The V6 ranch is a mountainous piece of central California and most of it is grass covered and it’s where the cattle graze and hang out. I’ve been a middleman in the cattle business all my working life. I buy all the steers for the upcoming winter, spring grazing season, usually in October and November. Upon arrival the cattle are branded and vaccinated for a variety of diseases then turned out on the mountain to be found the next May or June, usually in bunches of ten to twenty. So checking on their well being is mostly done from the back of a horse and if you find one with a problem and it’s a several hour drive to move this sick steer to our headquarters corral, it’s much easier on the steer to rope him around the neck and then your partner on horseback will catch the two hind feet tie off his rope around Saddle horn, get off and take care of the problem. Then he’ll mark him with a piece of marking chalk so the next time we see him you know he’s been cared for. It brings to my mind a time when you might be watching a rodeo and the next event is team roping. It sprang from ranches like the V6. Its origin goes back to the Mexico Vaquero of the 18th century when his rope was made from the hide of a cow. Long thin strings were cut from a dried hide then braided into what was called a Reata that served the Vaquero well. Today’s ropes are made from Nylon and have replaced the Reata. 

So how did Big Boy find his way to the V6? Our four children Katy, Lillian, John and Greg were growing like weeds and thanks to my wife Zee they were growing like weeds on the backs of very reliable horses. It was time to put a rope in their hands. Throwing a rope is no different than throwing a baseball, only the wind up is different. Once they had learned to build a loop and throw it at a dummy steer they were ready to get on their horses and rope a live moving Mexican roping steer. I was able to buy 5 well used team roping steers that would be just the ticket for our children to learn on. I think that Katy was about 7 or 8 and Lilly was 2 years behind, both big enough to rope from their horses. 

Big Boy showed himself right away to be an honest and reliable steer that wasn’t going to ruff up one of my kids after he had been roped. He would mostly just walk when Katy the oldest would throw her rope at Big Boy. With time and practice and with some parental urging he would break into a trot and if Katy or Lilly happened to catch him he would stop and then they could sidle up to his head while he would wait to have the rope removed. John and Greg were still practicing from the ground. With school starting in early September I turned Big Boy out to graze for the winter green season. 

With the arrival of Spring it was time to go find Big Boy who left the roping arena the previous September weighing about 500 pounds. When I found him up on the mountain he was 200 pounds heavier but still seemed to know he had a job and trotted off the mountain to find what it might be. His job was again going to be to teach my four children how to rope. Big Boy was ready for the job. He was a patient teacher so by the end of Summer all four of our children were much better with a rope than at the start. I think he knew that if he did his job each summer he would be fed good tasting Barley Hay which was way better than our summer annual dry grass. 

I can’t quite remember how many years Big Boy was our children’s teacher but I know he was now as tall as a saddle horse and probably weighed 1300 pounds. So it was time to turn “Old reliable” out to pasture. But it turned out this would not be the end of Big Boy’s career on the V6. The following June it was time to gather up all our stocker steers to be sold. After gaining about 200 pounds they were ready for a feedlot operator to buy them and fatten them out at which time they would weigh about 1,200 pounds ready to be turned into steaks and hamburgers. 

Big Boy came out of retirement the first year I left him up on the mountain. I remember as my family was coming down to the ranch with several hundred head of stockers Big Boy came from out of nowhere and picked up the lead, a job he would continue to do each spring that of leading our stockers down the mountain. I think he really liked his position as senior lead steer and all the seasonal stockers were glad to follow as they recognized this leader, knew where he was going, and they were happy to follow. 

Age has an irreversible way of changing things. I think that’s what happened to Big Boy. One spring in the early 1970s instead of his usual joyful trot off the mountain with a big following gliding off the mountain behind him, old age and sore feet, I think, caused him to take a right turn with his following into a big brush patch that took all of us about an hour to get them all out and back on the trail. I left Big Boy in the brush patch as the best place to soothe his sore feet. The next year it happened again and I could see the writing on the wall. Big Boy had to go. I know some of you are saying he deserves to live his life out free on the range. But that’s not reality. In the animal world there are three types of animals, each one very important to the survival of the other two. There are the grazing animals, necessary for the health of our rangeland’s, then the predators like the Mountain Lion, the Eagle, and Coyote to keep the herbivores populations in balance and healthy and last comes the scavengers, like the Buzzards and Racoons all the way down to Earthworms and Dung Beetles. They are the clean up crew that keeps everything clean and tidy. 

But when you call upon our modern Veterinarian science of today to do whatever it takes to keep your old friend alive. That’s when I believe that it’s cruel to rob your pet of the dignity to pass on because you don’t want to feel the pain of losing your animal friend and that is selfish. To take this selfishness one step further, it’s the same way we treat our old folks by making them live past their right to die and enforcing it with a whole bunch of laws. So we deny someone the right to say “I’m ready to leave now, please give me a loving shove” without their families or doctor being charged with a crime. 

Big Boy hangs on our living room wall much like your parents’ gravestone shows themselves in a cemetery. So Big Boy, I say “my hats off to you and thanks for your years of service, helping the V6 Ranch keep the Cowboy Side of California alive and well.”

              See Ya, 

              Jack

A friend of mine, George Work, invited me to go with him to a three day seminar put on by a fellow by the name of Allan Savory who was from Zimbabwe, Africa and had immigrated to the U.S. with a bag full of new ideas about how I could make better decisions when managing the family cattle ranch. The first day of the seminar his thoughts were so foreign to me that I thought “this is hog wash.” The second day he gave me permission to think for myself and the third day he opened my “now receptive” mind to using a Holistic Approach as a better way when making my daily ranching decisions . First he said, you have to assume that the decision you are about to make is wrong because if you assume that it is right then you will never change it!  Wow, that was kind of scary, what would the neighbors think?

