Small World, Wide Open Spaces

Out here, we’re about 30 minutes from Wickenburg. That might not sound like much, but when you live and work full-time on a ranch, it’s just far enough to feel like another world. We head into town maybe twice a week during the busy months—for fuel, hay, feed, and the packages we’ve ordered. Sometimes, our shipments come in on pallets and need picking up *right now*, which means a quick hustle to Wickenburg Shipping.

Usually, Stefan or whoever has a chiropractic appointment handles the errands. My longest stretch of not going to town was two months—one before my second son was born, and one after, just waiting for him to fit in his car seat a little better. And honestly? I didn’t really miss it.

Because when I do finally make it into town, I’m a little shell-shocked. Even when the tourists are gone and summer has pushed the crowds away, it still feels like a lot. My day-to-day world is small—just my kids and husband, my sister-in-law and her crew of four, and my in-laws. That’s our circle. And most days, it’s more than enough.

But there’s something else that settles in when you live out here—something quiet and hard to name. It’s the way the world shrinks around you, even when the land stretches out for miles in every direction. This month, our most exciting visitors weren’t people at all, but a mischievous black bear who showed up during an evening grill session, and a mountain lion cub that somehow ended up in the dog kennel.

We wake before the sun, already watching for what needs doing. Guardian dogs Merry and Pippin haven’t returned from their boundary patrol. The roosters are just starting to stir. The bats are heading home to the barn before the heat settles in. There’s always something to tend to: a cow on the wrong side of the fence (again), a hernia-wracked calf who needs his daily bandage and a bucket of milk, a horse being kindly asked *not* to look at that open gate on the way to a new pasture.

It’s not just a lifestyle—it’s a job, a calling, and a business rolled into one. Being a rancher isn’t about riding into the sunset. It’s about working sunup to sundown (and sometimes in between), raising good beef, tending to the land so it stays healthy for generations, and somehow also managing inventory, logistics, and bedtime for toddlers.

I’m a mom, a wife, a land steward, and a business owner—all at once. Some days I feel the rhythm of it all like a heartbeat. Other days, I feel like the last thread holding it all together.

We try to get out when we can, but the summer heat makes it tough—especially for my 15-month-old. So we find projects around the house, little lessons tucked into everyday work. But isolation creeps in. Not the romantic, peaceful kind. The kind that makes you realize how few people *really* get this life.

I’ve never lived with neighbors as an adult. I don’t get electric or water bills. No HOA to fuss about landscaping—though we also don’t have trash pickup. Grocery shopping happens in bulk, and social calendars are built around harvest dates and vet appointments.

Making friends looks different out here. One of my closest friends is a hunter I met during peach-picking season. Another reached out to study our dung beetles (yes, our poop bugs). I’m thankful for both—but we don’t exactly meet up for mimosas.

So no, I can’t relate to weekly facials or coffee shop chats. Not because I don’t want those things—truthfully, I’d love to feel dolled up now and then—but because this life doesn’t leave a lot of room for regular town days. And it sure doesn’t come with a manual on how to balance motherhood, marriage, ranching, and entrepreneurship in 115-degree heat.

But it *does* come with perspective. Living out here, you learn to appreciate what matters, to build things from scratch—whether it’s a fence, a business, or a way of life. You learn that beauty doesn’t always come with convenience, and peace doesn’t always mean easy.

Out here, the world feels small. But the life? It’s anything but.