A Rancher’s First Goodbye

I believe I officially crossed a threshold this week.

Every morning at Aina Iki Ranch is gloriously unquiet. Six different flocks greet me with eager, insistent quacks as I make my rounds — topping off water, scooping feed, collecting warm eggs. It’s a daily chorus I’ve come to love and look forward to. Their chatter is how my mornings begin.

In the middle of that familiar symphony, I discovered my first ranch passing.

I audibly said, “Oh no,” and instantly remembered the day before. In that exact same spot — beside a piece of our old water catchment system we’ve repurposed into a duck barrier — I had seen a coconut and, for a split second, thought it was a dead duck. I shook it off and moved the coconut aside. Standing there now, with Ms. Pencil resting in that very place, it felt less like coincidence and more like a premonition I hadn’t understood at the time.

Thankfully, Auntie Val was already outside that morning — she’s usually behind her writing desk at that hour — cleaning out rooster cages after Helper John had retrieved the roosters the day before to deliver them to a friend. I called her over, and together we assessed the scene.

We didn’t disturb Ms. Pencil at first. We looked carefully. There was a small trace of blood from one nostril — a sign that suggested concussion. No wounds. No flies. Her body was still soft. That’s when I learned something new: animals often pass, remain soft, then enter rigor mortis, and later soften again. The ranch is always teaching.

We gently turned her over, checked her wings, inspected for any signs of egg binding. She was healthy. Strong. No obvious internal struggle.

Our conclusion: she was likely struck by a falling coconut earlier in the morning, became disoriented, wandered briefly… then laid down and never woke back up.

There are harder ways to go. For my first ranch goodbye, I’m grateful it was a gentle one.

Val picked her up, handed her to me, and then led the way to where she “sends off” smaller ranch animals — those not as near and dear to us as some of the others. The especially beloved angels make their way to Mama Mango.

She wasn’t warm anymore, but she wasn’t cold either. As we walked, a single drop of blood from her nose landed on my ankle.

It felt like a quiet initiation.

We thanked her for her time with us. We thanked Mama Gaia. And then she “flew” one last time — over the fence — to nourish the pigs and complete the cycle.

I shed a few tears and thought back to the day before — to that strange moment when I mistook a coconut for a duck in that very spot. I had brushed it off then, but standing there now, it felt like something I hadn’t fully seen. Being here has deepened my intuition — my mysticism, my inner witch — and moments like this make it hard to ignore how alive this land feels.

Aina Iki Ranch rests along the 19.5° latitude line, within a sacred triangle formed by Hale Kamahina, Kapoho Crater, and Cape Kumukahi in Puna — an area many consider one of the earth’s energetic vortex points. Whether you call it ley lines, vortex energy, or simply the wisdom of the ʻāina, there’s an undeniable sense that life and death move closely together here. Honest. Immediate. Sacred.

Ranch life isn’t curated. It isn’t filtered. It’s compacted mud, splashing water troughs, scattered feathers, fallen coconuts, repurposed catchment shelters… and sometimes saying goodbye to a member of the flock.

Moments like this remind us that caring for animals — truly caring for them — is both tender and practical. It requires presence, reverence, and steady resources.

That’s why your support matters.

When you virtually adopt one of our animals, you’re not just making a contribution — you’re helping keep this sanctuary thriving. Your support helps us improve shelters, provide feed for the animals who can’t financially “earn their keep” (like our sweet duckies), and maintain the daily care that allows every life here to be tended with dignity. You become part of the steady, practical love that keeps this place alive.

Ms. Pencil’s time here was brief. But she fed us in more ways than one.

Abundance takes time.

We’re building it season by season.

If you’d like to be part of this journey, we’d love to welcome you into the ʻohana.