Of all that it takes to run a farm, and there is plenty — tasks, details, responsibilities, and nuances — the single most defining element of life on a farm is the first cutting of hay.

The smell of freshly cut first-crop alfalfa is unique in and of itself. Subsequent cuttings never quite match the aroma and experience that first harvest delivers. It is a task that defines the remainder of the growing season. In my teenage years I would prep the haybine and spend a day or more simply mowing back and forth, laying down 80 or so acres in preparation for chopping silage. Always in late May or early June, my routine was to go shirtless on an open-station tractor. Back and forth, back and forth, repetitious, simple work that allowed me total freedom of thought.

In my teenage years, going shirtless on an open-station tractor meant no sound protection, no air conditioning, and no protection from the sun. I would end the day as red as a boiled lobster, but would not burn for the rest of the season. My ears would ring for days afterward from the constant mechanical vibrations of the tractor and equipment. And with no radio, I was free to let my mind wander and immerse myself in whatever train of thought presented itself.

My favorite aspect of cutting hay has always been the interaction with the natural environment. Hawks circle overhead, casting shadows that move in lazy concentric patterns. Looking up, there are several birds of prey flying patterns stacked on one another like aircraft awaiting clearance to land. Here and there, a rodent darts out from the standing alfalfa, only to be pounced upon by a sharp-eyed hawk. If I look at just the right time, I see a bird fold its wings and dive with deadly precision straight to its target. As I pass by on the tractor no more than a stones throw away, the hawk turns its head, following my movement, eyes locked with mine. Amazingly, the hawks never seem to care about the tractor or the haybine; their gaze pierces my own as I roar past.

My, how times have changed. In May 2023 as I tackled first crop alfalfa, I buzzed back and forth in the safety and comfort of an air conditioned cab, laying down acreage in half the amount of time as my teenage self. The radio played softly in the background, and the hum of equipment was little more than a mechanical lullaby. From the soundproof, filtered cab I was cocooned from the aroma of freshly cut alfalfa, and sheltered from the interactions with the hawks.

Throughout this particular cutting, I hosted a college-educated agriculture intern, who rode along in the tractor’s buddy seat to learn about the silage harvest. I talked about the things farmers tend to base their haymaking decisions on — cutting in wide, thin swaths for baling versus compact, narrow windrows for silage; the advantages of a tedder versus raking to achieve maximum drying; rollers versus impellers for conditioning; you know, industry jargon that makes perfect sense to those of us whose office is the tractor seat.

The intern replied, “I didn’t learn about any of this stuff at college — most of my education was related to rules and regulations regarding fertilizer and chemical application. Before today I had no idea the difference between a windrow and a swath. I didn’t know the first thing about taking a cutting of alfalfa.”

Nearing the end of a pass, I throttled the tractor to an idle and disengaged the PTO. I parked the tractor along a fencerow. The intern opened the comfort of the cab door to a blast of sweltering humidity and engine noise and the aroma of freshly cut alfalfa, all of which had been absent throughout the morning.

We walked along the windrows, sharing in one another’s knowledge. The intern knelt down and grabbed a handful out of the windrow, reciting with academic precision the variety of plants, insects, and weeds emerging throughout the field. I scraped the shockingly dry soil with my workboot, which created a small cloud of dust.

“This is the first time I have ever cut alfalfa in May where the tires are throwing dust rather than clumps of mud.” A couple of hawks circled overhead, ever mindful of positioning themselves between their prey and the sun.

As we finished our reflective business, the intern and I climbed back into the cab to resume cutting, once again removing ourselves from the natural world. The college-educated intern volunteered, “Thank you — I never learned any of this hands-on stuff from a book, but it all makes perfect sense.”

I put the tractor into gear, slowly released the clutch, engaged the PTO, and swung the equipment around to take the next pass. At a time when technological advances and academic knowledge seem to have usurped farmers’ relationship with the natural world, the dryness of the soil is a subtle reminder that now more than ever, there is a need for both.

— Dan Wegmueller is the owner of Wegmueller Farms and his column appears regularly in the Times. His website is https://www.farmforthought.org.