Not really sure when I turned the corner, but at some point in the recent past I found myself back on the path I'd strayed away from.  Something I've learned from my time in the underbrush?  It's okay to stop doing something if it's no longer working.  Despite the obviousness of that statement it's something that's hard for us as people to do, I've found.  It smacks of admitting defeat, which is something we're culturally trained to avoid at all costs.  It seems disingenuous to say that it's a lesson I've learned, it's not.  It's something I can always strive to remind myself of, however, which may be as close as we mostly-hairless monkeys ever get to having learned something.

Things are well on the farm.  This time of year I'm mostly mowing, straining to keep up with the grass which is growing like it's been waiting to all winter long(which it has, of course).  I visited Ananda hills farm yesterday, and chose three young boys to be castrated, that they might join my flock as growers of wool, and perhaps, one day, a fine meal.  They're adorable, all baby animals are, but there is something about a tiny little Shetland sheep, a little wooly, wee little horns, not sure what about them speaks to me so profoundly, but the effect is undeniable.  I'll see if I can't find some pictures in time for my next intermittent blog posting.

Martin's cows have all had their calves, mostly successfully, beautiful little hybrids in every color of the cow rainbow(cowbow?).  We're getting ready to move all the cows to some new pastures and are contemplating the feasibility of having a Marrowstone Island cattle drive, and just running them down the road, rather than loading them all up in the trailer.  Unlikely though it is, it is fun to consider, if only as a mental logistical puzzle.

The first batch of duck eggs I had in the incubator were a complete bust, but I've done some research and have an altered plan of attack for this next batch, and am optimistic that with a little work I'll be able to figure out this particular challenge.

I love this place.  Just switched coffee-shops to get some better internet, and came upon a cordoned off seal, chilling on the sidewalk, molting mellowly.

I'm still knitting quite a lot.  The yarn shop is getting ready to move to a bigger better location, and we're all excited about the potential for growth.  I'm even going to get some paid design work out of the transition which I'm getting really inspired by.

The weather has been beautiful for the last month, almost unrealistically so, twilight-zone-esque(double hyphenate FTW), even.  Today I woke up to the sound of rain, and the mist which we've been without, of late, seems to have returned, at least temporarily.  Honestly, I walked out into the cool grey, and took a deep breath the smell of this place, wet cedar and freshly tilled earth, and didn't mind the damp motorbike ride home one whit.

I had a really great visit to DC recently, and am getting ready to go back this weekend, for another short trip.  Which on the surface, seems insane, but I'm actually reveling in the madness of it, a bit.  Something about traveling six thousand miles in for a four day trip seems decadently twenty-first century to me.  Also I never fail to have a really great time with J and Papa Miguel, and there is something about DC which continues to satisfy that part of me that has never really gotten the urban experience, what with having moved to the countryside from the suburbs.

I'm about to begin a three day farm-sitting gig for John at Spring Rain, so that he and the interns can go to the Hoh for a little hiking and camping.  While they're gone I'll be responsible for fourteen hundred poultries, mostly chickens of various ages and type, and a hundred Thanksgiving dinners worth of turkeys.  Not to mention the bunnies, who are pregnant and due any day, or the sheep or their guardian dog Becca.  It's all a little intimidating, but I'm looking forward to it.  Also, John got the grant to fund the WSDA certified chicken processing facility, which means that in the next month or so, as the birds get up to size, and the contracts are signed, I will officially be managing a certified slaughter facility(one of four or five day jobs which will be keeping me busy this summer); a fine example of our tax dollars at work.

So, on the whole life is good.  Things are happening, I'm in a beautiful place surrounded by supportive smart funny people, and if not loving every minute of life, finding enough to love that it keeps me waking up with a smile.

It has been a while...

...and I'm not about to make any of the usual excuses.  Obviously I've been busy, but if I'm being honest, it's much more likely I've been avoiding posting any updates because I don't know what to say.  I feel like I spent much of last year in a weird sort of limbo, not really moving forward, but not because I don't know where I want to go.  It's more like I know where I'd like to be, but I have no idea how to get there, and I'm uneasy with the idea of asking for help.  Which makes me feel like I'm being that idiot guy who refuses to pull over and ask for directions, but it doesn't change the fact that I'm unwilling or unable to take the steps necessary to get where I want to be.

Well wasn't that probably too much imformation.

It has been a hard winter.  I got arrested three days after New Years, for a traffic violation that didn't involve the consumption of alcohol.  It was, and is, a stupid pain in my ass; not to mention humbling, and depressing and overwhelmingly embarrassing.  After getting out I learned that Grandma had a stroke, and it was pretty clear from the get-go that she wasn't going to make it.  A middlin' stressful weekend trip back to Georgia later, and it seemed like things might finally be about to settle back down, alas it wasn't meant to be.

We've been selling down the Twin Vista herd over the last six months; they are simply too inbred to be worth the time and energy that would be required to bring them back into good health, even assuming it would actually ever be possible.  So we were down to three pregnant cows, and a couple of little bull calves who we eventually got around to castrating.  I wrote this next bit in the immediate aftermath of what happened, and I think it captures what went down reasonably well.  A word of warning, what follows is graphic, and not fun to read, but is a realistic depiction of a bad day on the farm.

Yesterday was completely exciting, although not in an at all pleasant way.  It was grueling, emotionally exhausting, and I should probably really write it out, make a proper blog entry of it, so that people will know.

