“Please don’t fall in and drown, or my mother will kill me,” said the old man, and we steered the canoe away from the shore, and I jumped in, throwing my boots over the side.
“It’s OK,” I shouted over my shoulder as we started paddling downstream, “I’ll call you when I see them.”
Thus began a new chapter in the Evans family’s agricultural misfortunes.
Read more: Will’s World – Food, Fighting, and Farming
The day started out like any other, with no indication of the drama to come.
We had been moving our herd of six-month-old calves down to the fields below by the river, the sun was shining and we were busy sorting fattened cattle for market when suddenly the idyll was shattered.
Pilot Plan
The RAF had been using the skies above the farm for training and now it has returned.
While I respect the brave men and women of the Air Force and the job they do, and the sight of two jets snaking around each other at high speed is a spectacular sight, the noise is deafening, the dogs are upset, and frankly I’d rather they practice somewhere else.
Anyway, a few hours later we got a panicked call from our neighbor: “All the calves have fallen into the river! You’d better come right away!”
Now, our family has been farming here for almost 75 years and we have never had a problem with this particular stretch. The water is deep and fast flowing in some places but at most we would wade a few metres to get a drink.
That is until today. The RAF surprised them so much that all 55 of them ended up swimming with the current, Wild West style.
Luckily, 42 of them were able to make it back to the field relatively quickly, but the remaining 13 continued swimming.
Not for the first time this year, as I sprinted through the fields beside the river, finding an opening in the trees and staggering through shoulder-high thistles and nettles to make my way down the riverbank, out of breath, I questioned every single life decision that had brought me this far.
Bank transfer
About a half mile downstream, by shouting, swearing and splashing, we succeeded in persuading ten more cows, shivering with exhaustion, to make their way across to the safety of the other cattle, so that only three were still missing.
If there exists on earth a more powerful and willing force than a farmer whose livestock is threatened by imminent danger, I have yet to hear of it.
I knew clearly and with focus that my moment had come: it was time to get in the canoe.
But the thing is, it was a drunk purchase on eBay.
One Saturday night a few years ago, after many glasses of wine, I decided it would be a great idea to buy a very large two-seater Canadian canoe.
“I’ll definitely use it this summer,” I said confidently.
It has remained in the shed ever since, and the present Mrs. Evans continues to persistently ask me to get rid of it.
So imagine my joy and relief when I not only found the three lost calves and guided them to safety, but I also called my lovely wife to tell her what a wonderful rescue the canoe had made, something that had been a “total waste of money.”
Honestly, I don’t know which one made me happier.