The Privilege of Purpose

Spring, Regeneration, and the Privilege of Purpose

Spring — it's here, and it will be gone before we even know it. The Palo Verde trees have bloomed and now our streets are carpeted in wilted yellow petals. The cactus are taking their turn to shine, dotting the desert with bursts of color. Their blossoms mix with the fiery ocotillo and cast their beauty beneath the towering saguaro crowns. It's a fleeting kind of magic, and it reminds us: everything here has a season, a role, a rhythm.

Time flows on, indifferent to our to-do lists and daily stresses. Some mornings we greet the sunrise out of duty more than desire. And every evening, we say goodnight to the sun whether our tasks are done or not. The sky doesn't wait for us to be ready. It simply continues in its stunning silence — golden hours and lavender dusks marking the passing of time whether we notice or not.

It's hard to keep track of the days when your ‘honey-do’ list grows faster than the grass after a monsoon. Out here, we finish one project just in time to begin the next. Our weeks are measured not by calendars but by beef deliveries, harvest dates, and the shifting needs of the land. The weekends blow past — a few precious hours of stillness, spent doing “nothing,” which usually means small repairs, time with the kids, or just listening to the wind move through mesquite.

It’s a lot. And we feel it. The weight, the responsibility, the expectations. Overwhelmed? Sure, sometimes. But never angry. How could we be? We live in the privilege of doing work that matters — work we’ve chosen, work with a purpose. Our lives are full, yes, but full of intention. Full of meaning.

Here on the ranch, everything we do points toward a common goal: making this land better. Healthier. More resilient. We’re in our second year of working to place a conservation easement on the riparian areas of the ranch. That means protecting the veins of green life that wind through our desert — the creek beds, the shaded banks, the wild corridors for birds and javelina, quail and bobcats. It means safeguarding the legacy of two, now three generations who’ve poured sweat, time, and heart into this soil.

Phil Knight began healing this land in the early 1970s. What was once a barren sand wash — scoured bank to bank — has become a sanctuary. We’ve seen it with our own eyes. The creek came back. So did the cottonwoods. And with them, the birds. Now, it’s not unusual to spot hundreds of species moving through in a single season. That’s not luck. That’s regeneration in action.

Regenerative ranching isn’t just a buzzword — it’s a commitment to leaving things better than we found them. It’s about soil health, water retention, biodiversity, and carbon drawdown. It’s about recognizing that the ranch is not just a business or a piece of property. It’s a living, breathing ecosystem. And we are stewards of it.

We’re not just growing beef — we’re growing soil. We’re growing future habitat. We're slowing erosion, cycling nutrients, and giving wildlife a place to raise their young. Every pasture rotation, every rest period, every decision to plant rather than plow — it all adds up to resilience. For the land, for the animals, and for the communities that depend on both.

But the pressures are mounting. We watch Phoenix stretching its fingers westward, creeping past Whitman. More and more of the open land is being lost — paved over, subdivided, boxed up into endless brown rectangles. And while it’s not our place to comment on how others manage their land, we can say this: once it’s gone, it’s gone. The mesquite won’t grow back through concrete. The deer won’t fawn in parking lots.

So we keep doing what we can — protecting what little remains, creating a sanctuary not just for today but for 50 years from now. Whether we’re still here or not, we hope the healing continues. That’s the promise we’re making, and the responsibility we carry.

We all need land that’s still wild. Not just for the creatures who depend on it, but for ourselves — to remind us of what’s real, what endures, what matters.

If you’d like to learn more about our conservation efforts — or support the work we’re doing to protect this land for generations to come — you can visit CALT here. Every bit of awareness, support, and shared story helps us keep the desert alive, thriving, and open.