Bluegrass, barbed wire and wiener dog wrangling

New Year's resolutions are tricky business. Most people vow to lose weight, save money, or finally keep a houseplant alive past February. All noble goals, sure, but this year, my resolution is a bit different: I'm resolving to stay humble.

And there's no better place to get a crash course in humility than Seven Springs Ranch.

It all started when I returned to feed the cows, a chore I've shockingly come to enjoy-bluegrass baling adventures included. If you've never handled bluegrass, imagine trying to hold onto a giant stack of spaghetti while it's actively falling apart. As Dalton and I attempted to unload the bale, it lost all sense of structure. Suddenly, we were left scooping and flinging loose bluegrass with everything we had: hands, arms, even boots.

The cows, ever judgmental, stood nearby watching this slapstick comedy unfold. I swear one of them raised an eyebrow, silently asking, "What are these dang humans up to?"

Just when I thought I couldn't look any sillier, a gust of wind picked up. Bluegrass flew everywhere, coating me head to toe. I hopped off the truck in a valiant attempt to salvage some dignity-and promptly landed right in a fluffy pile of bluegrass. There I was, pockets stuffed, shoes overflowing, and even bluegrass in my ears. Dalton kindly helped pluck it out, but not without a few laughs at my expense.

And then there are the dogs. Let me set the scene: Dalton's dogs, Dammit and Diesel, are each about four to five times the size of my miniature wiener dog, Winnie. At one point, Winnie decided she was going to explore the ranch and ended up in a heifer pen. Even my time serving in the Army wouldn't have convinced me to army crawl under the fencing to reach her, and I couldn't make it through the gate fast enough before she'd run off again. So, I resorted to my secret weapon: her favorite word, "treat."

Well, the word worked, all right-too well. Not only did Winnie come running, but Dammit and Diesel heard the magic word and bolted toward me like freight trains. Once Winnie was safely out of the heifer pen, she turned her attention to Dammit, and what happened next was something straight out of a cartoon. Picture a mouse chasing a cat, except the mouse is a sassy wiener dog and the cat is a dog five times her size. I think Winnie might have found herself a new best friend.

The next day, I suited up again for more ranch adventures. It was a rainy, gray morning this time, and my role as "passenger princess" was rudely upgraded to "gate duty grunt." After bumping through the pasture, we stopped to fix some fencing. Dalton, ever the ranching expert, handed me an oversized pair of insulated gloves and showed me how to remove barbed wire clips. He made it look easy, removing clips like a fencing ninja. Then he turned to me and said, "Your turn. Just do those three."

Let me tell you, friends, it took me longer to remove one clip than it took Dalton to splice and tighten half the fence. He'd moved on to an entirely new section by the time I finished. Still, I was proud of my progress and celebrated with a little happy dance-until I slipped on some mud and landed far too close to a soggy cow patty for comfort.

Dalton, if you're reading this, yes, you may laugh.

By the end of the day, I was bruised, muddy, and exhausted. But as we sat down for a hot meal in the cozy farmhouse, it all felt worth it.

So here's to 2025: a year of staying humble, learning new skills, and embracing life on the ranch-bluegrass, barbed wire, and all. If my first few weeks living here have taught me anything, it's that ranching will always find a way to knock you off your pedestal (or your boots).

And you know what? I wouldn't have it any other way.

- Olivia Harnack is the editor at the Lincoln County Record-Times and is learning the ropes of rural life, one hay bale and farm dog at a time. You can reach her at 509-725-0101.