They were all watching as I started discarding so many traditional practices. Like, no more dryland farming. I realized I wasn’t farming, I was mining the soil so I could sell a bale of hay. I thought Jack, you're going to have to replace that lost income with something else. That something else happened after seeing the movie City Slickers in 1994. What a great idea, Cattle Drives for people that wanted that feeling of living on the cowboy or cowgirl side of life for three days. It would help me pay some bills and was certainly easy on the land.

Next, slowing the rainfall that falls each winter on The V6 by constructing more water ponds for my livestock and all the other wildlife that needs a drink. These water retainment basins also leak so that a winter deluge of rainfall brought to a temporary stop can now meander down to help recharge the Little Cholame Creek underground aquifer. And now with the installation of a Poly Pipe water distribution system for all the critters that need a drink I’m light years ahead “of it’s only a mile to water.” Slowing down water has become another way to help me make better informed decisions. Slow is good, fast is bad. This saying has become another piece of the mosaic that has changed the V6 Ranch into an evolving vision of a place where people, everything that grows green, and all the critters that live here have a chance to prosper. 

I’m going to keep on following the path of change. It can be scary at times, it can be inconvenient, it could possibly lead to a costly mistake. But you will have lots to talk about with your new Holistic friends. So what have I learned from my years at the helm of the V6? That without flexible change, a working family ranch will eventually cease to exist. 

This last spring at my son in law and daughter Lilly’s calf branding, my age grabbed a hold of my roping hand and the rope made it only halfway to a calf that needed branding. I dearly love corral roping, the camaraderie and knowing that it’s a necessary way to quickly brand to show ownership and vaccinate a calf for a host of diseases that takes but a minute or two and then the calf is back at his or her mothers side. So where does a retired springtime calf branding addict find rejuvenation? 

This takes me back to 1995 where we had a wet winter followed by one of those springtime periods when every green growing thing was on photosynthetic steroids. When June arrived, the land had turned golden as our annual grasses died. They left a seed for the next season and all the trees glisten with new leaves exhibiting their good health. And then came summer but I vowed that this summer would be different. Care of the Little Cholame Creek would be my first priority by telling all livestock that were thinking about staying for another summer, that you are no longer welcome to spend the summer lazing in the shade of one of our old Oak or Cottonwood trees. There hasn’t been but a handful of trees that have survived the past 150 years of livestock grazing the creek, when anything green in the summer was certainly better than old dry grass so rejuvenation has been on hold for 150 years. I can't change the past but I can certainly change the future.

From 1995 till now, I have made a conscious effort to make the Little Cholame Creek livestock free in the summer and all are welcome in the winter, a time when it’s too cold and grass that gets lots of sun tastes much better than grass in a shaded creek so all my livestock leave voluntarily. Next year, it will be 30 years of putting the welcome mat out in the winter and the No Trespassing sign up for the summer, making life for a new Cottonwood, Oak or Willow have a much greater chance of success. This, along with any green growing plant that would love to call The Little Cholame Creek home are now finding their niche in helping to further armor plate the creek banks. Because there will come a time again when the normally placid Little Cholame Creek will turn into a tumultuous raging torrent like in 1969 when the creek was devoid of any bank protection. It’s five miles from my house to Parkfield and there are four bridges to cross. A very wet winter washed away three of the four bridges and sent tens of thousands of tons of my best topsoil to my neighbors downstream, something I don’t want to have happen again.

I still have a few places where the creek bank is vertically raw for three or four feet that need my “big bale treatment.” These bales are made from the leftover rice straw after the rice kernels have been harvested in Northern California where burning the straw after harvest is no longer allowed. These bales weigh about 1000 pounds and are tied together with 6 long lasting strings that will last possibly 5 or 6 years and in that time several young Willows or Cottonwood’s hopefully will get a start before the bale dissolves. Their job will be to gently tap the creek in a new direction to where the creek bank is more protected by all the new trees and perennial bushes. 

The Little Cholame today is probably 90% back to normal “pre cattle and plow,” so I have turned my attention to a new perennial grass that goes by the name of “Perla Grass.” I don’t know what its scientific name is but I understand that it comes from Morocco, Africa. Since adopting Holistic Management as my way to befriend Mother Nature, I have been looking for a perennial grass that would outcompete all of our annual grasses and I have found only one that might get it done in a hundred years. Perla Grass to the rescue. It’s high in food value when green, very palatable again when green, very drought tolerant and creates an erosion resistant mat that is very tough and resilient under the weight of a hoove clad chewing grazing animal like a cow.  

I just wrote a blog about helping my son John tear down an old barn that had a pallet full of transplant trays. Each tray had 231 little cubicles almost one inch by one inch. This past summer I harvested 30 pounds of Perla seed. There are 267,000 seeds per pound and my small seed drill can only calibrate down to a half a pound per acre so my Perla seed wouldn’t do but 60 acres. So here's where many in the family and community “roll their eyes” and ask what have you been smoking? 

New chapter, why not take ten of these trays and fill each tray with a different soil type from different parts of the ranch and put these ten trays on empty plastic cattle supplement tubs, so I don’t have to bend over so far to water them, then plant the Perla seeds by taking my index finger and touch it to my tongue then touching a cup of Perla Grass seed five or six seeds stick to my finger and the old roping hand can plant a cubicle with those seeds and if successful that Perla seed can now be transplanted. The tray is labeled as to where it was obtained so I will know which kinds of soil the Perla Grass likes best. As each tray starts to sprout or not I will also have a good idea of the percentage that germinate and I’ll be happy even if the germination percentage is low because what Perla comes will be better than the poor quality annual grasses that presently grow on these inferior soil’s. I’m waiting for December and then after a good rain I can transplant these one inch cubes of the future and with some luck they will become an important part of the V6 ranch's grazing future.

I’ve been most fortunate in my ranching life because of a good family, good luck, a good deal of innovations. Come what may, I show up each new day. 

