The White Cow of Sierraville

Somewhere between daylight and whatever comes next, I photographed a white cow in a field in Sierraville.

She stood alone in the tall grass, illuminated by the last of the golden hour. There was nothing particularly unusual about her. She was, after all, just another cow in cattle country.

But some animals seem to belong entirely to the landscape.

Others appear to have stepped into it from somewhere else.

This one felt like the latter.

Maybe it was the color of her coat against the amber meadow. Or the way she looked directly at me... calmly, knowingly... as if I were the curiosity. Or maybe it was the strange history beneath the ground where she stood.

Nearby are Sierra Hot Springs (historically known as Campbell Hot Springs). For thousands of years, Indigenous people came to these mineral waters, which were understood to be shared rather than owned by any one group. Evidence of their presence has been found throughout the property, and Washoe elders have returned to share memories of the place.

The springs are a product of geothermal activity along the eastern edge of the Sierra Nevada mountains. Groundwater seeps deep underground where it’s heated by the earth's natural geothermal gradient and volcanic remnants, before rising back up to the surface through fractures and deep fault lines.

According to an 1863 account, an early settler encountered the boiling, steaming water and fled back to his companions shouting:

“Turn back, for God’s sake, boys—

hell isn’t a half mile from here!”

The warning did little to discourage anyone.

Miners came to “take the waters.” Later, the springs became a destination for the well-to-do, with a hotel, dances and celebrations. People claimed the water could cure everything from rheumatism and gout to kidney ailments and skin disease.

The man who developed the resort, former Sierra County sheriff Jack Campbell, was later murdered while sitting on the porch of a hotel in Sierraville. During the Cold Creek Fire of 1959, the resort owners reportedly submerged their valuable liquor supply in the swimming pool, only to have a firefighting crew discover it and pass the bottles toward the fire line in a bucket brigade.

Then came the New Age years, the Consciousness Village commune and seekers hoping to achieve rebirth—and perhaps even immortality—in the warm mineral waters.

That’s a lot of history for one quiet meadow to hold.

Which brings us back to our white cow.

Looking at her through my camera, I remembered The Legend of Lough Gur, an old Irish fairy tale dating back nearly two centuries ago.

In Celtic folklore, white animals frequently arrive as messengers from the Otherworld. They appear at the edge of things: beside lakes, beneath full moons, in forests, fog and lonely fields.

They remind us that the visible world may not be the only world.

Now, I’m not suggesting that the white cow I photographed has supernatural powers like the one in the Irish fairy tale.

I’m merely reporting that she was standing there, white as moonlight, in a meadow beside ancient springs that rise mysteriously from deep within the earth. And that when she looked at me, I suddenly felt less like a photographer taking her picture and more like a visitor who had been allowed to glimpse at a moment of grace.

After all, fairy tales may not convince us that cows can walk across water. But they do encourage us to consider the possibility that the world is more bewildering and more alive than we’ve been led to believe, or taught to imagine.

The white cow in front of me eventually lowered her head and returned to the grass.

The sky lit up with textures and colors I’ve never seen before. Then the light faded and darkness quickly swept in.

Nicola, Boo and I returned to our car tent under giant pine trees. The following morning I wrote this story in my Journal, doing my best to remember the magic we were lucky enough to experience.

I’ve learned not to dismiss these encounters too quickly. Sometimes the miraculous announces itself with thunder and lightning, or a crashing wave along a rocky shore.

And sometimes it’s simply waiting in a pasture, quietly chewing grass.

The miraculous is always nearby, but it can’t be possessed. It can only be noticed, appreciated, and shared while it’s here.

Note: History details drawn from “Plumas Past: Taking the Waters,” by Lindsay Morton.

All photographs by Michael Kennedy (unless otherwise noted) / BlueWolfGallery.com

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I’m Michael Kennedy, a resident of Olympic Valley, CA (in photo above). I’m a photojournalist and I love exploring nature and getting lost along the way. We live in a world that demands our attention and I just want to say thank you for your attention. If you enjoyed this post, please share with a friend. For more photos and stories visit BlueWolfGallery.com.