A dairy farm bus tour

Long bus rides are not my thing.

This is probably due to my childhood experiences with school buses. The bus would stop at the end of our farm's driveway early every school day morning. After my siblings and I piled aboard, the bus would jostle along on a teeth-loosening, convoluted route that traversed much of the state. We would arrive at the school just in time for the start of classes.

The torture of the bus ride was followed immediately by the punishment of attending class. No wonder buses give me a bad vibe.

Our school buses had zero climate control, so we had to endure whatever Mother Nature was dishing out. The buses were sweltering when the weather was hot and bone-chillingly frigid in the wintertime. There was a small heater for the driver, but its output was approximately the same as that of a birthday candle.

When the bus windows frosted over, we would use the sides of our hands and fingertips to make fake baby footprints on the glass. We hoped a passing motorist would see the footprints and think, "Oh my gosh! There's a barefoot baby in that bus, and he's so desperate to get out he's sending a distress signal with his tiny feet! We have to stop the bus and rescue that poor baby!"

The bus became a mobile pizza oven during hot weather. We would slide the windows down, but the increased airflow did little to decrease our discomfort. It felt as though we were in a wind tunnel that was attached to a blowtorch.

As if all that weren't bad enough, I often became carsick as a kid. Because of this, I was allowed to sit in the front seat between my parents during long car rides. I always felt better when I could see the road. And it was elevating to be up front with the adults.

Sadly, this issue remained unresolved for my long school bus rides. Many a mile passed as I fought the feeling that breakfast might make a second appearance. Our family physician should have given me a card that read, "To whom it may concern: Please let this boy ride in the front seat or there may be projectile consequences."

You can see why I was wary when I recently participated in a dairy farm bus tour.

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I tried to get a seat at the front, but they were occupied by our tour guides. Where was that doctor's card when I really needed it?

I sat a few rows from the front, next to a young lady named Maggie. Maggie was personable and upbeat, a very pleasant traveling companion. After a few minutes of conversation, I realized that Maggie is just 20 years old. I have socks older than that.

The bus lumbered and lurched toward our first dairy farm visit. Upon arrival, we were offered coffee, donuts, and chocolate milk. Not a bad way to start a day; although, I was worried about what this food combination might mean for my stomach.

After viewing Holsteins lounging in sand-bedded free stalls – every day is a day at the beach for those cows – we reboarded the bus and rumbled toward our next stop, a dairy farm with an on-farm cheesemaking facility.

It was a scorching hot and windy summer day. Modern buses, I learned, have air conditioners powerful enough to turn passengers into ice cubes. Stepping out of the bus and into the superheated summer air was like exiting a freezer and entering a hairdryer set to "incinerate."

But it wasn't all bad because we got to sample some cheese curds. I wasn't brave enough to try the spicy ones that were labeled simply, "reaper."

We were trundled back onto our buses and headed for our next stop, a dairy farm that milks cows with robots. I continued to chat with Maggie, secretly hoping the combination of chocolate milk, donuts, and cheese curds wouldn't produce an eruption.

Milking robots in no way resemble C-3PO. They are purpose-built machines, controlled by computers that collect scads of data including what sort of mood the bossies were in when they were milked.

We were also treated to more dairy goodies, including yummy cheese-and-roast-beef hoagies.

During the entirety of the bus ride, my view consisted of a small patch of windshield and the backs of several heads. I chatted with Maggie during the interminable homeward leg and was thus able to keep my mind off my stomach.

In retrospect, the dairy bus tour was a thoroughly pleasant experience. My only regret is that I lacked the courage to try the fiery "reaper" curds.

About the Author: Jerry Nelson and his wife, Julie, live in Volga, South Dakota, on the farm Jerry's great-grandfather homesteaded in the 1880s. Daily life on that farm provided fodder for a long-running weekly newspaper column, "Dear County Agent Guy," which became a book of the same name. The book is available at Workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.