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As the men joke and tease each other over who works the hardest, they all list the same woes: bruises from kicking cows, chronic coughs and asthma from the dust, achy joints, and lower back problems. Castellano, who once worked in an accounting office in Mexico, says, laughing, "Pick a place -- it all hurts."

Paradoxically, this trend toward corporatization may offer dairy workers a small slice of hope. No dairies in the country are unionized, largely because the majority of dairies are small, decentralized operations with only a handful of employees. Dairy workers at Threemile Canyon say that with numbers comes strength. In January 2003, a group of 100 dairy workers stormed the United Farm Workers local in southern Washington, outraged at sudden wage cuts, says Erik Nicholson, the union's regional director. Since then, change has been tangible. Union organizers, effective at beating the drums, have spurred articles in the local and regional media, written letters to Oregon legislators and the Mexican consulate, and instigated an OSHA investigation, which resulted in 12 citations.

Subsequently, the dairy has increased wages by $200 a month, provided health insurance to its workers, and has started to provide the required safety equipment and training for the use of hazardous chemicals, Nicholson says. "These guys have come to experience firsthand the power of collective action," says Nicholson, sitting on the tailgate of his truck, parked in Boardman. "Now they understand their rights and they're overcoming their fear."

Indeed the tone of the workers congregated at Castellano's apartment is miles from the hopeless and anxious tenor of isolated workers in western Oregon. Rather, their voices are strong and determined. "I have faced a lot of discrimination because I'm a union supporter, but I want to stay and fight until they understand that we have rights," Sepulveda says. He and 68 other workers recently settled claims against the dairy for failure to pay minimum wage. "I want the best for my kids, and so the abuses, the discrimination, it has to stop." Still the process is slow. After over a year of repeated attempts at negotiation, the company still does not recognize the union. It has hired consultants and lobbied at the state Legislature for a bill that would outlaw harvest strikes and allow farm owners to negotiate union contracts for an unlimited amount of time. According to the company, its size makes it a union target.

"It's economically efficient for them to try and unionize because we're a large-scale enterprise," says Len Bergstein, a spokesman for Threemile Canyon. The company has a letter signed by 100 dairy workers saying they don't want a union. "This is no more than a series of attempts to ruin a business enterprise that workers depend on." Industry insiders take a broader view, explaining that this fight is just part of the growing pains the entire industry has experienced over the past decade.

As Hispanic immigrants increasingly replace young family members or other local teenagers, dairy owners are working to meet the needs, such as insurance and benefits, of this new population of workers, says Agnes Schafer a vice president of the Dairy Farmers of America, based in Kansas City, Mo. "Throughout the U.S. we are going through an evolution of understanding," says Schafer. "Farmers in general are pro-Hispanic because it's economical and it's people who want to work and who value agriculture, but we're going through a cultural shift."

While the industry is not working on any legislative efforts that would supply insurance or other services to undocumented workers, industry lobbyists say that President Bush's proposal to grant some farmworkers citizenship would help. Yet in the short term there is little on the horizon that offers much solace for immigrant dairy workers.

Even if Threemile Canyon Farms is eventually unionized, the thousands like Ramirez who work in dairies with just a few employees will continue to work despite low pay and dismal conditions. "Back there [in Mexico], you work for $5 a day. All we had in my town was one donkey," says Ramirez, shaking his head at the memory. "My mom misses me; she cries sometimes when we talk on the phone, but I can't go back to Mexico. I'm afraid to die in the Arizona desert."

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