The Middle of Nowhere
A journey from Chicago to Sisterdale the goat that changed me and how a help wanted ad defined the next decade of my life.
I pull at the thread, hoping to find the remarkable start of this story, only to realize that it is woven into the fabric of ordinary days. Days in which the unremarkable marks the start of the extraordinary. Small seemingly inconsequential decisions that begin as ripples and turn into floods of change. Like answering a job ad and altering the entire course of a life. Or deciding on a whim to leave the only home you’ve ever known. If you don’t believe in coincidence, than this story is about answering a calling.
“Wow, when you said in the middle of nowhere, you really meant it.” My possessions, my cat, and my good friend Dani were all packed into her Prius on this last leg of our trip to Texas. My laughter in response was tinged with uncertainty.
I could count on one soft hand, the times I had come to the ranch since my parents bought it in the early 2000s; it was beautiful but foreign. Too green and wild for a kid used to pavement and alleys. Whatever wilderness was in me, had been tamed by a lifetime of bug spray. And yet, the fear of the unknown was tantalizing. How free could I get, if I let my bare feet touch the earth?
Have you ever smelled a freshly cleaned, by their mother; brand new, goat kid? It wasn’t the tiny bleats that got me, it was the musk of their newness. The sweet mix of mother’s milk, hay, and a squirrely enthusiasm for life. My parents had a large herd at the time of my arrival and it was my given responsibility to be the livestock caretaker. Me and a middle aged rat terrier that fancied himself a herding dog. We lost 6 goat kids my first season as their steward. Most were stillborn due to accidental inbreeding, others failed to thrive, one was born blind and died in my arms. In those early days, that was the closest I had ever been to death. Tears rolled down more often than laughter lifted, grief settled itself into my heart, and yet…there were moments of joy that gave difficulties a softer landing. A Nanny gently washing the birth off of her baby, bonding through instinct and touch, the soft sigh of new life as it nestles against her. That scene happened over and over again, because in the midst of all the struggle, we also had successes. The herd grew, and alongside, so did my capacity to care for and understand them.
Not quite ready to leave behind the urbanization that I grew up in, I sought community in the cities around me. But the wild had already started re-shaping me, instead of glitter there was straw in my hair. My nails, manicured by dirt. My hands calloused from shoveling shit. I was no longer made for the streets. I was being called back to the woods. Losing and finding my way home countless times, until I knew the land and the backroads as well as I knew myself. What was coming next, everything had prepared me for, but it was nothing that I expected.
Sarah is an older nanny goat. She’s a deep red boer goat with long floppy ears and a crotchety disposition. Naturally, she’s my favorite. I find her sprawled out in the shade under a live oak. Oak wilt has not taken this tree yet and in the Texas heat, it offers cool comfort. She is so pregnant, the Vet thinks there are 3 kids in there. I sit beside her and rub her belly. I’m trying to convince her to let me take her to the maternity ward, private room and everything I tell her. I had just finished up my first season in deer processing and I was feeling a confidence I had not yet earned. I half carry, half bully her into walking up to the barn where there is fresh water and my constant attention. I try to discreetly inspect her vulva for signs of an impending birth, as if she too follows societal rules for modesty and I don’t want to embarrass her. The doctor has told me what to look out for but I have no idea what I’m seeing. The middle of the night will come soon enough and two births will happen on the floor of the nursery.
My 6 month paid internship was coming to a close and my Chef was not interested in keeping me on. Her letter of recommendation said that I needed direction and a different environment; maybe then, I’d be worth a damn in the kitchen. She was not known for her sugar makes the medicine go down approach to management. Not that I took her feedback personally, after all, I did coat her ovens in overflowing German chocolate cake more than once. I appreciated the opportunity to fail continuously and graciously took my leave. I nursed my wounds for much too long, but just in time to come across an interesting help-wanted ad at the end of November 2016. “Seasonal Help Needed - Game Processing”. I was never allowed video games as a kid, so the idea that I would be play testing games for Christmas presents was super intriguing. We can all share a hearty laugh that I truly had no idea what I was applying for, even after it became evident that I would learning how to process deer. The ability to romanticize it all, really can lead you through some interesting times.
It’s dark and I can’t sleep. Sarah has been struggling the last couple of days and I’m dreading what I will find as I turn on the lights in the barn. My eyes adjust but don’t understand what they are seeing. There’s half a goat kid hanging out of her and she has stopped pushing. The baby isn’t breathing and its head is swollen. The vet is on his way, but something has to be done or we’ll lose them both. My hands reach for the baby, reach into Sarah and together we finish the delivery. With a plop, covered in feces and blood, I hold the baby goat in my arms and cry. I clean it gently, removing the mucus plug, and beg it breathe in the world. It’s weary but its trying and I think to myself, me too, kid.
Sarah’s body was too old for this birth and she wasn’t able to produce any milk. In the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere, with no feed stores open; I had to figure out how to keep this baby alive through the night. A concoction of yogurt, milk, and colostrum fills the bottle. I’m sitting in the middle of the nursery with this tiny goat in my lap and I’m trying to teach her how to take a bottle. It’s a lot, I know, I tell her. But please don’t give up. Please just eat. Please.
“You’ve never butchered before, so we’ll probably just have you doing dishes.” The Owner of the processing shop tells me this on my first day. I have no problem with that, since I’ve never hunted or killed anything either. It is a refurbished old school house filled with locals cutting up deer and telling jokes that I’ve only recently understood the punch line to. I’m so far outside of my comfort zone, I didn’t even know this way of life was on the map. I’m sent into the carcass cooler and lose my breath at the unfiltered realistic view of what an animal looks like before it becomes food. I watch the men break these animals down into manageable parts that get broken down further into more recognizable cuts of meat. The whole process fascinates me and though I’m not sure how much of that work I’ll get to do in the next few months; I am grateful for the experience.
Three months later, deer season is effectively over. I was thanked for my assistance and dismissed. Adrift, yet again. And in the midst of this identity crisis was Frida’s birth night. Where I found myself a mess, dirty, bone-tired, with my ego just completely dissolving into the earth. Everything felt so much bigger than my self. I felt helpless, lost, grasping at meaning and then she latched on, taking her first sip of life outside the womb. The rush of relief poured over me like a waterfall. Any question of whether or not I was meant to be in this place was answered with a resounding yes,I belonged. I came away from my own re-birth in that nursery, one that delivered me into a stronger, more assured, less ego driven self. I became of a true steward of my life in that moment. I bottle fed Frida until she was old enough to rejoin the herd. And though our story will be pockmarked by moments of sadness in the future, she is forever a representative of the night we saved each other.
The email asks me to come back to the processing shop during the off season. I had done a really good job for him and he’d like to bring me back. Have me learn all I can so I’m ready to hit the ground running once next hunting season comes along. Perhaps my previous Chef was right, with some direction and the right environment, I could really make something of myself. But nothing pointed to the profound impact that accepting this job would have on my life, my values, and the way I navigate the world.
