The sun wasn’t high yet when the first gate clanged open. By then, the dust was already rising and the air carried that familiar weight of work. Out here, the job doesn’t wait for comfort. It gets done because it has to. That’s just the way it’s always been.

**Jason Mayan rides alongside his daughter Mary at first light—a proud father guiding the next generation in the rhythm of ranch life.**

The roundup at Mahon Ranch was underway. Roughly 120 head of cattle would pass through the chute before the heat gave way to evening. Vaccines. Ear tags. Eye treatments. Castrations. There was no ceremony to it—only rhythm. Purpose. And the quiet understanding of people who know exactly what needs to happen next.

They came in on four-wheelers and horseback. The machines cut through the open fields fast, but once the herd funneled into the corrals, it was the horses that mattered. They moved on instinct—a shift in the rider’s weight, a soundless signal. No commands shouted. Just trust built over time.

**Cowboy Kona—steady in the saddle and generous in spirit. None of this would’ve happened without his invitation. Grateful for the trust and the open gate.**

Troy Mayan on the quad, Kona on horseback—two generations, two approaches, one goal. Different tools, same mission: keep the herd moving and the tradition alive. Tyler Anderson holds the line on the far left, steady as ever.

I was there to photograph it. Not as a tourist, not as a guest—but as someone trying to blend in, earn trust, and get the kind of images that don’t happen unless you’re standing in the same dirt. Literally. At one point, a calf broke loose and it took three cowboys to wrestle it down. I swung my light, dropped to a knee, and framed the moment. Only later did I realize I’d knelt straight into a pile of fresh cow shit. That’s the price of a good photo. It didn’t even register.

Out here, you’re not just documenting a process. You’re stepping into history. The Mahon family has worked this land since 1882, when John Mahon purchased it and began raising hops. By 1890, it was one of the largest hop ranches in Sacramento County. Over time, hops gave way to wheat, cattle, and a way of life that ran deeper than profit margins. Four generations have lived and worked here—through Prohibition, war, drought, and inflation. Some things changed. Many didn’t.

The man I rode out with in the morning, Jack Mahon, told me stories of getting two weeks off school for harvest season. Everyone had a job. That was just life. A far cry from today, when most people driving down Grant Line probably have no idea a working ranch even exists beyond the trees.

That absence of recognition doesn’t bother the Mahons. They don’t chase attention. They just do the work. As Tom, one of the core men behind the operation, put it: “We were raised that the ranch comes first, then your family, and yourself a distant third.” Brutal? Maybe. But it’s how this place has endured.

Tom showed me a knife—an old one, worn and stained. He found it when he was 11 or 12, buried in a muddy riverbank. He gave it to his dad, who cleaned it up and gave Tom his own knife in return. They used the riverbank knife for castrations from then on. Still do. Thousands of bulls have passed through that blade. There’s history in its edge, and in the way it gets passed from hand to hand without fanfare.

Tom holds the same knife he’s used for decades—found as a boy in the mud near a riverbank, it’s become part of the ritual. Tools come and go, but some earn their place through time, grit, and tradition.

Many of the men working that day will likely carry this ranch into its next chapter. Jason. Tyler. Troy. They moved among the herd with purpose, some of them sons or nephews, others brought in through blood or bond. No one was just standing around. Everyone had a job. And there was no need to say much.

**Tracy Lynn Mainville, Kona’s girlfriend, handles the chute with focus and calm. Like most on the crew, she jumped in wherever needed without hesitation.**

Allysa Biddle doesn’t miss a mark. One hand on the brand, the other on break time — just another day at Mahon Ranch.

This wasn’t a public-facing event. It wasn’t a show. It was the kind of day that leaves your clothes stiff with dust, your hands raw, and your boots heavy. And yet, I loved every minute of it.

Some of the photos won’t make it into the public eye—not because they’re bad, but because they’re raw. Bloody tools. Split ears. A calf thrashing under the weight of three men. That’s the truth of it. Ranch work isn’t sanitized. It’s physical. It’s sometimes brutal. But it’s always done with care. You don’t put your hand on a tool like that without respect.

This is a way of life shaped by calloused hands, early mornings, and decisions that outlive the ones making them. You can feel it in the gates, the fence lines, the worn saddle leather. You can feel it in the way they look out over the fields, always measuring, always remembering.

The ghosts of cowboys past still roam this place. And every time someone swings a gate, ropes a steer, or drops to a knee beside a calf, they pay tribute.

My thanks to Cowboy Kona for the introduction and to the Mahon family for letting me into their circle, even briefly. I’ll be back. With my cameras. And probably with cow shit on my boots.

Tom Mayan and his son Troy — two generations bound by dirt, grit, and a deep loyalty to the land. One raised on the ranch, the other raised by it. Tradition doesn’t just continue here — it stands shoulder to shoulder.

**Two trades, same principles. Tom with his pocketknife—broken in by decades of work. Me with two cameras—still trying to keep up.**

Technical Note

This was a self-assigned project—something I believe every working photographer should make time for. It wasn’t for a client, a publication, or a paycheck. It was driven by curiosity, respect for the craft, and a desire to tell a story that deserves to be told.

The images were captured using a Nikon Z9 with a 70–200mm lens and a Nikon Z8 with a 24–70mm lens—both dependable tools in fast, dusty, and physically demanding conditions. Lighting was added with a Godox AD600 strobe and a Phottix deep dish to push through harsh midday sun. I used a Cotton Carrier 3G harness to manage both cameras comfortably throughout the day, and each lens was fitted with a circular polarizer for better control of tone and reflection.

Sometimes, the tools help elevate a story. Other times, they just help you keep up.