Meet Justin Miller, tucked inside a Placer County orchard
Through the end of September, we’re celebrating the people who, every day, make life in the Sacramento region meaningful and interesting. Through 12 stories, a collection of short profiles, you’ll “Meet your neighbors.” Read more here.
Cruising past stone fruit trees and melon patches, Justin Miller, 52, leans his wrist over the wheel, noting hints of orange wafting from young mandarin leaves.
“If you literally just stop —” he says as the ATV jolts to a halt and its blaring engine quiets, “— you listen to this place.”
A chorus of chirping rings through the air. Justin taps his ear, his finger landing beside a sparkling stud.
From the precision with which he twists his hand to pluck peaches and the methodical system he uses to monitor the farm’s water pressure meter, you’d believe he’s been farming his entire life.
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Justin grew up in inner city San Diego and Tijuana, Mexico. His introduction to farming came from the Black women who raised him. Two decades ago, he was running a food plant in Southern California, making over $300,000 a year and sitting courtside at Lakers games.
He and his wife, Camelia, traded it all for the farm in Newcastle after Camelia’s grandfather Howard Nakae died. The orchard has been in her family for four generations, but she’d never imagined returning.
After a near-death experience in San Francisco years prior, Justin spent three weeks on the farm. Each day, he took long walks with Howard. He felt emotional reading Howard’s memoirs of life on the farm amid the era of Japanese internment. After Howard died, Justin knew he had to continue his legacy.
The father of six took a 90% pay cut. He now often rises before 5 a.m., completing compliance checks and payroll for employees in the dark. After long days of weed eating and water monitoring and canning, he continues checking on crops throughout the evening.
The work is hard. A fire wiped out the farm in 2020, leaving only a few ATVs and tractors, but they’ve steadily recovered. Climate change has made growing patterns challenging, leaving Justin less sure about when and what they’ll harvest.
In the loud silence drifting over the orchard, the largest fruit farm left in Placer County, it’s all worth it to him.
