Forever Young: Forgotten Farmer Rebels Crossed US in Epic 1969 Tractor Drive

The 1969 Wild Bunch. From left: Front row, Mary Taylor, Noelle Greathouse. Second row, Jim Campbell, Carlyle Greathouse, Linda Crawford. Back row, Max Miller, K.B. Brown, Dale English.
The 1969 Wild Bunch. From left: Front row, Mary Taylor, Noelle Greathouse. Second row, Jim Campbell, Carlyle Greathouse, Linda Crawford. Back row, Max Miller, K.B. Brown, Dale English.
(Photo by Chris Bennett)

As a snapshot in a helluva barnstorming sequence, it reigns as a moment for the ages.

Breaking the darkness of Clay County, Indiana, at 9:56 p.m., July 20, 1969, a band of American farmers on a cross-country quest huddled outdoors around the glow of a tiny television. Crouched in a semi-circle, they craned tan-lined necks and gaped at an otherworldly event unfolding in real-time beneath static dust on a 9”, black-and-white screen.

The surreal tableau of dirty-booted farmers gathered around a rabbit-eared TV set on a summer’s night was accented by historic irony. Completing a 238,900-mile leg to the moon, Neil Armstrong carried the hopes of the world as he stepped into lunar dust. The farmers goose-necking at Armstrong’s moon walk likewise were filled with expectation on a monumental journey—650 highway miles under a baking July sun to raise hell in the proverbial void of Washington, D.C.

Almost a decade prior to more high-profile tractor protests of the 1970s, 26 Midwestern farmers slipped almost entirely under the media’s eye and drove open-cab tractors from central Illinois to Capitol Hill in Washington, aiming to rattle the cages of career politicians and remind the government about the struggles of farm country.

Against the tumultuous backdrop of 1969—Vietnam, Woodstock, Chappaquiddick, and the Manson murders—the Illinois caravan participants left crops in their fields and hit asphalt with no assurances of passage, guarantees of safety, or promises to be heard. They rode under a common belief: Apathy was inexcusable, and inaction was unforgivable.

“Corn was about $1.10, wheat was maybe $1.25, and soybeans were close to $2.50. How do you make a living off that?” asks Max Miller, 91, who drove the six-state trek atop an open-cab International M. “We were part of a history-making event that I wish farmers of today would remember, because you always pay a higher price later by doing nothing.”

Illinois—Indiana—Ohio—Pennsylvania—West Virginia—Virginia—and finally, Washington, D.C.

Welcome to the rollicking Tractor Drive of 1969.

The Boisterous Bull

The raw dollar reminders of 1969 are sobering. On average, a new house cost $15,500; personal income per year was $8,550; monthly rent stood at $135; a new car’s price tag read $3,200; and a gallon of gas ran a lean 35 cents. The lows extended to agriculture commodities—the per bushel high of corn in 1969 only clipped $1.31.

 

Cleo Duzan Tractor
Leader of the pack: The unforgettable Cleo Duzan. (Photo by UGFA)

 

In 1969, many farms still picked corn on the ear; insecticides were few and far between; anhydrous application wasn’t common; and yields were slim compared to modern bin-busters. Stellar corn yields might reach 100 bushels per acre, 25-40 bushels per acre was considered normal for soybeans, and 40-50 bushels per acre of wheat was expected. Granted, cost of production was low, but not low enough to counteract the ball-and-chain weight of a dismal market and relatively low yields.

The disconnect between D.C. political perceptions of agriculture versus the lived experience of American farmers was the extreme difference of chalk and cheese. Alarmed by anemic crop prices and genuine malaise in the farm economy, murmurings of unrest broke out in agricultural regions across the United States, none louder than the buzz heard in Coles County, Illinois—specifically emanating from the tiny town of Oakland, a west-central speck on the Prairie State map and home of the inimitable Cleo Duzan, general chairman of the United Grain Farmers of America (UGFA).

A Cadillac-driving farmer, 6’-plus in height with a belly to match, Duzan, 45, was a boisterous bull and natural-born leader, incapable of blending in a crowd. Over countless pots of breakfast coffee at the Oakland Café alongside sounding board Jug Campbell, navigator Jim Hall, the brothers Miller—Fred and Max, Wayne Temples, and Bill Norman, Duzan sought bold action through a demonstrable call for parity: A price on crops that covered cost of production and enabled a farmer to make a survivable living.

