I Tried (and Struggled) to Harvest Agave Myself

It's 4:30 a.m., and I'm getting ready for the jima.

The jima is the process of harvesting agave, and today we'll be harvesting seven-year-old plants in San Juanito de Escobedo, Jalisco.

These agaves started as hijuelos, or young shoots that grow from the mother plant. Once transplanted into the fields, they require years of care and maintenance before they're ready to be harvested. Much of that work is done manually, requiring agricultural knowledge, experience, and physical labor.

The fields we're visiting belong to the family of our host from Tequila Atanasio, not the tequila company itself. While some of these agaves are destined for Atanasio, others will be sold to different distilleries.

I'm instructed to wear jeans or long pants and a long-sleeved shirt to protect myself from the elements and the agave itself. Steel-toed boots are suggested. It's going to be a long day, the sun will be harsh, and contact with the agave can irritate the skin.

I'm prepared, though, and looking forward to my shift.

I put on a cowboy hat to protect myself from the sun, apply sunblock to my face, make a cup of instant coffee, eat a banana, and head to the porch with everything I think I might need for the day. My ride is due at 5 a.m.

As I wait, a rooster sounds the neighborhood alarm that it's time to wake up.

We're picked up and head out. My hosts are cheerful and explain a little about the day and what to expect. Our first stop is the gas station for fuel and coffee. The jimadores sit in the bed of the truck in front of us, waiting patiently as we head toward the fields.

The ride gets bumpier, but it's beautiful as the sun starts to peek above the mountains. We hit a little morning traffic as a herd of cows makes its way down the road to begin its day.

We arrive at the field around 6:30 a.m. and climb out of the truck for morning greetings. Our instruction begins promptly with how to use the coa, a long-handled tool with a sharp, circular blade at the bottom, used to remove the pencas, the plants’ long, spiky leaves, and reveal the piña, or heart, of the agave.

Some of the jimadores wear bandanas, boots, and leather guards that cover their lower legs. Others have cutting tools hanging from their belts. It's a reminder that this work isn't just physically demanding. It can also be dangerous.

As we wait for further instruction, I'm eager to watch the jimadores begin their morning.

How do growers know when an agave is ready to harvest? There are a few signs they look for. The base of the plant begins to swell, the pencas may shift from a bluish hue toward green, and their tips can begin to brown.

Another sign is the quiote, the towering stalk that grows from the center of the agave, almost like a giant asparagus spear. When it appears, growers typically cut it off so the plant's sugars stay in the piña instead of feeding a flower. Left alone, the quiote flowers, the plant completes its reproductive cycle, and the mother plant eventually dies.

The jimadores start right away without a minute to spare, sharpening their coas before beginning the harvest. The sound of the blades being sharpened is what I call the music of the jima.

They free these massive plants from the earth with a few hard blows, then quickly move the blade of the coa around the agave, removing the pencas. Every few piñas, they stop to sharpen their blades.

A radio plays at the edge of the field as the jimadores move steadily up the rows. Within what seems like minutes, they've already harvested five or six piñas while I'm still standing there watching, trying to capture the process on film. On average, an experienced jimador can harvest anywhere from 100 to 200 agaves in a day, depending on the size of the plants and the terrain. Watching how quickly they move, I'm beginning to understand how that's possible.

I can't quite capture how beautiful it is: the sun rising over the field as the men move quietly but strategically through the rows. Watching them makes something incredibly difficult look almost effortless.

As they continue working, one of the men builds a fire on the other side of the field. He places what looks like beans and meat over it to prepare a morning meal. Their water bottles are lined up near the edge of the field, many are re-purposed Pepsi, Squirt and other soda bottles.

They seem to work in teams. One group harvests the agave, while another handles the mules that bring the piñas down the field to the loading area.

I later learn that there are actually three separate cuadrillas, or work crews. The jimadores harvest the agave, the arrieros handle the mules that transport the piñas through the difficult terrain, and the cargadores load and stack the piñas onto the truck.

Interestingly, these crews don't necessarily work together every day. They're hired independently and may work for different growers or tequila producers. Atanasio hired them specifically for this harvest.

And this is only the beginning of their day.

My shift is also beginning as we're handed our coas and pairs of oversized leather work gloves. The excitement is building, but I'm also a little nervous. I want to prove that I'm strong and can handle the tasks ahead of me.

