Hard to judge, though. Loftin wasn't born to a generation of men likely to open up and unburden themselves of their dread. But she knows he wonders what his father would think about the way his only son has managed these dry times. He can't help but compare himself to him, to the way he carried his herd through the drought of record that lasted seven long years in the '50s. At night, he's begun calling out in his sleep — "fussin'," she calls it — as though he's demanding an answer that doesn't exist. And he prays that if he learns the answer, it wasn't always there outside his bedroom window, where a dry stock tank sits in a swale amid 450 acres barren of a single grazing cow for the first time in 160 years, since before his forefathers settled this region in 1875.
He had planned on ranching until he could no longer walk out to his feed truck, or until he died out in the pasture. He says he can hold on for one more month. If the rains don't come by then, he'll take them all to the sale barn.
Brandon Thibodeaux
Longtime ranchers such as Jack Loftin are selling their herds at auctions across the state.
Brandon Thibodeaux
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Texas is in the midst of the deepest yearlong drought in its history. And it's not just South Texas or West Texas. Save for a few counties, the entire state is in a condition of "exceptional" drought, the direst rating the national Drought Monitor can give. The previous record for one year came in 1956, at 70 percent of normal rainfall levels. This year that record was shattered, with 40 percent of normal rainfall.
Yet another dry winter and spring are predicted, as the Pacific Ocean-temperature phenomenon known as La Niña pushes all the moisture north of Texas for the second year in a row. Beyond that, no expert can say for certain how long this drought will persist, or how long it will take the state's $7.6 billion cattle industry to rebuild, if it ever truly can. Livestock losses have been pegged at more than $2 billion.
Cattle auctions across the state are working overtime, running well into the early morning hours, and it isn't just the "open" (not pregnant) cows moving through the auction ring. Sale barn owners are disturbed by the number of young, productive cows with years of calving ahead of them, all headed to meatpacking plants — an indication Texas cattle ranchers are cashing out. The big operators who can afford it are trucking their herds to Nebraska and the Dakotas and Wyoming, leasing pasturage where grass still grows.
Across the Texas countryside, an ecological and agricultural disaster is moving in slow motion. Hay crops across the state have been decimated. Along Highway 67, through Comanche and Brownwood and Coleman, there are barren fields, blackened pastures and long stretches where nary a cow is seen grazing. The only activity, in fact, is the 18-wheel cattle trucks roaring past, bearing loads north, anywhere but here.
On a sweltering August morning, the air brakes of a cattle truck exhale as it comes to a stop, its diesel engine idling on the edge of a 3,200-acre ranch somewhere between Archer City and Windthorst. The truck's trailer is backed up to the mouth of a loading chute, which is attached to a system of holding and working pens and a barn whose corrugated tin siding rusts and curls like moist paper.
"Boys, I'd stay out of his way this morning," Bryan Griffin says, staring out of his one good eye and referring to his 62-year-old father. "His horse fell on 'im."
He goes on to describe the cussing his father, Dennis Griffin, gave him when he roused Bryan from sleep, and the cussing he might give everyone here if they don't step lightly.
Bryan used to roughneck, working oil and gas rigs all over the state. Sometimes he says he misses it, but he can't miss hazards such as the one that prompted him to hang up his coveralls, when a chain snapped and lashed him, shattering the left side of his face and pulverizing his eye. Now he ranches with his father instead, running their own cows on their own pastures but also tending a herd of Mexican feeder cattle, thickening them up with leased grass on a ranch owned by one of Archer County's ranching dynasties.
The cows are the property of a feedlot in Hart, about 70 miles north of Lubbock. That lot pays the Griffins to fatten them up. Roughly half of U.S. cattle imports come from Mexico, at an annual average of about a million a year. But ethanol subsidies have driven up the cost of feed corn, prompting some feedlots to seek pasturage as a cost-saving tool — in other words, it's cheaper to pay these men a fee per head than to supply these small-bodied Mexican yearlings with the calories they need to render good carcasses.
In this drought, though, plans are changing. One by one, the stock tanks on the ranch have failed. There's been no meaningful rainfall in this part of Archer since September of last year. As a result, the Griffin family's fattening-up business is wasting away. These yearlings are on their way to Hart early, and the 2,600 head that once stocked this ranch are now closer to 600. Running yearlings is how Griffin makes most of his income. That might have as much to do with his disposition as the spill his horse took this morning.