I slept late, didn’t get out of bed until after seven.  I was hoping to get into town earlier rather than letter, but given my inability to go anywhere without catching a ride from someone else, that whole plan was contingent on someone else going in the same direction as me.  I was aware that my only real potential ride was with a fried who was, last I knew suffering from a cold of sorts, and it was entirely possible that she wasn’t going to be up for a trip into town, so I was hoping that it would happen, but not expecting it.  I made my coffee, I wrote some words.  I might or might not have eaten some buttered toast(I think I did).  Then I decided it would be best to go ahead and get some chores taken care of.  I made a second cup of coffee, so that it would have cooled down enough in my time outside that it would be nice and drinkable when I was done.  It didn’t turn out that way, as is often the case on the farm.

I grabbed the bucket outside the side door, and went into the garage where I keep my tote of grain.  I scooped up food for the ducks, closed the door to the garage behind me, and headed off into the orchard.  I hadn’t made it ten paces when I noticed a cow lying on its side by the old hay barn.  I cocked my head, and stared.  It was beyond my useful vision, so I couldn’t tell exactly what was going on, but my first thought, obviously was baby cow, but as I watched, waiting for it to move, for something, anything to happen, I began to grow worried.  I left the bucket on the ground, and headed into the pasture.  I walked past the gathered cows, and about halfway to her, she flicked her tail, and I breathed  a sigh of relief.  It was then I first noticed the hooves protruding from her back half, confirming my initial thought.  I approached, she rose, and began to walk away from me.  I called Martin, and talked with him, then followed along after her.  It became apparent that it was going to be difficult, I couldn’t see much beyond the hooves, and a little bit of the legs, but I couldn’t tell what else was going on.  I decided to go ahead and take care of feeding before Martin got there.  I fed the ducks, and then went back through the orchard, around my cabin, and over to the shed where I keep the hay for my sheep.  I grabbed a couple of flakes gave the ladies and Frostie their share, and then shoved a flake worth through the fence for Charlemagne.

I walked back around, popping into the cabin to send off a text to see about that ride, and to grab my coffee.  Then I went back into the pasture to check on the status of things.  It was going on half an hour since I noticed what was going on, and things were no further along than when I had first checked.  Not a good sign, and when in contraction she strained and pushed, not much was happening, those two feet, and something…something else.  Something I couldn’t identify, but what looked like it might be an ear, which would have meant that instead of coming out snout first, the calf had its head turned around backwards.  Not good, but I couldn’t tell for sure.  I figured I would wait for Martin, especially since there wasn’t really anything I could do anyway.  Anytime I tried to approach I would get about ten or twenty feet away and then she would just keep meandering away from me.  AT this point I stopped being excited and started being worried.

Martin arrived with the whole family, and we discussed the state of things, and he decided that he and the fam would go down to the barn he’s leasing, get a couple of days worth of hay, and return, and if nothing had happened in that time then we’d eitehr corner her or get her into the sorting chute, or something to that effect, and see what we could do to help.  Martin said he’d gather what birthing assistance supplies he could find, and I agreed that would be a good thing.  I think it was apparent to both of us that we were going to need to assist, it was just a matter of how serious that assistance was going to be.  The sorting equipment at the farm isn’t great, the fencing is old and half-rotten and even a short placid cow like the Twin Vista Herefords could walk right through it if they were of a mind to.  I finished my coffee, got a message from The Bazaar Girls to see if I could come in to cover a shift, but I knew even if I wanted to, which I did(at least on the one hand)I knew I couldn’t have gotten into town in the time frame necessary.  I went back into the cabin, after prepping the paddock with the sorting chute in it.  Closing gates, and reinforcing the particularly bad ones.

I turned on the oven, and pulled a loaf of retarding semolina sourdough out of the fridge to proof.  I tried to find something to do that would keep me occupied until Martin got back.  I tried to knit, but all of the projects I had on my needles were at a place I couldn’t really work on them, given my distracted mental state.  So instead, I went outside and went to check on our problem girl.  It was then I realized what was going on, what I thought was the calves ear, was actually it’s distended tongue.  It was dead, long dead probably, and then I realized that we were going to have to pull it, it was probably just too big for it’s mother to get her head out without help.  I tried sidling up behind her to help, but she was having none of it. There wasn’t time for much, because Martin and his family got back.  I opened some gates so that he could get his truck and trailer into the paddock with the chute.  He and the kids through out some hay in the hopes that our laborious cow come over, but she was pretty entrenched in the mud by the water trough.  I went to herd her over where we needed her, but not before telling Martin where we stood.  He nodded, and said that we’d still need to pull the calf, confirming what I had figured.  While they fed I went, and waded into the mud after her.  I rather optimistically, grabbed the hooves while I had the chance, but through two contractions there wasn’t anything I could do; we were in the mud and I couldn’t really get any traction.

Now, in retrospect, seeing how hard it actually was to pull the calf I hadn’t stood a chance by myself, and without mechanical intervention, and I’ve heard many stories about pulling calves with chains and tractors, but didn’t realize what a physically difficult procedure we were talking about.  I tried comforting her, and talked soothingly to her as I encouraged her in the direction we needed her to go.  She was clearly exhausted, and having a had time standing, let alone walking across the farm.  Her back legs kept trying to come out from underneath her, and by the time I managed to get her into the paddock where the others were eating, she actually did fall down, which was pretty heart-breaking.  I opened up the sorting chute, and we got her into it with very little coaxing.  I’d like to think she realized she was in trouble, and that Martin and I could help, but that might be anthropomorphizing.  We got her into the chute, and we only tried to get her into the headgate for about two seconds before deciding to just take out chances and get the baby out.    Martin hooked the legs up a chain, and we hooked the chain up to a calf puller, and then we pulled.  We pulled with all of our might, trying to time our effort with hers, and slowly, more slowly, than I would have believed given how hard we were pulling, the dead calf emerged.  It was huge.  It had just been too big for her to get him out.

