Heavy Hooves, Heavy Drought, Heavy Hearts
By Gerry Gesell
We plan for the days when the rains don’t come, and in doing so, we are prepared for the days when the rains return.
There is an unspoken affection for the pastures and the land we look after—the ground beneath our feet, beneath our horses’ hooves. The life we have chosen, tending livestock and crops, is no easier than the struggle of grass and grain to grow. On top of that, there’s the constant search for the next bite of fresh grass by the livestock we care for. Heavy hooves, heavy drought, heavy hearts—but still, we carry on.
The pastures I write about are often named. The reasons are practical, but also personal. Once we name a pasture—or take over a pasture that was named long before we came along—we inherit or create a legacy tied to that ground. With commitment and hard work, we take care of the grasses that take care of our livestock. It can be hard to describe unless you’ve been there. The longer we stay, the more chances we have to learn why pastures are named—beyond just the practical reasons. We often hear how pastures are loved and hated for how rough they are, how big they are, how easily they hide cattle, and how well they recover and grow grass after a long dry season. They can be easy to gather, easy to drive across, and just the same, easy to hold in high regard for being wide-open spaces.
I need to step back almost thirty years. The first time I left home, I was 19 years old, headed north to Colorado for the summer. As we drove north from Adkins, Texas, we passed through Sweetwater. I remember how that country seemed so big! I guess that’s why they call it “Big Country.”
Jump ahead a couple of years, and I made my first real move away from Texas. I moved to Thermal, California. I was a long way from Texas and its wide-open spaces, but I was horseback every day, making the best of it. On a rare day off, I decided to go in search of a saddle shop in 29 Palms. A saddle shop I would never find. But in my search, I topped a hill and found myself overlooking one of the strangest sights I had ever seen—my first wind farm.
I had no idea what I was looking at. Yes, I had heard of these things, but at the time, I couldn’t comprehend the amount of land these monstrosities took up. I was young and naïve, but even then, I had a bad feeling about these so-called farms. How in the world did they make enough energy to justify taking over valuable farm and ranch land? How did they work? How did they justify their expense?
Remember, this was thirty years ago.
I turned around and headed back to Thermal, back to my horses. I had a rotten feeling in my stomach as I drove home, and to this day, I remember it vividly.
As I made my way across the country over the years, working for ranches, I got to know a lot of pastures and their names—from large cattle ranches and horse operations to small farms raising some of the best horses in the world. Big pastures, small pastures, but wide-open spaces nonetheless.
Many years later, making a trip from South Texas to Wyoming, I once again traveled up through Sweetwater. My heart sank as I climbed over one of the many hills on that stretch of highway—wind turbines, as far as the eye could see. I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. At least, for the most part, I was still seeing cattle. But over the years, I’ve seen fewer and fewer cattle on that stretch of highway as I travel to horse shows, cuttings, horse sales, and other events.
About ten miles south of Sweetwater, there’s a stack yard full of old turbine blades—less than twenty years old—cut in half and left to rot. Well, left to rot the land.
We are not safe from these giants.
I’ve been on this ranch for fourteen years now—a hearty little ranch between Christoval and Eldorado, just south of San Angelo, Texas. I’ve seen a lot, learned a lot, and experienced a lot while living here. Not long after moving in, I began to hear stories from those who lived here before me. I learned the names of the pastures and how ranchers loved this place.
One particular pasture is the Ivy Pasture. The old-timers tell stories about how good and strong it once was and how they hoped it still grew grass. I assured them it was still in good shape, despite my use of it in times of both need and ease. I’d tell them how I relied on it for calving heifers, dog-breaking cattle, and how I’d pack it full when I needed an easy pasture to gather by myself when it came time to wean and ship cattle.
In return, I’d hear stories of wild cattle and goats—how surely, some remnants of them were never caught. They might be gone, but their spirits remain in the soul of this land.
I love this ranch, partly because of the love and admiration shared by those who came before me. That legacy is irreplaceable, like the land itself.
It is now 2025.
In 2021, this ranch was sold to an energy company. I can’t blame my owners—it was an offer they couldn’t refuse. The new owners leased the ranch back to my people because they couldn’t do anything with their new land grab just yet. They had no interest in ranching or land conservation whatsoever.
Since that change of ownership, I have continued ranching here, along with another lease across the fence. I’ve watched land being bought for three times what it’s worth, swallowing up as much open country as possible. The millions of dollars being spent to buy these farms and ranches make it too easy to sell.
Every day, I wonder—where will I go with these cattle next?
I ask myself this as the Trojan horse of “green energy” in the form of wind turbines has arrived, and from its belly, an army of solar panels has emerged. The disconnect these companies have from the land—above and below—is only exacerbated by the impersonal ways they treat these farms and ranches, and those who take care of them.
From my experience, their only concern is making a buck and saving a buck, and in turn, displacing wildlife, livestock, and the farmers, ranchers, cowboys, and stockmen who feed this world.
When they ask you to count the live oak trees they plan to rip out of the ground—or whether the water wells will produce enough water to dump on the ground to keep down the dust from construction traffic—what are we supposed to think? What are we supposed to believe?
I saw my very first porcupine on this ranch. He was climbing a big live oak tree in the Ivy Pasture—luckily high enough that my dogs couldn’t reach him. That oak, along with thousands more, will be ripped from the ground and turned to mulch.
The windmill in Ivy Pasture—known as the Ivy Mill—has watered a lot of stock over the years. At one time, I even had to add more rod to reach deeper into the aquifer because we were running out of water. Soon, it will finally get a chance to rest, when there are no longer cattle left to water.
I’ve said it many times: “Y’all might be warm, but y’all are gonna be awful hungry.”
“Do you see over yonder, friend Sancho, thirty or forty hulking giants? I intend to do battle with and slay them.”
—Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, *Don Quixote*
