When a fourth-generation rancher tells you that you may be better off pursuing a different career instead of going all in on the family ranch, it forces you to ask an uncomfortable question: What changed?

On Sheppard Farms, fig bars have become an unlikely cattle-handling tool.

Mason Dixon Farms stands today as both a working dairy and a living record of American agricultural history, with its roots stretching back to the earliest years of the nation. Located on both sides of the Pennsylvania-Maryland line, the farm encompasses roughly 2,900 acres and milks 1,700 Holstein cows in a double-24 parallel parlor.  

Farming runs deep in who we are. It’s not just what we do – it’s how we measure our days, our years and often our worth. There are moments of pride that few other professions will ever know. But alongside those victories comes a quieter truth that many farmers carry alone – constant pressure.

By the time he was 10 years old, Taylor Smith was already recognized by his community as a promising young farmer. He’d started to build his cow herd. He was handy with equipment. His work ethic was unmatched by anyone else at his elementary school. But Taylor wasn’t interested in the recognition. He just wanted to be on the farm.

It may not be every morning, but on a semi-routine basis, my day begins with a little pep talk. Some days it’s simply a little note to myself in my head that prods me to just stand up, walk out the door and start the morning chores. On other days, it’s more of a stern talking-to or even a desperate plea to my guardian angels.

Drought has consumed much of the nation. Winds replaced winter. Heat replaced cold. And nothing replaced the snow or rain.

A mad scientist.

That’s what Kimberly Wolter calls her husband, Bradley. She’s teasing, of course, but says it with all the affection in the world. And there is certainly more than a kernel of truth to her assertion.