Gabe and I sit and visit in the machine shop, a gray steel-sided building filled with tools and machinery. It smells like grease, just like my dad’s machine shop. He opens a beat-up refrigerator to grab us bottles of cold water and I spot tempting craft beer inside. A blind border collie, Pistol, rubs against my leg, asking me to pet him, which I do. I tell Gabe I’d like to talk about the controversial stuff, the political stuff, the challenges. What’s it like to speak to auditoriums full of farmers who think you’re a crackpot? Gabe leans back in his chair, ready for a long-haul conversation.
“Everybody laughs and makes fun of you, says you’re going to go broke and all that. We just laugh.” Gabe actually laughs at this point. “You can’t let it bother you. One thing about me going out and speaking—and I don’t know how many people I speak in front of every winter, thousands upon thousands—you always have your naysayers. You realize only a very, very minute percentage of those are going to grasp regenerative agriculture right away. Some will grasp it a little further on. Even so, 95 percent of them will never get it. So be it. I can only do what I can do.”
Farmers and ranchers fail to understand the regenerative model not because it’s too complicated, he says, but because they don’t want to. They’re wearing the conventional agriculture blinders, like some of Paul’s students or the family in Colorado. “There’s an old saying that goes, when the student is willing, the teacher will appear. You’ve gotta have that philosophy,” Gabe says. “I tell people, I’m not trying to tell you what you should or shouldn’t do. I’ve never been on your operations. That’s for you to decide. I’m only sharing my story. But I’ll tell you this much. At the end of ’98, we were about as broke as broke can be. Now, within ten years I could retire and give this farm to my kids and they would never have to worry about money, and I won’t, either. In ten years. The amount of profit we’re making now is astronomical compared to before.”
Gabe isn’t afraid to appeal to the potential for higher profits. If he can prove that he’s making more money with regenerative agriculture than conventional, then he has a farmer’s ear to tell the rest of the story. Gabe talks about how much money they’ll save by switching, explaining that it’s tough to go broke under the regenerative model because most of the expenses farmers are worried about disappear, and the remaining costs, such as seed, hay, and fuel, shrink considerably. Again, he returns to his own experience. “This is a true story,” he tells me. “I’ve had the same tax accountant for fifteen years now. I went to him last year and he says, ‘Gabe, you’ve got problems. You have no expenses. You are going to end up paying a pile of taxes.’ And I said, ‘I know, and isn’t that great?’ That means I’m making money. So what? I don’t mind paying some. But I’m not going to go out and buy a new tractor just to prevent paying taxes.1 I won’t do that. He says, ‘But you got no expenses.’ My chemical fertilizer is zero, no fungicides, no pesticides, my herbicide’s a pittance, we don’t use fuel because it’s all no-till. I’m not using near the fuel we used to.” Still, he hears objections. “So many people think, ‘But I have equipment payments.’ Well, do you have to have the equipment? Drop out what you don’t need,” Gabe says. I hear an echo of Kevin and his “for now we walk” philosophy. Gabe is down to a twenty-foot seed drill, three tractors (mostly for moving snow), a haying machine, a baler, a truck for hauling grain and seed, a grinder-mixer for processing feed for the poultry and hogs, and a few other small pieces of equipment. Everything but the drill is about twenty years old. Cutting out equipment payments, and the fuel and maintenance that go with the machines, has saved him hundreds of thousands of dollars.
For farmers who’ve already transitioned to regenerative agriculture, Gabe offers simple but revolutionary advice in the farming world: take your profit first. Here’s how—after a few years of farming in the new model, Gabe says, a farmer knows roughly what he or she will produce in a year: a certain number of calves at about this weight, this many bushels of grain, or whatever the case may be. Gabe encourages producers to figure out what profit percentage they want (within reason), and then limit themselves to spending only what’s left. That’s not so hard in the regenerative model, he says, because expenses are so low. “It’s virtually impossible when you think holistically to go broke,” he says. “Obviously if you get hail four years in a row, it’s possible, but that’s highly unlikely. Nature can throw you a curveball, but then you just readjust.”
“The thing of it is, you never go back and spend any of that profit that you were paid,” he continues. “I tell producers, if you would have a job in town, your employer wouldn’t be able to come and take those wages back from you. So why do we as farmers and ranchers allow our wages to be spent on inputs instead of putting it in our pockets?” This is why Gabe’s advice is so revolutionary: farmers rarely put profits to off-farm use, if there are any. Under the conventional model, farmers and ranchers need to continually reinvest profit back into the operation so they can get bigger and avoid getting out. Just meeting conventional expenses is a challenge, let alone saving for expansion, so farmers tend to keep minimum living expenses for their families, but not much else.
