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Once Upon a Time in the West or California, here I am….
Once I got to Fresno -- nerves a bit frazzled -- I sought out the saner pace on the blue highways and backroads. While I had directions to a couple of very large dairies in the San Joaquin valley, I never located them, nor made any attempt to do so, since there were huge milking operations all over the place. Later, I learned that the Fresno/Tulare area is THE dairy mecca of the Central Valley -- with at least 1,600 dairies each at more than 700 cows apiece (and some as large as 15,000 head) in a three-county area. In all, these cows produce some 39 million TONS of waste, most of which is deposited in the Kings and San Joaquin watersheds, which means that a lot of cowplop in the San Francisco Bay/Delta.
Having by this time traveled through the dairy areas (derrières?) of Texas, New Mexico, and Idaho, I thought I was somewhat immune to the smells, sights and sounds of the large dairies. But there is something very depressing about viewing all those black and white dairy cows cooped up in such tight spaces, lying in mud and crud. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not an advocate of grazing on public lands, and I don’t want to see the West turned back into open range, but I for one grew up on a farm where cows had grass to lie in, not shit. Damn it, cows need sunlight and grass and a space to kick up their heels. They may not be especially graceful about it, but cows really do run and frolic given the room to do so. As I say, the sight of thousands of cows confined in the huge dairies saddened me. Theirs is a life without the slightest stimulus. Eat, poop, and get milked…in an endless cycle. When milk production falls off, the cow is headed for slaughter. In some western states, in fact, more dairy cows end up in slaughterhouses than do beef cattle. The only thing worse than being a milk cow is being a bull calf. A bull calf has no value whatsoever to a dairy operation and thus wins an early trip to the slaughterhouse. Talk about life being brutish and short… but, enough of such mordant thoughts. What impressed me about the Central Valley is what is grown on the farms –- not the staple stuff of the Midwest or the South. No corn, soybeans, rice, wheat or barley –- rather, there were mile-long rows of grapevines, almond trees, citrus, and other trees I guessed to be walnuts or, maybe, pistachios. My impression was that the Central Valley was strictly devoted to raising what I would call luxury foods; that is, unless wine is considered sustenance. The other thought that kept nagging at me was "This is a bleeping desert!" Even the visitor, if he stops to consider it, quickly realizes that it’s all dependent upon extensive irrigation. I thought of my Missouri uncle, Mark Twain, who said, "Whiskey is for drinking, water is for fighting." Certainly there have been plenty of water wars fought in the West, and some of these are still going on, even in the Central Valley. Such were my thoughts as I drove. Then, suddenly… …Oh, joy, ocean in view!
Unhitching the bicycle, I rode around and inspected the village and the seashore. The bay formed behind an eroded and broken granite outcropping which towered several hundred feet into the air, and was much liked by gulls and cormorants. The harbor was home to several working fishing boats, and I enjoyed a seafood dinner that had allegedly resulted from the activities of one of these boats. The restaurant was on the harbor, and the hostess seated me at the window overlooking the water. As I ate, the sun set over the Pacific. Lovely meal, lovely area.
My work done, I headed for home, now 2,000 miles away. Once again, time to start digging for those audio tapes… -- Ken Midkiff Next and last: Reflections on the Road Trip. Up to Top |
After getting fed and watered in Bakersfield, I headed north up Hwy 99 toward Fresno. The speed limit was posted at 65 mph, but anyone attempting to abide by that would quickly get run down by the great herd of traffic, so I set the cruise control to 75 and held on. Even then, a couple of vehicles blasted by at what appeared to my midwestern eyes to be suicidal speeds. Such was my welcome to Left Coast driving styles.
Having noted that the prevailing wind was from the southeast, I turned to look that direction whenever I caught the fragrant odor of cow manure on the wind. Sure enough, there were always the telltale giant cowsheds gleaming in the sun. In and around the town of Tulare, the dairies were too numerous to count. Most of these had a sign proclaiming membership in the California Dairy Association -- a co-op that also owns several cheese and milk processing plants throughout the valley.
After touring around the Central Valley for a couple of days, and becoming almost clinically depressed, I headed over the coastal range and landed in the ocean-side village of Morro Bay. The altimeter mounted on the dash went to zero feet above sea level, so I quickly stopped the car before it tripping over into the minus side. 
The next day, I joined the California/Nevada Regional Conservation Committee at a retreat center near San Luis Obispo and met with several folks concerned about the impacts of CAFOs in San Diego and Orange counties, as well as the Central Valley. That evening, with the assistance of Arthur Unger of the Kern-Kaweah Chapter of the Sierra Club, I gave a presentation on The Problem with Putting Too Many Cows in One Spot. While many were vaguely aware of the issue, several stated that this was the first time they had ever really considered the magnitude of things. As Michelle Perault, the former Sierra Club President, once phrased it: "Something else to worry about."