We did get him pulled, and she passed the afterbirth without issue.  Martin assessed, and said that he was pretty sure she had been in labor for hours before I spotted her.  Poor thing was exhausted, so we left her to rest, and Martin’s wife Robin and his kids Ruby and Bailey finished feeding the others out in the paddock with the big barn, hoping to lead the other cows away.  It didn’t quite work, but it needed to happen anyway.  While they did that Martin and I unloaded the rest of the hay.  Matin took his family home, saying that he’d be back to take care of the burial, and I went and checked on our momma-who-wasn’t, and realized then that something was wrong.  She had prolapsed, her entire uterus we hanging out her back end.  I knew then that troubles hadn’t ended.

I went inside, up-ended the loaf of bread from its banneton onto a sheet of parchment, I slashed it’s surface, and lowered it into the preheated pot I use for baking single loaves of bread.  Martin returned  and then we fired up the excavator, dug a hole, and buried the calf that didn’t make it.  Unfortunately not the first time I’ve had to help with such a burial, but at least we happened to have the excavator on the farm.  Digging a hole large enough to bury a calf, that the coyotes won’t just dig right up is harder than you might imagine.

Baby buried, Martin took another look at the cow, confirming the uterine prolapse, and saying that he’d be back to take care of it, once he figured out what the hell to do.  He needed to try and call the vet, and talk to Roger Short, look in some books.  While he did that I went inside, ate something, and read about uterine prolapse on several ag college websites.  It didn’t sound like there was a whole lot we were going to be able to do.  I knew that Martin would be up for trying, which was good.  Neither of us wanted to have to put her down, after all she’d been through, but it seemed pretty unlikely that we were going to be able to do what needed to be done, unless the vet was going to come out, but Dr. Jan doesn’t work on Sundays, and the other vet lives in Sequim, which is pretty far away for a farm call.  Martin got back, and his friend Joe came to offer moral support.  We did what we could, we tried re-inserting the uterus, but without any anesthetic she just kept trying to push.  It was an effort that wasn’t accomplishing anything, but stressing us all further.

We talked, and it was decided, pretty quickly, that we didn’t have any other choice.  We were going to have to have to put her down.  Martin went back to his place to pick up a rifle, and I waited, and remembered to take the bread out of the oven, and got my pocket knife sharpened.  I made myself a mid-afternoon cup of coffee, and when they returned, I went out to help.  We let the cow out of the chute, Martin waited until he had a shot, and the he fired.  She dropped, and he went and grabbed the excavator.  I got a bucket of hot salted water, and found a hose, and we went to work.  We got her raised up in the air using the bucket of the excavator itself as an improvised gambrel, and we worked through the process.

We began by partially skinning her from the sternum up to the udder, in order to have a clean are to work with while we gutted her.  Martin opened her up, and I went around back to cut out her anus, which I’ve actually somehow gotten good at, but a cow is a lot larger animal than I’ve ever worked with before; I’ll freely admit.  So we worked at it, moving from position to position, and getting the liver and heart and hanger steak set aside, while pulling out the bits that aren’t good for much, unless you’ve got pigs.  Martin chopped the head off with a combination of finesse and a cleaver. We decided to hold off on the rest until we had her hanging up in Martin’s barn.  So we loaded the carcass onto the back of the trailer, and dug some holes with the excavator, buried the offal, and then headed over to the knucklehead ranch.

Joe and Martin got her lifted up using a proper gambrel, and a chainfall, and then we got right back to work.  We cut around her hind ankles, and cut a slit up the cut we’d finished on her underside, and from there we simply peeled her one knife stroke at a time.  Smaller ruminants you can often peel like a banana, but grass-fed cattle don’t have the quite the same fat layer between flesh and skin, or perhaps it just hold on with more tenacity, I don’t know for sure, but I do know that we took our time, trying as best as we would not to peel off too much of the fat layer, which would protect her while she hung, and obviously doing what we could not to nick the meat, and to keep the carcass clean.  She was pretty muddy from lying down, after all.  We accomplished our goal, in the end, and Robin invited us in for dinner.  I hung out with Sawyer, Martin and Robin’s youngest, and drank a beer, and ate a delicious meal, and then it was time for me to go home, and build a fire, and do a little knitting, and then it was time for bed.  I had to be up early the next morning to feed, after all.

It was an emotionally exhausting experience, but one that reinforces some of my lo0ng standing ideas about how I'd like to spend my life, speculation about which we might get to by the end of this post.

I found myself in the position, again, hoping that things would return to normal, but it didn't, which is, in fact, actually the norm.  Something always comes up.  I've been working a part-time day job, doing warehouse work in town.  it's not the most fun or glamorous work, but it's a regular paycheck, which relieves a lot of the stress of small-scale farming.  For example, before the day job, if I needed to reinforce a fence, or build a new livestock shelter, I would just have cobble together a makeshift solution from materials on hand.  Now I can just go buy a roll of fencing, or some lumber, and not have to think twice about it.

One morning, the next week I got up, early, as is my wont on a workday.  I rise at six, and make coffee, write for an hour, and then do my chores and go to work.  I did exactly that, only after feeding the cows and the ducks, I went and brought some hay to the sheep, and my younger ewe, Daisy, was down on the ground, breathing hard, frothing from the corner of her mouth, and hiccuping almost constantly.  I knew that it might be frothy bloat, but was unsure of what else could cause similar symptoms.  I went back into my cabin, did some quick research, and decided I had to assume it was bloat, and see if I could treat her.  This was not going to be easy.  I can't really afford to call the vet, and I know how to do the right thing, in theory at least, but I'd never had to actually put a stomach tube in before, and I didn't have the proper equipment lying around, so I had to improvise.

