People notice the yaks first.
It is difficult not to. They look as though they wandered out of an older, wilder story and decided our pasture would do. They are shaggy, substantial, watchful, and completely unconcerned by the fact that I may have plans for the day.
Tashi, Sweet Momma, or Bad Baby… Each has a distinct way of moving through the world. One is bold and tests everything, another cautious, another convinced that every bucket contains something personally intended for them, and one that wants nothing to do with you unless we are playing “Which side of the fence am I supposed to be on?” Spend enough time around animals and the idea that they are interchangeable becomes ridiculous.
Yaks are not decorations. They require feed, fencing, observation, patience, and the willingness to learn what they are telling you before the message becomes expensive. They are also part of the larger question behind this farm: What happens when we make room for animals and knowledge that do not fit neatly into industrial systems?
There is a romance to seeing a yak outlined against a North Country sky. There is less romance in frozen water, damaged fencing, mud season, or discovering that a creature with horns and strong opinions has developed an interest in the exact place you need to stand, or that the pasture you like for them isn’t up to their standards that day. Both versions are true. Romance and reality.
Most of the time, yak are amicable, but they aren’t just another cow. They are bovine.
That is what I want to share here: not animals as scenery, but animals as living history, daily responsibility, and individual characters. They shape the farm, interrupt the schedule, and make ordinary mornings feel briefly prehistoric.
The last thing you want is to find yourself on the wrong side of an animal that outweighs you many times over—especially one carrying a three-foot span of horns.
Tashi is one of the gentlest giants I have ever worked with. But even the gentlest animal can have an off day—or simply forget, for one careless moment, how small and breakable the human standing beside him is.
When we first moved to New York, every one of our yaks broke out.
Every yak except Tashi.
While we spent three exhausting months chasing nineteen yaks through the Adirondacks and down to Lake Champlain, Tashi stayed home. He waited for his herd.
Each night, I would go out and talk to him. The pasture must have felt terribly empty, but there he remained—steady, patient, and exactly where he belonged.
Eventually, one by one, we brought them all home.
Tashi had been waiting for them the entire time. I just love this big guy.
Tell me: Have you ever met a yak in person? And what would you like to know about living with them?