How a Guy from Wyoming Became a Llama Breeder

When I stepped into the paddock the big red female charged. Nose high, ears ominously laid back, rear end waggling, clucking loudly, she bore down steadily as I hesitated, one hand still on the gate.

I had never been on the same side of the fence with a llama. I knew nothing of their behaviors or body language. But after a twinge of intimidation, I closed the gate and turned to meet her.

I was sure she was bluffing. Her movements were too exaggerated to be dangerous. Somehow I understood what she needed … recognition, affirmation, acknowledgement. Later I would learn the prerogatives due when a llama herd is ruled by a true queen.

Paying Obeisance to a Queen

On that day I responded instinctively. When she stopped two feet away and glared down, her head a foot above mine, I praised her extravagantly. I told her she was wonderful, magnificent, the finest llama in the world.

Satisfied, she returned to the herd, still carrying her ears back, still nose up and clucking, and still wiggling her butt, strutting, satisfied that her authority had been demonstrated.

Al Oeming, TV personality, 

wildlife expert, and founder 

of the Alberta Game Farm

I understood that I had received her permission, as well as Al Oeming’s, to enter the llama paddock at the Alberta Game Farm.

That was in the fall of 1975. I got an early start that morning and drove 200 miles to buy llamas.

We lived on a small (80 acre) family ranch tucked away in the foothills of the Canadian Rockies. The four kids rode horses and fattened 4-H steers. We milked a cow, sometime two, while Gloria our personable sow delivered three litters a year.

We sold some hay and grassed a dozen steers every summer, mostly to report enough cash receipts to qualify our life style as tax deductible. I earned the real family income commuting to my consulting business in Calgary.

Why it Happened

Two weeks earlier we had traveled as a family to Edmonton, then to Al’s game farm. As we were leaving the main gate at the end of the day, a farm employee led a young female llama through the crowd, inviting visitors to pet the calm, responsive animal.

The kids gathered round her, grinning, stroking, cooing. Recognition came in an instant: losing money ranching would be a lot more fun if we had llamas standing in the pasture instead of steers. During the next couple of weeks I researched llamas and couldn't find any reasons not to raise them.

Curiosity didn't kill the cat, just made her walk faster.

So now, having called ahead, I was back with my check book. I hunted down Al, introduced myself, and we were leaning on the top rail of his llama paddock. He had roughly 50 llamas, males, females, and babies all running together.

I pointed to a big red girl, standing tall, four-square, with heavy wool, and twice the weight of the average llama in the enclosure. “Her name is Rose,” Al said. “Isn’t she marvelous? A breeder in B.C. says he’ll pay $2,000 for her next male baby.”

$2,000 was a lot for a male llama in 1975. Dick and Kay Patterson in Oregon were already serious breeders, but most buyers were just beginning to feel their way. Males went for $500, females for $1,000.

Few people paid attention to conformation. For most newcomers a llama was a llama was a llama. (Even when it was a bad tempered guanaco, the llama's wild cousin. A few unscrupulous livestock dealers preyed on the newbies.)

A few years later, after Fred Hartman, a livestock promoter in Nebraska, started handing out ribbons and trophies, doting owners began to learn that in the eyes of show judges, not all llamas are created equal.

Young females growing into their prime.

Taking a Short Course on Llamas

 “I didn’t think you were coming until this afternoon,” Al said. “I’m tied up until 1:00. Feel free to hang out in the paddock until I get back.”

By the time Al returned three hours later, I had a pretty good idea what a good llama looked like. And I knew Al didn’t have many.

I understood too that there was no point in trying to discuss blood lines with him. In that open paddock no one could tell who had fathered any given llama or, once it was weaned, who had mothered it either.

And I had made the acquaintance of big, marvelous Rose, eye to eye.

Rose would be the perfect foundation for a breeding program, and I wanted her badly. But I assumed Al wouldn’t sell her.

I also assumed he couldn't say no twice to a ready buyer. So my strategy was to offer to buy his best llama, Rose, and get turned down. Then he'd have to sell me his second best llama, also a standout in the herd. (We later named her Juanita).

I had two other females on my list, a handsome white and brown yearling and a short-legged older lady who didn’t have much to recommend her except genes for a large body and wool hanging almost to the ground.

A Little Wheeling, a Little Dealing

 “How many do you intend to buy?” Al was back and it was time to do business.

“I haven’t really decided yet. And it will depend upon price, of course. So . . . [deep breath] . . . how much for Rose?” I was prepared pay as high as $2,500.

“She’s $1,000, same price as all the females.”

“Okay, I’ll probably take her,” I said, trying to sound casual as my heart banged against my ribs. “I kind of like that dark female over there too.” I pointed at Juanita. “Suppose I take her and Rose both, $1,800 for the pair?”

“Deal.”

Every time I proposed another llama, Al agreed to another price reduction. At the end he patted me on the back. “I like it when someone bargains. Most customers just ask how much, then write out a check for whatever I say.”

By the time I left the parking lot that afternoon, we had arranged delivery of the four females. (I would come back in the spring to buy Zapata, our first herd sire.)

When our small herd arrived at the ranch two weeks later we rechristened Rose as Queen Isabella, or Bell. The fetus she was carrying, born the following spring, we named Chiquita. Years later Chiquita would succeed her mother as queen. 

Comica        Day One        and                   Day Three

Got in at the Beginning

The llama show was still a few years from being invented. But when the time came, our breeding program was ready. Offspring born to our starter females, and to their daughters, began winning championships from the beginning.

So, that’s the story of the day I became a llama breeder, buying four females, three being exceptionally good ones, for an average price of $750 per head.

Did I out bargain the famous Al Oeming?  Of course not. He was looking to the future. His instincts for species promotion were well honed.

Hidden away on the Alberta Game Farm among displays of more exotic animals, and among four dozen ordinary llamas, Bell, Juanita, and Carlotta were doing little to fuel the growing interest in llama breeding.

But after their offspring started winning championships in an expanding market, Al began spending more time leaning on the top rail of his paddock, talking to new llama buyers.

This story appeared previously in The Llama Banner.

Nail trimming. Daughter Kate supervises.

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Fred Hartman and the $50,000 Llama