I cut a length of small diameter garden hose, got it into her rumen, and administered some vegetable oil and warm water.  They make commercial bloat relief, some sort of chemical surfectant, but it's essentially the same thing.  It was the only thing I could do, but it either didn't work, or it was too late, and she passed away later that day.  I did with her what I did with cow the week before.    I know it probably seems odd, but it's the only way I knew to honor her memory, make sure that I saw to it that I preserved her hide, and put the rest of her up in my freezer.  I understand why a shepherd might choose to bury an old and honored flock member, and while I cared about Daisy a lot; it seems to me that butchering her ensures that even after her death she can continue to enrich my life.  Anyone who has ever heard me half-jokingly endorse cannibalism knows how I feel on the subject.

The weekend after she passed I finally found the perfect new ride, and old early eighties Toyota pickup, a beige sort of yellow with a cab on the bed.  I decided to call it Daisy in her honor.

Things continued on as they do.  New people have started arriving, and old friends are moving on to new things.  One thing farming will never let you forget is that everything always changes.  It can seem, for that brief period of the winter that things stay the same, but it's not true.  Things slow down, but they keep moving forward, and no amount of curling up next to the woodstove with your friends and your knitting will change that.

I found myself, one Sunday, at Spring Rain, helping Molly and John build and install some trusses for the roof of her new cabin.  During the course of this I learned that one of our friends was coming by with some goats, and there was going to be a slaughter and some butchering, and I of course took a break from the construction to help.  We killed and processed four goats that day; I did most of the work on the first one, and then went back to helping Molly and John.  It wasn't until we had finished work on the cabin for the day and went back to see how the others were coming along that I realized that I've actually grown rather good at breaking down a little ruminant, and it really struck me, how much I enjoy it.  I know that probably sounds insane to most of you, but there is something profoundly satisfying and humbling about breaking down an animal.  We are, after all, not really different from them aside from the direction our limbs articulate, and our modest skills of advanced reasoning and iPhone construction.

I've been pondering the idea of opening a slaughterhouse for quite some time now.  Probably since I had to butcher This Goat after his untimely demise.  Whenever I think about my long-term plans, and try an determine what I could do that would let me pay the mortgage on a farm, especially one of the sort I'm interested in having, that is the idea I find myself returning to.  Open a brick and mortar abattoir, put a retail butcher shop in downtown Port Townsend.  It's still agriculture, but it's the sort that actually pays.  It's a service that it is necessary, but one that has a high barrier to entry, and while I feel confident that I could do the actual work of running a slaughterhouse and a butcher shop(at least with some study and on the job training), I absolutely don't have the skills required to do a business plan that is good enough that I could get investors to give me the money to actually make it happen.    Not the mention the sheer amount of bureaucracy I'd have to be willing to deal with.

If I can somehow work through those two very real limitations, however, I'd find myself in a place where I'd be able to live the kind of life that I want.  I'd be able to earn a good living at it, and I know that I find the work itself satisfying to do.  I'm not really sure what I'm getting at here, just putting my thoughts out there, sort of thinking things through out loud, as it were.

I'm going to keep on doing the day to day things that I'm doing now.  Hopefully I'll have baby ducks coming soon, and I'll probably be buying a pair of baby pigs in the coming months.  I'm still trying to work out what to do about the sheep situation, but I think if I don't rush things I'll be able to find a plan that works for me.  Thoughts?  Suggestions?  Just want to say hello?   Call me.  Unless I'm arms deep in a carcass or a pile of chicken shit(there are no chicken at the farm, anymore) I'll pick up the phone.  I'd love to hear from you.  I hope everyone is doing well, and I hope the spring and summer to come bring you all new growth.  I expect they will...

Yep, it's me still alive, still grubbing around in the dirt...

...still choosing what lives and what dies.  Farming is hard, and dirty, and mostly thankless, but it has it's own satisfactions.  It also has costs.  I sent my pigs off to the knacker-man yesterday, and I've been somewhat maudlin since, two nights ago, I tricked them into the horse trailer so that I could haul them off.  Don't get me wrong, on the one had I'm relieved, filled with satisfaction, and happy that I'm no longer going to have to feed them twice a day, every day(how all of you folks who've bred managed to care for your children not knowing that one day in a month or two you'd finally get a chance to relax is beyond me).

WSU owns the farm.  Not sure what that means for me, one way or the other.  Part of the reason I've not been blogging regularly is that I didn't really know what to say about my situation, until we've worked out the details.  Everytime I see or talk to anyone they, quite understandably, want to know what's going on, and I don't have a good answer, or even a bad one.  Part of me is just fine with the situation, and the other part(the more rational part, I suppose), is frustrated as hell.  I can think of a dozen things I'd like to do with my time, and I get to do many of them.  It's not as though I'm miserable, far from it.  I have great friends, peers, and mentors, often times those people overlap significantly. 

Just got called away to phone farm...which is not quite so satisfying as across the fence farming, but, it is, after all, the twenty-first century.  Four commas in that sentence; I think I have a problem.  Most of my on-farm time these days is spent doing one of two things, moving hay, and moving mulch.  I like both of these jobs rather a lot.  I'm not doing either on a big commercial scale, so I can sort of do it on my own schedule.  I don't have to hurry.  I like this about my life above almost all else.  Things move at a very human pace.

I have a very handsome devil of a ram, in with my two ewes, and a wether(castrated male) coming to the farm in the next week.  Hopefully all that means, that in the spring, there will be beautiful lambs to take care of, and much fleece to shear and sell.  I've just started learning to spin, which I can tell already is never going to take knitting's place as my handcraft of choice, but seems like something I should be able to do, if I'm going to own wool sheep.

