'Fraidy cat, 'fraidy cat

It's no wonder Stones and I are such good buddies.

I'm a little 'friady cat. Always have been. Probably always will be. Learn some of the back history on page 10. I've toughen up a little bit from the days of making friends drive across town to do closet-checks when left home alone, but not a lot. My 'fraidy-cat ways were in full force last week.

I was traveling in the beautiful Shenandoah Valley for work. Round about 5 a.m., I roused myself from my comfy Hampton Inn pillows and set out in the beefy mini-van to capture the sun rise in the valley. You know I don't see 5 a.m. very often, but I just knew this was going to be worth it.

I carefully mapped out the path to Woodstock Tower, which is suppose to be one of the most beautiful scenic lookouts in the area. I crept up, up, up a narrow switchback path, anxiously awaiting the Seven Bends river view. 

It was about a half-hour drive. There wasn't much time to stop along the way; I knew the best photos would be at the top. So I cranked up the radio, rolled down the windows and kept climbing. The necessity of the Tower quickly became clear. You couldn't see the forest for the tress... literally. There were no scenic vistas from ground level.

Finally, I reached the top. Just like my extensive google research indicated, there was a little pull-off to park at near a small path that would lead to the tower. Giddy with excitement over the pictures I was about to capture, I gathered up my camera and jumped out of the minivan and started my half-mile hike to the Tower.

I got about two feet past the graffiti-covered Tower sign and stopped dead in my tracks.

Hiker goes missing on Woodstock Tower Road

Ohio girl last seen eating breakfast pizza at local Hampton Inn, never heard from again.

I often imagine my life as it would appear in headlines. Working in journalism does weird things to the way you think of words.Sometimes I go ahead and write the whole news article in my head, too.

This front page story would be your typical young-blond-ventures-out-alone-and-meets-grizzly-mysterious end-news report.  

I like to think my disappearance would be important enough to make the front page.

It would have quotes from the nice lady at the Hampton Inn who watched me devour the breakfast pizza and three cups of coffee. It was clear to her I was alone that morning and seemed disgruntled and uneasy. My family and friends would confirm that I was in fact not the kind of girl who ever had her whits about her that close to sunrise, which might offer an explanation. Or was I contemplating the inevitable demise ahead? Breakfast lady would certainly recall something seemed amiss the morning the blond girl set out for her fateful journey. 

Stop it, Laura. Stop it right now. Grow up. Those kinds of things only happen in the news... not to girls travelling alone thousands of miles from home who don't tell anyone where they're going when they depart at sunrise to hike into the wilderness. 

Go back to the van and get your cell phone. Keep one finger on 9 and another ready to follow it with 1-1. That will make you safe. 

Laura, that's just creating a false sense of security. A false sense of security only makes you more venerable. Take a picture of your location and the van on your phone. Then if something happens and your murderer steals the van and all the search party finds is your cell phone, they'll be able to piece together what happened.

Deep breath.

You can do this. You want to do this. You're an adult. Stop being a 'fraidy cat.

I turned around and headed back down the trail. I got about two feet past the location that previously sent me running back to the van.

*snap. crack. rustling*

What was that? Footsteps? A bear? I can feel something watching me. Is that a shred of clothing stuck to that branch? Is that all that remains of the last hiker here?

Stop it. Stop being such a baby. Stop being such a 'fraidy cat.

Another branch snapped under the weight of my approaching doom.

GET OUT NOW! NOW! GET TO THE VAN... NOW!

A half hour later, my heart finally returned to beating at a normal rate. I finally got enough courage to stop on the outskirts of town and try to regain a little dignity.

You're OK. This is a nice, peaceful bridge... you have to have something to show photographic evidence of this little venture.

Wait.. what was that? What's under this bridge? There's a truck coming up... it look suspicious. Oh God... those guys look scary. They're eye-balling you.

The van! Get to the van NOW!

Stereotypes in the city

I think it's been well established that I love my home state(s). A lot. I could talk about Big, Wonderful Wyoming or the Good Life in Nebraska for days. Unfortunately for people I meet, sometimes I do just that.

