I found it hard to believe that they were only two weeks old. Their ears moved in the direction of any sound, and their faces already seemed to express ancient wisdom. Balzac looked at us from beside his mother.

Kelly and I were choosing our first llama. We watched Levi nurse from a black llama with a white neck.

“That’s Fancy, his mother,” Sally said. “His father, Rama, is away right now, being used for breeding. Like Levi, he’s appaloosa. We think Fancy and Rama are outstanding in looks and intelligence. We gave Levi his name because he has such good genes.”

Kelly preferred Levi’s pattern of spots, and I liked his name. Spots and a name were funny reasons to select a llama, but Sally knew far more about llamas than we did, and we trusted her evaluation that either young llama would suit our needs. We chose Levi.

Sally loved her animals–I could tell from the gentleness with which she handled them. She and her husband Paul had begun with two llamas a few years ago, and now had a large herd. “I come out and watch them whenever I can,” she said. “Sometimes I’m out here for hours. They’re such social animals, there’s always something going on. Look in the field by the barn.”

A dozen llamas were clustered together. “There’s a week-old llama in the middle of the herd,” Sally said. “We just put her and her mother in with the main herd, and the other females are curious.” I could scarcely see the baby, as the llamas were all trying to sniff her. My eyes returned to Levi.

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy Levi,” Sally said. “What made you get interested in llamas?”

“It just seemed to happen,” Kelly replied. “Before we moved to Oregon, I picked up a brochure about going packing with a group called Shasta Llamas. Rosana was working in the library in Santa Rosa then, and she came across a book called Along Came a Llama. We both read it, and were impressed with the intelligence and sensitivity of the animals.”

Next we went to see some llamas, just for curiosity, a pleasant outing for an afternoon. That day we realized that llamas could be useful to us, for packing and for wool.

“That’s how we became interested,” I said, “but I’m still puzzling over why.”

My background had very few animals in it. I had grown up in an academic family, with my nose in a book. The book might be an animal story, but throughout my childhood I would walk several blocks out of my way to avoid large dogs. I studied anthropology in college, became a probation officer and later a librarian, taught self-hypnosis and time management, and traveled around the world.

Kelly had at least grown up in a rural area. There were sometimes sheep or cattle on the land his parents owned. He grew up to work in film and video, play jazz saxophone, and do carpentry. He loved plants, animals, and inspiring views.

In our life together we evolved a style which was in some ways close to the land, and in other ways rushed and urban. We raised gardens and chickens. We lived by the ocean and later in an old summer camp set in apple orchards. While I worked in a busy public library system, Kelly made films and obtained a patent on a method of animation.

We were living in a trailer, situated on seventy undeveloped acres in the rugged mountains of southern Oregon. We had just moved there, and were putting in water, electricity, and a garden. The land was steep and dry, reminding Kelly of southern Idaho where he had grown up. At its highest point, there was a ridge along which a wonderful assortment of wind-swept juniper trees grew, so we named the land Juniper Ridge. The urban amenities we craved were just twenty minutes away, in Ashland, a town which combined the friendliness of rural Oregon with the sophistication of being a world-renowned theatrical center.

It would be a good time to bring llamas into our lives. What might we learn from them? Like dolphins and elephants, llamas seemed to have an intelligence very different from our own. Was there a possibility that we would develop a greater sense of harmony with nature from living with llamas? We hoped so.

We would have to wait six months for Levi to grow up and be weaned from his mother before he could come to us. As we left the Taylor’s ranch, I felt the same excitement mixed with unreality I had felt when we bought our land. Dreams coming true generally led to surprises–usually pleasant–and more dreams. Levi would be our llama, and I wondered what it would really be like. We planned to get another llama to keep Levi company; maybe we would even have a whole herd.

Would our dogs get along well with Levi? Martha, now thirteen, was happy to spend long hours under the kitchen table, becoming alert chiefly when food appeared. I didn’t expect her to pay much attention to llamas.

Cider would. A Rhodesian Ridgeback puppy just a few weeks older than Levi, she was growing into a long-legged, large dog, loving to run. She was of a breed developed in Africa to hunt lions. Sometimes Martha let Cider attack her, but we were Cider’s main playmates.

Sally sent us photos of Levi; he gazed at us from the refrigerator door, along with a Peruvian postcard of a llama herd which my father or grandfather had picked up in their travels over the past fifty years, little imagining that llamas would become a topic of intense interest to their descendent. I was sorry they had both died before I could ask them about it.