This was a constant source of conflict between my parents while I was growing up. The farm soaked up money like a sponge, which rarely appeared to trouble my father but upset my mother, who was tasked with running a household of four children on a small budget. She felt that the family received mere drops of the revenue stream while the farm received a torrent. We always had enough to eat and wear and my parents left no bills unpaid, but by American middle-class standards, which I understand now that I live in a city, we lived very simply. Not that money and material possessions are life’s most rewarding things, and obtaining them is not why Gabe, or even conventional farmers like my parents, choose to live on the land. Still, farms and ranches are businesses, not hobbies. They need to be financially viable. Gabe knows what it’s like to be broke, and he doesn’t want to go back there. He farms regeneratively mostly because of his principles, but partially because he would rather have a secure financial future. A cornerstone of his argument is that conventional farmers work harder for less money, while regenerative farmers work less and earn more. Convincing farmers to accept this fact is the first step in transitioning our nation’s agriculture.
Another cornerstone is that the regenerative model offers farmers greater control. They are no longer forced to accept what the market will pay for commodities, the American farmer’s struggle since the dawn of industrial agriculture. Instead, they can set their own prices or receive premiums for being organic, grass-fed, and so forth, which reduces stress. Gabe offers a concrete example. “I speak a lot out in the Corn Belt: Missouri, Indiana, Illinois, Ohio, all that,” he says. “The average cost to produce a bushel of corn last year in those areas was right around $5 a bushel. Well, it cost me $1.42. Corn right now, I just saw it advertised in Minot, North Dakota, is $2.36. I can still make money. Not all that much, but I can still make money. There’s not a lot of people who can at that.” Under regenerative agriculture, farming would feel less like gambling and more like a thoughtful response to the land and consumers. Gabe recalls speaking to conventional farmers in Missouri the previous March. Everyone was chatting about how many acres of corn and soybeans they were going to plant and what price they were going to lock in on the futures market. Somebody asked Gabe what he planned to do. “I said, ‘I pay no attention to the markets,’” he tells me. “Doesn’t matter to me. For one, I’ve got so many different things I can market, and I’m controlling the price I receive. I set my own prices. So what do I care? The futures market and that, I don’t have to pay any attention to that.”
Like Phil, Gabe’s independence from market forces has allowed him to do something most conventional farmers could never afford: he collects no government farm assistance to supplement his income. He’s not alone. Many colleagues that go on speaking tours with him use a similar production model and have also opted out of government payment programs. “We’re now out of all government programs,” he says with pride. “I don’t take direct payments, I don’t take part in crop insurance. I was in an EQIP [Environmental Quality Incentives Program] contract.2 And for one more year I still have a CSP contract; that’s the Conservation Security Program. The only reason I didn’t bow out of that is because it’s more of a headache to NRCS [Natural Resources Conservation Service] if I do so because they would have a lot of paperwork to do, so they said, ‘Just wait.’”
It’s important to remember that not all crops are subsidized—most food crops like vegetables and fruits are not, and neither are livestock—but many commodity grain crops like corn, soy, wheat, and rice are. Most subsidies go to big farms: of the $20 billion doled out in 2005, the largest 10 percent of farms got 72 percent of the money, while 60 percent of farms received nothing.3 Corn farmers pocketed almost half of that $20 billion.4 But virtually all farmers and ranchers can purchase federally subsidized crop insurance and receive farm-related tax breaks, especially corporate farms and livestock operations. Federal and state programs prop up the industrial food system, a system no one could survive in without government help.
If we used government programs to support regenerative agriculture, then we would be able to justify their existence. Now, though, the system gives handouts to farmers and ranchers that are neither fair nor necessary, Gabe argues. “Does Bison have a café?” he asks me. Yes, I say. “Go to that café in Bison. Do they get their insurance premium subsidized? I’m sure not. So how come we do it for farmers? Is the café getting direct payments? No, but we give them to farmers. And I think that’s wrong. Let’s face it; this country has a huge debt problem. It’s huge. So why should I, when I’m making plenty of money doing what I’m doing, take those? That’s why I wanted to prove to people that it can be done. Our family just decided enough is enough. Somebody has gotta do it.”
“I get really upset at farmers and ranchers and how they complain about people on welfare,” he continues. I understand what he means: in general, farmers and ranchers tend to be politically conservative. They often view programs for the poor, like food stamps, assistance for single mothers, and unemployment benefits, as fiscally irresponsible and socially destructive because, they argue, these programs encourage laziness. Yet they don’t see their own government payments as welfare. “I’ve actually said this when I’m out speaking to groups: I think every farmer or rancher should write the number down how much they paid the IRS, then start deducting your direct payments, your crop insurance subsidies, your EQIP contracts, your CSP contracts, and then ask yourself who’s really on welfare. Of course in the Corn Belt they about come unglued. But it’s true.”