But the one thing I don't love about being from the WyoBraska area is the stereotypes that are often placed on the good folks from that area. Now, don't get me wrong... we do fulfill a lot of those stereotypes. I'd say folks out in my home states are a little old-fashioned, we're about five years behind in clothing fashion and are sometimes a little... um... culturally sheltered.

But if I am asked one more time if we all have this neat thing called electricity out in the wild west or if I rode my horse to school growing up, I will hog tie someone and drag em' through a pasture of yucca plants.

Now how's that for a stereotype?

Ok, it's been a while since I've been asked a truly outrageous question like that, although it has happened. But I do often get, "Oh, ya.... I've been to Wyoming. Jackson Hole!" Or, "You come from a cattle ranch out West? Your family probably run a couple thousand head then, huh?" Then there's, "Nebraska?! I drove across I-80 once... there is seriously nothing there. I mean nothing. You must have been reeeeaaally bored growing up." And then my personal favorite.... "So, how's the trailer court?"

As it turns out, I have no room to judge people who place stereotypes on my home states. A few weeks ago, I visited New York state. I spent a few day on a cattle ranch. Every time I told someone from home I was on a cattle ranch in New York, I got about the same reaction.

"A ranch?! In New York? What do they have, five, ten little pet cows?"

"Oooohh! New York City?! Did you see Sarah Jessica Parker?"

"Hahahahahahahahaha. Hahaha. Haha. No really, Laura. What are you doing in New York?" 

And I didn't blame them. After four trips to NYC over the past seven years, these are the things I knew to be true about New York:

It's a concrete jungle. Sky scrapers, bridges, and brick: it's a convoluted mess of metal and pavement. New Yorkers wouldn't know a natural building material if it gave 'em a splinter.

It's a non-stop hustle-bustle, and you've got to watch your back. It's best to hope you're in a mob of people at a street crossing, because there's no way anyone is stopping for you in any other circumstance... unless it's to rob you.

Speaking of driving... who really drives there, except cabby's? No one really owns a vehicle. If they do, it's not more than a year old, is black, has deep tinted windows and a paid driver in the front.

And thanks to all those crowded cabby's, there's no such thing as a clear, blue sky. A black cloud of smog hangs over New York all the time. I don't think they've ever even seen the stars or a full moon, much less a sky full of lazy white clouds.

Worst of all, nobody cares about a single person there. In a place full of people trying so hard to stand out and show off how unique they are, there's no such thing as really being noticed. You blend in with the masses... just another brick in the wall.

And large animal livestock? Fa-ghetta-bout-it! New Yorkers might as well put their knowledge of cattle and unicorns side-by-side and see what feeds our country faster.

 Speaking of things that don't exist in New York... let's talk about personal space. I feel claustrophobic stepping two feet east of the Mississippi.

Oh, wait... am I being too stereotypical?

Thanks, Rally Farms, for opening up a whole new view of New York to me. Less than 100 miles from the city, I found a place that blew all my preconceived notions of the Empire State out of the water. It was beautiful and idyllic and most of all, functioned like any other great ranch I've spent time at -- with a love for the land, the cattle, family and hard work.

But I'm still waiting to run into Sarah Jessica Parker. And Mr. Big. Jay-Z would be cool too.

The Heart of our Country

This book is amazing. Seriously. While reading it, I laughed out loud, teared up a little and got goose-bumpy shivers about every other page. Sometimes all those things at once... in the middle of a downtown Kansas City Panera Bread. Awkward, but worth it.

Paul Mobley, the photographer of "American Farmer," spoke at the National Agri-Marketing Association on Friday. He had so many incredible stories to share with his photographs. To me, the most interesting story was his. He immersed himself in the world of farmers and ranchers for three years, travelling across the nation to capture the spirit of agriculturalists in print.

Guess what happened after those three years? ...he became one of agriculture's biggest fans! How could he not? We're kind of a lovable group.  

"I embarked on this project as a photographer in search of artistic evolution, and I found it. But the exquisite and unexpected discovery was of a kinder and gentler world and way of life than any I had known before. The agricultural communities of America are made up of modest, hardworking men and women who prize their families, their land, and their heritage above all else," Mobley said.

