Moving to a Cattle Ranch

It all started with a Craigslist ad. Not even kidding.

I was sipping lukewarm coffee out of a chipped mug, wearing mismatched wool socks and doom-scrolling for barn equipment (as one does at 6 a.m.), when I saw the listing: “Remote cattle ranch property, needs TLC. Acreage. Views. Dream life optional.” Optional?? Please. I clicked faster than a hen on cracked corn.

Fast-forward six chaotic months, three breakdowns (emotional and mechanical), and one very unfortunate goat incident later, and here we are: officially ranchers. Or, at least, ranch-adjacent. And by “we,” I mostly mean me, my partner who didn’t read the fine print about waking up at 4:30 a.m., and a dog who now thinks she’s head of livestock operations.

So here’s what it’s really like to pack up your homestead and move to a cattle ranch—chaos, compost, cow poop and all.

The Romance vs. The Reality

Let’s get this out of the way: I thought I was prepared. I’d been homesteading for years—growing food, raising chickens, occasionally milking angry goats. I knew mud. I knew noise. I knew early mornings. But let me tell you: cows are a whole different genre of farm life.

They’re like big, clumsy toddlers who can tip over tractors and stare into your soul while chewing. Every time I walk by the fence, at least three of them stop what they’re doing and stare me down like I’m the main act in a very disappointing circus. And don’t even get me started on calves. They’re adorable in that “ruin your fences and your plans” kind of way.

But there’s something magical about it too. The wide-open pastures. The golden light at dusk reflecting off their shiny backs. The soft, low mooing in the early morning fog. If chickens are chaos, cows are oddly poetic chaos.

How We Actually Moved

We didn’t just slap a “Gone Ranchin’” sign on the front gate and leave. This took planning. Well, the idea of planning. In reality, we made a lot of lists, packed like amateurs, and crammed half our life into a U-Haul while hoping the goats didn’t escape mid-move.

Here are the bullet points of how this rural migration actually played out:

• Rented a flatbed trailer for our farm gear (it rained sideways the entire time).
• Bribed friends with beer and homemade bread to help us move the chicken coop (it almost tipped).
• Had a full-on existential crisis over whether to bring our antique pie safe (we did—priorities).
• Moved into a fixer-upper farmhouse with windows that howl when it’s windy and plumbing from 1956.

We slept on a mattress on the floor the first week. By day three, I had cow poop on my hoodie and a mouse living in the toaster.

Adjusting to Ranch Life

The biggest shift? Space. Like, actual space. I’m used to a cozy acre or two. Suddenly we had pastures, paddocks, and enough sky to make you feel very small and very lucky all at once.

But space also means:

• More fences to fix.
• More mouths to feed.
• More weeds to mow.
• More surprises. (Like the bull that walked into our yard on day five like he owned the place.)

Our days got longer. Our boots got muddier. But slowly, things started to click. I learned how to tell if a cow’s about to calve (spoiler: they’ll let you know), how to balance a feed bucket on my head while opening a gate with my knee, and how to talk to the local vet without sounding like I read all my cow knowledge on Pinterest. (Because I did. Obviously.)

The Good, The Weird, and the Wild

The Good: Waking up to the sound of cows breathing outside your window is strangely grounding. Like nature is exhaling. Also, fresh raw milk? Life-changing.

The Weird: Cows have very strong opinions about who fills their feed trough. If I show up late? Side-eyes. If I wear a different jacket? Suspicion. If my partner tries to feed them instead of me? Chaos.

The Wild: Coyotes. Storms that move in so fast your weather app is still showing sunshine. The first time we had to herd cows in the dark using only a flashlight and bad decisions.

What I’ve Learned So Far

1. Farming and ranching aren’t the same—but they rhyme.
2. You can go from “oh cute calf!” to “WHERE IS THAT CALF?!” in five seconds.
3. Every single thing breaks. Constantly. Fences, tractors, even my resolve.
4. Ranchers are resourceful AF. Need a gate latch? Someone will hand you a 1987 Chevy truck part that somehow works better than anything you can buy.
5. You can love the chaos and still cry into your coffee at 5 a.m. when the well pump stops working.

Would I Do It Again?

Absolutely.

There’s something so raw, so unfiltered about this life. It’s not glamorous. My nails are permanently chipped, and I haven’t had a normal weekend since we moved. But I’ve never felt more alive. There’s this sense that you’re part of something ancient and practical and necessary. You’re stewarding land, animals, rhythms of life that don’t care about your email inbox or whether you remembered to charge your phone.

And honestly? That’s a relief.

So, if you’re ever browsing Craigslist and see a half-broken-down cattle ranch listed as “a fixer-upper with good bones”—and if you hear the whisper of curiosity under the exhaustion of your current life—maybe lean in. It won’t be easy. But it might just be the most beautifully complicated thing you’ve ever done.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go chase a calf out of the chicken coop. Again…