I'm wearing a light hoodie, but I quickly remove it once the work begins.

I realize almost immediately that controlling the five-or-six-pound coa is much harder than it looks. Getting the blade to land exactly where I want it to is another story. My first piña is messy. Some areas are shaved closely, while others definitely need another trim.

It's important to note that jimadores don't just learn to use a coa overnight. Many begin working with other agricultural tools before they're ready to handle the coa de jima. It's a skill developed over time, often learned from family members or other workers in the fields.

There's also a technique to how closely the piña is shaved. Depending on the producer's specifications, jimadores may use different styles of jima, including alta, media, baja, and jicameado. These styles refer to how much or how little of the leaf base remains attached to the piña.

That choice shows up in the glass. Green leaf left on the piña creates distinct flavor notes in the tequila. Some of these notes are desired by most brands, but too much penca left can create bitterness. Master distiller Iliana Partida talked about this in our story on what makes a tequila smooth.

I manage to complete four piñas before we're swept away to another task. The jimadores seem to complete the entire process in a flash. It takes me well over eight minutes to finish just one.

What's even more eye-opening is that they've already done part of the work for us. They're unearthing the agaves from the ground before we begin shaving them.

There's precision involved in every step: driving the blade into the ground at just the right spot to separate the agave, lifting the massive piña, cutting away the pencas, then stabbing the center with the coa to turn it and reach the remaining leaves.

Meanwhile, the mules are being loaded with shaved piñas at the top of the field and bringing them down the hill. At the bottom, the guys unload the piñas onto the ground, and we're instructed to carry them over to the truck.

Inside, one guy is strategically stacking each piña like a giant game of Tetris.

The goal for the day is to fill the truck with approximately 20 metric tons of agave. The crews are commonly paid by the truckload or tonnage harvested, rather than receiving a flat daily wage. For this batch, the total crew charged approximately 29,000 pesos (roughly $1,700 U.S. dollars at current exchange rate), which works out to about 1.5 pesos per harvested kilogram of agave.

Those kilograms are evident in the field. The piñas are heavy, some weighing upward of 70 to 100 pounds.

Naturally, I go for a rather large one to test my strength and quickly realize I've made a poor choice. It's more than I can handle. I find one more suitable, bend down the way I've always been taught when lifting something heavy, and put my legs into it.

I load a few more piñas and realize something: at this point, I've harvested only four piñas and carried about the same number to the truck.

And I'm tired.

It's strenuous, and I've only done a tiny portion of what these men do every day.

For these men, the day may begin as early as 4:30 or 5:30 in the morning, depending on how far they have to travel to the fields. The goal is usually to finish around 1 p.m., although the terrain and conditions can change that.

Our midmorning break is served right there in the field. Chicken and pork are cooked over the fire, alongside beans and tortillas. After the morning workout I've just had, it may be one of the best meals I've ever eaten.

Then it's back to the field, because although it already feels like we've put in a full morning, our shift isn't over.

My hands are blistered even through the gloves. My own souvenirs to take home.

We're asked if we want to try unearthing an agave ourselves. I hesitate. But I know I won't feel like I've really accomplished this until I at least try.

Just as I suspected, this feels like the longest 12 minutes of my life.

There's a balance to it: positioning your foot against the agave and landing the coa between the plant and the earth at exactly the right angle. I put my back into it. My legs. My arms. Every bit of force I can muster.

At one point, it feels a little like childbirth. I just need to GET. THIS. THING. OUT.

And eventually, I do.

With my first agave out of the ground, my workday comes to an end. It's 11:30 a.m., and I immediately think a hot meal and a cold Victoria beer will be the perfect way to celebrate my accomplishment.

Although my shift has come to an end, with a total of 12 agave plants completed, the crew still has work to do. They finish around 12:30 p.m.

The greatest takeaway from this day's experience is that the jima is the final step in a process that began seven years earlier, and the most visible one. After one morning in the field, I understand how much skill, strength, and stamina it takes to bring those years of growth out of the ground.

Tequila is a long process, one that requires years of dedication, knowledge, and physical labor. To truly appreciate the spirit in our glass, we should also recognize the people whose work makes it possible.