My grandfather, Robert Francis McKinnon, was raised on that very farm. Alongside his siblings, he lived the rugged rhythm of ranch life: everyone worked, everyone contributed. His brother would tragically die on the land they called home. Though Robert fulfilled his duties on the dairy, his true identity was clear to anyone who knew him: he was a Cattleman.

He was never happier than when he was deep in the canyons of the Gentry Mountains, horseback under the open sky, or scouting the 'flats' in search of lost cows. On one of these excursions, he discovered a Native American burial ground, and the artifacts from that sacred find are now preserved in the Utah State Archaeological Museum.

Robert’s passion for the land and his cattle was rivaled only by his devotion to his family—and to my grandmother—and his love of vodka. But sadly, the latter would claim him too soon. With his passing, the McKinnon farm began its slow unraveling.