                      See Ya, 

                         Jack 

February 22, 1999

I always have trouble when discussing the Diablo Mountains and more particularly the Parkfield portion of them, in a strictly factual manner as my zeal for their preservation always surfaces leaving the facts to be plucked from my sensibilities about this very special place.

The Diablo Range, I believe is probably the largest tract of private lands between Los Angeles and San Francisco that still resides in a very similar condition as it was fifty or even a hundred years ago. Because of a lack of infrastructure except what has been necessary for cattle ranching and dry land farming and a harsher climate compared to other parts of California the Diablo Range has lolled in the backwaters of California's phenomenal growth since the 1849 gold rush. It seemed like each time some economic spoil might come it's way, like oil that was never discovered, or quick silver that yielded a few bursts of localized wealth or the short lived homesteader who found they couldn't make a living from 160 acres of Diablo Range soils. So every time after one or another venture failed the Diablos went back to doing what it does best and that is to raise the most beautiful scenery in the state.

Our oak woodlands are second to none. The complexity of our grass and chaparral lands is very good. And because of the evolution over the years toward larger ranches in order to form economic units open space has been preserved in the process, thus providing plenty of food, cover and space to sustain the critters that live here. These animals that call the Diablos their home are a who's who of California wildlife, from the kangaroo rat to the mountain lion and everything in between.

This land has a rich history of different Indian tribes that lived part of their time in the Salinas and San Joaquin Valleys, then traveled to these mountains to hunt and gather acorns from one of the best and still vigorous oak woodlands.

But what about this beautiful forgotten corner of California. I'm fearful that as California's pell-mell rush to become the most crowded state in the union continues, Camelot will be discovered. And if our history is our future it will be pillaged as much of the rest of our state has been.

This does not have to be our destiny, for there is now, at this moment, a window of opportunity that may have as long as ten years before the added millions push their way into this last frontier of what California once was.

The answer lies with the conservation easement. This option can be our salvation, for it does the most important thing first and that is:

1. ) It guarantees open space in perpetuity removed from the political whims of zoning.

2. ) The now protected surface rights owner, who understand the land better than anybody is still in place. To those of you who say he might have abused his stewardship I say to you that we ranchers and farmers are changing. As leaders in our agricultural community explore new ways to preserve our way of life and succeed, then the others will surely follow. A preview of what is to come will be based on holistic management. For when we consider the basic practice of harvesting sunlight through green plants we find that there accrues to this concept almost unlimited opportunities, such as recreation, and all it's sub-headings like, bird watching, cattle drives, trail rides and bike rides, hunting and fishing, contemplating and rejuvenating, they all depend on growing things.

   1. ) Grazing our livestock in a manner that restores the symbiotic relationship with the green things that demand proper grazing in order to survive.

   2. ) Riparian areas when restored provide a solid economic return and loveliness to feed our spirit.

   3. ) The Spaniards that first settled this area left a fine tradition of training horses for the job of tending their livestock. This tradition is perpetuated today through our present day reined cow horse, using the same techniques in an unbroken fashion for more than two hundred years.

   4. ) I am aware of a variety of endangered species in this area like the Kit fox, but one on the list that is rarely recognized, yet most important, are the cowboys, cowgirls, and cow dogs that have graced this land. The whole world needs them for the standards they set. There are precious few occupations today that pay so little and demand so much that only those with a passion for their work survive. But from those that do, there is much to be learned about character, tenacity, good humor, and that wonderful ability of entertaining oneself with the beauty that surrounds them and never tiring of the work ahead.

   I rest my pen now and hope that open space easements will move from concept to reality.

Signed,
John O. (Jack) Varian

Permalink

]]>A Letter from Jack, February 1999Jack VarianSun, 18 Aug 2024 17:32:25 +0000https://www.v6ranch.com/blog/making-the-old-new-again620d8cf94e84c814ed5d31ca:620d91fa80a01b53b3661185:66c22def730a10184f6e8164  I’m sitting in the back seat of son John’s pickup after watching him and two helpers dismantle a 1990s steel storage shed just outside of the town of Los Osos near San Luis Obispo. I’m struggling trying to make sense out of all the stuff we humans have stored behind any barrier that might keep it from the public’s view and just rotting away. John has asked me if I wanted to go with him to see what hidden treasures that might be hiding behind this old storage shed that would awaken my imagination, which had been put into a stupor from spending too much time looking at a vast wasteland called TV. But, like the treasure hunt I was about to go on, television has some treasures, albeit few and far between. 

       We just made a left turn off the main road and onto a dirt road headed for a group of trees and then, a sharp right turn and there it was a patina paradise of second hand stuff. It gave me the same feeling that somebody would get after rescuing a dog or cat from the pound. I can hear it now as some animal lover with no sense of humor says “What a jerk how can anyone comepair a pile of junk to a dog or cat?” Having a rather broad mind I have the pleasure of treasure hunting for things that are in need of a do over at junk auctions or an old barn that the owner wants torn down during the day, and scratching my dog’s belly at night. 

      Day two and it’s about 10:30am. We had just unloaded yesterday's treasures, which was a metal shed that measured 40 X 80 and all kinds of things made of steel. John is going to put the shed back up and use it for a shop as his original shop burned down around 18 years ago. The owner gave John another building that was strictly a tear down but there was a tin roof that I had use for and all the nice 2X6 lumber used to support the roof so I took two of my employees and two pickups with flatbed trailers plus John had his pickup and trailer. 

          Once the roof was off all the contents were ready to be looked at it was just like Christmas Day. I rummaged through years of accumulating agriculture related stuff like a pipe wrench, lots of steel flex conduit with three wires inside, just what a dark set of corrals needed so we can now work after dark in the cool of the night.

