“I am the mist, the impalpable mist,
Back of the thing you seek.” -Carl Sandburg
“THAT ONE, WITH THE RED and white face, that’s a Hereford.”
Dennis Shultz, a retired brand inspector, pointed east. Across the field of green grass and over the clapboard wooden fence, in the pasture stood a single oak tree. Staring back from the shadows with bright fly pestered eyes was Marshall my first bovine contact. Until this moment in Yelm, Washington, I have never thought twice about a cow. People raised them, they ate grass, milled about, and occasionally made funny noises. Every grocery store carries mounds of vacuum sealed beef, and they are readily sold without question or suspicion (most of the time).
This very writer has been involved in several beef transactions over the years and can attest to no difficulties. I figured writing a story about cattle ranchers would be an easy task… That was, until I started asking questions.
I was on assignment to understand the Washington Cattle Industry, specifically Washington Cattle Ranchers. I discovered hardworking Americans, a rich and storied past, and a reasonable suspicion of notepad carrying, overly-curious college student. Initially, I set out to make friends – a staggering challenge for the average adult, complicated further with pointed questions and voice recorders.
I turned to the best place for unsolicited friendships: The internet.
Social media is a powerful tool, capable of sparking revolutions, disseminating widespread misinformation, and fueling echo chambers of fiery rhetoric. It’s also a great place for memes, advertising yard sales, and especially, connecting people with shared interests in wildly specific things. Predictably, I found a group dedicated to Washington State Cattle Ranchers. To my surprise, I received a prompt from the group’s moderators requesting a written explanation of my interest, intent, and purpose of joining. I entertained a few introductions such as: ‘I would like to see what my hamburger looks like with legs…’ ‘I’m an eligible bachelor seeking spur clad men…’ ‘I have a deep fascination with grazing animals…’
I settled on an honest answer with the explanation that I was a writer conducting research for an article. This satisfied their vetting, and once inside, I shamelessly posted my call to action, requesting the assistance of any willing ranchers. The responses came slowly and unenthusiastically. By the end of the week, I had three phone numbers and one DM. Desperation, is a pungent and unflattering cologne. I suspect most of these ranchers were all too wary of my eagerness. We engaged in some light back and forth banter, but once I started pressing to visit in person, each clammed up or stopped talking. I had to change tact. If I couldn’t get an invite to their farms, I would have to find them where they gather.
“Hooked on an Eight Second Ride”
Professional Bull Riders Event, Tacoma WA
I approached the giant white dome from the parking lot. Outside streamed the crowds of buckles, boots, cowboy hats and biker vests. Some were even wearing chaps. A man with an earpiece let me in the back door. I wasn’t sure why. A woman approached me and handed me a necklace. I wasn’t sure what to do, but I took notes and looked around until a man started playing guitar somewhere in the stadium. The amphitheater’s center had been corralled and filled with a dark layer of dirt. In the very center was what appeared to be a semi-underground shark cage, enclosed with cameramen and spectators.
There were rodeo clowns, but they were dressed as border enforcement agents and when I think about it, they may have just been police. There were men from Brazil and Australia, and Americans from Texas, Kansas and not a single rider from Delaware.
The crowd roared as the gargantuan steers demanded with spasmodic efforts to rid themselves of the boys clutching their backs. The dome thundered with cheers and all the while a dolled-up jester ran laps through the dirt, climbing, gyrating, shouting and smiling. It was utterly bonkers. A guitar riff wailed and on the jumbo screen a young couple chugged beer from their boots. Around me, horses snuffled from the trailers loaded around the ring.
“Our next rider from Texas, Jesse Petri, can he last eight seconds?” an announcer howled. The horn blared, the gate swung open and a metric ton of hide and sinewy muscle bounded out into the spotlights. The young man on top flailed madly as the Brahman steer drooled and howled, kicking up a flurry of dirt and dust. In the swirl of excitement, I fell short of my goal of securing a quality interview. When I strode back out towards the lot I started to plan my next move. I had plenty of pictures, and a lot of notes, including the scrawled conversation I had with a rodeo clown. That night, the large man with the thick southern drawl had only one pressing question, “So, is this your first rodeo?”
FOR ROUGHLY A WEEK, I anxiously refreshed my email inbox waiting to hear from several cattle organizations. I drove aimlessly past farms and waved at herds of cows, this I dubbed “research”. Without any available ranchers, I looked to the Washington State Historical Society to get an academic understanding of the industry.