 

Duzan Campaign
In the spring of 1969, Cleo Duzan planted the seeds of a transcontinental tractor trip. (Photo by UGFA)

 

Out of the gate, Duzan intended to lead a chain of protest tractors to the state capital of Springfield—demand by disruption. However, the prescient Duzan was unsure of the legal boundaries for a tractor on the highway, i.e., what were the precise rules for agricultural machinery on the road over extremely long distances?

Rather than rely on legal advice or supposition, Duzan hopped a John Deere D tractor and hooked to a miniature grain cart (a dealer’s sample version, yet road-capable) filled with corn. Under the auspices of a grain sale, Duzan rolled down Route 36 into Decatur at a 7-mph crawl and picked up a patrol car on his tail. He purposely killed the tractor on the Staley Bridge (viaduct) and waited for a ticket—all while a snaking line of outraged, honking pedestrians grew to his rear. Feigning a breakdown, the wily Duzan took mental notes of each action, reaction, and logistical detail. Bottom line: He conducted a test run.

Duzan’s “accidental traffic stoppage” made the local papers and television, and landed him in court, the precise destination he sought. Duzan won the subsequent legal case, and always in bigger-and-better mode, he recognized the power of notoriety, and set a target destination beyond Illinois. Instead of the state capital, Springfield, why not drive a tractor caravan to the doorstep of the Nixon Administration, in the name of parity, in Washington, D.C.?

In the spring of 1969, via mailers to several thousand UGFA members, Duzan planted the seeds of a transcontinental tractor trip.

Along with Duzan, Max Miller was a ramrod for the trip. Miller has jammed a dozen agriculture lifetimes into his nine decades, with major successes in ag business ranging from seed mills to fertilizer to food corn to grain bin construction, all done while growing corn and soybeans on the side.

 

Max Miller, Illinois Farmer and Entrepreneur
“Time gets away and nobody remembers,” Max Miller says, “but that doesn’t change the fact that we did our best in the moment and we were a history-making event for sure.” (Photo by Chris Bennett)

 

“What an adventure,” Miller recalls. “I had no thoughts that we were doing anything historic. We were just a bunch of farmers trying to help ourselves and other farmers.”

From mailers to word of mouth to telephone trees to prayer chains to meetings in high school auditoriums, the call to action went out to farming communities in small Illinois towns: Arcola, Homer, Sidell, Kansas, Newman, Ashmore, Oakland, Hindsboro, Paris, and many more. Farmers from flyover country were D.C. bound.

Ticket to the Moon

On July 19, hundreds of Illinois farmers, self-dubbed the Farmers Survival Drive, gathered outside Redmon to witness the embarkation of 100 open-cabbed tractors adorned with American flags and signs calling for parity, supported by pickups, campers, and station wagons. Only the core of the fleet planned to travel the entire route to Washington—the vast majority were scheduled to drop off in the early stages (26 tractors completed the trip). Led by Cleo Duzan’s Massey-Ferguson, ceremonially driven for the first nine miles by John Lewis, Illinois state director of agriculture, the 1969 Tractor Drive embarked for Washington.

Linda Crawford, who grew corn and soybeans outside Oakland with her husband, John, recalls the sendoff. “John and everyone else that went just wanted Congress and Americans everywhere to know about the plight of the farmer at the time.”

“I still remember how surprised I was first hearing about an unimaginable tractor drive,” Crawford continues, “but Cleo Duzan was way ahead of everyone else’s thinking. It didn’t take years for me to realize the drive was historical because even in that moment at Redmon, I knew it was incredible for a group of tractors to go all the way to D.C.”

Seventeen-year-old K.B. Brown grew soybeans and corn alongside his father, Eli, in Redmon, and the father-and-son pair were anxious to hit the road: “We were a mix of individual farmers, families, wives, and kids, on a bunch of open-cab tractors, except for a brand-new, cabbed Minneapolis-Moline provided by the dealership in Redmon,” Brown says. “My dad was the designated driver.”

 

KB Brown
The drive was a seminal moment in K.B. Brown’s life. Seventeen in 1969, Brown spent a lifetime advocating for agriculture and has never hesitated to wade into a political battle. (Photo by Chris Bennett)

 

“We had pickups with cabs and 2-ton trucks, and I recall one of the tractors pulled an outhouse. We had mattresses in the trucks to sleep on. I’d never seen anything like it, and I guess nobody else had either,” Brown says. “It changed my life.”