Breeding would be an enjoyable way to earn part of our living. We had the money to buy a female or two, and investing in llamas seemed a totally positive act. From what we had seen so far, llamas were good for people, bringing out a sense of wonder and delight.

I was concerned about my ability to become a llama midwife. Llama births were usually normal, but now and then human help would be needed. What if I were home alone and had to help a llama give birth?

While we were thinking about it, I received a phone call from a llama owner who lived nearby. Her first llama birth had been the day before, and Lizabee was bubbling with enthusiasm. She came home from shopping to find four llamas in a field where there had been three.

It seemed that the new little llama had been born just a few minutes earlier. He wasn’t nursing yet. She decided to milk the mother, just to make sure all the teats were unclogged. “I’ve never milked an animal in my life, but when you have to, you learn!” she said.

He began nursing soon, but over the next few hours he became weaker. “So I gave him an enema–and believe me, I’d never given an animal an enema either. But I did it, and almost as soon as I finished, he perked right up.”

I was impressed. “How did you know what to do?”

“I just knew what I’d heard at the conference and what I’d read. Luckily, I knew what I needed to know. It sure was thrilling.”

The first night she slept out in the llama pasture, waking up frequently to look at the new baby lying by its mother, both clearly outlined in the moonlight.

If she could learn, I could learn. Kelly and I went to take a look at two female llamas we had heard about at the llama conference. We didn’t like the looks of the first llama. We learned from her that we were beginning to develop our taste in llama conformation.

We had heard a lot about the second female at the llama conference. The man selling her, Dan Schoenthal, was especially fond of this female, as she was the first llama he had seen being born. “Posey is practically Dan’s daughter,” a friend had joked.

Posey was about a year old. She had long brown wool, a white neck, and some black on her face. At the conference we had peered at slides held up to the light, but we hadn’t been able to tell much. She was being kept at Tom and Toni Landis’ place. We arrived around noon on a hot summer day. Llamas were grazing in the pastures and standing under several deep shade trees. Tom came out to greet us. “I bet you’d like to see Posey first thing,” he said.

She stood in the field among the other llamas. She was slight of frame, not very short but delicate. She was totally feminine. Her eyes were large and brown, complete with long, long lashes. There was something coquettish about her walk as she approached the fence, cautiously coming closer for a better look at us.

Toni had told me at the conference, “We named her Posey because she reminded us of a ladylike young ballerina, one still in the chorus.” It was an apt description here, with the other llamas moving gracefully behind her. There was one other llama watching us, a young black one. She moved away, and my attention returned to Posey.

Tom brought a lead rope, and we caught her after a little chase. Once caught, she submitted–with a slight tremble–to being handled. She came up right next to me and blew on my face. I blew back; this was a llama greeting I knew. She continued blowing, nuzzling my face, sniffing my ears. I had never been so thoroughly cuddled by a llama. I was enchanted. I thought briefly of the poison oak in the pasture, and decided it was worth some risk for this sensitive touch, this sweet alfalfa breath blowing on my face and hair.

“How friendly you are,” I murmured to Posey, my attention riveted to her like a lover’s. Posey and I were in our little cocoon world, and I don’t know which one of us finally pulled away.

“She’s a real sweetheart,” Kelly was saying. “Does she come up to everyone like that?”

“No, not at all,” Tom replied. “Rosana made a real hit.”

“So did she,” I said, still in a daze.

Kelly was holding her lead rope now, feeling her wool and being nuzzled. I tried to come out of my daze. Emotion was no way to buy an expensive animal, I told myself. Think of her conformation, her wool, her genealogy. Ask about any weaknesses or possible problems. Ask about veterinary care. So I did all that. Kelly had some questions too. The answers were satisfactory.

They had a carefully tended ranch here, we could tell, and it was evident that the animals received good care. Within fifteen minutes Posey was ours.

We were travelling in our little Subaru station wagon, thinking of this trip as an exploratory expedition. We hadn’t planned on coming home with a llama. But Kelly said, “I wonder if Posey might fit in the back of the car.” If we packed our overnight bags on top, it seemed there would be room.

