Baling at Night
Baling at Night: An Act of Kindness Moving Slowly Towards Delirium by George N Wallace
It is 11 PM. Most of the known world has gone to bed leaving you with Solitude and the background music of the machine’s beating heart, enveloped in night air full of motes in the tractor lights, (more than you can imagine breathing safely even though we always breathe them unseen). This is a very private world and one of unique beauty.
You get to witness moonrise, chain lightning and distant thunderheads generating enough power to light up whole towns for a week. Then looking down, you see field mice scurrying out to the side just ahead of the machinery. Owls and barn cats don’t like the limelight but feast in the balers dark wake. Coyotes are bolder and can be seen in side-light munching mice just a few freshly-baled rows over. Eyes lifted half-way see the low glow from the sleepy cities of Laramie and Cheyenne; meteor showers, even the occasional Aurora Borealis to sweeten the solace. All this is infused with the aroma therapy of curing hay. Alfalfa cut at 4% bloom, is delicate sweet and has just the right amount of protein to boot.
Several hours ago, right after sundown, after five days curing, we performed Jake’s (our old German from Russia neighbor, farmer, long gone friend) “five-twist test” - a small shock of alfalfa is held with a hand on either end and twisted till it comes apart. If it is dry enough to bale, stems will tear part with no more than five twists. If only one or two twists are needed, it is too dry and you will need to wait until the dew has set full on before it is ready to bale. So hard, but you kindly wait, or you lose the leaves. If several tests in different parts of the field result in hay that is still together after five twists, Jake would say to leave it another day. It won’t dry any more tonight. Leave it - even if rain is forecast tomorrow.
Tonight, the 8 pm hay was dry and properly cured, passed the 5-twist metric. The temperature was moving down towards dewpoint, the hay began to hold its leaves. We knew it was time to get going.
About then, most everybody else was home from work, done with supper, watching the late news and getting ready to turn in. After an hour of pre-bale machine maintenance, we are turned out and turned on, moving along. The uniform of the night: hat, jacket, headlamp, gloves, water or coffee, an apple or some nuts, ear protection, grease gun, maybe an old Walkman. Being pretty deaf, I like the naked night and listening to the low frequencies of the tractor and baler. You can sing, recite, you can sometimes hear a problem chafing before it breaks.
It’s good to “open up” a field which is to bale the field’s end windrows (so you can turn without running over the hay) and those next to pivot sprinkler tracks or ditches while there is still a little lingering summer light to see them. These first bales made are tested for weight, length and tightness right away, and since conditions change quickly as it cools and some moisture returns to the hay, a series of adjustments are necessary in the first hours. The need for this may taper off as the night progresses if moisture and temperature begin to hold steady, but periodic checks are made all night. We like to consistently make a 35-inch bale weighing between 55-60 pounds.
Its well after dark now. The field is open, half a dozen adjustments have been made, and we are moving steadily along in third gear, 1300 rpm. The countryside has quieted. In the distance, you can still see a few house and yard lights. The stars are sneaking out in the east, but in the mid-summer Western sky, twilight lingers late, fading slowly over the mountains, just a couple of “evening stars” (planet included) are slightly visible.
Deer watch the first rounds of baling from cover until they are sure once again, that it is not them this somewhat familiar monster is looking for. Later, when we turn, in the lights, we see the eyes, they’re out feeding one field over. By now, the fawns are losing the distinct spots we saw during first cutting in June when we had to slow the swather in taller hay where their mothers had hid them, we let them get out of the way.
The temperature is still dropping so more moisture is in the air and forming on the cured windrows. This creates more weight and friction in the bale chamber which changes the pitch of the machine song. If you bale in the direction that that the swather cut, the downed hay points slightly forward where it came to rest as it emerged from the conditioners, and it picks up smoothly and a loose mat of alfalfa feeds into the bale chamber keeping its leaves for the plunger to compress into a series “flakes” that make up the bale.
For years we had Ringneck Pheasants nesting in the middle of our hay fields where the odds of avoiding predators was better. I think West Nile got our once healthy population of wild pheasants when it took out the magpies, ravens and other large birds. Before that, we used to stop during the June harvest when we flushed a hen. Knowing the hen would not return to the nest without cover, we would get out, gather the eggs and put them in a towel until we could put them under a broody domestic hen. They would hatch but then the laying hens would usually peck the pheasant chicks to death because they acted wilder than other chicks. Then we tried an incubator. The eggs hatched (22 days as I remember) but as the chicks grew, they would violently throw themselves against the wire trying to escape. We only released a few too young birds. Wild wants wild and tame wants tame.