He captured the stories and hearts of Wyoming cattle ranchers, California avocado farmers, Southern fruit growers, mechanics, cotton pickers, horse whisperers, beet farmers and everything in between.

And by in between, I mean everything in between. I loved that he captured more than just farmers and ranchers farming and ranching. Mobley shared several stories about families who took him outside of stereotypes. "He'd say, 'Oh, let's not talk about farming. I talk about farming all day. Let's talk about motorcycles."

Side note: please don't mind those big blobs of white leg meat
propping up the book. I don't know who those belong to.

Mobley's photographs and Katrina Fried's writing tell so many captivating, unique, personal stories. Yet the book as a whole tells one common story I wish everyone in the world would hear.

"Like so many of us, I doubted the existence of this kind of goodness in the world. You look around at the ways we treat -- or mistreat -- one another, and it's gotten so out of hand. You want something you can believe in. You ask yourself, where have all the good people gone? Well, I can tell you. Drive up to any farmhouse in this country. You'll find them. They're there."

In short, I really just love this book. Every coffee table should proudly display this book. This book makes me wish I had a coffee table. I'm going to work on that.

Oh, and thinking of photography... my cute baby calf photo made the top ten finalists in the Beef Daily photo contest! I would love, love, love for you to stop by the Beef Daily blog and vote for my picture (it's #5) so I can win another wonderful photography book to share with you! Tomorrow (Thursday) is the last day to vote, so head over there and vote now!

But even more than that, I would love for you to sign up to receive news updates from Beef Daily. It is a news source that keeps a great pulse on what is going on in the cattle industry, whether you are a beef producer, consumer or someone who just like cows. 

Go here to vote: http://blog.beefmagazine.com/beef_daily/2010/04/26/baby-calf-photo-finalists-vote-today/. Then go buy Paul Mobley's book. Then make me an ice cream sundae. With crunchy sprinkles. Please and thank you.

Hey, it was worth a try while I was handing out demands, right?

The pack mule and a marathon runner

 My sister runs marathons. My brother went to college to be a physical therapist. He's a MegaMan. They were both star athletes in high school. They are both coordinated, strong and agile.

I was the water girl in high school. I took stats. I ran the time clock, cleaned locker rooms and laundered, organized and stored jerseys in numerical order with matching hangers. Are you shocked by any of this?

This weekend, Sister had her 20-mile training run. I got to go along. She sold it to me like this:

"Laura, on the Saturday that you'll be in Lincoln I have to go on a 20-mile run. Are you going to come along?"
*silence*
"You can ride a bike while I run."
"Oh. OK. I should be able to handle biking the same amount of time as you run."
"Great. You can be my pack mule."
"Pack mule?! This sounds less fun."
"You'll just carry my snacks and drinks in a bag that attaches to the bike. You can bring your camera."
*snacks? juice? camera?*
"Done!"

Today, we set off on our 20 mile journey. Sister led the way. 

After about three miles of herding her along, I started to get bored. Luckily, the Jamaican Trail had a lot of fun stuff to entertain my camera and I (and relieve me of 20 strait miles of biking). I stopped to play near a little creek:

Somebody forgot their rusty barbed wire next to the creek:

I wandered my way back to the trail to find Sister, still running:

This is where we think the Boxcar Children lived. If you don't know who the Boxcar Children are, you should ask your parents why they didn't make you read more as a youngster.  

 A nice little assortment of broken down railroad cars, semi trailers and various other piles of junk. What a soothing addition to the running trail.

 Don't worry, Sister was still running. I really had to work to catch up to her this time.

Then there was a pretty little bridge.

Sister ran over it.

 I went under it and found a tire. A lot of random crap littered this running trail. 

There was pretty stuff, too.

Guess what Sister was doing?

Yup. Still running. Notice how much further ahead of me she is getting. I didn't notice that at the time, so I stopped to enjoy some more scenery.

Then there was DANGER. This sign suddenly made me realize I had piddled around so long that I didn't know where Sister was. I was under a creepy bridge that explicitly stated it was DANGER, in the middle of nowhere, near a railroad track with abandoned trailers.

Ah! Peddle faster, Laura! Faster! 

