Spring 2003
Phone rings. I pick up.
“Bob! What’s an alpaca?”
No hello. No context. Just a blunt question, dropped like a brick into my Saturday morning. The voice on the other end was my brother Chris—confused, irritated, and sounding like he thought I’d failed him as a sibling.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Why?”
“Mom and Dad showed up with a magazine with these animals on it and said they were gonna raise alpacas!”
I paused, trying to make sense of what I’d just heard. I had no idea our parents were even thinking about raising animals—let alone creatures I’d only vaguely heard of. Most of my conversations with them at the time were about the contractor and the farm renovation headaches. If they were quietly researching livestock on the side, it had slipped completely under my radar.
“I didn’t know they were into alpacas,” I told him. “That’s news to me.”
Chris wasn’t impressed. I was the big brother—I was supposed to know things. Supposed to have some insight. But I had none. The more I thought about it, the more it worried me. Between the renovation delays and dealing with flaky contractors, it already felt like Mom and Dad were juggling too much. Adding exotic livestock to the mix? That sounded like a disaster waiting to happen.
So that weekend, I drove to the farm. I needed to see this with my own eyes.
By the time I arrived, it wasn’t just an idea. It was already happening. My parents had contacted an alpaca ranch in Salem, a small town east of Clarksburg. They’d spoken with a couple named John and Barb—first-time alpaca ranchers like themselves, close to my parents in age. The call had gone well. They hit it off immediately, and plans were made. Over time, John and Barb became more than just fellow alpaca enthusiasts—they became close friends and an integral part of our lives. Family, really, by every definition except blood.
Their first alpaca was already picked out. His name was Montana—a strong, confident male with rich brown fleece and a black-and-white patch on top of his head that made him look like he was wearing a fuzzy yarmulke. Montana had presence. He was a born leader, and once he was placed with our future herd, he stepped into that role like it was second nature.
But alpacas are herd animals. You can’t just have one. So my parents contacted another ranch in Shinnston—Heart’s Desire. There they met Mike, the owner, who helped them select a few female alpacas to begin the foundation of their herd.
All of this had happened before Chris or I had heard a word about it.
When my parents got back from visiting Chris in Boise, I sat down with them to try and understand what, exactly, they were thinking. My mom explained it matter-of-factly: they had looked at cattle, pigs, and other livestock, but when they weighed the economic risks and benefits, alpacas came out on top.
“They’re low maintenance, stress relieving, and the fiber is worth good money if you breed right,” she said, like she was listing grocery store pros and cons.
That weekend, they took me to Heart’s Desire. As we pulled up the gravel driveway, I remember being hit by the smell—not like cows or pigs, which reeked of muck and sweat. Alpacas had a different scent. Cleaner. Earthy. The sweet smell of hay was strongest.
And then I saw them. Two to three hundred alpacas, spread out over the rolling hills, a rainbow of fluffy neutrals—white, black, beige, gray, chocolate brown—all humming, bouncing, blinking back at us like we were the zoo exhibit. I was in awe. It was like stepping into a Dr. Seuss book.
We sat down with Mike, and I asked what I figured was the most obvious question anyone could ask:
“Why on earth would anyone want to raise alpacas?”
He laughed. “They’re quiet. Gentle. No butting heads like goats. They spit if they’re annoyed, but that’s about it.”
He went on to explain that alpacas are creatures of habit. Change freaks them out. If you switch trailers and they don’t recognize the color, they’ll just stand there for twenty minutes until one brave alpaca works up the nerve to go in first.
And the economics? At the time, it was all about the fleece—and more importantly, breeding. U.S. borders were closed to alpaca imports, so the gene pool was limited and highly valued. A well-bred alpaca with fine crimp and soft fiber could command six figures in stud fees. With an 11.5-month gestation and only one cria (baby alpaca) per pregnancy, the supply was slow. That made them desirable.
By spring 2003, before the contractor had even been fired, my parents had purchased half a dozen alpacas. Montana was boarded at Heart’s Desire alongside our newly acquired females. My parents now had herd health responsibilities—monthly checkups, vaccinations, and vitamin regimens. U.S. soil doesn’t provide all the nutrients alpacas need, so supplements were part of the deal.
It wasn’t just a whim—it was a whole operation. And to their credit, my parents were taking it seriously.
I started helping too. I learned how to hold an alpaca still for a shot. How to check their teeth and toenails. How to listen for the soft hum they make when they’re content. There was something calming about them—something disarming. Within minutes of being around them, whatever stress I was carrying faded away.
As strange as it all seemed at first, the deeper I got into it, the more I realized this wasn’t just a quirky midlife decision. It was part of something bigger. My parents wanted to leave a legacy. Something more than a house or a plot of land. They wanted to build something my brother and I could inherit—something that reflected their new life, their values, their peace.
And in some oddly poetic way, alpacas were the perfect symbol of that peace.
Looking back, I probably should have seen it coming. My parents never did anything halfway. Still, nothing could’ve prepared me for the moment I walked into a pasture and was introduced to Montana, our alpha alpaca, like he was the family’s new four-legged business partner.
Of course we were raising alpacas. Why wouldn’t we be?