The Bull I Never Meant to Breed

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about HHH Gold Kanyon. It’s funny because everyone knows him as the 2022 ROE Show Bull of the Year. People know the banners, the championships, and the calves he’s producing today, but almost nobody knows the story behind him. The more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve realized that his story and mine have always been connected. Looking back now, I don’t think it’s possible to tell one without telling the other.

The strange thing is that Gold Kanyon was the bull I never meant to breed. That sounds ridiculous considering I’m listed as his breeder, but it’s true. His dam was one of the best cows I’d ever purchased, and his sire was an outstanding bull. There was nothing accidental about the quality behind him. What wasn’t intentional was that particular mating. Emmaline had been pregnancy checked and was believed to be open. The plan was to synchronize her cycle so she could be bred to a different bull I was leasing. Based on everything we knew at the time, I gave her Lutalyse as part of that breeding plan.

What none of us knew was that she was already about four months pregnant. By all accounts, she should have lost that pregnancy, but she didn’t. We had no idea she was even carrying a calf until six months later when she surprised us with a little yellow bull standing beside her. That calf was Gold Kanyon.

Looking back now, I think it’s fitting. From the very beginning, nothing about his story happened according to my plans. His very existence was unexpected, and in a lot of ways that’s exactly how the rest of his story unfolded.

When Kanyon was born, there wasn’t anything about him that made me think he would become one of the most important bulls I’d ever own. He wasn’t the biggest bull calf, the flashiest, or the most muscular. He had plenty of good qualities, but in that group of bull calves he simply blended in. If someone had lined them all up and asked me which one would someday become Bull of the Year, I honestly don’t think I would’ve pointed to him.

In fact, I’d already decided his future. By the time he was only a couple of months old, I’d taken a deposit on him as a steer. He also wasn’t especially friendly. During farm tours there were calves that wanted all the attention and followed visitors around looking for treats. Kanyon wasn’t one of them. He stayed back, kept his distance, and was always a little skittish. The family buying him wanted a sweet little pet, and as he got older I realized he just wasn’t the right fit for what they were looking for. Rather than send them home with a calf that didn’t match their expectations, I offered them another steer with a much friendlier personality, and they happily took him instead.

It’s funny how life changes because of decisions that don’t seem important at the time. I didn’t keep Kanyon because I thought he was going to become a national champion. I kept him because another calf fit that family better. If I’d loaded him on that trailer, I often wonder how different my life would look today.

After we weaned him, I started looking at him differently. I still can’t explain exactly why. He had settled down, become incredibly sweet, and every time I watched him move I liked him a little more. There wasn’t one dramatic moment where I suddenly knew he was special. It just slowly became obvious that maybe we should leave him intact and see where things went.

We entered him in a show, and he won. So we entered another, and he won again. Then another. Before long we were traveling all over the country showing a bull that wasn’t even supposed to exist.

We weren’t one of the big farms. We didn’t have endless money or a crew of people traveling with us. We were just a small farm with a bull that somehow kept beating cattle from breeders we’d admired for years. Every win felt surreal. Every banner made us believe a little more that maybe we actually belonged there.

If I’m honest, the success changed us. Before long we were spending nearly every weekend traveling across the country showing cattle. Winning became exciting, the celebrating became more frequent, and the drinking became more frequent. Looking back, I don’t think I realized how much that lifestyle was changing us. What had started as a fun hobby slowly became our entire life.

It wasn’t just the show ring. The farm was growing, our social media was growing, and for the first time it felt like we were finally making it. Looking back, I don’t think I realized how much of my identity had become wrapped up in all of that.

At the same time, I was trying to balance two completely different worlds. The farm had grown into something much bigger than I’d ever imagined, but I also had my family’s jewelry store. The farm was never supposed to take away from that. It was always supposed to be my side business. Instead, I found myself trying to give everything I had to both. I’d work all day at the jewelry store, then come home and everything revolved around preparing cattle for the next show. Looking back now, I can see I was trying to hold together two dreams that were both demanding more of me than I could give.