After a couple miles topping Earth-shattering speed of 13 mph she was back in sight, although smothered by a cloud of train smoke.  

...still running. I did not want to bike through the smoke, and the amount of energy I exerted trying to catch up with her made me hungry. Boy, was I glad to be the pack mule with all the snacks.

Fruit Smiles might be one of my all-time favorite snacks. I stopped to fully enjoy their sweet, smiley goodness.

But don't worry, Sister was still... oh crap. She's not running anymore.  

 Turns out her pack mule was dawdling and forgot to replenish her thirst. Turns out, her pack mule hadn't really checked in for about seven miles. At mile 15, that's apparently not very nice.

Don't worry, we go her back on the road, hydrated, re-fueled and running like the wind.

 I found a bee.

Round about mile 18,5, I finally caught up with her by the tulips.

She was looking for her pack mule again. Ooops.

Help! I need help!

I hope you have had the chance to fully digest my last post about beef quality. There is so, so much more I want to share with you on that subject, but today is not the day. I'm waiting to get photos of my experience with carcass fabrication to finish up that re-cap. Trust me, you want photos to accompany the rest of this story -- it will involve hair nets, knives and a fun little story about me being a big girly pansy-pants.

In the meantime, I need your help! I am quite possibly the most indecisive person on earth. I can (and do) spend hours upon hours pondering life's big challenges... like, which flavor of ice cream do I love most (yes, I am that person in line at Coldstone)? Does sandstone-beige or moonstone-beige look better with plum eyeshadow? Which PW Photoshop action is most flattering to Stones? My life is really complex, as you can see.

   

That said, please, please please help me decide which little calf makes the prettiest picture. I plan to submit a photo to the Beef Daily baby calf photo contest, but just can't make up my mind. Leave a comment below and tell me which one is your favorite. Or tell me you hate them all and I'll go take more. Please and thank you!

  

Goodbye cubicle, helllllooo Kentucky!

For the first time in what feels like forever, I got out of my cubicle and have been on the road this week. On Tuesday, I headed my beefy mini van south. Yes, I look awesome driving a mini van. Try not to be jealous.

After a near breakdown over the lack of Chuckwagon sandwiches in southern Ohio truck stops, I arrived in Carrolton, Ken. I arrived round about one in the morning and found myself in home-sweet-home Hampton Inn. I love me a good Hampton Inn. The pillows are to die for.... but only if you got to die while sleeping on them. For real.

Bright and early Wednesday morning, I headed out to meet with some of the folks at The Beef Connection in northwestern Kentucky. Owner Bob Sand started the Beef Connection to help cattlemen in the state realize more value in their cattle and ranch business models. Since then, they've expanded to having members all over the state and partners across the nation and in every facet of the industry.

I spent the day with Bob, his son, Travis, and a couple producer-members learning about their ranching systems, the power of data feedback in herd improvement and a couple of other interesting aspects of life and agriculture in Kentucky. Somehow I think I got volunteered to experience the miserable-sounding process of the manual labor involved in tobacco harvest. Suddenly, wheat harvest in western Nebraska seemed like a walk in the park.

My new camera also got broken in on its first work trip. After months of experimenting on photo shoots of Stones, snow and sunrises, my sweet little Cannon got to focus on cattle. It was love at first sight for all involved. Here are some of the highlights:

Yes, that is a photo of a Charolais calf, taken by a camera owned by Certified Angus Beef LLC. But he was sired by a registered Angus bull. And he was really, really cute. I couldn't help myself.

These guys were cute, too. Springtime in a cattle pasture nearly makes me down-right giddy with happiness. 

I finally came to terms with the fact that there are places east of the Mississippi that are every bit as gorgeous as the open skies of Wyoming. This was one of those places. It's a different type of beautiful landscape -- the green kind, which we don't usually see back home for several more months.

Hoards of trees don't have to make a westerner feel claustrophobic, either. Not being able to see an open horizon is nice, too... when there are pretty little calves hiding behind every corner.

 So green. So peaceful. I love my job.

Can I tell you again how much I love springtime on a cattle ranch? I'll also remind you I love Hampton Inn pillows. There are five of them calling my name right now. They win.