Chapter Two: Signing the Papers, Burning the Bridge

The first thing they don’t tell you when you buy a farm is that it’s nothing like buying a house. Sure, there are contracts, negotiations, and endless paperwork, but the moment you sign, you’re not just a homeowner—you’re a land steward. It’s not just property; it’s responsibility. And in my case, it was also a terrifying leap into the unknown.

Sitting in a nondescript office in southern Nevada, I stared at the contract in front of me. Rancho del Chivo. A hundred acres of possibility, disaster, and a future I still wasn’t sure I believed in. The real estate agent—an older guy named Gregg kept making small talk as I signed each page, but I barely heard him. My mind was stuck on one question:

Was I really doing this?

A few months ago, I had an entire team of people relying on me, contracts worth millions in motion, and a calendar booked out for six months. Now, I had a barely functional truck, a pair of worn-out boots, and a deed to land that had more rocks than actual soil.

I flipped to the final page and signed my name.

That was it. No turning back now.

Gregg grinned, clapped me on the shoulder, and slid the papers into a folder. “Well, congrats. You’re officially a rancher.”

I laughed. “I don’t think it works like that.”

“You’ll learn.”

That was the thing—I had no choice. There was no safety net. No investors to call. No board to reassure me. It was just me, the land, and whatever I could make of it.

Burning the Bridge

The second thing they don’t tell you when you buy a farm is how many people will think you’ve lost your damn mind.

“Wait—you’re actually doing this?” My friend Tyler’s voice crackled through the speakerphone as I drove to the property. “You just walked away?”

“I didn’t just walk away,” I said, adjusting my grip on the steering wheel. “I left to do something else.”

“Dude, we all thought you were taking a break. You know—chilling for six months, playing golf, maybe angel investing. Not buying a freaking ranch.”

I sighed. “Yeah, well. Here we are.”

A long pause. “What did your dad say about all this?”

I swallowed hard. “He’s not here to say anything.”

Another pause. Then, quieter, “Shit. Sorry, man.”

“It’s fine.” But it wasn’t fine. Nothing was fine. I just signed my name on the biggest gamble of my life, and my dad—one of the only people who might have understood why—wasn’t around to see it.

The last real conversation I had with him before he passed was about business, as usual. He told me I worked too much. That I was missing something. I brushed him off, told him I had it all under control. That I was winning the game.

Now, I wasn’t even playing it anymore.

The turnoff to Rancho del Chivo was barely marked, just a dirt road cutting through the desert. As I pulled in, dust kicked up in the air, coating everything in a layer of fine sand. Ahead of me was the land—flat, dry, and waiting.

I killed the engine, stepped out, and let the silence settle in. No office noise, no email pings, no ringing phones. Just wind, the rustling of a few stubborn desert plants, and the weight of what I had just done.

I had burned the bridge back to my old life.

Now, it was time to figure out how to build something new.