The ducks are happily wandering around the orchard, and coming back to their enclosure each morning when I feed them.  Each time I wonder if perhaps I should clips their wings, but I err on the side of complacency, and tell myself that they'll be best off if they're able to fly in the event of predators.  Monday before Thanksgiving, I went to Spring Rain and killed turkeys with John, and after we finished that, we killed the last of my male ducks, which leaves me with not much to do aside from feeding the ladies, and the three boys who were spared in the hopes of having many clutches of baby ducks to rear next year.

As I mentioned at the beginning of this post, the pigs are, even as I type at Malco's Buxton meats, in Sandy Oregon, waiting for slaughter day, tomorrow.  John brought the pigs down for me, since he had to make a trip with his lambs.  I should have pork to sell in the near future, and bacon to eat for the first time, since I was in DC with Jason this winter.  It's a weird life I live.  I don't eat much that doesn't come from my immediate area.  Notable exceptions being fancy cheese, and sometimes flour.  I very occasionally buy out of season produce, but usually it's only because I've planned a fancy dinner, and we don't ever really get the summer produce here, like you do elsewhere, and so I don't feel as bad buying it. 

A few weeks ago we drove(with a ferry's help) across the sound, and through the 'burbs, north of Seattle, to go to a brew pub for John's day.   It was funny, there was traffic, and sprawl, and despite all the shit-talking that filled the car, I'll freely admit it did make me just the tiniest bit nostalgic for north Georgia, which is an odd feeling.  This past Monday, me and some friends, went into Seattle for a square dance in Ballard.  It was quite a journey just to go dancing, but that made it more fun in some ways.  I still feel some days, like I'm missing out on an important part of the human experience by living in the country, having never spent any real time living in a city, but I'm not about to pack my bags and move to Portland(any idea how hard it is to get a full grown ram into a suitcase?) anytime in the near future.

I haven't done nearly as much writing as I used to, this year, and every time I do sit down, and put some words on the page I recall how important it is for me to do so, since it's often the only time I can actually say the things that constantly churn through my mind while I'm doing chores in the drizzle.  It's been a long warm fall, and even now that winter has started in earnest we've still had only a few hard frosts out at the farm, which is more than I can say for all my friends who live on the mainland, in valleys which have been that cold for two months.

I know some of you are lamenting the lack of pictures, and I promise I'll come back in the next week or so, and give you all some visual satisfaction.

I think I've run out of things to say.  I love you all, and although I haven't yet decided, after talking to you all recently, I find myself missing you all an awful lot.  I'm still not sure that I'll be able to leave and come and visit at all this winter, but I'm trying to find a job, and if I manage to, and can save some money, we'll see if I can't find someone to watch the farm for me while I come and visit.

Some pics to follow, but first a few(heh) words...

So...where am I, and what have I been doing?

I find myself, once more, in a new place, making new plans, and having new...adventures?  They seem rather banal for adventures, but at the same time, I find them exciting even if I'm sure no one else would.

I've moved to a new farm.  If I saw you over the winter, I probably mentioned the possibility to you, and after much thought, and hand-wringing(not really), I decided to go for it.  Still taking the scary path.  I'm in a good place, and I can say, without reservation, that if things go as they're meant to,  that I'm making a positive difference in my little corner of the world.

Forty years ago, or thereabouts, Lisa Painter and Jeane Clenendon bought Twin Vista Ranch; thirty some-odd acres in the center of Marrowstone Island, overlooking Indian Island and the Olympic mountains in one direction, and with Mount Baker peeking over the horizon in the other.  During their time they did many things with the land, and became an integral part of the community at large, ensuring, just as an example, that the island has it's own ambulance, and helping out members of the community who found themselves in hard times.  Earlier this year, Jeane passed away, leaving Lisa to manage the farm on her own.

She decided, with her friends, that what she needed most, was to know that the farm will remain a working farm, in perpetuity, and so she began looking into the possibility of deeding the farm to WSU to become an educational facility.  That arrangement, is still in the planning stages, but everyone who's involved is optimistic that it will happen in due course, and that everyone will benefit from it.

My part in all this, so far, at least, is to manage the farm, the day to day details, and to see that the transition goes smoothly, and that as WSU takes over the farm is refocused in a way that allows it to serve a new sort of purpose.  Before, and for the last decade, the farm was a private enterprise, between thirty and forty cows, and was not especially profitable.  It didn't need to be.  Now, however, we're going to reduce the size of the herd, until it's a more appropriate number for a modern management style.  We're going to return to cutting our own hay, rather than buying in hay from eastern Washington, and we're going to bring in other animals, sheep, pigs, ducks, each to serve a purpose, and provide another stream of revenue, for the farm(and for me).  As WSU takes over we're going to move towards an intensive pasture management system, where the animals will be rapidly rotated through small paddocks, rather than larger fields, which will allow us to leave some sections of the farm for growing green manures, to improve the health of the soil, and we'll even experiment with growing dry-land cereal crops, which we'll be able to sell to local breweries, or perhaps use as feed for any poultry which we're raising on the farm.  One of the other things we'll do is expand the orchard, which is currently thirty trees, all of them probably as old as I am, or more.  We'll use the farm as a germ-plasm repository for older apple and nut varieties, which will allow local farmers to come and buy cuttings to graft their own trees, rather than being restricted to trees they buy from commercial producers.  Finally the farm will serve as an educational facility for people who wish to learn about different aspects of modern agriculture and about alternative energy, which is a great passion of Lisa's.  young farmers, and the interns who are participating in the FIELD program(which I completed last year) will be allowed to lease chunks of the farm for a fee, providing that they have a business plan, which will enable them to put their idea into practice without needing to buy property before they've got any hands-on experience.