There was. Tom found someone else to help, and it took two of us pulling on Posey’s lead rope from the front, and two shoving her flailing legs in from the rear. Quickly there was one surprised llama in the back of our small car. She grunted a little as we shoved her in; then she settled down to a steady stream of hums. As we prepared to leave, I put my face up to hers. She blew on me. I blew back, and we were off.

After many years when our savings account rarely exceeded a hundred dollars, we were slightly astonished to find ourselves able to afford female llamas. Real estate was the reason. We had sold our place in California for far more than it had cost us seven years earlier, and I had inherited some money from the sale of my family home in Washington, D.C. We felt a responsibility to use this money wisely. Late-night talks had ultimately boiled down to llamas, with some of the funds going for developing our land. We were keeping our housing costs minimal, the better to get started with llamas.

So we were in the right mood when we heard of two small llamas for sale, one a female and one a male. We didn’t think we needed another small male yet, but this llama aroused our curiosity. He was at Dan Schoenthal’s. All black with a white nose, Whiskers was several inches shorter than Posey, very intelligent, and already trained.

Our most urgent autumn chores were done: the llama sheds were built, water lines buried, firewood collected, driveway graveled. It was late October, and still Indian Summer, a lovely time for a trip. We cleaned up our old van, found a llama-sitter, and headed north.

We took Cider along. She perched happily between us on the engine cover, looking out the window at everything. She was a year old now, and beginning to grow out of her puppy excesses.

Indian Summer gave way to Oregon drizzle as we entered the green Willamette Valley. Our first stop was at Safley’s, a llama ranch we hadn’t seen before. They had the small female.

The place was an enchanted forest. “You’ll recognize it by a llama statue out front,” Ken Safley had told me on the phone. The large statue was set in an open field, and suggested that this was no ordinary ranch. Behind the field was woodland, and flitting about among the trees we could see the delicate shapes of dozens of llamas. The continuing rain made the place seem all the more magical: with no clues from the sun, we were suspended outside of time.

Ken gave us a tour, beginning with the forest. Surrounded by beautiful female llamas was the bushy-eyebrowed stud, John L. Lewis. The herd was graceful, mostly medium-sized, with long wool. They were friendly, but stand-offish enough that you could walk easily among them. “I don’t like a herd that crowds you,” Ken said.

It was fairyland with practical touches. The trees were wrapped with wire, to keep the llamas from eating the bark and killing the trees. There were two latches on the gate between pastures. “That way, if I should miss one, the other will hold,” Ken pointed out, as we moved into the next field.

Here were the little ones, six months and younger, with their mothers. The woods sloped down to a creek, very full this rainy day. A rounded footbridge led to more pasture. Ken showed us the mother and the grandmother of the little female he had for sale.

Finally we came to her. She was in a large, open barn, with a group of newly-weaned six-month-old babies. She was eleven months old, and shorter than any of them, though more filled out. We walked among the babies. They ran this way and that, continuous movement swirling around us. The one we came to see was standing still, watching us.
She had inherited her father’s bushy eyebrows, I was pleased to see. I liked her looks: a nice straight back and thick, wavy wool.

And she was so very small. “She’ll grow more,” said Ken, “but both of her parents are on the small side. She’s not going to be a big llama.”

We sat by the fire with Ken and his wife Marge, and talked of llamas. They had once, years before, stopped for breakfast in the town of Sisters, in eastern Oregon. They drove past the Patterson ranch, which even then had a large llama herd. One thing led to another, and they soon found themselves the owners of Bonnie and Clyde. “They’re grandparents to that small one you looked at,” Marge said.

I was in the habit of asking llama breeders for their opinions about llamas as an investment. Where most cattle or sheep ranchers I’ve met would sigh or swear about their financial prospects, llama breeders tended to smile.

Ken smiled. “Oh, I think they’ll continue to be an excellent investment,” he said. “Suppose you kids got to the point where you could sell a pair of babies a month. Build up your herd a while, and look where you can be in ten years’ time.” His words cheered me.

The Safleys were so hospitable that we stayed for hours, absorbing information, swapping tales. We were to give them a call the next day, or come by, if we wanted to buy the little female. As soon as we started driving, Kelly said, “We’d be crazy not to buy her.”

“I wish I liked her face better,” I said.

“I like it,” Kelly said. “She’s got character. Did you notice how still she was once we caught her? She’s a pretty calm cookie.”

“I’m glad I don’t have to decide this very minute,” I said. “I’ll probably be clearer in the morning.” The Safley’s place would be right on our way home the next day.