I had my kind of a day, especially when I know that if I went to Home Depot and Farm Supply, John and I probably would have spent 30 or 40 thousand dollars if we had bought all this stuff new. So I ask you, what could be more exhilarating than spending two days watching two buildings being torn down and knowing that all this hoard would find new life at Parkfield and the V6 Ranch? 

                       See Ya, 

                        Jack 

   My mother was born in Mexico City on December 5, 1907. She was the first born to what would become a family of three girls and three boys. My mother’s name was Winnifred Hogg. My grandfather who died before I was born was part of the British bureaucracy and at that time the sun never set on a country that it didn’t have some sort of relationship with. I’m not sure if England had a full on embassy because my grandfather was sent by his government with the title of The British Councilor to Mexico. All of my mother’s siblings would also be born in Mexico City and would live a good share of their lives in Mexico, but British patriotism gave cause for my Uncle Fred to join the British Army in World War Two and give his life in that battle. In typical English tradition all those migrants would soon set up an enclave of British dominance where the motherland’s traditional language and values were number one. My mother for her time was quite adventurous when she applied for a job as a secretary in downtown Mexico City outside of her British enclave. This is where she became fluent in Spanish, learned to type, take shorthand and go out to dinner with friends. 

           Teddy Roosevelt’s foreign policy for Mexico, Central America, and South America was “to walk softly but carry a big stick” this policy was demonstrated clearly to still be in effect in 1928. Our U.S. government would from time to time send U.S. Navy warships on a goodwill tour to visit our neighbors to the south. I’ve forgotten the details but my mother was on a visit to Vera Cruz and had been invited to a very lavish dinner affair to celebrate the docking of our Navy and shake hands with officers of the Mexican Army. My father was now a captain flying for Pan American Airways and happened to be laying over for a day in Vera Cruz and was also invited to this dinner. Well wouldn’t you know it, as the story goes my father saw this very attractive young lady who glanced over at a very handsome man all dressed in his formal clothes and captain's hat. They were married a year later in Vera Cruz and thus was the start of a very loving lifetime relationship. 

        Those days the British recognize duel citizenship so my mother was both a Mexican citizen and a British citizen. In 1932 my father wanted his children to be born in America and flew my mother to Brownsville, Texas a border town where my sister Lorna was born. My parents were now living in Mexico City and the year was 1935. My mother informed my father that she would be having another baby in September. This would mean another trip to the U.S. but this time it would be different as my father would take a leave of absence from Pan American Airlines and move permanently to Halcyon, California where he was raised. I was born at the San Luis Obispo General Hospital on September 7, 1935 and thus would begin a lifelong loving relationship between my mother and I. Some said it was kind of one sided as she spoiled me rotten. My mother was 12 years old when women in 1919 first got the right to vote and bathing suits were one piece affairs almost to the neck. Men were the head of the household and my mother would never have a chance for fame or fortune as that was still the domain for men only. I think that suited my mother just fine as she adhered to a saying that my wife has hanging on our kitchen wall, it says: “Time is the best thing you can spend on a child.” 

       My mother was a little bit of an introvert who was content raising her two children, taking care of a loving husband, gardening and family camping trips. Together they taught Lorna and I about honesty, courtesy, giving, work, having convictions, and a host of others, and my mother single handedly taught Lorna and I British table manners. 

          The last couple of years of my mother’s life didn’t treat her very kindly. Lorna married in 1957 and started a family and I was going to live my life about 200 miles south of Palo Alto where I would seek fame and fortune. My mother lived in a now empty house with only memories as my father was killed while flying his airplane in stormy weather near Puerto Vallarta, Mexico in 1961. My mother in 1962 left a note to Lorna and I that said she had decided that her work here was done and was going to live with her husband Sigurd. 

                          See Ya, 

                           Jack 

From an early age, all three boys showed no interest in any kind of agriculture but were fascinated with the emergence of the radio, the automobile, and anything mechanical. In my father's late teen years he was bitten by the flying bug, so racing his motorcycle up and down Pismo Beach at low tide was relegated to second place with his priorities. With the end of World War One in 1918 there were vast amounts of war surplus supplies of whatever it took to fight a war, one being The Jenny which was the fighter plane of choice by the army and was used for aerial combat over France. Many of them were “still in the box brand new” for $100 apiece. The thought of being able to own his own airplane became my father’s mission in life. First, he had to learn to fly. That was fairly easy to do in those days as there were WWI pilots who were available to teach a devil-may-care 19-year-old to fly. My dad told me that getting into the air was exhilarating and natural so in the course of 5 or 6 hours, he would solo and become part of a romantic group of what were called Barnstormers. By 1919 they were flying all over the country giving airplane rides, teaching others how to fly, and advertising different airplane-related things. My father soon found himself in Los Angeles where all the action was happening. I’m a little unclear how he got the $100 to buy a Jenny back then, but work in the flying industry was easy to find. With money in hand, he strode off to the nearest dealer in Jenny’s. Jenny’s all looked alike and all were new as the used ones were left in Europe at the end of the war. Knowing my dad, I can hear him saying, “I’ll take that one.” And with the passing of a $100 bill the deal was done, sort of. The dealer then informed him it wouldn’t start until you bought the ignition system that had platinum points that were worth $100. I’m sure he was disappointed, but by no means would this inconvenience stop him. 

Back to work to save up $100 which took about a month while his Jenny languished in the used airplane lot. Once again with $100 in hand and taking a day to install the ignition system and check out all the moving parts he was ready for take off and into the wild blue yonder he went.

With but a few hours flying time it became self-evident that he had to figure out a way to buy gas for his new love. The quickest way was to become a flight instructor and that was done by saying “I’m a flight instructor.” In those heady days, there was no law as long as my father honed his flying skills and didn’t kill himself or his passengers. The big killer of airplanes at that time was “the stall,” which’s when your plane quits flying because you're going too slow to stay in the air and the pilot in a moment of panic pulls back on the stick instead of pushing the stick forward to gain flying speed and crashes. 

