I drive. Endless rolling hills and corn fields blanket the horizon, but I have miles and miles to go along the same deserted highway. The air conditioner is on blast, cushioning me from the heat of a midsummer day. The lake in the distance, the adirondacks looming above it, and the music blaring in my solitude; it all culminates in a cocoon of forested relief. The wind in my hair is a gilded frame and my foot on the gas pedal keeps the scenery spinning by.

With each mile marker on the highway, I find myself burrowing into the heart of Real Vermont. Grass is the only color here, splattered with ink-spot cows and rust-framed barns. Eventually the highway turns to dirt and I bump along the gravel until I reach the address I’ve been given: A dairy farm tucked into the hillsides. It is a wide metallic box, crowded with cows who poke their heads through metal bars and let out a pleading, “Mooooo.”

When I reach the address, I park in front of a nice white farmhouse sitting atop a hill. The view is vast, a crisp overlook of the barn, hills, and lake. A herding dog scrambles out of the red-painted door and leaps up to greet me. A blonde woman chases after him, eyeing me with confusion.

“I’m here to pick up Santiago,” I announce. She gives me an annoyed glance while she wrangles in the dog.

“I’m sorry–I don’t know who that is.” Her words feel pointed. I start to say something but she is already leading the fluffy dog back into the pretty white home.

I scour the surroundings for a man named Santiago, but all I see are cows. I drive up to the front, wait. I drive along the side, wait. I triple check the address before finally digging out my phone and calling the number I’ve been given on Whatsapp. Over the shaky one-bar of service I make out his instructions telling me to drive around to the back, al fondo, where I see a sagging motorhome tucked into the thickets of the field. A short man in jeans and a gray t-shirt stands out front. He gives me a hesitant wave and slowly approaches.

“¿Me das un momento?” Could you give me a moment? I nod. He runs back into the rusty box. I kill the engine and wait again. The smell of manure creeps into my sealed-off car, festering in the thick humidity. This was just one barn. I drove one farmer. The worker organizing meeting tonight would host thirty other immigrant farmworkers from different dairy operations around the state, all of whom were overworked and underpaid to varying degrees.

Beyond the sweaty barn, I could still see the rolling hills and spotted cows, still see the looming lake and daunting skies. But the beauty of it all felt less freeing from down here, concealed from the view of the pretty white house. Santiago couldn’t drive, and the nearest “city” was forty minutes away. Miles of farmland separated one neighbor from the next, and I wondered what his days must look like here, alone in the hills.

After ten minutes of sticky waiting, Santiago shuffles out of the house and into the car. I stumble through Spanish small-talk as we make our way back towards the city. I drive with caution, my heart fluttering as the world spins by at the push of a pedal, the steering of a wheel. One speeding ticket for me could mean a deportation for Santiago. Grass turns into yards, trees into houses, cows into cars. And yet, I question whether the beauty of empty rural lands deceive me.

On my way home, my mom texts me to pick up milk. I stop at the market in our town, bleary eyed from the long drive and brain-fogged from the Spanish conversing. I pick up the usual brand we buy, a Vermont brand, and wonder about the hands that milked this cow. On the front label is a scene that looks all too familiar, but I view it with fresh eyes: A pretty white house on the top of a hill, overlooking nothing but happy cows, rolling mountains, and sprawling pastures. Not pictured: The crumbling motorhome beneath. Not pictured: the cows packed like sardines in a sweltering barn. Not pictured: the hands that give and give for so little in return.

I keep driving. Sí, tengo un momento.