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NY Times Op-Ed, May 2, 2020
A Shortage of Steak? Yes, and Ranchers Knew It Was Coming
By Eliza Blue
Ms. Blue is a writer and shepherd in Perkins County, S.D. Her first
book, “Accidental Rancher,” comes out this month.
PERKINS COUNTY, S.D. — I live on a ranch. When I stand on the gravel
road that runs along the section line by my house I can look in any
direction across the waving grass and, other than the modest huddle of
buildings and fencing that compose our ranch, see little evidence of
human development. To say it is remote is like saying water is wet. We
aren’t Iowa remote or Wisconsin remote. This is the American steppe,
where the population density is one person per square mile.
Four hundred miles to the southeast, Smithfield, a pork processing plant
in Sioux Falls, has become the fastest-growing coronavirus hot spot in
the nation. Racial inequality, an unstable food supply chain and
corporate greed exacerbated the spread of the virus. But though we share
state borders, Smithfield is as far from our reality as the outbreak in
New York City.
Smithfield is near the end of the food supply chain; we are where it
begins. On our drought-prone side of the state, where ruminants
outnumber humans, there are no processing plants, just grass — vast,
luminous expanses of grass — with intricate root structures that grow
thick and deep.
There are still custom butcher shops scattered across the hundreds of
miles of open pasture, small mom-and-pop operations, remnants of a
system that used to connect rural economies to the food they were
producing. Now nearly all animals raised here are shipped elsewhere — to
feedlots to be grain-fattened, and then to gargantuan facilities like
Smithfield to be slaughtered.
I know some ranchers who are working to change this system, but many
more lack the financial or political clout to innovate beyond the scope
of their own operations. We are part of an industrialized system that
treats animals and their caretakers as columns on spreadsheets geared
toward achieving maximum profit. These columns ignore the physical
realities of labor in animal husbandry, as well the dignity of the
animals we husband, while saddling us with debt and draining resources
from our rural communities.
It is spring now in our isolated, windswept stretch of Middle America.
For those of us on the front lines of agriculture, the seasons define
our labor. Spring is the busiest time of year on a ranch. Cows give
birth to their calves and sheep to their lambs. Even when there isn’t
fear of infection to keep us sheltered in place, most of us leave our
herds and flocks only for essential trips to town — the cows and sheep
need round-the-clock attention.
We are used to watching businesses die, and we are also used to making
do with what remains. The one cafe, the small truck stop, the grocery
store and the feed store in the nearest small town are offering curbside
pickup. Maybe these businesses will survive. Maybe they won’t. Our main
street has been a half-ghost town for decades. As in most of rural
America, commerce here was stripped back to essential services a long
time ago.
Even before the pandemic laid bare the instability of the industrialized
food supply chain, ranchers knew that chain wasn’t working. At its core,
our work will always be based around the rhythms of nature rather than
technically derived calculations. Instead, sun and rain, dormancy and
renewal determine our obligations. At the height of a pandemic that is
exposing nearly every systemic flaw in society, our work on the ranch
remains virtually unchanged.
Our livestock and land require a quality of care and consideration that
exists independent of profit, which is why we work as hard as we ever
have, even while taking on second and third jobs to keep our ranches
financially viable. The marketplace has changed, but our mandate to feed
communities and care for our animals has not.
Ultimately, the American consumer, who votes with his or her dollars,
will decide if the disruption typified by the crisis at Smithfield will
lead to healthier, more sustainable systems — or a return to the
brittle, exploitive structure the pandemic has so starkly revealed.
In the meantime, the prairie grows greener. The cows shuffle slowly
across it, seeking the slim blades of new grass. Spring is still the
season of rebirth, a reminder that the days of darkness and deep cold
are part of the wheel, not the end of the line.
Eliza Blue is the author of the forthcoming book “Accidental Rancher.”
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