These are all exciting prospects, if everything goes according to plan, I'll be able to learn so much, get some much needed management experience, and have the chance to do some of the things that I'm personally interested in doing, and feel passionate about.  I'm going to be buying some pigs, in the next few weeks, and I'll be using them to prep the ground for the new orchard expansion(in addition to raising them to sell to my neighbors for bacon).  I hope to buy a few sheep in the coming months, probably fiber sheep, rather than lambs for meat, and if I can find a source, I'd like to raise a small flock of ducks, preferably muscovies, although it might be harder to find a source for them, than some of the other varieties.

None of this will make me rich.  It will, at best earn me enough money to maintain the life I have now, which is what I want.  I like to think that in doing this I'm gaining valuable experience, which will enable me to better run a farm of my own some day in the not-too-distant future.  I'm busy al the time these days, and I find myself having to make a conscious effort to take time for myself to relax, because it would be all to easy to work all the time, and while in that not-too-distant future, where I own a farm of my own, I will undoubtedly find myself doing just that, for the time being I'm still at at transitional phase.  Working at Twin Vista Ranch, and working in my spare time at Spring Rain farm(to earn that day-to-day spending money).  I'm building a greenhouse, right now, which has been a learning experience, to say the least.  What have I learned?  That drilling through metal sucks, and is dangerous, and the less said about it, the better.

I'm still knitting compulsively, and baking for myself and my friends.  As the season begins to kick into high gear I look forward to having a gardens worth of food to eat, and am excited about all of the fruits and vegetables I'll have in the months to come.  I look forward to having animals to take care of on a daily basis, as odd as that may sound.  Raising livestock is such a fascinating thing.  You make this commitment, and it becomes an integral part of the fabric of your life.  It's a multiple times a day choice, and it's work that never really lets up, but it can be so rewarding.  It's never in the moments that you think either.  It's getting to sit in the pasture, next to newborn calf, in the weird half-light of the sunset, which, here in Washington, is unlike anywhere else I've experienced, the sky is clear and golden, dark storm clouds on the horizon, and cow chewing contentedly, cool grass under your palms.  I'm lucky, and I try to not let myself forget it.

In which one year ends, another begins, and we respond to the predictions of impending doom...

...by saying in a loud and calm voice, "No, Virginia, the world is not coming to an end." Because, and where I live this is an unpopular opinion, it isn't. There will be no great shift in the way the whole world is, how we live our lives, or the choices we make, alas. It would be nice to think it will happen, but it won't.

How was 2011?

That's a great question. For the most part? It was incredible. I did many new things, learned so much, and made many new friends. I found another place where I'm accepted and valued, and where, if I so decide, I could easily settle down as a productive member of the community. Unfortunately, just as the lack of an impending armageddon leaves things more complicated than they might otherwise be, so too does my inability to say for certain that this is the place I want to be. It would be easier to commit to this place if there was a clear path toward the vision I have for my life, but I just can't see it, despite having looked long and hard for it.

So I have tough choices to make in the weeks ahead. I'm applying for a number of jobs, since I don't really feel I can continue along on the path of labor exchanged for knowledge(not that there is anything wrong with that path; in fact, it's probably the most valuable method of learning the skills in the fields in which jobs are hard to come by), and I need to find a position where I'm learning new, valuable skills, but also getting paid for it. I would be perfectly happy to continue doing what I'm doing if I thought it would lead to me finding a farm, but I just can't see it. So I'm going to find work, doing something I care about in a place where I think I might be happy, and if it means leaving the peninsula behind, then I have no choice.

The other possible benefit of being forced away from this place I've come to love is the possibility of discovering that I have to come back, or learning that there might be other places which will provide the same sense of friendship and community that I've found here. It is also possible, that in my searching, the next few weeks that I'll find a way to stay where I am, maybe I'll find the perfect piece of property for sale, and I'll just need to find a way to pay for it, or perhaps I'll meet the farmer who is looking for the next generation to take over from her, and to run the farm into the future.

What kind of farm do I want? Well, and this is pretty amorphous, since it all depends on where I end up, but since I do have such a strong affinity for the PacNorWe it seems safe to assume that this would all work wherever. I'd like a medium-sized small farm, but if there was a way for me to buy a larger one, or expand as the years go by, I'd be perfectly happy with that. Twenty, forty acres, more or less, I want an orchard, a big one, with big fruit and nut trees. I'd like to keep livestock, pigs and ducks, goats and sheep, maybe a cow or three. I'd like a big old barn, but accept the fact that I may need to settle for a big new barn. I'd like to live in a place where I'm not so far away from a major metropolitan are that day trips are ruled out. I'd like to live in a place with a vibrant enough culture that tourism is a factor, since what I really want, more than anything else, is to have a place like Rockhouse, where people come, and bring their children, who can then come with their children when they get older. I'd like to be able to establish that sort of continuity, and to give people that opportunity to see what it is to live on a farm, and to have a real community of people who rely upon you, and upon whom you rely.

That's the most important thing. It's something I always felt was missing, living in the burbs, and one of the reasons I am so anti-suburbia now(that's a whole 'nother rant, though, one I'll be happy to share with you if you're interested). I'd like a large enough farm in a successful enough community that U can invite some of the incredible people whom I've met in the last few years to join me. To give them the opportunity to do the things that will make them happy, and which will enable whatever farm I'm given the responsibility to care for more vibrant and successful. Would I like to have a restaurant, either country or fancy? I would. Do I want to be able to run a bed and breakfast or a hostel for young people interested in farming? Absolutely. Do I want to do everything I can to come up with systems which will enable me and mine to do this in ways that don't leave us exhausted and broken? I'm going to have to.