My dad had been flying and trying to make a living with his Jenny but it was a struggle. He thought about his days as a boy in Halcyon. He decided that he might have better luck where there wasn’t so much competition so he returned to San Luis Obispo. Much to his surprise Cal Poly College in 1920 had courses in aeronautical engineering and a landing strip where he could land and take off and go to school and keep his Jenny airworthy for almost nothing. After two years of educating himself with the reasons airplanes stayed in the air and how to keep one running, he left Cal Poly and started a flying school in the Coachella Valley in Southern California. 

In 1924, my father was bedridden for a year when he contracted a severe case of Tuberculosis, a disease that would cause him more bed rest later in life. The flying business was still a hardscrabble way to make a living so Sig, his nickname, started looking for a more profitable way to stay in the Aviation industry. While visiting with one of his pilot friends, he told my dad that a relatively new airline called Pan American World Airlines was hiring pilots to fly routes from Brownsville, Texas to the Panama Canal with stops in many of the Central American countries. He was hired on as a captain almost immediately in 1927. In those days the Tri-Motor Ford aircraft was the workhorse of the day. It had a pilot, copilot, steward, eight or nine passengers, and lots of cloudy, stormy weather to contend with.

1928 Sig meets Winnifred Hogg, who was the oldest daughter of the English Counselor to Mexico, at a party in Mexico City and in 1929 they marry. My sister Lorna and I will be raised by these two wonderful parents and we will enjoy wonderful childhoods. 

By 1935, Sig was struggling with a case of Amoebic Dysentery and my mother was pregnant with me. My father had always kept in contact with his brother Russell. Russell had earned a doctorate in physics at Stanford University. Their correspondence mostly centered around if there was some way that Sig could see a mountain that was hidden by bad weather and had already taken the lives of passengers and crew in a Pan-American crash. Russell replied that there was no law of Physics that would prevent some sort of device. My father answered, "Let's meet in Halcyon and make it.” Shortly after my father left Pan American and arrived back in Halcyon he had to hurry my mother to San Luis Obispo General Hospital where I was born on 9/7/35. 

For two years Sig and Russell tried many different ways to solve their problem, which was how to bunch some radio waves and have them not diffuse their energy so they can hit an unseen object and return this radio wave to the sender then measure the elapsed time, and that will tell you how far away the hidden mountain was. To make this invention possible, it was necessary for my family to move to Palo Alto. Russell was able to make a deal with Stanford University that the brothers could use the University Physics Laboratory and receive $100 to buy materials. In return, the brothers would give half the patent rights to Standford for the Klystron tube that made Radar possible.

It’s 1940 now and I find myself, my sister, and my mother on a train to New York City where we meet my father. He had gone ahead to work on the manufacturing of Klystrons for the war effort that had engulfed most of Europe and in London, England bombings were happening daily. The US Government hired my dad and Rus to work for the Sperry Gyroscope Company and help them manufacture klystrons.

The British had a very good fighter plane called the Spitfire but it burned a lot of gas and could only stay in the air for about one and a half hours. This meant it had to stay on the ground until the German bombers were visible. What the Spitfire needed was about 15 or 20 minutes of lead time to get to altitude above the German bombers and this new Radar device gave them that chance. Soon the German aircraft were being shot from the sky so often that the Battle for Britain ended. The evacuation of 300,000 British soldiers from Dunkirk spelled the eventual end of the Third Reich and the German Empire in 1945.

It’s now the summer of 1948 the war has been over for three years and my dad, Russell, and families are all now back living in or near Palo Alto. They have just started a new company called Varian Associates that is going to build Klystrons and do research work into different types of electronic equipment. The company was an instant success helped along by the Korean War that needed all the new uses that a Klystron tube could provide. My father was a very hands-on type of person who would rather be in a machine shop inventing and building things that Varian Associates might decide to manufacture.

The company went public in the early 1950s and my father was put on the new board of directors. That was tolerable because he knew that it was just a figurehead position to add validity to this new startup company. But the board of directors went on to make matters worse when they decided that he should be president and he said to me, “It’s just for window dressing.” He was moved farther from a useful position in the trenches with like-minded people who used drill presses and lathes to build things. By 1960, my mother and father decided to leave Varian Associates and move to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico to retire. They built a nice house right on the beach, brushed off their rusty Spanish, and settled into a lifestyle that allowed them to help refurbish the local hospital that was badly in need of some remodeling. 

My father was an excellent pilot but one stormy night Dad and a friend were returning from Guadalajara with some things Dad needed for their house. Leaving Guadalajara the weather was starting to cloud over but Dad was a very good instrument-rated pilot and the weather was good in Puerto Vallarta. He called ahead to tell whoever was in charge of lighting little Kerosene lamps the length of Puerto Vallarta’s dirt landing field. Upon Dad’s arrival there was nothing but darkness and calling the airport to get the lamps lit nobody answered the phone. When he first learned to fly, he would often land his Jenny on Pismo Beach at low tide and then take off before the tide started to come in. The tide was low as my father decided that the safest thing to do was a forced landing on a white sandy beach rather than guess where an unlit airstrip was located. He was turning toward shore and then would make one more turn to line up for his final approach but he misjudged his height above a wave and his left-wing hit the wave and the plane landed hard but right side up. Dad’s friend was able to get out and swim a few hundred yards to shore but my father, they said, broke his hip and was unable to swim and drowned. I know that this was exactly how my father would want to leave his life. Once he realized that he had a problem all fear left him and he would become this very cool man who enjoyed moments of danger. 

My father was a very brave man under fire, who taught me how to drill holes in metal and run a metal lathe. He always encouraged me to build something from my imagination like a rocket ship with wings. He said to make my word my bond. He and my mother always showed that it was better to give than receive. The list could go on and on so I’ll close by saying, I was very lucky to have such wonderful parents. 

