Project 1

For two months in the spring of 2021, I stood shivering in an empty bathtub each night pouring a tea kettle of water over my head. The water would hit my red, dry, sunburned face and it would burn. That was my shower. Earlier one evening, I witnessed the unfortunate death of a cow that died from infection. I had been working on the ranch for about a month. There was not enough daylight to keep working, so tomorrow we would move the eight-hundred-pound body. Growing up, I was taught not to leave the faucet running or to take showers for too long. Living in Massachusetts, though, I saw so much rain, so much ocean––so much water––that it never mattered to me. Here in the dry desert of southeastern Arizona, I was given a real lesson.

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Earlier that winter, I told myself that I needed change. I had just transferred colleges and was navigating my own way through the distanced and secluded COVID pandemic. However, it certainly wasn’t change that I needed––there was enough of that. What I needed was something different. I did the same things day after day. During online school, I felt as though I was being stunted at a pivotal moment in my growth. I could not get a sense of where I was headed, and I could not decide on a major, taking Gen Ed after Gen Ed hoping that inspiration would finally knock me on the head. I was too indecisive. A major that would ultimately dictate a career! I was not ready for that. Time was progressing––and I wasn’t. I sat on my laptop or phone for hours each day. I felt languid and idle.

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***

 

I decided that the answer to my problems would be to drop out of school and pack up my blue Toyota Corolla with clothes, guitars, food, and water. I was to drive off from Attleboro, Massachusetts toward the arid, remote, and mountainous Clifton, Arizona, where a friend and I were to work on a cattle ranch. This job was acquired through the WWOOF program (Worldwide Opportunities on Organic Farms). One can find a farm anywhere in the world and provide labor in exchange for food and housing. We set off on the last day of February, and it would take us six days to arrive.

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As we drove, I watched the country unfold before me. America was no longer defined by the division of state borders I had seen on a map. Everything was one: one mass of land with different ideas, people, foods, landscapes, and temperatures depending on which direction you drove. The smoky mountains of Tennessee and North Carolina, the open fields of Oklahoma and Texas, and the rocky deserts of New Mexico and Arizona. I knew that these roads and highways I drove in some way connected all the way back to Massachusetts, to the life I had at home. My parents were dumbfounded at my desire to leave yet respected my decision and my longing for a change. Yet, I was not as courageous as it may sound. I was terrified to make such a giant leap toward my independence at nineteen years old. There was so much that could go wrong. When we arrived at the ranch, I was over two-thousand miles from home, and there was no way of changing my mind.

 

The house sat in a valley with rocky hills covering each side. It was quiet. The only green that I saw was of cacti and juniper trees. No other building was in sight for several miles. We lived in the house with a couple, Eric and Jean, who owned the land we worked on. They were older, in their seventies, and were hardened by the difficult work they conducted. Managing their ten thousand acres of land was what they knew best, and they were generous and eager to share with us what they knew. There was no Wi-Fi, no television, just a radio with a collection of old country CDs. They took on the sense of simplicity in their life with great pride. They welcomed and embraced us into their style of living. They cooked meals for us, took us to city council meetings, introduced us to family, and sat with us after dinner for hours investigating our ideals and opinions as young representatives of the East Coast.

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***

 

Water was the focus of the ranch. We arrived amid a fifty-year drought. There was only one short monsoon season towards the end of the summer which would be the precipitation for the whole year. The previous year had fallen short of expectations. As it stood, they were running dry. The work done in the field, in some way, would inadvertently always relate to water management. Every drop of water was precious to them. Without water, there was no water to feed their sixty cattle spread throughout the land. Without the cattle, there was no ranch. We had to be extremely careful with our water usage. We were conscious when washing dishes, showering, or flushing the toilet. That is how I would end up with the teapot each night.

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Eric was hard-nosed, wise, crafty, and old-fashioned while Jean was compassionate, organized, and witty. Eric was a textbook cowboy, and he played the part well, managing very demanding labor for his age. Jean was multi-talented, maintaining the business aspect of the ranch (and walking distances each day for phone service to do that), working physically, and even having a part-time job in the nearby town to boot. The two excelled in adapting to the problems that arose every day. They were always prepared.

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Each day, I moved heavy rocks, shoveled cow poop, shoveled horse poop, and fixed wire fences on rocky slopes and in stables. I feared scorpions, mountain lions, and rattlesnakes always. This was exhausting, challenging, and sometimes even simply revolting. It was easy to pity yourself under the harsh Arizona sun.