Eventually Nebraska came around. For the first time, I decided I couldn’t miss work. I stayed home while my ex took Kanyon by himself. I didn’t think twice about it. I thought Kanyon would probably win again, they’d come home with another banner, and life would keep moving exactly as it always had. I had absolutely no idea that the events that transpired that weekend would change my life forever.

When they returned home, nothing seemed different at first. Christmas season at the jewelry store was getting busier. Kanyon was being prepared for the biggest show of his career. Life just kept moving. Then overnight my 14 year marriage ended and my world came crashing down. My husband took Kanyon with him and left for Denver.

Despite everything happening in my personal life, I still wanted to be there to watch Kanyon compete in Denver. I had raised this little yellow calf from the day he unexpectedly hit the ground, watched him grow into a national contender, and I wanted to watch Kanyon finish that show season. Instead, a confrontation unfolded outside the arena between my ex and I. Law enforcement became involved, and I never got to watch Kanyon’s final show. While everything else in my life was unraveling, Kanyon walked into the ring for the last time without me there.

Kanyon lost that day. Despite losing in Denver, he’d already earned enough points throughout the season to become the 2022 AHCA Roll of Excellence Bull of the Year. I remember one of the last things I ever said to my ex. “Was it worth it? All the weekends we spent at shows. All the money. All the time. Losing our marriage in the process. Was it worth it… for a banner?” 

When everything was over, I had Kanyon shipped back home to North Carolina. I unloaded him from the trailer, opened the gate, and turned him out with the cows. From that point on, he simply got to be a bull. I honestly didn’t think much about his show career anymore because that entire chapter of my life hurt too much to revisit. Honestly for a while there I blamed him for ending my marriage. I wanted to just sell him because of the memories associated. At times I even wanted to just call it quits and sell the farm all together.

Time passed, and Kanyon did what good bulls are supposed to do. He bred cows and made nice calves. Somewhere along the way, I stopped seeing him as a reminder of one of the hardest seasons of my life. This year, as I watched the very first of his daughters become a mother, looked across this year’s calf crop, and realized I was starting to love the farm again, I found myself seeing him differently. I’m beginning to notice the consistency in what he’s producing, the quality of his calves, and the beautiful udders he’s putting on his daughters. For the first time in years, I found myself asking that old question again: Was it worth it?

If I’m honest, I wouldn’t have chosen any of those chapters. But I also wouldn’t trade the life I have today. That doesn’t mean the heartbreak was good, and it doesn’t mean I’d ever choose to relive those years. It simply means they weren’t wasted.

Today, I’m remarried, and I’m genuinely happy. I have a husband who is a better partner than I ever knew was possible. The funny thing is, I never even knew a man like him existed, so I never would’ve known to pray for someone like him. I’m starting to love this farm again. I’m excited about the future, I’m excited about the cattle, and for the first time in a long time, I feel hopeful about what’s ahead.

Looking back, I realize I thought I knew exactly what my future was supposed to look like. I thought I had my life planned. I was wrong. Not because my plans were bad, but because God could see a future I couldn’t. He didn’t make the pain beautiful, but He brought beauty out of it. I don’t know why everything happened the way it did, but I do know those years stripped away a lot of pride and taught me what really matters.

When I stand in the pasture now and watch Gold Kanyon’s daughters and this year’s calf crop, I don’t just see a bull anymore. I see a story that began with a pregnancy nobody knew existed, continued through victories I never expected and seasons of heartbreak I never imagined, and somehow ended with more joy than I knew was possible.

For years I asked whether it had all been worth it. Today I realize I was asking the wrong question. The banner was never the point. Bull of the Year was never the point. There was a time when I looked across the pasture and saw the bull that I thought had cost me everything. Today, I look at that same bull and realize he wasn’t the end of my story. He was the beginning of a completely different one. Through every unexpected turn, every broken plan, and every season I thought my life was falling apart, God was quietly writing a story far better than the one I would’ve written for myself.