                            See Ya, 

                             Jack 

                                 See Ya, 

                                  Jack

So much for helping weigh the cattle and that’s when nostalgia grabs my attention and says, “Remember when Zee, you, and 3-year-old Katy had just moved into our new home that in no time would have two girls and two boys living in one bedroom and Zee and I in the other.”

No time for chit chat I had corrals to build because, in the initial purchase, I got 8,000 acres of land with very few improvements meaning no corrals. After only three years of being a rancher, I was already a “Junkyard Junky” which has served me well over the years. It’s amazing how many things I have bought for 10 cents on the dollar that went into building a working ranch. Two miles of 4” thick wall steel pipe was for sale when an abandoned oil pipeline that was going to send oil from the San Ardo oilfield of southern Monterey county to Avila Beach then to be loaded on oil tankers and taken to a Long Beach refinery was scrapped. 

My nostalgia again grabs my attention and takes me back to the winter of 1962 and I’m digging post holes for the 4” scrap oil field pipe and setting the now 8’ long post in concrete and wherever there was a gait I went up 12’ and over all gates so no gate could sag. I learned to arc weld building those corrals and they're just as good today as when they were brand new. 

I’m very proud of all my children and grandchildren who are so skilled with cattle and horses and then can plumb in a watering trough, fix an electrical problem paint a house, etc. Just all in a day's work. For me, I don’t have to prove to my banker that I’m still solvent any longer so the motivation to get out of bed in the morning is now only out of habit. But, and it's a big one, last year I bought a new Can-Am side-by-side that lets me drive anywhere on the ranch. It has all the bells and whistles that in my youth would be sissy stuff, but today I love my heating and cooling and electric windows and windshield with wipers. It’s turned me into an observer of if there is enough water for the cattle that Brinan just moved to a new pasture. And is Mother Nature happy with what’s going on? I’ve become not a real bird watcher, but I notice all the birds I see and question how the other critters that call the V6 home are doing. I still like writing about things that I think are worth writing about. So I leave now with a pretty satisfied sense of accomplishment and again a dash of nostalgia for all the parts of my past that happened. I’ll look forward to tomorrow, saying “Come what may, it might be worth writing about.”

                             See Ya, 

                              Jack 

The allure of always being a work in progress is its flexibility which allows for new endeavors that have yet to be discovered. I have a perfect example of the limitless possibilities. When our granddaughter Lauren, had decided to leave Ireland after finishing her college career and married an Irish lad, seven years had slipped by. It was time to come home. Cian, her new husband, was a sound engineer leaving me to wonder, how do sound engineering and cattle mooing meld together? Very nicely, thank you. All it takes is one nice, easygoing, talented sound engineer and old unused log cabin on the ranch that he converted into a remarkably functional recording studio. He has also tapped into a market where he now travels on cruise ships and lately to The Santa Barbara Bowl all to set up their sound systems for a touring band, a music festival, or a county fair and for the creators of songs to sing or a guitar to strum. Now they have a beautiful sound studio to record in as well: The Middle Ridge Studio.

There are goats that could be raised and rented out for brush and weed control, horses to train, and trail riding for our guests, sheep to shear and lambs to sell, chickens to lay eggs then to eat some villainous bug and then leave some poop for fertilizer. There are 200 different kinds of birds to watch by day and burrowing and barn owls at night. Stargazing is an awe-inspiring event on a moonless night as the ranch is surrounded by the Diablo Mountains making nights which are inky black to show off The Milky Way and a bright North Star to guide you on your way. 

My favorite haunt nowadays is to watch a wonderful drought-tolerant perennial grass that all grazing animals just love by the name of Perla Grass. It keeps expanding its sphere of influence in our Little Cholame Creek, which for the second wet year most of its seven miles of travel to then merge with the Big Cholame will show many above-ground places of running water. I’m sure the creek is going to outlast me but before that happens I hope to have all of its banks protected against winter rains and most of the Little Cholame Creek critters that once made their living here, to see their return. 

See Ya, 

Jack 

Now flash back a few days and it’s the first day of Parkfield Rodeo. Zee and I are headed to the Parkfield Arena not just to watch all the different Rodeo events, but for me, to revel at how everybody responds to the rules that guide the weekend. There are no rules except, the Golden Rule which always brings out the best in people. This free feeling starts at the age of just walking, then the feeling carries to their teenage years and they all find joy in doing traditional kid things with very few cell phones in use. Most all the teenagers are entered in the Rodeo and with all the competitive juices flowing they are totally engrossed in their events and the adrenaline rush that comes with it. 

At eight years old, our grandson Kincade Varian rode in a helicopter that I had hired along with a Texas Cowboy pilot to help me gather some wild cattle on the backside of the ranch. After this first ride, he was hooked and told me he wanted to fly helicopters. Now, 12 years later, Cade is getting ready to give his grandmother her first ride ever in a Helicopter. I’m watching while Cade gets Grandma seated and buckled in, helmet and speakers ready to go, and gauges checked. And off they go! What I thought would be a close-to-the-ground short trip down our lower hayfield was changed at Zee’s request. She wanted to get a good view of the V6 from high above. Upon landing, the most hazardous part of the trip was getting out of this contraption as this little two-seater was designed with 35-year-olds in mind, not 85-year-olds. I followed next and it would be up to me to get in unassisted, as Cade needed to stay in this ungainly looking thing that didn’t look like it belonged in the sky. Now with much grunting and groaning, I am finally able to get my left leg over this stick that I guess was put there so if the pilot dies while we’re up in the wild blue yonder I’m supposed to grab it and then wobble it to a safe landing. Cade and I are airborne now and I’m seeing how many things from a helicopter give a person; a new perspective on the health of the land and where some repairs are necessary.

