Roots Deep
story by Laura Lindblom
Summer is here. On the ranch, summer sort of slips into existence, as if it is the quiet end result of getting the spring work finished. Summer comes specifically because the spring work is done. As the spring work wraps up, the last of the calves born and the brandings and getting bulls put out and the cows out to pasture, suddenly it is summer.
Some years, summer comes as a reprieve. Busy, but with an easygoing kind of bustle: fixing some fence, putting up some hay, checking cows, watering and tending the garden, doctoring an animal or two when the need arises, watering the fruit trees, things of that nature. Plenty to do, but without the urgency of the springtime months, and with long days, long enough to accommodate the to-do lists.
But this year, a somber haze hangs drearily over the horizon, not unlike the somber haze in everyone’ s thinking right now. What do you do when there is no grass? What do you do when the rain doesn’ t come? The moisture-bringing storms of early June were hopeful, but it didn’ t take long for the ground to crack again, and the brilliant green of the spring pastures has faded to a greyish tint in the days and days of hot, dry wind. The pines are taking on a sickly, yellowish hue, losing their emerald depth, and the fragrance of flowing sap has long since dried up. The sky looks flat and white and dingy, and the dust devils in the hayfield and the water lots are disconcerting. Dust devils, this early? One becomes very conscious of ignition sources, and fire risk.
On a good or even just a normal year, the hills and prairies would be covered over with wildflowers right now, a flowerhunter’ s paradise, but this is just a different sort of year. Even the hardy perennials, like yarrow and coneflower, even noxious thistle, are struggling to do more than a couple of inches of growth, and many of those friendly little flowers like columbine and dame’ s rocket and shooting star haven’ t shown their faces at all. Pastureland holds up much better than cultivated ground, in a year like this. The roots of the perennial flowers and grasses are what hold moisture and prevent erosion and give structure. Topsoil, dry and hard, is held together by those wonderful perennial root systems delving deep underground, sometimes yards down, able to tap into hints of moisture the fast-growing, fast- fading annuals can’ t access, but also able to sit in dormancy. Without them, the ground would turn to sand, and easily, too. Each windy day would carry away precious topsoil. The life is in their roots. And their roots go deep.
It is years like this one that highlight both the fragility of our way of life and the resilience needed in order to survive. We can’ t control the skies. We can’ t make it rain. But we can steward what we have. The drought will break. Eventually, it will rain again. We pray that it would be sooner rather than later. We pray for renewal and refreshing and a good, long rain. An then we trust in a God-given design that we witness daily, but perhaps take for granted, the resilience of an ecosystem that is stewarded and then allowed to adapt as needed.
Because years like this also highlight the fragility of the world around us, not just our fragility, and how dependent it is on weather patterns and precipitation and temperature, yet is so incredibly resilient. The drought will break, and good years will come again. We’ ll see the grass grow tall, sweeping our boots as we ride horseback to move cows. We’ ll see the hillsides studded with wildflowers like jewels. We’ ll see the tangle of wild roses along every trail and the chaos of spiderworts, all shades of purple and pink and everything in between. The coneflowers and yellow sweetclover will bloom again.
The roots are deep. The drought will break.
22 Down Country Roads June / July 2026