Night had fallen by the time we got to Dan’s place, and it was raining hard. He was willing to go out with a flashlight and find Whiskers, so the three of us ran through the pitch-black fields to the barn. The rain was finding its way down my neck, my feet finding their way from one puddle to the next. The barn light shone dimly on huddled llama shapes.

Dan brought us into his barn, an old two-storied one, with a trap door to nether regions. He left us there while he went to find Whiskers.

It was almost Halloween. “What a great place for a spooky party,” I said, peering down through the trap door. “I wonder what’s down there.” The rain on the tin roof was suddenly softer, and we could speak in normal tones.
“I love the look of black llamas,” said Kelly. The rain was louder on the roof again, and we saw an approaching flashlight.

The Halloween mood continued as a door banged open, and a shape entered, all black except for a bit of white in front. It shook, and revealed itself as a wet llama. “Whiskers, I presume,” said Kelly.

Whiskers roamed around the barn. Another llama wandered in, this one much larger. Dan came last. “The black one is Whiskers, of course,” he said.

“He already introduced himself,” I said.

“This one is Kemo,” Dan continued. Kemo was a giant next to Whiskers. “I brought him in for contrast.”

Whiskers was about Tumbleweed’s height, but more delicately boned. The tip of his nose and mouth was white; everything else black. In the dim light of the barn, he looked very black.

“You say he’s trained?” Kelly asked.

“Yes, he leads very well. I took him to the state fair, and he was very good there among all the crowds. Here, I’ll show you.” Dan put a rope on Whiskers, and led him around the barn. “Whiskers, sit down,” he said, with a slight tug downward on the lead rope.

Whiskers sat down on the board floor. “I wish now that I hadn’t, but I gelded Whiskers’ father. His mother died last year. So one good thing about Whiskers as a breeder is that he won’t have a bunch of close relatives running around.”

Dan handed me the rope. “Tell him ‘up,’ and pull a little upward,” he instructed. I did, and found myself face to face with one alert llama. I led Whiskers around the barn, skirting the open trap door. Dan and Kelly were discussing barn construction.

I couldn’t tell what he thought of my offer. Kelly walked him around a bit, and we all prepared to leave, the humans to talk in Dan’s kitchen, the llamas to go out into the dark night again. I knew they had shelter out there; Dan explained that they didn’t always choose to use it. We had already noticed that with our three at home.

Over tea, I tried to articulate a recurring question. “I keep wondering what I’m doing with llamas. It’s exciting to go around looking at them, and they’re lots of fun at home, but I wonder if it isn’t going to turn out to be just another passing fancy.”

“Being around llamas tends to be addicting,” Dan said with a grin.

“Yes, I’ve noticed that, but I’m vaguely uncomfortable with my `back-to-the-land’ impulses. Oh, it’s wonderful to have a garden, and I do love our land and the llamas, but sometimes I’m afraid of missing out on the really important things, of not making any significant contribution with my life.

“My classmates from Stanford are distinguished professors by now, doing research. Or they’re fairly high up in the government. Or combining motherhood with a full-time medical practice. And what am I doing? Breeding llamas. This is the twentieth century, this is the nuclear age, this is a time of incredible challenges, and I just wonder if I’m retreating from the real issues by taking on llamas.”

Dan told us why he was involved with llamas, breeding them, training them, studying them, brokering them, planning a trip to South America. “I think there’s a lot of significant work that can be done with llamas. They have an important place in healing the breach between man and nature.

“I see what happens on every pack trip we take. Everybody relaxes during the trip. You might expect that just from being out in nature. But it’s more than that: people notice the sensitivity and intelligence of the llamas, and it blows their minds. They start thinking about all kinds of things. You wouldn’t believe some of the conversations we have, on those llama trips. I’ve been told many times that they have had a profound impact.

“Humanity must come to a greater appreciation of nature, and it must happen pretty fast,” he went on. “If not, well, there’s a point of no return out there someplace. If we blow it, it won’t be just for ourselves. I’m not doing all this for people. I’m doing it for the llamas.”

“Dan, thank you,” I said. “You’ve just handed me a missing piece of my own personal jigsaw puzzle. Not that I’m going to start doing all the things you’re doing. For some reason I’m pretty optimistic about the future of our planet. But what you’ve said gives me more of a feeling for how my enjoyment of llamas could be the basis for something. If this sounds vague, it is. But food for thought.”