The next few moments gave testimony to Parkfield Magic at its finest. It’s 5:30pm and the Parkfield Rodeo is just starting and the arena is full of people, all sitting on their horses and singing our National Anthem. Cade says to me with a sparkle in his eye, “Why don’t we give them a fly-by?” I replied, “Sounds good to me, but stay just far enough away to not scare the horses.” I thought to myself, this is my kind of tribute to our country’s Memorial Day. For our audience, this fly by was certainly not The Blue Angels Flying Team but for me it fit exactly what Parkfield Magic is all about. Because it was spontaneous and full of tickle-your-funny-bone laughter for all to enjoy.

See Ya, 

Jack

          When a person makes a decision to earn their living off the land one of the credentials that most people earn over time is pessimism. Because if you look hard enough at this yummy season it looks like the last rain was the most beneficial rain. Except, most of the Oak trees were in bloom and the rain and wind knocked nearly all of the blooms off so it might be a meager acorn crop. But, when I think about Mother Nature’s time schedule, if one oak tree that might live four or five hundred years is to produce only one mature offspring in all those centuries to be a success, then my concern about the upcoming acorn crop means nothing to nature. Though, it does have a near term effect on the food supply for many different species of wildlife that might suffer with a few hunger pangs. Jack, you had to find one insignificant ding in an otherwise great year to keep your pessimism alive. I do really like the bright side of life rather than the pessimistic side, so I will close by telling you all, that the Little Cholame Creek is still alive with clean clear water and all the Cottonwood trees are just about ready to send plentiful numbers of cottonwood seeds airborne. Some will land near water and their kind of soil and my pessimistic side will have to run and hide as thousands of infant Cottonwoods try to make the cut to become a full fledged, long lived, member of the Yummy world. 

                            See Ya, 

                              Jack 

         I also find a lot of satisfaction when observing the laws of nature in action without the human hand trying to help. However, I must recognize that humans have changed the behavior of our planet Earth so much that we must start observing ways to meet the demands and create a more sustainable society and planet. Yesterday, while observing a part of nature, there were buzzards, coyotes, and my dog Hurly all bumping, snarling, and snapping at each other as they devoured a steer that had died for what reason I am unable to answer. What I do know is that there are three parts to a healthy animal society that we are part of. First are the grazing ungulates like deer, cattle, and horses that help keep our grasslands functional. Then comes the predators like the mountain lions and coyotes that keep the grazing population in balance. Last we must welcome the clean-up crew, which are the scavengers, like the buzzards, feral pigs, eagles, raccoons, and soil life all waiting for dinner. The last part is an observer so remedies can be made where they are needed. The fractured and tattered side of our society is a little too overwhelming at my age to give much thought to. So, I have chosen the bright side of life where joy, hope, love, trust, and all the other words create a feeling of joy in my soul that says “Everything is going to be okay, just you wait and see.” 

                         See Ya, 

                           Jack 

         Next, there’s a big dead limb in and old Oak tree that might fall on my barbed wire fence so with the front-end loader on my backhoe I reach up about 12 feet with my clamshell bucket open the jaws then clamp down on the limb give a little pull that breaks the limb loose then take the limb to the ground and I won’t have a fence to fix. 

             We’ve had some good big rains this year and I have a place on one of the ranch roads where the rain stayed too long on the dirt road and washed away part of the road and the best way to get control of the next time rainwater wants to make matters worse is to install an 18” culvert. So with the bucket down and outriggers down in no time at all, I have a ditch dug across the road then with a chain wrapped around the culvert I lower it into the ditch then with the bucket in a curled position I sweep all the dirt that I just took out back into the trench then compact the dirt over the culvert by pushing down with the bucket. This job by two men with shovels would probably take two days instead of two hours with a backhoe. 

              Wait, I’m not finished yet. The Little Cholame Creek was subjected to some flooding last January and I want to put a little pressure on the creek on its West side so it won’t wash the now 4-foot-high vertical creek bank anymore. I don’t want to use anything that won’t decompose when it's done. Time to get a 25-ton load of rice straw, 1,000-pound bales, from Northern California to pressure the creek but the truck arrived at almost dark and I couldn’t unload the top tier of bales in the dark as my forks might hit the strings of a bale and break it so I just pushed all fifty 1,000 bales onto the ground and sent a happy trucker on his way. The next morning I loaded ten bales on my flatbed trailer and stacked the rest in the barn. The pictures that are attached to this blog tell how I tickled the creek a little to change its course a tad then when I finish, the last permanent step I will again use a smaller bucket to dig down next to the downhill toe of the rice straw bail and fill with topsoil then plant a Cottonwood tree as the permanent solution to protecting an eroded creek bank. There are many more backhoe uses that make the land better and more Mother Nature friendly so John Deere 310 Backhoe you’re number one on my hit parade. So to all of you doubting me, it’s not whether to use it but how to use it. 

                    See Ya, 

                      Jack 

                             See Ya, 

                              Jack 

       As you can imagine, a shiny ball is but a drop of rain and all those round shaped pillars are trees, brush, and other obstacles that will slow the velocity of the water thus robbing it of its destructive power. My job then will be to change the dynamics of the creek to encourage the healing of bank erosion, by giving young trees and water grasses a better chance to get started. The problems of today got their start with the arrival of the Homesteader’s in the 1860s and 70s that’s when too much impact on the land caused the health of the Little Cholame Creek to subside. I’m not sure but I believe that I’m the first landowner to make a conscious choice to make things better for all parts of the ranch. 

