It had been a very dry summer, and we cut hay everywhere we could. Some of the hay near the edge of the Smith River hadn’t been cut in years, if ever. We were searching for every blade of grass we could feed the sheep with during the winter. The last place we cut and raked hay was an island. We had been using it to park the sheep wagon during the winter. It was nearly surrounded by willows with only a small opening, with a six- or seven-foot culvert laid in the narrow rivulet from the Smith River, which...

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