On my first birthday, I received a gift: a pair of cowboy boots and a note inscribed with the words, Go west, young man. My folks packed up the Chevrolet Impala and we trekked across the Midwest, Ohio to Oregon.
We arrived at a cattle ranch in the hills outside of Molalla, overlooking the Dickey Prairie valley. We lived there only a short time, but the memories stuck: the smell of the hay fields, the sound of cattle bawling at feeding time, and the raw sensation of riding bareback.
Forty-five years later, I walked onto a property in those same hills and took a deep inhale. Mt. Hood stood majestic in the distance under a lapis-blue sky. The fields were dusted in ice crystals, surrounded by oak savannas and towering firs. I knew this was the place. As I pulled out of the driveway, it hit me-the ranch where we spent our very first night in Oregon was within shooting range.
Having just acquired a 17lb Maltese Poodle named Reuber Dagno at a fundraising auction, I was determined he needed a place to roam. Our mission became clear: honor the land, regenerate the soil, and protect the majestic oaks. Rancho Dagno would be a heritage sanctuary-a place to live silently and breathe deeply. A place where the work is meaningful, the livestock are well-bred, and the evening mezcal is always top-shelf.