At a projected pace of approximately 10 miles per hour, and roughly 50-80 miles per day, the trip required 11 days over 650 highway miles, but in an age prior to online maps or cell phone communication, the Farmers Survival Drive had no genuine itinerary. Jug Campbell, owner of Oakland Farm Supply (a Case implement dealership), and his wife, Vivian, served as reconnaissance and stayed ahead of the pack to communicate with law enforcement and locate rest or sleeping locations. They drove a 2-ton, blue 1965 Chevrolet truck with a canvas-draped red bed containing two sleeping cots.

Jug Campbell’s son, Jim, and grandson, Scot, accompanied the drive for the first day’s leg. Jim Campbell recalls the folly following a night of icepick rain: “It poured so hard that first evening and we stopped to sleep in Brazil, Ind. My dad went to the nightly gathering to discuss the next day’s route, and left my mom and my young son, Scot, asleep in the truck bed.”

 

Jim Campbell
“People need to be reminded of 1969 because many farmers have a whole different mindset today and won’t speak up about much at all,” says Jim Campbell. (Photo by Chris Bennett)

 

On Jug’s return from the meeting, he noted heavy rainwater pooling atop the tarp. “Dad raised the bed to get the water off the tarp—but he didn’t shut it off and the bed kept going up. Literally, he slid Mom and Scot right out the back of the truck in their cots and dumped them onto the blacktop in the rain. Talk about starting the trip with a mini-disaster.”

“You couldn’t make that story up,” Max Miller concurs. “Jug tried to bump the water off the tarp and shot his own family off the bed and then all the water on the tarp poured down on top of them. I’ve forgotten so much, but I’ll never forget that.”

A day later (July 20), still bogged under torrential rain in Brazil, Ind., the drive bedded beneath a pavilion surrounded by foggy mist. The farmers plugged in a television and soaked in the enduring footage of Apollo 11 and Neil Armstrong’s first steps on the moon.

Brown recalls a most surreal evening: “Try and picture a bunch of farmers at night, outdoors, gathered around a TV watching the moon landing on their way to Washington,” he says. “We were so tired, but we couldn’t stop looking. Finally, my cousin, Shiloh McDaniel, couldn’t take anymore and got desperate to go to bed.”

McDaniel issued a line-in-the-sand declaration to all within earshot: “My pants are coming off.”

“That was it,” Brown adds. “Everyone left. On to sleep and on to Washington.”

Driving a Deathtrap

Attired in overalls, blue jeans, boots, tennis shoes, t-shirts, ball caps, and straw hats, the queue of farmers moved across the heartland squeezed between a summer vise—scorching sun from above and pulsating heat from the asphalt below. No power steering, cabs, or air conditioning. No glory or history in mind.

 

Carlyle Greathouse
“If a group of farmers started driving to D.C. right now complaining about the government or administration, they would be vilified by the mainstream media,” says Carlyle Greathouse. (Photo by Chris Bennett)

 

Yet, in town after town, the 2-mile-long line of tractors and support vehicles met with roadside respect and cheers, often accompanied by cold drinks and sandwiches, and sometimes backed by free fill-ups from fuel vendors.

Evading an attempt by the Pennsylvania State Police to block passage into the Keystone State (the procession received a last-second green light from Pennsylvania Gov. Raymond Shafer), the Tractor Drive’s eastward trajectory gradually moved into topography marked by steep hills, a hazard for a tight chain of agricultural machinery, Brown explains. “I don’t remember exactly where—it may have been in West Virginia—but Russell Ash had an old Minneapolis-Moline with bad brakes. He was going down a hill and kicked the tractor out of gear and rolled all the way to the bottom of the incline and directly into a feed store. His tractor hit right in the front door and smashed it in, but nobody got hurt. It was a real miracle.”

 

The Greathouse Twins
Carlyle Greathouse alongside his twin sister, Sue. (Photo by United Press)

 

“Everybody kicked in to help pay for the damage to the store, but the owner was a farmer and he refused any money and just wanted us to keep on going all the way to Washington,” Brown continues. “Of course, that wasn’t close to the worst accident of the trip. Ask Carlyle Greathouse.”