Ironically, conventional farmers have more in common with the poor than they realize. Government assistance aside, both farmers and the poor battle a system designed to keep them powerless. A combination of inadequate education, racism, classism, and many other factors often prevent the poor from securing decent-paying jobs and rising out of poverty. Instead of helping people up the socioeconomic ladder, America’s social system perpetuates more poverty, much like the industrial food system and the treadmill of production push crop prices ever lower, encouraging consolidation, mechanization, and dependence on chemical agriculture. Farmers stuck on the treadmill of production are not much different than people trapped in poverty’s vicious cycle. Still, politically conservative producers tend to argue that assistance to farmers is different because farmers are needed to feed the world—as if their human worth is somehow higher. In their minds, the farmer identity makes them more deserving of aid. Conventional farmers often fail to see how their “contributions” are actually making our world less habitable every day.
It’s one thing for strangers to laugh at and reject you. It’s another for your community to do that. For Gabe—and many farmers and ranchers who opt out of conventional agriculture—pushback comes from neighbors, friends, and family, the very people who are supposed to provide support. In places where conventional agriculture is the norm, like North Dakota, people tend to view nonconformists with suspicion and even hostility. “Every time I take another level and start doing one more thing, I see a lot of my old friends and . . .” Gabe’s words trail off as he decides how to describe the criticism. “I’m still friends with them, but not near as close as we used to be, because they feel really uncomfortable with what I’m doing.”
Practicing regenerative agriculture takes thick skin. While this requirement will likely go away as such agriculture becomes the norm, it’s necessary for now. Regenerative farmers and ranchers have to be prepared for harsh criticism, social isolation, and arguments in person or in court. Think, for example, about a producer trying to grow organically when the neighbors next door spray their fields with Roundup, which runs off during rains, drifts over on the breeze, and creates virulent superweeds. If an organic field becomes contaminated, then the organic producer will lose his or her USDA organic certification and be forced to repeat the three-year waiting period as the land detoxifies. Meanwhile, conventional farmers, who are under extreme pressure to increase yields as quickly as possible, have little time to take extra precautions. GM crops pose a more serious contamination risk than agrochemicals—they’ve been known to cross with non-GM crops and appear without warning in other fields, ditches, or nonfarm areas. If cross breeding occurs, organic farmers can’t save their seeds and must pay the GM seed company, such as Monsanto, a fee or face a lawsuit. It’s not hard to see how neighbors could end up in court over issues like these.
Gabe has counseled farmers through the emotional stress that usually comes with transitioning to regenerative agriculture. He admits the transition is hard. “The one thing, without a doubt, that is the toughest for a lot of people to get used to is the scrutiny and criticism. That without a doubt is the hardest for a lot of people,” he says. “For me it hasn’t been much of a problem because, one thing is, I grew up in town. I’m not from a farm. People expected me to fail. They’ll tell you that. I’ve had people walk up to me and say, ‘Gabe, I never would have thought you would make it.’ Though it’s been a hindrance—I’ve had to learn everything the hard way—it’s my greatest asset because I’m open-minded. There’s nothing that I won’t look at and consider.” Being a “town kid,” he faced criticism from the start, so farming regeneratively didn’t change his social position like it does for conventional farmers. Still, his story reveals the double burden carried by farmers with nontraditional backgrounds. Whether they practice regenerative agriculture or not, people who move from urban areas to raise livestock or crops tend to experience some form of negativity from their neighbors. They might be labeled as naïve or written off as nothing but hobby farmers. Though Gabe has accepted the pushback, he’s not afraid to push back, too. “One thing about me, I’m pretty outspoken. You’re going to know where I stand,” he says. Outspoken might be an understatement, I think to myself. “I’m not going to tell you you’re stupid and a fool and all that. But I will challenge you and say, ‘Why are you doing that?’”
“I’ve got many more people who want to learn,” he continues. “They challenge me and help take me to the next level, and hopefully I do the same for them.” I ask if he has any stories of people who’ve changed their operations after hearing him speak or going to one of his workshops. Gabe tells me about what he calls an unofficial fan club that developed in South Africa. A group of farmers followed his work for years online, then started growing cover crops and diversifying their livestock herds. Gabe had no idea this was happening until they emailed to ask if they could visit the farm, which they did. Similar groups exist in Australia, South America, and Canada. He offers another example: a week before I showed up, Gabe was in Missouri at the National Grassfed Exchange Conference, speaking to a crowd of three hundred or more people. During a discussion session, a young guy stood up and told the crowd that four years ago he didn’t know where to go when it came to farming. He was stuck in the conventional model. Then he went to a meeting and listened to Gabe and the other speakers, and a light bulb turned on. Now the young man is using cover crops and mob grazing, and he’s excited about farming again. Knowing his work has inspired others keeps Gabe motivated and helps him forget about the criticism he weathers both at home and out speaking. “You’re like, wow, I am making a difference to somebody,” Gabe says.