Alfalfa, a recently maligned crop in water scarce cities of the droughty West, is a wonderful forage used by many animals, high in protein and is a nitrogen fixer that reduces the need for chemical fertilizers for crops that follow. It does require more water than many crops. It is highly sought after in many parts of the world. It is not a Green Revolution crop, however. “Alfalfa” is an Arab word from when the Moors were in Spain. The Spaniards brought it to the new world in 1600 something. Way before that, Iranians grew alfalfa before in the years before Christ. And here we are out all night working to protect their contributions and now our own good names.
By now most people are curled up in their warm beds, some dreaming of work. Me too, because after a few hours of night baling, it slowly becomes a working dream. Fewer checks are necessary. The baler is chanting like a mother’s heart in the womb. The mind is being lulled into being less rational, or vigilant. Part of the brain is still vigilant. It checks each bale dropped from the chute (checking for broken or half twine bales) in the mirror. Stiff necks periodically turn to glance at the hay as it feeds over the pick-up tines, and some mind part is watching the row ahead almost all the time, keeping wheels on either side of the windrow so as to not run over and shatter much hay. I have done it so many years, that after a few hours, a corner of my mind can loosen up, wander, ponder, drink in the rare night, enjoy the hypnotic trance.
I have come to see this night work as an act of scheduled kindness for people who really want good hay even though few have any idea what it takes raise then put up good hay. A few savvy ones show up for their hay, moisture tester in hand and asking for nutrient and feed value test numbers. Many, just use the “green criteria” – they are looking for green, sweet leafy green that looks like you could put in grandma’s salad. The savvy ones who may have put up hay in the past, are also more forgiving of unavoidable imperfections.
Dry weather from La Nina combined with our having adequate irrigation water has made it easier to put up good hay – often referred to around here as “horse hay” though many other animals will eat it. El Nino or Monsoon or any hay that gets wet, is raked or turned to dry, then browns up some may still be quite good nutritionally, but is often called “cow hay”, though lots of animals are fed with it as well.
When need be, especially if it is grass or a grass alfalfa mix, I don’t mind putting up some cow hay. It usually goes to a more straightforward bunch and makes meat for the masses not to mention milk, cheese, yogurt, butter, leather, pharmaceuticals, cosmetics and more. Horse hay that actually goes to horses and cow hay that goes to cows, were once kissing cousins when more people, including our own soldiers, used to eat horsemeat. I hear the French still do but our “killer horses” are processed in Mexico, or somewhere else. When we bought our place in the early 70’s, there was a herd of meat horses that had been illegally put there to graze by a fellow named Kane who made that his business to find free grass for his “killer horses” as they are called.
I remember shipping Bear when he got old and lame, what a good little horse Bear, thinking it would be better to recycle him than not. I asked the shipper to treat him good, told him he was special. It only took watching him load to know I was kidding myself. Now I have a backhoe. I dig deep graves with ramps for neighbors ,so they can walk into a horse size grave next to a flower garden to arrange the limbs and offer last rites.
Midnight now, moisture set, the tension eased off, bale length adjusted, still making nice “dew bales”. Plunger sounds like it’s working a little harder. John Mattingly, used to say just bale till you break a soft shear bolt, then quit. Sixteen percent moisture and above scares a lot of people with high dollar horses or dads and moms whose kids have hand fed 4H steers or lambs. Be kind, keep it between 14 and 16 % and it won’t heat up, get dusty, everybody is happy.
Hay customers are particular. Some people want a precise mix of grass and alfalfa, others only grass, some only second cutting alfalfa, some no weeds at all, some organic this or that hay, some take a bale apart to look for Blister Beetles, others, like I said, only look for real green hay. Some won’t take “bottom bales” or those bales that touch the ground in a stack – even if you pad the floor with hay first so they don’t touch dirt.