None of those things can happen, though, until I find a farm, and make it into the place that I'm envisioning. It will take more hard work than I can even imagine. I know it, but I can't wait for it. I want to be doing it now. I'd like to be out in the cool grey mist pruning apple trees, slopping pigs, and killing a goose for dinner. I know the life I'm looking for is not for everyone, but I do think that in building it for myself I'll be able to enrich the lives of so many others, so that when my nieces and nephews are obnoxious teenagers my cousins will have someplace to send them in the summertime where I can work them to the point of exhaustion and give them the opportunity to learn a few life lessons that aren't always available if you grow up in the city or the 'burbs. A place where we can come together as a family, and enjoy the fruit of the land, and each other.

We'll see what the future holds. I'm not scared of the end of the world, because for me the world is constantly beginning anew. It's one of the irrefutable lessons of the farmer. Life and death, and life again.

A post with all those pictures I promised, parties, and picking, and pickling too...

I'm writing another blog entry, and so soon? Maybe it's late enough in the season that I've got some spare time. We'll find out later(hint: It's not).

For starters I realized you haven't really seen what's been going on in my part of the garden at Solstice, so I though I'd give a little tour.

My Garden, in several stages of development:



Radishes, first harvest of the year(many moons ago[not so long ago as it seems]):



Delicatas:



Fennel:



Carrots and beets:

Parsnips:

Cucumbers:

Brassicas:

The corn, maybe the only corn in the valley that's actually going to get ripe:
I've been eating hot buttered corn, well salted, all by itself for dinner for the last week, or so, three four ears at a time. One of the benefits of waiting for the season is that when it finally arrives you don't have to feel bad about (over)indulging.

The pumpkin(and the rest of the winter squash)patch, complete with Megan the wonder dog, patiently waiting outside of the garden(where she is not allowed):


Winter garden, freshly prepared for planting(complete with volunteer garlic):
And after a month or two; carrots under ag fabric, and beets and broccoli:


More carrots and beets; chard and kale:
Pig Pile:

Moutons sur le pâturage:

Last Sunday we had a big party to celebrate This Goat, Ike, a friend of the local farming community, a sculptor and pit-master extraordinaire, smoked the little kid for six hours, leaving me free to make a bunch of side-dishes for the party(in between helping out on several farms for farm tour). Friends, interns and farmers came, and complimented me on my first tanning project, which I'll try and get a picture of. It was a really special evening, the food was incredible(I made some of my standard party fare, hummus, pureed beet salad, pita bread, carrot and chickpea salad, celeri remoulade, smashed zucchini, you know, just a little nosh) and Tassie, who co-owned This goat with me, brought several other dishes, and we properly feasted. I might be able to get my hands on some pictures that someone else took at the party, but it will have to wait. It was a fine way to end a very full week, and it felt like a successful end to venture, despite the cute little guys untimely death. Olivia and I slaughtered and butchered his brother, That Goat, last week as well, and it was quite a good learning experience. It was the first time either of us actually did the whole process from beginning to end(without adult supervision, as I put it), and we did quite admirably, if I do say so myself. So if any of you ever need any small to medium sized animals slaughtered, and butchered, give me a call.

You might recall me mentioning a bridge earlier in the year, or on the phone, well, we finished it, and some benches, and a cute little roof, and I've done enough of the work to say, in all honesty, that I've now built a bridge, and some benches, and a cute little roof:

Now is that cool, or what?

Some of the food I've been eating lately, roasted beets, lamb sausage(from Solstice, with homemade kraut and mustard):

Some pickles, I made for Jen, who is in Montana, visiting her friend shawn(sean?):

And a little flower arrangement to close out the summer:

It's well on September, and it's starting to get cold, and grey again, and to be perfectly frank, I'm ready for things to start slowing down, but I know, that it's going to be a while yet before I have a chance, to breath, to relax, to take stock, and decide what my future will hold. I'm optimistic, despite being quite worn out, and excited about all the possibilities the future holds. I hope, as always, that you're doing well, and welcome questions, comments, and phone calls. I just sent off my final batch of hats, so if anyone needs any knit wear, I take requests.

Walking around and taking picture this morning gave me a moment to really appreciate how special the place I am, and I've been so busy(harried, if I'm being honest) that I haven't been as good about taking that time as I was last year. I'm sure that some of it, is just the simple fact of the wonder wearing off, and the reality of what I'm doing, and what I want to do settling in. I'm ready to be doing my own thing, and as much as I love Solstice, and all of the other farms where I'm working or just helping out, I'd really love to find a place of my own, where I can do things my own way, and make my own ,mistakes, and learn my own lessons. I think I'm ready for that. So if any of you have some land you think I could raise some sheep and goats and ducks and pigs, you just let me know(this statement is meant half-jokingly).

I love you all, and hope you're well, and hope to get the chance to see you all this winter. Fun and excitement in the meantime.

I'm not feeling clever enough to come up with anything entertaining or witty...

I wonder what that says about me or about this season. At my coffeeshop of choice in Port Townsend. My barista just threw out three espressos before she pulled one she felt satisfied in serving to me. It was delicious. It's been beautiful the last few weeks...for the most part, but it still hasn't really gotten anything like what I'd call hot. I've been unbelievably busy for weeks; trying vainly to keep up with the food in the garden, and enjoy the bounty of the season. It was such a late start all over, and at Solstice in particular it seemed like we only just started getting summer crops, and now somehow it's September. Being down in the valley I'm just keeping my fingers crossed that we don't get an early frost, so I have some time to make some pickles before all of my cukes get dead. The garden is full of food, and the pigs are getting fat fat fat. This spring's lambs are so big I scarcely recognize them, and the ram, Charlemagne, our farm's newest addition is huge.