      I believe when managing a ranch such as the V6 that is mountainous and there is only grass harvested by cattle and a 100 acre Pistachio orchard that must be irrigated in the summer months, timing is the most important practice that I have control over. So where should my cattle be when it’s raining? I have two criteria for our Central California location which is quite different then all the land that lies east of the Sierra Nevada mountains. We have but only a few perennial grasses so I depend on my annual Mediterranean grasses to feed my stocker cattle from late October to the following June. I have learned the hard way that I should not put as many stocker steers I can crowd onto the land, always hoping for that really good year when the ranch can carry an excess amount. The reality is that we have more dry years than wet ones. So what I base my numbers on is the number of pounds per acre that the V6 land can carry and not overgraze. I start my grazing season in late October then vary my numbers as the season progresses many times adding light weight steers in March that will stay for perhaps 15 months. My second criteria is to keep my cattle away from the Little Cholame Creek from June to October and away from pastures that are prone to pugging in winter until the middle of March when the grass is good enough to support their weight. Last but not least is my unfair advantage that gives me a wonderful family that now numbers from 2 years to 88 years that’s me, which total 19. This number presently is scattered from Texas to Montana to California to the V6 where over the years, I hope will migrate back to the V6 and then we will reinvent ourselves and there will be a vigorous Little Cholame Creek and plenty of room for all to make a living and loving life. 

                           See Ya, 

                             Jack 

           My son Greg, besides Kincade, has two sons. Rhett has just graduated from Montana State University and has a very nice girlfriend so it’s too early for me to guess what direction he goes in. His older brother Zack has a fence-building business in Stephenville, Texas and is doing very well, but I hear that the allure of having a chance to go down the road to as many rodeos as possible, with hopes of winning enough money to qualify for the National Finals Rodeo in Las Vegas, tugs pretty hard at a very good team ropers heartstrings. 

           I can’t forget my two granddaughters Sage Massey and Kayla Santos who partner up each year to produce the big Parkfield Rodeo. The rest of Sage’s time she spends starting and training two-year-old horses and is very sought after for her skills. Kayla has bore two great-grandchildren for Zee and me by the names of Hank and my namesake Jack. She is the full-time office manager for Massey Livestock owned by Mike Massey and our daughter Lillian. There must be somebody who wants to run the cattle operation on the V6?  Well, he just showed up. My grandson Brinan Varian and I have become partners in the most volatile business known to man, the cattle business. Now that’s how you get to have a satisfied mind. 

                    See Ya, 

                     Jack  

           I still graze the Little Cholame and its close surroundings but only in the dormant winter times and I do it in moderation. So what I see happening is the formation of a community of green growing things that are complex in their makeup but moderate in their demands, meaning that each has a place in helping to create an environment where a symbiotic community can thrive. 

         This is what I want my United States government to be. So, let’s stop the polarizing and start moderating. We will all be better for it. 

                     See Ya, 

                      Jack

             So a new breath of life was in order. It started by fixing a leaky roof that if you happened to be sitting on the pot in what we call the back bathroom while a rain storm was in progress you could get rained on, not so much that an umbrella was needed but enough to quicken your stay. Then it was on to the windows of which there are plenty, some needed a 20-foot ladder to reach them. A total house bath with a high-pressure washer was next. Adios to all the spiders, some that had lived long enough in their Cobweb houses to now be on social security, and Bats just love all the eaves that protect our outdoor spaces. I’m a Bat lover for all the good things that they do, like those that eat their weight in bugs and insects every night. I feel that somebody “probably not me” could sweep up all the Bat poop and use it to fertilize our lawn or rosé garden. But in my family that is not a popular view so we continue to close up places where my friends might have had a place to live when they return each year from their winter vacation in Mexico. 

          With the outside all cleaned up and still retaining its 50-year-old patina look it was time to move inside. Our house was built to accommodate my family of six and as a place where Zee and I could entertain. But in only what seemed like a moment in time our four children were off to college and it turned out that Zee and I weren’t really into entertaining when events great and small showed themselves. 

             I see a swirling mass of energy coming from our next-door neighbor's house. Sage and Lilly arrived and things started changing immediately because that evening when I went to get myself a bowl of ice cream the ice cream scoop was not in its proper place and my toothpaste was in some never-used drawer. Throughout the next couple of weeks, there would be more changes that if we wanted to be annoyed we could but I could hardly wait to see this “diamond in the rough” as it emerged into an elegant homey place where 42 would sit down outside on a beautifully warm afternoon Christmas Day to celebrate the birth of Christ and eat till stuffed. Zee and I through it all didn’t have to lift one finger. The evening was people’s choice.  There was a game of pool in the living room and conversation in the parlor or watching my favorite football team the San Francisco 49ers get a thrashing the Baltimore Ravens with a score of 33 to 19. What a way to end a most memorable December. 

                           See Ya, 

                            Jack 

So it’s back to my mission of the moment to exterminate this insufferable fly. I must have a plan for its demise. Looking down at my swatter it dawned on me as I watched this fly, fly by. What is the safest place for a fly to land? I’m now armed with my swatter and it’s going to land someplace. So where might that be? Again looking at my swatter it dawns on me that flies must be pretty smart to have annoyed human beings for thousands of years and we humans have spent thousands of years trying to wipe them out. But this unwanted annoyance that I’m watching buzz about finally picks his safest spot to land and gets a few minutes of rest. I want to be fair and treat all flies equally as this interloper might be a she fly. It’s on my fly swatter. This fly of unknown sex has just demonstrated to me why the fly species has been around for so long. It has a brain that says if you land on the swatter you are safe because when the swatter is grabbed that’s an early warning sign to get your rear in gear knowing that you can move faster than whatever is swinging the swatter. But I’m afraid of the day when I awaken from my sleep and there are no more flies to annoy me. I think that’s a big warning signal that we Homosapiens might be in deep trouble. 

I like thinking more about giving and taking than the fly sitting on my fly swatter knowing that as much as I would like to punch his lights out it knows it’s safe and hopefully that means that we are safe also.

A song from the 1920’s The Glory of Love sung by Jimmy Durante has just tickled my vocal cords “You’ve got to give a little take a little and let your heart break a little, that’s the story of that’s the glory of love.” 

                   See Ya, 

                     Jack