate change
This is my story
The bales weigh seventy pounds each. I know this because I’ve lifted thousands of them over the years. Their rough twine biting into my palms. Leaving behind a constellation of calluses that tell the story of decades spent working this land. Today, as I haul another bale onto the flatbed, I feel every ounce of those seventy pounds. My joints creak in protest. Arthritis flaring like embers in a dying fire.
The thermometer on the barn wall reads 103°F. It’s not yet noon.
I remember when triple-digit temperatures were an anomaly in Idaho. Something to remark upon over coffee at the diner in town. Now, they’re as commonplace as the cloudless sky above. An unrelenting blue that mocks the parched earth below. The young folks have all left for the cities. Chasing air-conditioned dreams and jobs that don’t require bending your back to the will of an unforgiving sun. Everyone else is too old. Like me. To haul hay from the fields and stack it in the barn. But the sheep need food for the winter. So here I am.
The hay hook slips from my grasp. Clattering against the metal bed of the truck. I flex my fingers. Willing them to cooperate. They’re gnarled now. Like the branches of the old oak tree that stands sentinel at the edge of the property. That tree has witnessed a century of change. Its roots reaching deep into soil that grows drier with each passing year. I wonder if it, too, feels the weight of time and transformation.
I flip over another bale. And there it is—a rattlesnake, coiled and unmoving. For a moment, we regard each other with a kind of mutual exhaustion. It’s either too hot for him to get excited—or he’s digesting a mouse. I choose to believe the latter. It’s a small comfort to think that at least something is thriving in this heat.
A horsefly lands on my sweat-soaked back. Its bite a sharp reminder that I’m not alone out here. Mosquitos hum their incessant song around my ears. Drawn by the promise of blood. My blood. I swat at them half-heartedly, knowing it’s a losing battle. Why do I do this? The question echoes in my mind. A mantra as steady as the rhythm of bale after bale being loaded onto the truck.
Because the sheep need to eat. And the sheep keep me moving. Which is a good thing when you’re old.
There’s no room for self-pity out here. It’s just how it is. Watching the river shrink year after year. Its banks retreating like a hairline. How much longer will there be hay? And then what for the sheep? And me? These questions hang in the air. As oppressive as the heat. But I push them aside. There’s work to be done.
I remember when this valley was a patchwork of farms. Each one a testament to human perseverance and the fertility of the land. Now, many of those fields lie fallow. The farmhouses empty and crumbling. The families that once filled them have moved on. Seeking greener pastures — literally and figuratively. Sometimes, in the quiet of the evening. I can almost hear the echoes of children’s laughter. The low murmur of neighbors chatting over fence lines. But those are just ghosts now.
Memories as insubstantial as morning mist.
The scent of smoke drifts through the air. Acrid and insistent. Wildfire season comes earlier each year. The flames growing bolder—more voracious. Is it blowing this way? I squint at the horizon, searching for telltale plumes of gray against the relentless blue. Not today, it seems. But the threat is always there. A sword of Damocles hanging over everything we’ve built.
I finish loading the truck and climb into the cab. The steering wheel hot enough to brand my palms. The engine coughs to life. A sound as familiar to me as my own heartbeat. As I drive back to the barn, I pass the old windmill. Its blades motionless in the still air. It hasn’t turned in years. Rendered obsolete when the water table dropped too low for its reach and we had to dig a well.
The sheep greet me with their usual indifference as I pull up to the barn. They don’t know about climate change or rural exodus. Their world is simpler—hay, water, the occasional treat. Sometimes I envy them their ignorance.
Unloading the hay is always harder than loading it.
Gravity becomes my enemy as I struggle to lift each bale onto the growing stack. My back protests. A sharp pain that shoots down my leg with each movement. I ignore it. Pain is just another constant. Like the heat and the worry.
As I work, I think about my grandfather, who first bought this land. He saw it as an investment in the future. A legacy to pass down through generations. I wonder what he would think if he could see it now — the thinning flocks, the encroaching desert. The uncertainty that hangs over everything like a fog.
Would he understand that we’re fighting a battle that can’t be won with just hard work and determination? That sometimes, no matter how early you rise, how late you toil, nature has other plans.
The last bale finally in place. I step back and survey my work. The barn is full, for now. It should see the sheep through the winter. Assuming winter comes. The seasons blend into each other now. Distinctions blurred by the relentless march of warming temperatures.
I make my way back to the house. Each step a negotiation with my aching body. The porch thermometer now reads 112°F. The day isn’t over yet.
Inside, I pour a glass of water from the tap. Grateful for its cool clarity. How long will this luxury last? I’ve heard whispers of aquifers running dry. Of towns trucking in water like it’s liquid gold. For now, we’re okay, but “for now” feels increasingly precarious.
Through the window, I watch the sheep grazing in the far pasture. They move slowly in the heat. Seeking what little shade they can find. They’re survivors, these animals. Bred for harsh conditions, they adapt in ways I sometimes think we humans have forgotten how to do.
As the sun begins its slow descent, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, I settle into my chair on the porch. My bones ache. My skin burns. And tomorrow promises more of the same. But as I sit here, watching the day fade into night, I feel a sense of peace settle over me.
This is my home. For better or worse. These fields, these animals, this sky — they’re as much a part of me as my own flesh and blood. Climate change, urban migration, economic pressures — they’re all just words for the slow, inexorable shift of the world beneath our feet.
But for now, there’s hay in the barn. Sheep in the field. And another day ahead. And sometimes, that has to be enough.
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