Nick Offerman Would Rather Be Washing Cow Butts

This is The Offerman Files, where actor, humorist, author, and woodworker Nick Offerman shares tales of wild creatures, gassy adventures, and hitting his brother in the face with a fish.

I grab my phone to check the channels for any fires that need putting out, only to discover that I have just the barest gossamer of cell service. I feel the same disorienting ennui I’ve experienced in ballparks when tens of thousands of fellow fans are trying to post blurry home run videos simultaneously, and all you want to do is text your dad in the concession line that you’ll have that third bratwurst after all.

In this case, I have actual business to attend to. I’m touring the UK and Dublin with guitar and backpack as a wandering humorist, performing seven shows in eight days. It’s 3 P.M. on a July afternoon, and at 8 P.M. I’m slated to tickle 1,800 souls at the O2 Apollo Manchester. I get a text out to my tour manager, who lets me know that a large tanker truck has crashed, dumping 5,000 gallons of milk—milk!—across the highway, along with a sizable quantity of diesel fuel.

When I heard this I thought, Why the hell are we sitting here? I’m willing to drive on a highway that is merely wet! Then I recalled from my teenage days on a blacktopping crew that we used diesel as a solvent for cleaning up asphalt and tar, because it dissolves pavement. Meaning that the crew now on the M6 will need to scrub up that diesel tout de suite, before it sinks its corrosive teeth into the roadway. At least I have plenty of time to get to the show.

I got to assist the washing of a gorgeous heifer, Cora, rubbing large handfuls of shampoo into her lush coat, then using a power washer to rinse before blow-drying her spanking-clean hair.

About that Mercedes: it wasn’t my choice. For the third time in recent years, I have rented a car to convey myself around northern England and Scotland as I engage in multifaceted touring. These jaunts have me playing comedy gigs at gorgeous jewel-box theaters like the Drury Lane in London’s West End, as well as stickier old vaudeville houses in Brighton and Liverpool.

When I’m over here, I also film advertisements for Lagavulin single-malt Scotch and—best of all—visit farms, especially the one owned by my good friend the shepherd and author James Rebanks, who along with his wife, Helen, manages a traditional sheep operation in the Lake District, where I often spend the night.

To get around, I have always reserved a small SUV that gets decent mileage and has enough clearance to navigate rocky lanes. Except that, during each trip, a generous rental company employee has apparently recognized my name and thought, A sensible crossover? Oh no, my bacon-and-eggs-loving friend, I’m going to set you up with something considerably more flash. Then they proceed to “upgrade” me to a tiny, sexy kumquat of a James Bond car.

Three times I have arrived to face this revelation and said, “Oh, thank you. I’m grateful, but can I just get the Volkswagen Tiguan?” Three times I have been met with a sheepish, red-faced, open-mouthed stare telling me that actually, no, they have no replacement vehicles. Hence the Mercedes.

It’s 4 P.M. on the M6, and things are still not moving. To quell the first stirrings of anxiety, I take a deep breath and think back to a few days ago, at the Royal Highland Show in Edinburgh—basically the equivalent of a New England state fair, but with tastier fish and chips. The Rebankses maintain a herd of Belted Galloway cows, of which I own a few because raising the world’s finest grass-fed beef rates high among my remunerative hobbies: delicious fun that also earns me some income.

The three of us attended the Royal Highland for one reason—I mean, sure, amusement and also beer were factors—and that was to “help” our friend Helen Ryman show her exemplary Mochrum Estate Belties, which rightly earned four prize rosettes. I got to assist the washing of her gorgeous heifer, Cora, rubbing large handfuls of shampoo into her lush coat—a thick, layered pelt that kept her warm through the Scottish winter— then using a power washer to rinse before blow-drying her spanking-clean hair.

I adore the hands-on participation, especially since this breed of ruminant is such a brilliant piece in the larger conversation about regenerative agriculture—specifically, rotational grazing. Instead of force-feeding grain and antibiotics to beef cows, as is the practice in the horror-show setting of factory farms, these cattle graze on uncultivated high terrain that isn’t suitable for growing anything else (such as cereals), and they can turn thistles into the most delicious steaks I’ve ever tasted.

The ability to urinate surreptitiously has always been a point of pride with me, a lifelong appreciator of frosty beverages.

I settle back into my reverie. The previous morning at the Rebanks home, James woke me up at 6 A.M. Some sheep had escaped through a hole in a fence, so before we even had a cup of tea, we threw on jackets against the rain, collected his dogs Tosh, Meg, and Floss, and got on the quad bike in a trice, towing a little trailer down the road loaded with a few eight-foot-long two-by-fours and some substantial wooden posts.

We drove into a hilly pasture along a boundary fence, to the spot where the dozen or so sheep had slipped beneath the wire. James clambered over with the dogs, who were off like lightning in ranging half-circles, herding the errant ewes and lambs back through the breach. Then it was our turn to close the weak spot by pounding in a couple of posts and strategically nailing the two-by-fours across the gap. Each greenish, pressure-treated post was six feet tall and five inches in diameter, with one end sharpened like a pencil. With little discussion, we worked in tandem: I speared the post into the soil, then held it steady as James stood on the wet seat of his quad bike and pounded the top with a massive, ancient sledge. I’d never been happier.

My elation in physical labor always amuses James, who makes fun of me for staying with his family so that I can split firewood and stack stone walls and just be out in the weather instead of pursuing a more conventional vacation. But for me, being of even minor service to his efforts, especially when the task calls upon the tool skills and stamina that each of us learned from our fathers, feels like the best possible thing to be doing.

That allure has never been more powerful than it is now, as I sit on a hot stretch of blacktop, waiting to be released from this supposedly wonderful “time saving” three-lane roadway. As the hours roll on, I really start to fear that I won’t make it to Manchester in time to introduce the comedian who’s opening for me. Then I have an idea: I’ll record a voice memo on my phone and send it to the tour manager to play in case I’m not there. “Good evening, Mancunians, and welcome to the Apollo,” I say. “Our first entertainer is the charismatic Lou Sanders, and by the way I am recording this at 6:38 from my car, because a milk truck has gone arse-over-tit on the M6.…”

And then, just like that, the traffic begins to move. I kick the sprightly Mercedes into gear and race to the venue, pulling into the alley behind the theater at 8:07. As I enter by the back door, I can hear my recorded introduction just ending, and I am primed to turn my clown dial up to 11 for these fine people.

On one hand, the goose of nearly missing the show is part of the allure of the Road, with a capital R. On the other, I am forever yearning for a simpler existence, bereft of circus thrills. But just like you, I have little choice but to navigate our world of multilane motorways and mobile phones. Stuck in a traffic nightmare, I may dream of lathering cows and mending fences, but when the road opens up again, the show must go on.