“It is real rewarding when we take our food to town, our meat and that, and you got people just falling all over you, so to speak, to get it, to buy it. That’s rewarding, too,” he continues. Some people might write off Gabe’s feelings as just that: feelings, those subjective things that capitalism has little room for. Feeling rewarded by one’s work doesn’t pay the bills or generate profit, and it should rarely guide business decisions, the thinking goes. But Gabe’s words resonate with me because they hint at something we rarely talk about when it comes to producing food: the psychological well-being of farmers and ranchers. Like other people, farmers and ranchers deserve and often crave emotional fulfillment from their labor. That rewarding feeling is something most of us strive for. As Viktor Frankl writes in Man’s Search for Meaning, life offers three primary sources of meaning: creating a work or doing a deed, experiencing something or encountering someone, or choosing to find meaning in unavoidable suffering. Many Americans seek meaning in the first way, through work. No one says to the high school senior, “Seek a career that you find meaningless, one that provides no sense that you are contributing something good to the world.” But we do not live in a perfect world, and therefore many people wind up working jobs that provide little to no fulfillment and, in too many cases, become depressed. That’s what has happened to farmers. In the industrial agriculture model, they are simply cogs in the food-producing machine. They are worth little more consideration than the machines they operate. Everyone is encouraged to put production, profit, and technological progress ahead of the land and human health. No one is encouraged to seek personal fulfillment.
I think of my brother, who is already frustrated with conventional agriculture just four years in. I worry that if he doesn’t change how the farm operates, he’ll never find meaning in his work. I worry he will be controlled by the farm, as my father is, instead of rewarded and emotionally nourished by it. Even today, while Gabe and I are talking, Josh is at home on the swather, too busy haying to join me on the interview. He can’t even take a day off for educational purposes or what the business world would call “continued training.” I express my worries to Gabe and ask what advice he has for people who are looking to transition their farms and ranches to regenerative operations. What would you say to people who are overwhelmed by the scale of what needs to be done in order to start, as I suspect my brother is, or who are older and set in their conventional ways, like my father?
The first step is overcoming the fear of failure. Gabe says conventional farmers and ranchers worry about losing the control (or the illusion of control) that pesticides, herbicides, and synthetic fertilizers provide. Giving that control back to unpredictable nature can be scary. “When you work with nature, you’ve got to realize everything is in cycles,” Gabe says. “It’s not like you can have this uniform number of predators and prey, it’s just a cycle. Some years some things are going to do better than others. That’s been a challenge, learning how to accept that nature has those ebbs and flows, so to speak. You have to kind of learn to take what nature gives you.”
Producers also need to stop making excuses for why regenerative agriculture won’t work in their area. Like Gabe, I’ve heard a lot of these excuses over the years: the environment is too dry, too wet, too hilly, too hot, too cold, and so forth. Gabe says there is no such thing as an environment where holistic thinking doesn’t apply. “It can be done anywhere because the principles are the same,” he says. “I always hear, ‘We don’t get the moisture or this or that.’ The principles are the same everywhere. There’s nature everywhere. You’re just mimicking nature is all you’re doing.” Despite the vast size and environmental differences between Phil’s, Kevin’s, and Gabe’s operations, for example, they operate under the same basic principles, principles that could be applied to almost any farm, by any farmer. That’s the only commonality we really need in our agriculture: a commitment to basic principles of regeneration.
The most important advice Gabe has for farmers and ranchers, though, is to keep learning. Seek new perspectives, read, be open to new ideas. “The biggest thing is, you have to have an open mind,” Gabe says. “Then, find others who are doing it and are experienced. The one beautiful thing about this regenerative type of agriculture is, the majority of people doing it, they went through the transition themselves. A lot of my closest friends went through tough times, too, and that’s what got them switched. When things are rosy, nobody’s going to want to switch. I told people for the last several years, when corn prices were six-plus dollars, are you ready for when they are three? You better be getting ready now. If not now, when? So just start doing it.”
“The other thing is, you gotta start slow,” he continues. “Take baby steps. Like I tell people with cover crops, I say just try it on like forty acres, one field. But commit yourself. Say ‘I’m going to do it for five years.’ There’s no going back. You either commit to that or not. Once they get through that, it’s very few who go back.”