Column: Thoughts from the Tractor Seat - When the Desert Blooms

Thoughts from the Tractor Seat

By Ken Polehn

Ken Polehn

When the desert blooms, it's not just a season—it’s a promise.

Out here in The Dalles, where the Columbia River cuts through dry hills and basalt cliffs, the first sign of spring doesn’t shout. It whispers. Lily white cherry blossoms open quietly across twisted limbs that stood bare and weathered all winter. Their appearance is delicate, fleeting, and full of hope.

As the hills begin to green with new grass, the bright yellow balsamroot flowers start to bloom across the slopes. They aren’t part of the orchard, but they mark the season just the same—wild, native, and as persistent as the people who farm here. Meanwhile, down in the rows, the cherry blossoms unfurl in soft white clouds. These signs mean fruit is on the way, and fruit means work. Another season begins with the same stubborn grit it always has. Nothing here is guaranteed: not the frost, not the yield, not the market. But still, every April, we stand among the rows and believe.

I’ve lived my whole life here. These trees raised me just as much as my parents did. I changed irrigation pipe before school, learned to drive on dirt roads between orchard blocks, and figured out what it meant to earn a living with your hands. But I didn’t do it alone. Every spring, just as the fruit begins to mature, migrant families would arrive. Year after year, they came back—parents and children who became part of our rhythm, part of our story.

The workers and I don’t always speak the same language. They speak Spanish, and I speak English, but it doesn’t matter. We still have things in common. We share a deep respect for the land, for the trees, and for the work it takes to bring in the harvest. The language might be different, but the sweat, the laughter, and the satisfaction of a day’s work are the same.

Some of my earliest friendships were with kids who traveled each year to pick alongside their parents. We’d race through the orchard rows after chores, share snacks, and swap stories in Spanglish long before I even realized what that was. Their families were, and still are, essential to this place. They bring the hands that harvest and the heart that keeps the tradition going.

The bloom doesn’t last long—just a week or two before wind or rain strips the petals. But while it’s here, it transforms the land. What was dry and brown turns white and alive. It reminds us that this desert, for all its dust and heat, still has something to give.

And so do we.

This time of year, we get ready. We sharpen blades, grease equipment, and check frost fans. We walk the rows, checking bud set and praying for fair weather. The work begins again, and so does the hope.

Because when the desert blooms, it’s not just about the crop. It’s about the people—the ones born to this land and the ones who return to it every year, chasing the same promise. It’s about the future, the families, and the faith that what we grow matters.

So if you see the orchards in bloom along the Gorge this spring, take a moment. That fleeting beauty carries the weight of generations. And for us, it’s not just the start of a season.

It’s the return of a promise.

About the author:

I was born in 1961 into a second-generation farm family in The Dalles. I grew up on a tractor seat, moving irrigation pipe with my sisters before school, and spent my summers picking cherries alongside the children of migrant families who returned year after year. My wife, children, and parents have all worked the same land. I’ve served as county Farm Bureau president, sat on the county fair board, and continue to support 4-H and FFA. I’ve seen firsthand what happens when farmers are squeezed out—not just of business, but of the conversation.