Comrade Cowboy

 

and visited the 13,000-acre Stevenson Sputnik Ranch (the Russian word “sputnik” translates loosely as “partner to the earth”). There, he got an idea of the type of horse they needed. The ranch was at an elevation of 1,000 feet, and at latitude similar to that of Calgary, Alberta. Kraig knew that any horse they brought would need to survive in extreme weather conditions, including temperatures to 30 below in winter and 100 degrees in summer. And the ground wasn’t rocky like in Montana, but soft and loamy owing to its location in Russia’s Black Earth region. A deep layer of topsoil covers this land, which makes for great summer grass but terrible springtime mud.

A final consideration was the fact that the Stevenson crew would be training Russian villagers in the cowboy trade. So, it wouldn’t hurt if a few of the horses had more dude than rawhide in them.

Straight away, Kraig bought a 4-year-old gelding named Tumbleweeds who he’d had an eye on. With bloodlines going back to CD Olena and Grays Starlight, the gelding’s streamlined frame promised good agility, speed and a cowy punch. Kraig also bought Tumbleweeds’ cousin, Big Joe, a bulky gelding with a calm disposition that would be Russian-friendly. He rounded out the Stevenson-Sputnik string with three grade horses sourced from local ranchers he trusted. They included a buckskin named Bucky, a bay horse named Bay, and a sorrel who Kraig called Red. What the horses lacked in imaginative names, they made up for in good disposition, strength and training.

The horses were put into a quarantine pasture on Stevenson Angus Ranch to prepare them for entry into Russia. However, that didn’t mean they got the summer off. The 1,434 cattle were also in quarantine, requiring a laundry list of vaccinations for a range of diseases, including bovine leukosis, brucellosis, tuberculosis and Johne’s disease. There was no shortage of horseback work.

In October, two Russian veterinarians flew to Montana to oversee the quarantine process. Yury Azarov was a quiet family man from the city of Voronezh, which is the administrative center of Voronezh Oblast (province). He worked for the Russian government and had final say in clearing the animals for shipment. Kate Zimina worked for Darrell’s partners on another farm of theirs, located outside of St. Petersburg. She was in charge of seeing the livestock through to Stevenson Sputnik Ranch and conducting a second round of quarantine in Russia.

Between Yury and Kate, there was the spectrum of Russian personalities. Yury was a government bureaucrat who didn’t speak English, rarely showed emotion, and gave the impression that every footstep off Russian soil physically hurt him. When I met Yury, I tried out a Russian phrase I’d memorized: Вы понимаете английский? (Do you understand English?) Yury shook his head “no.” End of conversation.

Kate spoke fluent English, she worked hard, and had a sympathetic nature that endeared her to eve
ryone she met. Sara Stevenson, Darrell’s wife, all but adopted Kate as a daughter, and Kraig took her under his wing to teach her Western horsemanship. They didn’t know it at the time, but Kate would be invaluable on Stevenson Sputnik Ranch, helping to teach Western culture and the cowboy work ethic to her Russian comrades.

ON THE EVE OF OUR DEPARTURE, the Stevenson Angus Ranch crew and its Russian guests descended on the Elk Ridge Saloon, a beer hall in Hobson, Montana. The only space big enough to seat us all was a poker table in the back room. The green felt was singed with cigarette burns and watermarked by the ghosts of spilled drinks past. I traced one stain with my finger, thinking how it was shaped like the birthmark on Mikhail Gorbachev’s forehead. I had too much Russia on the brain. We all did. One of the cowboys bought a round of vodka, thinking Yury would appreciate the gesture. But instead of drinking his shot, Yury sat back in his chair, arms crossed, staring at the vodka like a mule sizing up a packsaddle.

“He doesn’t like American vodka. Give him whiskey,” Darrell joked.

At age 40, Darrell is a Dennis the Menace sort, known among friends for his decorative use of the English language and a predilection for heavy betting at Texas Hold ‘Em. As we peppered him with questions about the upcoming trip, it occurred to me that Darrell was motivated as much by the business opportunity to be found in Russia as by the excuse for adventure.

“What’s the food like?” someone asked.

“It sucks, you better like beets,” he said.

“Are the women pretty?”

“Does it matter? Stevenson Sputnik is in the sticks. Long shot you’ll meet any women out there.”

“How are we taking the critters over, anyway?”

That was a good question. The plan was to send one group of 550 head (cattle and horses) by cargo ship, departing from Wilmington, Delaware, and arriving at the Black Sea port of Novorossiysk, Russia. The remainder would fly over on 747 cargo airplanes, departing from Chicago and arriving in Moscow. Once in Russia, the livestock would be trucked to Stevenson Sputnik Ranch in the province of Voronezh. If everything went according to plan, we’d be on the ground in time for the start of calving season in January.

The second Monday in November started out like any other for veterinarian Craig Moore of Choteau, Montana. He sat at his desk, wading through the week’s paperwork, when the phone rang. It was Darrell Stevenson.

“I need a veterinarian to accompany a cargo ship full of cattle across the Atlantic Ocean,” Darrell said. “Can you leave for Russia in two weeks?”…