His expression had become serious.
“How long has this been here?”
She looked across the pasture.
“Bits of it? Years.”
“This much?”
“Since last summer.”
He turned the stalk in his hands.
The plant had spread in thick patches through nearly half the field.
Cattle avoided it.
The weeds stood untouched while the surrounding grass disappeared beneath grazing pressure.
That created a vicious cycle.
Cows ate the desirable species.
The undesirable plants gained space.
Seeds spread.
The following season, there was less grass.
Then even more pressure on what remained.
The specialist stood.
“You’ve got a problem.”
“I know.”
“No.”
He pointed toward the far fence.
“I mean a serious one.”
The pasture bordered the county’s largest hay operation.
Six hundred acres of high-quality mixed grass and alfalfa owned by a wealthy cattle rancher whose family had controlled land along the valley for three generations.
The specialist continued.
“If this seeds out and wind carries it east, you won't only be dealing with your own pasture.”
The young farmer frowned.
“What happens?”
“Depends how fast it moves.”
“Worst case?”
“Neighbor gets it established in hay ground.”
“That can turn expensive very quickly.”
She folded her arms.
“Spray?”
“You could.”
“How much?”
The specialist gave her a figure.
She stared.
“That includes labor?”
“Contract application, chemical, follow-up.”
“No.”
“What?”
“I mean no as in I don’t have that.”
He nodded.
“Then spot spray and mechanical removal.”
She laughed.
“Forty-seven acres?”
“You asked.”
She looked over the field.
“What eats it?”
The specialist glanced toward her.
“Goats.”
She thought he was joking.
He wasn’t.
“Goats?”
“They browse differently than cattle.”
“Depending on the species and growth stage, they’ll take broadleaf material cattle ignore.”
“They won’t magically solve everything.”
“You’ll still need management.”
“Rotation.”
“Monitoring.”
“Maybe targeted herbicide afterward.”
“But goats can knock biomass down hard enough to give your grass a fighting chance.”
She looked across the field.
“How many?”
“Depends.”
“Fence?”
“Good.”
“Predator pressure?”
“Manageable.”
“Water?”
“Yes.”
“Then enough to graze aggressively but not so many you destroy the base.”
He looked at her.
“You planning to buy goats?”
“No.”
She paused.
“Maybe.”
That conversation was why she sat at the livestock auction three weeks later while grown men laughed.
She bought six more animals before quitting.
Forty-eight total.
Average cost after fees:
just under seventeen dollars.
She loaded them into her trailer herself.
The wealthy cattle rancher happened to be standing near the loading alley.
He was in his early sixties.
Gray hair.
Broad shoulders.
Dark charcoal shirt tucked neatly into expensive jeans.
Black vest.
Boots that looked used but never neglected.
He owned more cattle than she would probably ever own in her life.
His adult son stood beside him.