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My strength and my patience were often tested, and the work took a toll on my body. My muscles ached and my skin burned. I felt dried up like the land was dried up. Yet, I felt myself growing stronger. I was adapting, despite still being challenged by the land and work every day. I was learning that these tasks were a duty. It was necessary, contributing to maintaining daily life on the ranch. It was not Massachusetts. It was not work in an office, not homework, and not some part-time job in my free time. This was a way of life, far different from mine at home, and it was the experience of a real, honest, demanding kind of life.

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***

 

The highlight of my work on the ranch was herding cattle. Eric and Jean owned about sixty cows that grazed over the span of ten thousand acres (approximately ten square miles). Together, the four of us, along with two Border Collies, would ride out on horses into the desert. I never had ridden a horse before for pleasure, let alone for real work. I was given a short lesson on riding in the country at the start of our stay. I did not feel prepared and was worried on our first journey, yet Eric and Jean held a firm confidence in our abilities. These trips were extremely tough, and even dangerous, but were cemented as some of the most exciting memories I have. Gathering the cows could get very challenging and intense. Riding in unpredictable areas forced me to think quickly, and I soon became comfortable in this rough terrain. We would gather the herd of cattle and push them towards a large corral near the ranch house where they would receive extra food and water.

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We worked in the beaming sun and returned for meals as a group. We told jokes, exchanged stories (and many interesting ones Eric and Jean had), shared books and ideas, or listened to music. There was hard work on the outside, but inside, we gathered and expressed our joys and loves and thoughts and passions. Ranching was everything to Eric and Jean. Articulating that appreciation for their life towards people like us meant even more. They showed us old recipes, making English muffins from a sourdough starter that had been passed on since the early 1800s. We watched old Western movies such as The Man Who Shot Liberty Valence and were introduced to their children and grandchildren, who also take up the same ranching life as them. Ranching was not just the tasks that had to be completed each day to maintain their property. It was a culture that was an important part of their identity. It was a life that they carried out with respect, pride, and honor.

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Eric and Jean were devoted to their work, and they were relentlessly impassioned by what they did. Our time together drew us very close. However, we left the ranch at an earlier date than planned because the drought had hit its breaking point. The four water wells that covered the span of their land had failed, meaning the area was officially dried out. With the rain season still several months away, Eric and Jean were left with only one large tank of water to supply themselves, their cattle, and their horses until the monsoons would hopefully come. The animals were sent to a farm to be cared for at a price. Shortly after, it would be our time to move on as well. In gloom, we parted ways with Eric and Jean and drove northwest. We were to stay a week in Washington at another farm on the small property of a generous man named Paul.

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As we slowly made our way toward Massachusetts, we saw more of what the United States had to offer: Yosemite, the Grand Canyon, Arches, New Orleans, and more. The country was once again unfolding before me, and time was moving extremely fast. By now, I was used to life on the road; finding places to pitch our tent and or booking a cheap motel. Eventually, the towering mountains, red rock deserts, open farmlands, and humid marshes, which had all been new sights to me at the start, spun back into the familiar New England landscape.

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***

 

It was when I arrived home that I began to understand how I had been reshaped. I recited stories from the ranch and was met with great excitement and wonder at my experiences. I went to school for my first semester at a new school and did not find there was anything to fear in the new environment. I had been introduced to so many firsts on my trip––this one did not scare me. I felt a new sense of autonomy over my path: what I did and how I did it. I declared my major in English to pursue my love of literature. I did not know what I would do with it, but it did not yet matter. I was confident in my choice. I was confident that what mattered most was doing what filled me with vigor, and that was it.

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I had immersed myself into a new way of life––one that hurt me, challenged me, tested me, taught me. I began to feel how important it was to invest myself in something that was wholly unique and so far-removed from my comfort zone. Just as important were these connections I made: the two people who so openly brought me into a manner of living completely foreign to me. I saw how different life was beyond my small portion of life. After my graduation, I’ll make my way back to Clifton. I’ll be glad to lug rocks and herd cattle once again. It was invigorating.

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The truth is that I really was miserable pouring a small portion of water over my head while standing in that bathtub each night. I would find myself moving the dead cow with tears in my eyes the next day. It was new and it was real, which was difficult to deal with at times. But change is not always meant to be easy. The last time we got word from the ranch was early in 2022. We received a text from Jean notifying us that they had received a particularly good amount of rainfall from the monsoons that year. The wells would be revived; the cows and horses returned. The ranch was back in operation, and the daily labor would need to be performed again. Eric and Jean would do it with pride, joy, and gratitude.