Cattle first arrived in Washington State in the late 1780’s, brought here by Spanish explorers. By the 1800’s the herds began to move south to the newly constructed Fort Vancouver on the Columbia River. In 1825, cattle were driven from Fort Vancouver to Fort Colville, which would become “The primary supplier of agricultural products east of the Cascades into the interior.” During the 1840’s the demand for cattle increased as the gold rush began to emerge in the northwest and much of the cattle was used to feed Canadian miners. In 1853, the Washington territory was carved out of the existing Oregon Territory, and, soon after, the Federal Homestead Act of 1862 ushered swarms of immigrants into the region. Ranchers drove herds over the Naches, and Snoqualmie passes from the Yakima Valley, where much of the meat was butchered in Seattle. Proceeds were sold and distributed across Puget Sound and into British Columbia.
I was reviewing notes from the previous interview with the brand inspector. He had relayed to me that if I was interested in meeting ranchers, there was a cattle auction held on the first Friday of every month in Chehalis. I checked my calendar, it was Thursday. I gathered my notebooks, filled up my tank, and prepared for a two hour drive the following day.
“[Chehalis] by Mornin’, Up from San Antone”
Chehalis Livestock Auction
The air outside churned with the grassy odor of manure, and from the gravel parking lot, the sounds of mooing cattle could be heard emanating from the warehouse in front of me. Outside the building, a parade of truck hauled trailers idled, ranchers herded cattle inside, and farmers inspected the used tractor accessories laid out in the lot with price tags. I stepped into a small lobby, a cowboy sat on a bench reading an issue of Field and Stream, an older woman behind a desk greeted me.
“Picking up from the auction?”
“No ma’am, just here to see the cows.”
“Lucky for you, don’t cost nothing to look,” she said. “Just go through those doors. Auction starts in ten minutes.”
I entered a small arena with bleachers. In the center, four Black Angus heifers ambled about, staring at the 40-or-so attendees who assessed them with critical eyes. That’s when a young man took to an elevated podium and began rattling off the typical rapid-fire dialogue of a trained auctioneer. Occasionally he’d digress and address someone in the audience:
“C’mon Paul, you know you want these calves…”
“That your bull Mike? That’s a fine-looking animal…”
There was an endearing sense of community in the room. Conversations around me ranged from the weather, crop conditions, and general inquiries into how so-and-so’s sister is doing. I didn’t know so-and-so’s sister, so I wandered back into the hall to find someone willing to talk to me.
I sat down with the auction’s in-house veterinarian, Jason Humphrey. He extolled at length the hearts of the ranching community, the struggles with inflation and costs of feed and beef sales. Furthermore, he took the time to carefully explain the reason that those in the community were guarded about the prospect of talking to writers. He explained that Washington State was tough on the agricultural industry, people were trying to get by, and for many, it was a matter of fear, fearful that their words, or a twisted narrative by a careless writer could upend their way of life.
These exact words were echoed by public relations representative Chelsea Hajny, of the Washington Cattleman’s Association. “Our elected officials, and the state of Washington have not always been friendly to the agricultural industry,” she continued. “Honestly people are nervous about what they say, and it’s a shame because they have stories that need to be heard.”
As I gathered my notes, and drained a paper cup of black coffee, my eyes turned towards the lot outside. I watched as a young boy led a lumbering Zebu steer into a trailer. His father smiled with pride. I felt the veil of mystery slipping away. There was no cattle ‘industry,’ no Hollywood cowboys, no ‘big agriculture’ farmers or ranchers here. Those were all loose-fitting titles, rhetorical distractions minimizing the reality. These were families, generations of people leading the way down the lonesome trail of time carrying in their saddlebags the stories, traditions, and cultures that have guided them for over a hundred years.
As of 2024, Washington Cattle Ranchers have a considerable amount to worry about, protected wolves threatening livestock, grizzlies being introduced into the Cascades, shrinking profit margins, a dwindling amount of grazing lands, and stringent government regulations on available land. Couple all these factors with the immense amount of work and dedication that goes into raising these beautiful animals while providing for your family – I understood why they would avoid the prying questions of the media.
It could lead to trouble.
But I offer these families another outcome – It could also lead to understanding, it could lead to support, it could lead to connection, it could help those outside appreciate the work you do, the livestock you love, and the burdens you bear to feed a nation and to feed your family.
I invite you cattle ranchers to let your voices be heard and stories told, to thunder across the evergreen hills and verdant forests, like a stampede of hooves in the mist. // JUSTIN PLATTER
IF YOU’RE INTO RODEO STUFF Check out the Kitsap Fair & Stampede Aug. 21-25 at the Fairgrounds. If you’re into agriculture, check out the Second Annual Kitsap Farm Tour Aug. 11 throughout Kitsap. More at kitsapfairandstampede.com and on the socials @kitsapfarmtour
