I took a trip to a ranch at the base of a mountain named Whitehorse. There are 90 acres of a valley

I took a trip to a ranch at the base of a mountain named Whitehorse. There are 90 acres of a valley that home pigs, goats, chickens, an ancient greenhouse, a man made pond, a milking parlour and a dear friend from California. We layed in mowed grass and ate roasted pig. I bottle fed baby goats and let them climb up my back and watched as they tried to eat my hair and sit on my lap and cry and jump and wiggle around. We drank beer that men and women who live in this valley had spent the winter months brewing, and finally, upon the arrival of the nicest day of the year, decided to converge at the ranch and share their ales coupled with jokes about local boys and ideas about what to do with all these male goats and how to milk those few females who dont get distracted by dropping oats. I ate dark bread made with expelled beer grain, I watched 27 goats be led into a parlour, milked, fed, talked too, and released. I climbed a hill, I played with children, I got too drunk and came home with a hunk of carmel colored bread, a jug of fresh goat milk and a wheel of the ripest cheese. -- source link

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