Born in 1935, and now a spry 87, Hindsboro native Carlyle Greathouse is the most unlikely surviving member of the 1969 Tractor Drive. “We were just a bunch of patriotic, conservative farmers, like you’d find in any state, going down the highway together. There was nothing unusual about us, except that taken all together we had belief.”

By all accounts and eyewitness testimony, Greathouse should have died on the trip—smashed against a West Virginia mountainside.

 

Noelle Greathouse
Noelle Greathouse received a most unsettling telephone call from Max Miller in 1969, after her husband narrowly avoided death on the tractor drive: “Other than falling off a mountain, your husband is fine.” (Photo by Chris Bennett)

 

Greathouse commanded a yellow 1950 Minneapolis-Moline tractor that was one breakdown away from the proverbial iron cemetery, even before the tractor drive. He made part of the journey in the company of his wife and equal in mettle, Noelle, who took the wheel for the first day out of Redmon. Noelle returned to Illinois after several days to look after the couple’s two daughters, tend cattle, and teach classes at Eastern Illinois University.

Perched on the cantankerous yellow beast (and enduring incessant blacktop jolting delivered via a no-spring, metallic seat), Greathouse drove without incident, until the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains made a claim just outside Wheeling, W.V.

Pulling off the highway to a rest area, the line of Illinois vehicles proceeded toward a trailer park at a snail’s pace up a thin ribbon of a mountain road separated from a precipitous drop by a rickety fence. Tractors to his front, Greathouse was positioned in the middle of the pack, with Oakland growers Jim and Mary Taylor in a pickup truck directly to his rear.

As the procession halted, Greathouse’s brakes failed. “If you know that tractor, then you know those brakes don’t hold going backward—only forward. I started rolling down, headed right for Jim and Mary.”

Eyeballing the fence, Greathouse steered the Minneapolis-Moline toward the barrier, intending to catch the rear left-wheel on a post, and prevent a collision. After a lifetime on a farm and in a tractor seat, Greathouse’s driving skills were spot-on: The rear left-wheel caught dead-center.

For a fraction of a frozen second, all was well—until the post snapped.

Greathouse rocketed over the edge. “At the very first, I rolled into pasture and thought I might just be able to turn the tractor around to break the momentum.”

No way. Too Steep. Too fast. Jump or die.

The tractor careened to its side, forcing Greathouse to leap off the back just before the vehicle cartwheeled down the mountain, flinging shrapnel as it tumbled 150 yards. At the bottom of a precipitous ravine, the hull was an absolute deathtrap.

“I suppose it was a miracle I survived and was pretty much unhurt,” Greathouse says. “A local farmer heard about it and offered $50 for the tractor. More accurately, he paid $50 for the tires. Even after all these years, I’d guess some of the remains are still there, rusting away.”

 

Road Warriors, Max Miller and Carlyle Greathouse
Road warriors Max Miller, left, and Carlyle Greathouse trade memories of a buck-wild tractor trip in the summer of 1969. (Photo by Chris Bennett)

 

Greathouse’s recollection is echoed precisely by Max Miller: “Nobody was going to pull that tractor out. They may not remember Carlyle Greathouse in those parts, but I guarantee his tractor pieces are still there on the side of that mountain.”

Immediately following the accident, Miller raced to find a telephone and called Noelle Greathouse, who was in Illinois and unaware of the accident. “Ignore any news you hear,” Miller said, “because Carlyle is still alive. Other than falling off a mountain, your husband is fine.”

Fighting Words

After 11 days of hard slogging, the physical stress of absorbing bone-jarring, blacktop vibrations and eating copious doses of summer heat ended with arrival in Washington, led by the irrepressible Cleo Duzan. Out of 100 tractors at the starting line, 26 rolled into D.C., paraded around the city, past the White House, and prepared for a three-day stay.

But where to park 26 tractors and dozens of support vehicles? JFK Memorial Stadium’s parking lot.

 

Illinois farmer Mary Taylor
Illinois producer Mary Taylor made the 1969 trip with her husband, Jim: “Fifty years later and we’ll never forget,” she says. (Photo by Chris Bennett)

 

“The stadium was in an urban area, and so it was a bunch of white farmers driving up with a bunch of black kids running around,” Brown says. “We gave them rides on our fenders and hitches and away we went.”

“It was like aliens landed in an urban neighborhood,” Greathouse recalls. “There were kids jumping on tractors riding for a block. No question, it was the first time those little kids had ever seen a tractor beyond TV.”

