Road Stories

There is just something unique about the smell around a feedlot. Those heavy, pungent odors rear back and punch you in the face once you step out of your vehicle.

I was at a feedlot in Earth, Texas, photographing a cowboy there. We set up a portrait of him horseback in one of the pens. I tiptoed through the poop patches, carrying my camera and a flash mounted on a tripod.

Tripp Townsend, the manager and owner, recommended that I roll up the windows, otherwise the flies would take up residence. But despite the windows sealed tight, I couldn’t prevent the feedlot smell from creeping in. It burrows into the fabric of your shirt.

I asked Tripp if he gets used to it. He said he does, kind of.

“It always hits me in the evening when I get in the shower,” he says.

Must be because of the stark contrast between Dial and doo doo.