"There's nice mama cows that are going to the packers," she says, shaking her head.
Peyrot leaves the ring and slumps into a chair on the second row. "Two months ago," he says, "they were thinning down. Now, shit, they're selling 'em all.
Brandon Thibodeaux
Brandon Thibodeaux
Details
Related Content
More About
Even the young cows, many only recently entering their productive years, are being sold by ranchers who have no forage to sustain them and who otherwise can't afford hay prices, which are soaring on high demand, an anemic Texas harvest and $80-a-ton trucking costs to bring it in from out of state.
"Usually, these little young cows, you couldn't buy 'em because they wouldn't sell 'em," Peyrot says. "We're killing them all."
Auctions across the state, including Producers' Livestock Auction in San Angelo, one of the biggest, have seen their weekly runs tripled. Dr. David Anderson, a Texas A&M economist, is predicting a depressed calf crop and the biggest year-on-year reduction of the herd in state history — as much as 600,000 head if slaughterhouses keep working at this clip.
It could be worse: Ranchers could be getting a pittance for their beef, the way they did in the '50s when prolonged drought struck and the bottom fell out of the market. This time market forces conspired in a way no one could have predicted. A sagging economy continues to keep demand high for cheap protein like ground beef, allowing the market to absorb what would otherwise be considered a glut of breeding cows unable to yield those fine middle cuts like rib-eye. These are Hamburger Helper times, and it just so happens that Texas has a surplus of hamburger cows.
In the café behind the stands, just out of the reach of the scent of livestock and feces, a woman flips burgers, and patrons pour tall glasses of sweet tea from Igloo coolers. Will Cook, a rancher from Madill, Oklahoma, less than an hour north of here, mulls the predicament of the rancher while auction hands coated in dust, sweat and dung down their lunches quickly. "You're durned if you do, durned if you don't. We could get an inch of rain tomorrow," he says, imagining the storm that could bring his ranch, his business, back from the brink. "But we've got pecan trees with the limbs breaking off. I've seen cedar trees that are brown on top. The dust on the ground is a foot thick. Normally, it's three inches."
"Yesterday, we gathered 'em all up," he says. "We cut the herd in half and today we sold 'em."
It's a familiar refrain in Concho County: The young folk never came home. They went off to college, got married, chased the oil patch and stayed gone. The ranchers sold their land to rich out-of-towners when they got too old to run their own cows, and now the farm-to-market roads are lined with 8-foot wire fences holding the exotic game now stocked within.
But Gabe Stansberry, 35, the fourth generation of Stansberry to ranch this sparsely populated country east of San Angelo, did come home, eventually. He'd graduated from Texas A&M with an engineering degree and took a position as a sales rep for a Houston chemical company, traveling up and down the Gulf Coast. His father had urged him to learn another trade. The ranch would always be there, waiting, he said, and it was prudent to have a backup plan if drought hit or beef prices took a nosedive.
Tall, dark-headed and handsome, Gabe left Eden, Texas. But after nine years, he tired of the traffic snarls in a city where people seemed to live one on top of the other. Then his wife became pregnant, and in that moment he knew he was going home. He wanted his son to grow up alongside him and his father, Robert Stansberry, 63. He wanted his son on horseback, out on the pastures, not in some suburban cul-de-sac breathing Houston air.
He also felt a responsibility to bear some of the load as Stansberry aged. He had always wanted to work at his father's side, and he had always wanted to glean the lessons a lifetime of building up and expanding the cattle operation had taught him, both in bumper years and in the dry times he'd weathered when so many had failed.
In 2007, Gabe returned to Concho County. "This is exactly where I want to be," he says. "And exactly what I want to be doing for the rest of my life."
For the first few years, he shadowed his father, learning what to cull and when, how to prepare for the winter, how to manage money when paydays come not in bi-monthly direct deposits but maybe once a quarter. As his confidence grew, he began making operating decisions. There wasn't a moment when his father said, "OK, you make the call." But eventually Dad stepped back and Gabe stepped forward to claim his birthright.
He learned that his father stocked the ranch lightly, as though he was always prepared for drought. And when the rains stopped coming in the fall of 2010, he culled the open cows like he always did. Only this time, he didn't replace them. "I feel like he saw it coming."