In addition to the vanguard of 26 tractors, reinforcements arrived when roughly 60 more farmers met in Champaign and charted an Ozark Air Lines plane. The notoriety of the cross-country trip gained the tractor drive participants an audience before the Senate Ag Committee, where Max Miller read a report on the farm economy and stressed the need for parity.

In addition to the report, Miller and his Illinois cohorts delivered a symbolic visual aid to the political committee, thanks to the efforts of grower Tiny Hawkins (“Tiny” was a slightly incongruous forename, considering his 350 lb. girth), who carried in a bushel of wheat—a 60 lb. sack—to the meeting and placed it on the committee table. The wheat almost triggered a congressional melee.

“Sen. Everett Dirksen was flippant and acted like our concerns were no big deal,” Brown explains. “Dirksen looked at the sack like we were a joke and said, ‘I’ll give you $20 for the wheat,’ as if we’d come across the country for a handout deal.”

 

Noelle Greathouse and Linda Clark
Noelle Greathouse, left, and Linda Crawford. “It didn’t take years for me to realize the drive was historical because even in that moment at Redmon, I knew it was incredible for a group of tractors to go all the way to D.C.,” says Crawford. (Photo by Chris Bennett)

 

“Tiny Hawkins hit the table so hard that the legs almost collapsed,” Brown recalls. “Our guys got pissed immediately, and everybody started hollering, ‘We don’t need your damn gifts, just a fair price.’”

Edgar County grower Homer Pinnell began jabbing Dirksen in the chest, insisting on fair treatment. “Out of nowhere, Capitol police came out of the woodwork and started flooding in, pushing us back,” Brown adds.

Greathouse concurs: “When Dirksen threw out that insult, things got wild and the wheat got spilled on the floor of the Senate. It was an unbelievable scene and anything could have happened.”

Hawkins, in the thick of the fray, pushed his wide frame toward Dirksen, according to Greathouse: “Tiny stood up and stuck his finger into the senator, and said: “We’re here for parity, not charity.”

The near physical fight over wheat was not the only moment of extreme emotion by desperate agriculture producers during the Tractor Drive of 1969, according to producer Mary Taylor, who traveled alongside her husband, Jim. “Someone also brought a gunnysack full of wheat and when we left, we tore it open and poured it down the Capitol steps, just as a reminder of who we were—farmers.”

 

1969 Tractor Drive
“Think about this,” says Carlyle Greathouse. “In 1969, the media didn’t give us much coverage, but they didn’t write anything bad about us or our intentions. That is a lifetime of difference.” (Photo by Chris Bennett)

 

Recognizing the moment of punctuation on the Capitol steps, Taylor stopped her descent, knelt, and grabbed a handful of wheat, stuffing the grains into a pocket. “We’d come all the way from Illinois just to try to get these politicians to listen. I knew what the wheat meant then and I know what it means now, because I still have it in an envelope in my house. Fifty years later and we’ll never forget.”

A Different Breed

The Tractor Drive of 1969 is largely lost to U.S. history, and even forgotten within most quarters of the agriculture industry. However, it was a direct precursor to abundant tractorcades that placed nationwide attention on a failing farm economy in the 1970s, particularly the cross-continent Tractorcade of 1979, featuring four routes and a 5,000-farmer army.

 

KB Brown and Dale English
“Don’t tell me that personal action by farmers doesn’t matter. I lived it and I know it does,” says K.B. Brown, left, pictured alongside Dale English. (Photo by Chris Bennett)

 

“Time gets away and nobody remembers,” Miller says, “but that doesn’t change the fact that we did our best in the moment and we were a history-making event for sure.”

“Farming was so far down the totem pole of importance back then,” Campbell notes. “People like Cleo Duzan, Bill Norman, my dad (Jug Campbell), the Miller brothers, Carlyle Greathouse, Eli Brown, and so many others were just willing to do whatever it took and weren’t going to sit on their hands. People need to be reminded of 1969 because many farmers have a whole different mindset today and won’t speak up about much at all.”

Apathy, insists Greathouse, is a clear and present danger to U.S. agriculture. “Our culture makes people hesitant to speak up because the media creates hardship and hostility. This is a different country from 1969; I hate to say it, but it’s also very true. If a group of farmers started driving to D.C. right now complaining about the government or administration, they would be vilified by the mainstream media. Think about this: In 1969, the media didn’t give us much coverage, but they didn’t write anything bad about us or our intentions. That is a lifetime of difference.”

