I went to one of California's last ostrich farms, and it was terrifying

I come to the Santa Ynez Valley, on the Central Coast in Santa Barbara County, often, usually to try out another few of its 120 wineries. It’s an area that’s gaining more and more recognition as a wine region but still manages to preserve its Old West idiosyncrasies, like the curious and somewhat terrifying roadside attraction where I found myself last week. The day before, I had gone to the Santa Ynez Valley Historical Museum, where my guide had told me there used to be eight or nine local farms supplying ostrich meat to the area. Today, Ostrichland USA, an ostrich and emu sanctuary, is the only remaining place to see ostriches in Santa Ynez Valley and one of only five ostrich farms in the state. (Ostrichland sells ostrich jerky, but not from its own birds.)

I've driven past Ostrichland’s sign countless times on Route 246. The road connects 101 to Solvang, that little Danish town with the windmills and the bakeries with lines out their doors, that’s also home to these birds. “Come feed this bad boy,” the sign says in bright white letters underneath a painting of an ostrich with its enormous wings spread wide. It’s partly an enticement and partly a dare. 

Walking in, I knew two things about the place. First, it shares a property line with The Hitching Post II, the legendary steakhouse that serves huge ribeyes and sirloins grilled over white oak in the Santa Maria barbecue style alongside pinot noirs they make themselves. I had spent many afternoons sitting at the restaurant’s lunchtime picnic tables that overlook Ostrichland, watching the birds from a distance as they ran around the farm’s expanse. They would flap those 6 feet of wings and get into tussles, two huge birds rising to their full height in an attempt to assert dominance. Even from a few hundred yards away, it looked scary.

The only other thing I knew about Ostrichland was from a brief mention in “Sideways,” the movie that put Santa Ynez Valley pinot noir in the national spotlight (and tanked merlot sales so badly that the varietal still hasn’t recovered). One of the lead characters had been caught sleeping with a married woman. He managed to escape her violent husband, but not with his clothes or a room key, and had to run 5 miles back to the hotel, naked, in the wee hours. “At one point I had to cut through an ostrich farm,” he says in the film, shaking. “Those f—kers are mean.” 

That was the phrase echoing through my mind as I pull into the parking lot, which was full even midday on a Monday in May. “Read the safety rules,” the teenager manning the register says to me as he takes my $6 and hands me a bowl that's full of pellets and mounted to a dustpan that serves as a sort of makeshift handle. “Have a good time.” 

The safety rules have both the ostriches and the guests in mind. The first: “Hold on to the handle of the dust pan tightly with two hands. The birds may attempt to grab the bowl from you.” Ominous. Then instructions to keep your fingers clear of the bowl itself, not to touch the birds, and to meet them halfway so they don’t stick their heads too far out of the holes in the fence and strain their necks. The last one is the one I should have paid the most attention to.

“Please do not stand near the fence unless you are feeding,” it read. “You could get pecked.”

Let me tell you: Those birds are cute from a distance, but up close, they are hungry, and they are not polite about it.

There are also signs on the fences — “Yes, we like to bite!” — that make it clear the world’s largest birds are not the friendliest ones you’ll ever meet. And meet them you absolutely will.

There’s no way for you to get into the ostrich pens, but there are plenty of open spaces designed to let the birds stick their heads through to eat, and plenty of fences low enough that you could get nipped if you aren’t careful. 

It is worth mentioning that the entire time I was there, I didn’t see a single person actually get bit, not even the toddlers sticking their hands way too close to ostrich mouths for my comfort. 

But still, try to tell me that in the moment and I would not have listened, being preoccupied with trying to keep my cool while thrusting that feed bowl towards ostriches greedily fighting each other to be the first to reach the feed. 

(It’s also worth mentioning that they are so well fed that on busy weekends the farm sometimes has to cut off feed sales to prevent the birds from overeating, and that all the birds at the sanctuary seemed healthy and well cared for, with plenty of space to roam.)

Maybe I wouldn’t have been so shaken if one ostrich hadn’t taken me by surprise as soon as I reached the fence. But in that moment, it all became clear to me: These birds are trying to get me. 

It didn’t help that there was one, clearly the ringleader of this feathered gang, who spent the entire time I was there pecking at the chain and padlock that keeps the fence closed. He knew where the escape was, and he was going to get it. 

It only took a few minutes for a couple of particularly interested ostriches to empty out my feed bowl. Once I put it down, I spent another hour there, taking pictures, but also just standing still and observing the birds. They’re curious and alert, and everyone at Ostrichland seemed happy to experience them up close. By the time I was leaving, I finally felt ready to go to the area with the lowest fences, where you can get the clearest views and also have the most direct exposure to the birds. Once they were done with the feeding frenzy — at least the one I was providing — they seemed a lot less menacing to me. 

On the way out, I stopped at the gift shop, bought some postcards and briefly considered what I’d do with a volleyball-sized ostrich egg, if I were to buy one. The ostrich jerky I left untouched on the counter. We were friends now.