You Always Remember Your First Time
The first time I saw Hummingbird Ranch was a crisp late morning. The sky was deeply blue with a few wispy clouds, and a group of longhorns lazily grazed in the meadow. I leapt from the car and began taking photos. These were the most photogenic "cows" I had ever seen. They seemingly knew they were here for the purpose of seduction, and I was besotted!
The entry gate to the meadow was locked so we followed a dilapidated fence line more than 1/4 mile down the road, past two more gated entries, to what appeared to be the property line. The landscape changed with every foot - wide open meadow rising into a dense, old-oak laden hillside, and then down once more into a swath of flat land 20 feet above the road. It was here that the barn, manufactured home, and various outbuildings were scattered among a variety of different trees, tangled metal fencing and debris. The place felt huge, like maybe I had mistaken three adjoining properties for one. Way too big for the cozy weekend retreat we had envisioned.
But for fun, we decided to call the agent to see if we could possibly meet him and explore the property. With no cell reception, we had to drive back toward town to schedule a viewing.
Vinny answered on the second ring.
Yes, the property really had three entries with more than 1,400 feet of frontage on the road.
No, the longhorn didn't come with the property. The owner had a handshake agreement with a neighbor that allowed them to graze, an arrangement Vinny assured me would yield a little "cheese" on the side.
No, neither the manufactured home, nor the barn were habitable.
He wouldn't be able to meet us, but eagerly (understandable as it had been on the market for nearly a year) offered the lock combination so we could let ourselves onto the property and drive around. I actually preferred this. We grabbed to-go burritos at a local Mexican place and headed back to the ranch.
Retracing our drive, I noticed things I hadn't seen in our first rush of excitement. A substantial, tan longhorn grazing in a pasture underneath a Biden Harris flag. The neighboring property flying a Trump flag in response - real Hatfields vs McCoys vibes. A small sign adjacent to a steep driveway promised me I could pick my own apples, and then finally, an olive oil farm near the corner where our road intersected with the highway. Through bushy trees, heavy with fruit, I could see a charming white farmhouse and a storybook red barn. This area felt so "other," but at the same time familiar. I was overwhelmed with curiosity and an eagerness to look around every corner.
We turned with anticipation onto our dirt road and drove up to the property. The cows were still there, staring at us, nonplussed. Chad hopped out, unlocked the gate, and I drove through into the meadow.
It seemed odd to be sharing this space with them, like we were intruding. Would the car scare them? Would the bull charge at the car?
They barely looked up from eating to acknowledge our existence, so we continued up the steep dirt drive with the neighbor's staked horse fence on our left, and the meadow and two wooded valleys to our right.
At the top, the drive abruptly flattened onto a barren one-acre plateau. Surrounded by thick pine and oak, this area had obviously been groomed for someone's long, lost dream.
I got out of the car and my breath caught, a torrent of emotion bursting from my deepest recesses. I stood quietly, but my eyes were full of tears. In nearly every direction I turned, mountain silhouettes stacked like ombré paintings under endless skies. This very simply was the most soul stirring land I had ever stood upon.