Shepherd of the Open Range

Photos and text by Sue Peterson Someone once told Jean Etchamendy it was a shame that he was still a sheepherder after all these years. He had such a fine mind and could have been so successful.

In his typically candid and blunt manner, Jean replied; Jesus had compared himself to the good shepherd and if it was good enough for Jesus, it was just fine for Jean Etchamendy.

Jean Etchamendy is Basque. His native home is the Pyrenees mountain land of southwestern France and, like thousands of other Basques, Jean came to America as a youth seeking opportunities his homeland could not offer.

The Basques, with their characteristic determination and ability to endure, played a major role in establishing the sheep industry in the United States. Their origins and language remain a mystery today; inhabiting an isolated area of southern France and northern Spain for at least 4000 years, the Basques have no known ethnological ties to other Europeans.

With the hope of learning the sheep business from his uncle's company, Jean came to Arizona at 19. He began a lonely new life that found him roaming the Arizona back country and traveling one of the state's most rugged sheep trail's: the Heber-Reno Sheep Driveway. Jean lived virtually alone, moving the flocks from winter to summer pastures and from one grazing area to another. The lonely sheep camp moving from mountains to deserts with the seasons became a lifelong home for thousands of Basques. Many never learned English. Six years later, Jean's dreams came to fruition. In keeping with the ways of his predecessors, Jean took his pay in sheep, ran his flock with his uncle's and later broke off on his own.

To the Basques, raising sheep is not just a business. It is much more than a financial venture. It's a way of life. But it's a way of life that's quickly disappearing.

The traditional way of raising sheep on the open range is coming to an end. Sheep companies in the United States and in Arizona are turning to smaller farm flocks and abandoning the sheep trails. The solitary sheepherder and his roaming flock may well vanish in Jean's lifetime.

As the range lands give way to expanding urban areas, the number of Basque sheepherders coming to America continues to decline. While opportunity drew thousands of young Basques to America a generation ago, Jean now finds it increasingly difficult to hire sheepherders. As the owner of a large sheep company, Jean continues to work the flocks himself as a result of this shortage of skilled herders.

But Jean has great faith in the traditional ways. While other Arizona sheep companies now truck flocks from winter to summer grazing areas, Jean continues to make the 230 mile trek from Chandler to Show Low twice each year on foot. With a skilled herder, Jean believes, the sheep will complete the move in better condition than if they were trucked. Instead of being packed into trailers, the sheep will be gradually acclimated to altitude and temperature changes, something that is especially important on the journey each fall to the deserts when the ewes (female sheep) are carrying lambs. Even when rainfall has been scarce, a good herder can find adequate water and feed for his flock along the trail.

In the fall of 1976, I met Jean at a point just west of Young. Jean, with

"... To the Basques, raising sheep is not just a business. It is much more than a financial venture. It's a way of life. But it's a way of life that's quickly disappearing..."

Shepherd continued from page 2

2000 ewes, six pack burros, a camp tender and another herder, had been on the trail from Show Low for four weeks. I would travel with them through the most remote parts of the trail to the Tonto Basin, 100 miles to the south. From our hillside camp that first night, we could see the lights of Young in the distance. It would be our last sight of civilization. After a dinner of lamb and Basque bread that would tempt a gourmet, Jean sang (in Basque, of course) and reminisced about his first trips through this area. It was a unique and enchanting world.

Each morning just before dawn, we were awakened by the bells of the hobbled burros returning to the camp for their daily ration of oats. Actually, there was more than enough feed for them along the trail. But after 28 years of traveling the trail, Jean had a few tricks that, to a city dweller, seemed ingenious. If the burros expected oats each morning, they would come voluntarily to the camp and Jean, not having to round them up, could sleep in, as he called it, until about 5 a.m. The bells of the approaching burros could be heard for miles. But they were Not clanking cow bells one would expect. Jean has an incredible collection of French, German and Swiss bells used for both the burros and the sheep. Although they do make beautiful music as the sheep stream through the hills, the bells have a more pragmatic use. Bells are placed on the leaders and stragglers as well as on the sheep that tend to wander from the flock. A good herder knows every bell and can tell if any sheep are missing by listening as his band moves from one grazing area to another.

By the time the burros arrived, Jean was serving steaming coffee and the camp was ready to be packed. Packing a burro is skill that requires practice, strength and, with one of the younger burros, a certain amount of diplomacy. Each morning, Jean had to literally sneak up on this youngster that would bolt at the sight of a pack saddle.

By sunrise each day, the flock was moving. The summer rains had been plentiful and the countryside was lush. Stopping periodically as the sheep grazed, it was apparent that Jean was a master herder. He would point out sheep that had been sick, others that were especially heavy and probably carrying twins and a few that he considered particularly beautiful.

After surveying the flock, Jean would gently urge them on through sweeping valleys, to watering holes lined with wild flowers and, with a skill few herders ever acquire, down precipitous mountainsides.

During the midday heat, the sheep rested and Jean put his culinary talents to work for the main meal of the day. There was fresh bread each day and lamb to go with the soup and bean dishes.

Following a customary rest, Jean would set out on horseback, surveying available feed and water ahead. Once again the burros were packed for the afternoon's journey.

We traveled about seven miles each day through the Tonto Forest. Jean pointed out the "rock monuments" that had been built by Arizona's first sheepherders to mark the best passages. When the Forest Service officially designated Arizona's sheep driveways, these markers built by Jean's predecessors became the official boundaries.

Sheepherders commonly leave messages along the trail warning the following herders of dry watering holes, predators and other hazards. Almost daily, Jean too left his messages. Sometimes it was only a rough piece of wood with his name and the date; other times he carved masterpieces with Basque poetry enscribed.

Jean reminisced about those first difficult months he spent on this trail, lost and lonely in a new country. Jean recalled the times he had rushed to the top of the next peak only to find more lonely and unfamiliar country ahead.

It's an experience few can tolerate, one that sent many homesick herders back to the Basque lands.

But for Jean, they were good memories. He absorbed the beauty of his magnificent country through every sense.

In late September, we reached Tonto Creek. From here, Jean would continue through the Four Peaks area and on to the alfalfa fields in Chandler where the lambs would soon be born. Next spring after the lambs were marketed and the shearing was completed, he would be on this trail again headed to the summer range for the breeding season.

But for me, Tonto Creek was the end of the journey. In the late afternoon light, 2000 sheep streamed majestically through a distant pass until only the silhouette of a lone man appeared on the horizon. Except for the fading music of the bells, this spectacle passed silently.

The end of a long journey would come soon for Jean too. He fought the inevitable to the end, quietly protesting the pressures of an urban society that have forced others to abandon the age-old ways of the sheepherder: shrinking rangeland, increased grazing costs and the shortage of skilled herders. Not until last spring did Jean Etchamendy ever concede that this way of life might indeed be coming to an end.

Jean sold his sheep in June.