We feed our horses whatever is around or left over: fines on the barn floor, “cow hay”, some hay with weeds (P.S. they like kochia and bindweed and especially thistle heads best), bottom bales, broken bales, bales a bit moist or dry, grass, alfalfa, a mix, corn stalks etc. mixing what they get. They do great, never colic, and only one mule ever had laminitis and that wasn’t from the hay. Just short green Spring grass. Some folks won’t feed any alfalfa to horses. They only buy “North Park or Yampa Valley Timothy”! Truth is, if your horses work at all, they will do well with some alfalfa.
I should quit my belly aching here. The customer comes first as they say.
Here comes a lone car with bright lights on crawling by at, 3:00 AM, must be coming home from a dairy graveyard shift, or cleaning office buildings. Solidarity with the working class feels good. Then again, it could be somebody with a late connection from Las Vegas or Cancun, almost sober.
The usual mild case of late hour delirium has begun to set in as I remember for no reason, that even the Honduran security guards who patrol broken glass and concertina topped walls in upper class neighborhoods in Tegucigalpa are ready for a nap at 3 AM.
Temperature and dew point steady now, just cranking out eight-dollar bills, kathump kathump kawhump kawhump, spitting out nice tight leafy bales standing up like soldiers, plunger steadily singing its Gregorian Chant to the lesser gods – the Meadow Voles for example. Old timer neighbors (a few left around) tell me they find the sound comforting. The newer folks toss and turn some. Some bitch I hear – but we are, after all, a “Right to Farm” County so we proudly bale at night, our calves proudly bawl when they are weaned, we proudly slow traffic with wide-implements on our tractors.
The night is slowly becoming an out-of-place “day”dream, a jet lagged spell, under cool stars, though Betelgeuse looks warmer than some. Those moving stars are satellites, blessing us with spam - all night long. I have always been quite glad to do low-tech work – during and after years filled with too many P values. Still, the hay will be peer-reviewed by people who treat their horses like kids.
Let’s not be cynical here. Pay attention. We all know the hayman has bills to pay - must honor the specific tolerances - those needed by the stack wagon, the truck bed, trailer deck, the picky customer, the feed store, the colicky cutting horse, the show steer, and especially those of the most temperamental machine on the ranch or farm. Go figure, a machine that can tie knots. Now imagine keeping it going just so. Nothing Digital about it, except sore digits. No fun to fix a fouled knotter in glaring dark, a mile from the shop, needing more tools, too tired to go get em.
Yep, most everybody is sleeping (or getting up to pee). Nancy, who sleeps hard, and me, if it is not my shift, we still wake up if the beat of the plunger stops too long - like old packers who only sleep if they can hear the sweet tinkle of the bell mare.
Older men are getting up to pee so they can go back to sleep. I get out to pee to so I don’t go to sleep - can stretch, keep going. One reason I could never live in town. It’s a still a free country in the country and you’re free to pee. Many have sacrificed for that right, long hours, big loans, bad weather, get big or go to town to pee. Counting bales, or the number of plunger beats between bale drops can make you sleepy. Too late to worry about that level of efficiency now.
Even good hay is never perfect. I had a customer bring back a bale cause she spotted a moist flake in the bale. Likely baled up at a spot at the end of the field where you turn tight and have to run over some hay. It flattens out and never dries, becomes 2.5 inch flake too green in an otherwise perfect 36 inch bale. No big deal really.
They are never here to see these things. A little grass in a bale where fields divide, or when you start out and are adjusting the baler set from another day another kind of hay, that you will get some bales too long, too light, too heavy, too moist before you get it just right. No point in trying to explain the art. Just apologize, give em some extra bales and call it good.
Tonight, I am feeling a little old for this. The rhythm of the plunger more soporific than it used to be. My 78-year-old, four surgery back started to hurt after a few hours. I waded up a jacket and stuck it behind my low back. Arthritis in my hands means putting on gloves every time I get out to lift and check the bales. I can still buck (load) bales when need be, but do it less. It’s a love/hate deal. More love than hate I guess. Most guys my age retired fifteen years ago. Its ok though. The oldest son likes the work, does it well and it’s good to work together. He is doing more than I am. It took a long time to get here.
Other guys are going to big round or square bales, all machine handling, and big bales hide all the blemishes cause nobody is going to open one to look for them. Our niche market still likes the small squares. We have good equipment for that and can’t afford the $80,000 $125,000 baler or the bigger tractors needed to run them. I will let the next generation figure it out, get bigger or get out? Enjoy the niche, keep the quality high?