For 17-year-old Brown, the drive became a seminal moment in his farming and political life. Brown spent a lifetime advocating for agriculture and was never shy to leave his farmland to wade into a political battle.

 

Carlyle Greathouse and Jim Campbell
Brothers in farms: Carlyle Greathouse, left, and Jim Campbell. (Photo by Chris Bennett)

 

“I learned that we as farmers and Americans have to depend on ourselves. I’ll never forget leaving that Senate hearing where all the politicians from both sides of the aisle argued with each other and postured in front of us. Right afterward, I went down to the cafeteria and I saw those same politicians sitting together and laughing their asses off. I learned early about the shows that politicians put on for the camera.”

Ten years after the Tractor Drive, Brown was ready to roll again. He participated in the nationwide 1979 Tractorcade and stayed in Washington for 90 consecutive days. “I got a call from Lynn Daft (advisor in the Carter Administration) and he asked if I wanted to meet with President Jimmy Carter. I asked Daft one question: ‘Would Carter meet with all Illinois farmers and not just me alone?’”

“Daft said Carter would only speak with me. I declined and always regretted it, but that’s how strongly I felt. Farmers were supporting me to stay in D.C. and if they weren’t allowed to see the president, then I wouldn’t either. One thing I know: If farmers want to rely on politicians, they’ll eventually find themselves in deep trouble every time. Don’t tell me that personal action by farmers doesn’t matter. I lived it and I know it does.”

 

The Wild Farm Bunch of 1969
The barnstormers, again, from left: Front row, Mary Taylor, Noelle Greathouse. Second row, Jim Campbell, Carlyle Greathouse, Linda Crawford. Back row, Max Miller, K.B. Brown, Dale English. Photo by Chris Bennett (Photo by Chris Bennett)

 

Deepest respect to the Illinois road warriors of 1969. Never to be forgotten.

“We were farmers. We spoke up. That’s all,” Greathouse concludes. “We were a different breed and I’m not ashamed of it.”

To read more stories from Chris Bennett (cbennett@farmjournal.com — 662-592-1106), see:

Cottonmouth Farmer: The Insane Tale of a Buck-Wild Scheme to Corner the Snake Venom Market

Tractorcade: How an Epic Convoy and Legendary Farmer Army Shook Washington, D.C.

Bagging the Tomato King: The Insane Hunt for Agriculture’s Wildest Con Man

How a Texas Farmer Killed Agriculture’s Debt Dragon

While America Slept, China Stole the Farm

Bizarre Mystery of Mummified Coon Dog Solved After 40 Years

The Arrowhead whisperer: Stunning Indian Artifact Collection Found on Farmland

Where's the Beef: Con Artist Turns Texas Cattle Industry Into $100M Playground

Fleecing the Farm: How a Fake Crop Fueled a Bizarre $25 Million Ag Scam

Skeleton In the Walls: Mysterious Arkansas Farmhouse Hides Civil War History

US Farming Loses the King of Combines

Ghost in the House: A Forgotten American Farming Tragedy

Rat Hunting with the Dogs of War, Farming's Greatest Show on Legs

Misfit Tractors a Money Saver for Arkansas Farmer

Government Cameras Hidden on Private Property? Welcome to Open Fields

Farmland Detective Finds Youngest Civil War Soldier’s Grave?

Descent Into Hell: Farmer Escapes Corn Tomb Death

Evil Grain: The Wild Tale of History’s Biggest Crop Insurance Scam

Grizzly Hell: USDA Worker Survives Epic Bear Attack

Farmer Refuses to Roll, Rips Lid Off IRS Behavior

Killing Hogzilla: Hunting a Monster Wild Pig  

Shattered Taboo: Death of a Farm and Resurrection of a Farmer     

Frozen Dinosaur: Farmer Finds Huge Alligator Snapping Turtle Under Ice

Breaking Bad: Chasing the Wildest Con Artist in Farming History

In the Blood: Hunting Deer Antlers with a Legendary Shed Whisperer

Corn Maverick: Cracking the Mystery of 60-Inch Rows

Against All Odds: Farmer Survives Epic Ordeal

Agriculture's Darkest Fraud Hidden Under Dirt and Lies

 

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