I'll try and get some pictures posted in the near future, but it's quite time consuming, much more so than just writing some of the goings on, so you at least have an idea of my state of mind.

This goat died, last weekend. It came as a shock, we had not planned on slaughtering them until they had gotten a little bigger, but the poor little guy fell down a hole and broke his neck, and it was a freak accident, no one's fault, and I got over to the land where we were pasturing them, and eviscerated him, skinned him, and got him into the freezer. I'm in the process of tanning his hide, and am planning on having a big party next weekend to celebrate his life the best way we know how...eating him, of course. I'll try and get some pictures of the event, and take the time to actually post them.

I got a couple of flats of peaches from Eastern Washington last week, and have filled my freezer with slices to last me through the winter. Also, on the fruit front, at the co op, I discovered a whole pile of Charentais melons, also from Eastern WA, and I've been eating them instead of meals for three days. It's the height of summer, and if you accept the fact that cukes and zucchini and eggplants and tomatoes are all fruit, then I'd say that my diet these days is about ninety five percent fruit, and five percent basil. I'm just fine with that.

I've been covering some shifts at one of the yarn shops in Port Townsend, which almost seems unfair, given how hard I have to work to earn money farming, getting paid to sit and knit feels almost dishonest.

It does unfortunately mean that I've been busy six days most weeks, which leaves little enough time for relaxation or decompression. I suppose I'll be able to do those things in two months when the crops have died, and there is less work to do.

As far as my plans for after the season go, the FIELD program ends at the close of November, and I'll be staying at Solstice at least through the middle of January. Jim and Linda are taking a vacation to the East coast from the middle of December until then, and I'll be watching the farm with Jen and Sean. I'm looking forward to it, actually. After that I'll try and come and visit everyone; I'd like to spend some time in California, and, DC and Atlanta, before moving on to whatever I'll be doing next year.

As for what that will entail...well...I'm of two minds about that. Part of me wants nothing more than to find a piece of land and start farming. Another part of me wants to travel around, and continue doing what I am doing, essentially, learning from people, and enjoying the rhythm of the seasons and the company of farm folk. Part of me wants to do that, but try and do it across an ocean or two, maybe spend some time farming in a place where there are actual summers, but then I think of how sweaty a Georgia summer can be, and I'm not so sure about that. I know a farmer who asked me about perhaps leasing some of her property to raise some livestock on next year, which would be a great learning experience, and would require less capital investment on my part than actually getting a farm started will.

Life is pretty well up in the air.

I could do so many things, and some of them are quite appealing. Others would be a good idea in the same way that it's a good idea to eat your vegetables and to brush your teeth regularly.

Most of the interns who were here for the summer session have left. Friends going away, and moving on to other things. It will be interesting to see how many of them stick with agriculture, and how many of them will make the world better in other ways.

I have to take the time, now and again, to remind myself of how important the work I'm doing is. It's easy to overlook, especially when I hear nothing but the negatives from the people I'm around. I know that some of you don't really understand why I'm doing what I'm doing, some days I wonder about it myself. I'm not trying to save the world. I'm just trying to live a life that doesn't contribute to the downward spiral, and one that I find satisfying and enjoyable.

Even on the days when all that we do is shovel shit.

My most-common pithy quote on farming is that it boils down to two things:

Moving shit(often the shit is actually shit).

And choosing what lives and what dies(crops, weeds, livestock, and the people who we feed).

It's easy to say that no one's going to starve if Red Dog brings no carrots to market. It's true. As long as the systems that exist now for feeding the masses continue, and there are plenty of smart people who say that they won't, not forever, and so rebuilding the infrastructure that will allow communities to feed themselves is of utmost importance.

So do me a favor...if you've got the chance. Go buy something from a farmer. Don't complain about expensive how those carrots or salad greens are. They're worth it. A human being toiled over those plants, and you'd not believe how much work a carrot entails. While you're at it, cook for each other. I wish I could be there to cook for all of you. I know how busy life can be, and I freely admit that sometimes I'm too tired to cook, but I promise you that I cook a meal for myself at least twice a day, and I know you work hard, but I promise you that you're not working any harder than I am.

Wow, that got preachy, didn't it?

Sorry. I'm at a place in my life where I no longer feel the need to rail against the things I see around me that I can't change that I think I should be able to, but sometimes I still need to say the things that I believe, a little louder than I should, in a public place, where some kid at the next table might overhear me, and might decide for themselves that you know what, how we feed ourselves is important. It's the one thing, aside from water, that none of us, man or woman, animal or plant, can do without. Food is life.

I hope you're all doing well. I'll try and keep updating this blog for as long as I can, and will probably be able to do more as the year progresses. Next week I'll see if I can't just post a bunch of pictures even if I can't manage to write anything.

Two nights ago, at Finn River I sat under the stars, surrounded by farm folk, enjoying a dessert pot luck, and watching The Green Horns, a documentary about young farmers. If you've got the time, give it a watch. It's nice, even if the narrator's voice can be a little grating. It's easy to get bogged down in the day to day details of living in the country and caring for plants and animals, but it can be more satisfying than anything else I've ever done.

I'm going to end with a simple anecdote. Last Sunday, I had plans to see a movie, but could not, because we had hay down in the field, and a rainy front moving in. We bucked hay, loading it onto a flat bed trailer, and storing it in the barn. As I stood on top of the pile, organizing the bales, and breathing deeply in the scent of drying grass I couldn't help but smile, knowing, beyond doubt, that somewhere there was a Wall street banker working on the weekend, who would have wanted nothing more than be in a barn somewhere breathing in the scent of hay, and working at something tangible.