In some ways, The night is like the world should be, peaceful, low human density, wild things feeding in moonlight, blessed quiet, timeless time to think. Time to write some poetry, need to bring a notebook, make some notes at least.
Now there is a jet up there flying between the stars, dodging satellites. Somebody is up there in that silver tube reading the Times, sipping coffee, caught a redeye flight to LA see her ailing aunt. All the seat shades are down except one behind the wing where some guy who just got a divorce is thinking, watching my field lights moving real slow as I watch his lights moving real fast. Blinking red and white cause they have to. I blink my lights, to tell him things will work themselves out. Life has many chapters. I am glad my tires are already on the ground.
No, on second thought it could be a cargo plane flying late to avoid busy terminals, just some long-haul trucker in the sky, home from Afghanistan, familiar thoughts, different uniform.
Over North,
I can see some tractor lights turning. They are baling on the Rosgen place, same shared middle of the night kindred endeavor a couple of miles away. Are some class differences, though. They have 1000 acres, a hired man, better tractors, brighter lights, tighter cabs, (stereo that can pick up Ranchera music from Mexico), moisture readings in the cab. Still, there will be reason to ask later “how did your hay go up the other night compadre?" when we next meet. “How much you guys getting for your hay right now?”- see if we should sell for the same or .50 cents/bale less.
Some guys do custom work. It’s just amazing what you can bale up, especially if you cut and bale somebody else’s place: rocks, vole dirt, corn cobs, blister beetles, weeds seed with a 50-year soil bank viability, big snakes, twine, turds, old dried out bird carcasses, more twine, wire, sticks, broken tooth tines, smashed beer cans, little plastic booze bottles. Why, there’s that missing fuel cap!
Custom-baled hay on poorly managed acres is best saved for archeologists, anthropologists, historians and mechanics to sort out and then feed. Custom cutter/balers like my neighbor Jack, can really cuss their clients!
We’re making artisan bread right here though. No cow hay tonight. Good forage - milk for foals, kids, calves, lambs and fawns. Front Range Gourmets, that’s what we are. Not gonna fret about raising hay for finicky horsefolk too much. Keeps people outside, forming relationships with large animals, looking at the land thinking about grass and water. Takes them back as they remember their relatives’ farms and ranches. Doing chores keeps kids off their cell phones for a while.
Saw a guy I know with 10 acres wearing his spurs in the grocery store the other day. The old West is still alive and defiant. Even a few folks thumbing noses with their lariats hanging from old gun racks. Some of these guys, though, leave their diesel pickups running while they fuel up, wait for a train, or run in for a six pack. I always want to say something but don’t. I will say it anyway.
“Hey Bubba, these new engines will do just fine if you turn them off, even in cold weather and start em up a while later”. Not sure we really have the will to face up to climate change. But we had better save some fossil fuel for tractors, trains, semis – the heavy lifting. Plastic and pharmaceuticals too. Oops, there is a bale that landed strings down, better get out and turn it on it’s side for the stack wagon.
I remember when the high school kids with pickups and dirty black felt Stetsons (referred to as “goat ropers” by the “punk rockers”), had their own parking rendezvous section in the median on North College Ave. Kind of miss that. Am I getting punchy, better drink a little coffee.
Darn. Here comes a warm breeze, a Chinook at 4:30 in the morning? Moisture has just dropped down to 13 or14%, starting to see some shatter and some hay is blowing to the side when its lifted. Gonna have to stop soon before we start making garbage, it will just be stems and powder. shortly. Ever try raking leaves in gusty wind? Normally you can go from an hour after sunset till two hours after sunrise and still get nice hay. Drat! Don’t want to stop. They are calling for showers tomorrow afternoon.
But we’re not going to make “cow hay” out of those sweet leafy greens you were hoping to put in your grandma’s salad. Gonna go grab some sleep right after I drive up to the shop and
Sit a spell, watch the first light, the daybreak, sky softly making art, the reds and pinks of sunrise. It’s mystical, seamless, this ending to the night, watching the other world waking up and going to work, hear the thrum of progress warming up. Wildlife headed back to bed down too.
People passing by wondering “how did this hay get baled so fast? These farmers must get up early”.