It was late, and we went out to sleep in our van. As we lay there listening to the rain, I thought of times I had heard the rain on the van in Guatemala. I thought of the harmony with nature of the Indians there, and I thought of the large amounts of pesticide they breathed in the coffee plantations. Nothing was simple. But I had a new piece of the puzzle. Thoughts of llamas turned into dreams of llamas. Whiskers was telling me things.

When we woke, it was still overcast but not raining. We took our tea out to the pasture to watch Whiskers. We thoughtlessly brought along the bran muffins we were having for breakfast, and a dozen curious llamas would gladly have relieved us of them. It seemed somehow rude to eat in front of them, so we retreated to the van to finish breakfast.

We scarcely had to discuss it; both of us felt Whiskers would be a fine addition to our little herd. Kelly arranged the van for llama hauling and puttered with the engine.

I went back to the llama pasture, taking Cider with me on lead. I wanted to watch Whiskers’ interactions with the larger males. Dan had said Whiskers could be quite a fighter, one who wouldn’t hesitate to take on llamas much larger than himself. Nobody was fighting this morning. Cider wanted to play with the llamas. To distract her, I walked her around the large pasture, letting her sniff this and that, a bush here, a dung pile there.

At first the llamas watched us from afar. Then they all came running across the meadow, Whiskers in the lead, Kemo a close second. We made quite a procession, meandering around the pasture at a dog’s pace. Whenever Cider would turn toward the llamas, they stepped back a little. When she turned away, they came up closer.

Dan joined me there. “Kelly said you’ve decided to take Whiskers,” he said, and I felt that he was glad. “Be sure and take him places, do things with him, or he’ll be bored. He loves to have a good time.”

I sat for a while by myself in the pen with the little one and the young weanlings. They were restless and humming, perhaps because they had recently been removed from their mothers. She was quiet, watching me in a relaxed way. We made eye contact for several long, hypnotic seconds, and I felt that I was seeing her soul in her dark eyes. I liked her.

I roamed around, trying to find what my reluctance was. Was my intuition trying to tell me something? The footbridge across the creek beckoned, and I sat there, dangling my legs over the side. Aha! Spending that much money was bothering me: even though we had planned to do it, parting with thousands of dollars was not easy.

Once I realized it, I laughed. A little anxiety wasn’t going to stop me from buying this llama. I imagined how it would be to have her in our herd, and it felt lovely. As I stretched and looked up, a young llama was romping across the meadow, nice symbol of fecundity and increase.

“Well, I’m finally ready,” I murmured to myself, and went to find Kelly.

Loading the struggling young one in the van was a job, but soon we had both llamas settled. We tied Whiskers up, just in case he decided to try breeding the new one.

Whiskers had been humming interrogatively, but once we loaded the female, he was quiet. On the front seat, Cider was shaking with curiosity.

The new female stood up for more of the trip than Whiskers did. The only rough part of the drive was going through Eugene during rush hour, having to zig and zag through unfamiliar streets on our way to the freeway. The llamas tended to bump as we turned right or left.

We stopped for dinner after dark. As we sat eating hamburgers in a crowded fast food place, I watched the outlines of the llamas as they moved around in the van. Whiskers bumped the back light switch on, so it was easy to see the two new members of our family.

We arrived home late at night, in a drizzle. By flashlight we unloaded the little one in with Posey. Posey came racing over making loud clicking and snorting noises. Levi and Tumbleweed always responded to Posey’s clicking with their low-rider posture, but this young female lifted her tail and stood up straight. She and Posey sniffed each other.

“Posey, meet Lil Bit,” I said.

I led the new one into the shed, and took her lead off. She noticed the hay. Then I leaned against the juniper tree and watched while the two females got acquainted. Posey followed the newcomer around, sometimes clicking. Lil Bit didn’t make any sounds.

Kelly led Whiskers into the males’ field. Smelling noses and rears was the main activity over there too. It was all very amicable. We hadn’t really known what to expect.

The rain increased, and we went inside.

The first llama I saw in the morning was Whiskers, looking in our bedroom window. Tumbleweed and Levi soon wandered out from the barn, large Levi lurking in a submissive pose behind Tumbleweed. Whiskers strolled the perimeter of the field, gazing at the females. He looked right at home.