Old sheepherders spin yarns about a dying way of life Reporting from Baker, Nev. - Once a year, the sheepmen - white-haired, crinkly-eyed, some using walkers - pack into a cafe to share stories of herding bull-headed sheep amid furious snowstorms here in Nevada's Snake Valley, a forlorn patch of desert on the border with Utah. In the mythology of the American West, the sheepherder may be outshone by gunslingers and prospectors. But not when the sheepmen get together. Not tonight. Gusts rattled the walls of the Border Inn, much as they once pounded their desolate sheep camps, trailers so thinly insulated that the men sometimes awoke to a cupboard full of frozen eggs. The open-mike program is the highlight of the annual Old Sheepherders' Party, a two-day affair whose name reflects what's happened with this once-robust way of life. Herds have shrunk dramatically in recent decades, with more young people turning away from the business of their great-great-grandfathers. "There are no young sheepherders," said Denys Koyle, the Border Inn's owner, who started the event nine years ago. Later, Koyle shared a tribute she felt would resonate with the folks who propped up her pit stop during the winter doldrums. Lee Jarvis recalled a night of odd twists after a ram sale. And Lois Anderson, well, she stole the show. Her story was about horse manure. And frozen diapers. Up to a tiny stage stepped sheep breeder Jarvis, a vestige of an era when a herd was viewed as a cash machine. Jarvis, 79, grew up in Spanish Fork, Utah, with dreams of running his own sheep ranch. Wool had enriched many locals, with nearby Fountain Green considered one of the country's wealthiest communities at the turn of the century - a point of pride shared repeatedly during the Old Sheepherders' weekend. In the ninth grade, Jarvis purchased three ewes for $25 each as part of a Future Farmers of America project. That equates to about $290 today. Over time, he expanded his herd and married his high school sweetheart, Joan, a onetime rodeo queen. They had six children in seven years. "We were raising all those kids and all those sheep," said Jarvis, who also worked at a mill. He eventually oversaw hundreds of purebred Columbia and Suffolk ewes on land he snatched up in Utah and Idaho, sparing him from winters in a sheep camp. But during the decades it took to achieve his childhood goal, the sheep business withered. Since 1942, the number of sheep roaming the U.S. has plummeted from 56 million to about 5 million. Blame international competition, a shift to making clothes with synthetic fibers and the kind of hardship - low pay, long bouts of isolation - that nudges Americans into other lines of work. In a recent survey by the American Sheep Industry Assn., only 35% of sheep producers said their kin planned to take over when they retired. These days most herders are South American immigrants working on temporary visas. Jarvis works alongside one of his sons. But his grandchildren - all 21 of them - passed on joining the family business. And so, Old Sheepherders' weekend may have felt a little bittersweet for Jarvis and the others. About 160 people showed up the first day and 88 the second, most far past retirement age. Onstage, Jarvis recalled leaving a ram sale in a snowstorm, discovering a stalled Volkswagen, hitching it to his truck with the only thing available - a seat belt - and hauling it to the nearest town. Few other audiences would have laughed so riotously. But the story touched on two of the crowd's favorite themes: the kindness of rural folk and rotten weather. Koyle, the Border Inn owner, took a more somber tone. She read a tribute shared at a recent sheepman's funeral, which spoke of the profession in paternal terms: