Saturday, April 28, 2012

You can't run away on shearing day

Today was a big day for the sheep at the farm--time for their annual shearing.  You would think that given the recent heat spell, the sheep would be excited about get summer haircuts, but this was not the case.  We literally had to drag them kicking and screaming to the shearer.

The sheep crowded at the back gate to the shearing area, trying to avoid their haircuts
Preparation for shearing began yesterday, when I cleared out an animal pen we were using for storage to create a shearing area.  Last night, the sheep were brought in from the pasture a bit early, placed in the shearing area instead of their usual pen, and fasted overnight until the appointed shearing time of 1:30 this afternoon.  There are a couple of good reasons to fast the sheep prior to shearing: 1) they weigh less, making them easier to handle, and 2) shearing involves placing the sheep into odd positions in order to reach all of the wool, and a sheep with an empty stomach is less likely to vomit.

A lamb peering out from the shearing area
We have 9 ewes and their lambs, but only the ewes were sheared today.  Before you can shear a sheep, you must first catch it.  We used a shepherd's crook for this (up until today, I thought those were just for looking cool in a nativity scene), grabbing a sheep by its hindquarters and pulling the sheep where you want it to go.  I was not very good at this, or else our sheep are just extra stubborn, because every time I hooked a ewe, she laid down instead of letting me guide her. 

One at a time, we brought each ewe over to the shearer, Gary, for her haircut.  Gary has been shearing sheep for about seventeen years, and he makes it look easy.  It is not.  After watching Gary shave several of the sheep, I made a feeble attempt at sheering the flank of a ewe.  Standing over her with my legs strategically placed to hold her down, I held the clippers in my right hand and used my left hand to hold the skin taut to make shearing easier. 


My attempt at shearing
You have to hold the clippers much closer to the skin than feels comfortable in order to get a close shave.  Combine the closeness of the blade with the squirming of a 200+ pound sheep and nicks and cuts are inevitable.  I was assured that these cuts all heal without event, but part of me wonders if these nicks are part of why the sheep were not thrilled about shearing day.

After shearing, the sheep were pretty stirred up, I imagine partly from hunger, partly from thirst, partly from not being in their usual environment, and partly from having just been twisted into all sorts of crazy positions. 


We did what we could for the first 3 issues, giving the sheep hay to eat, water to drink, and leading them back to their usual pen, but the sheep were still pretty agitated, suggesting that they just needed some time to recover from the stress of the day.

Shorn sheep breaking their overnight fast
The sheep look so much skinnier now that they have been shorn.  We will take the fleeces to a local wool processor for cleaning and then sell most of the wool, keeping a bit for our own use.  Several of the farm staff plan to spin some wool and knit or weave with it.  I've never done either, but this year is all about learning new things, so look out--you might just get a knit hat for Christmas!

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Outlier

This evening, I stayed late at the farm to help bring the animals in from the pasture into their pens at night. To kill time between 5 (when the normal workday ends) and 7:30 (when the animals are brought in), I decided to watch the piglets' entire bottlefeeding session.

What I saw was fascinating. Although all 4 piglets are the same age, give or take a few minutes, they are definitely not the same size. One piglet, Bulgur, who happens to be our only male piglet, is significantly larger than the others. That's him on the far left in the picture below.


Bulgur on the far left, much bigger than his sisters
No, I didn't need to watch an entire feeding session to realize that Bulgur is big; what the feeding showed me is why. Bulgur is a champion suckler. Once the bottles are inserted into the feeding station, Bulgur goes to town, chugging down the warm cow's milk. Once he's made a significant dent in his bottle, he pushes his slower-suckling neighbor out of the way and starts drinking her bottle, which has more milk in it than the bottle he left behind. Once he finishes that bottle, he moves on to another, pushing his little sister out of the way, again. This little sister, the smallest piglet, is a slow suckler and has only finished about half her bottle in the time that Bulgur has downed almost 2.

Thus, Bulgur's small advantage in suckling speed drives a cycle of perpetual advantage. Because he suckles faster, Bulgar gets more than his share of the milk. Because he gets extra milk, he grows faster than his siblings. Because he grows faster than his siblings, he is bigger than them. And because he is bigger than his siblings, he can push them out of the way and drink their milk. And the cycle repeats.

Malcolm Gladwell, I've found you another example of an outlier. Much like professional hockey players in Canada, who are disproportionately born in the first few months of the year, Bulgur has taken an initially small advantage and over time, accumulated a significant advantage. In the case of the Canadian hockey players, birth month becomes an advantage because kids born in the same calendar year play in the same league.   Kids born in the early months of the year are older than their teammates, and often stronger and faster. They do better in the league, and are selected for all-star teams. On the all-star team, they get extra practice and game experience, so they become even better players. Over time, they continue to get better faster than their younger teammates.

The question that I am now left with is what to do about Bulgur's advantage. If we don't intervene, and continue to feed the piglets four bottles of equal size, Bulgur will continue to grow at his sisters' expense.  One option would be to feed Bulgur separately, so he can't steal his sister's milk. Another option would be to give Bulgur a bigger bottle in the hopes that he sticks to his own bottle. A third option is to switch their feeding method entirely, such as to drinking from a saucer, meaning less bottle washing for us and perhaps loss of Bulgur's suckling advantage (although something tells me he will be a champion lapper, too!). And of course, we can just stay the course and allow for competition and survival of the fittest.  But such a course certainly doesn't seem like natural selection to me, given how much human intervention there has already been with this litter of piglets. 

After watching the piglets bottlefeed, I decided to explore the area around the farm.  Soil Born is right along the American River, but I hadn't walked down to the river until this evening.  I'm sorry I waited so long.  I found a spot right by the river to sit and watch the water flow by, listening to the ducks quack and watching the sun slowly sink toward the horizon. 

Sunset along the American River
On my way back to the farm, I spotted a doe with two fawns crossing the bike trail. 


Deer approaching the bike trail behind the farm
The farm really is a beautiful place, in an equally beautiful setting.  I am so glad I took this leap of faith.


Soil Born Farms' American River Ranch, as seen from the American River Parkway

Monday, April 23, 2012

The four musketeers

For those of you who were disturbed by my last post, don't worry, this one should not make you cry.  The pig story has made a turn toward happy, and here's to hoping that it stays that way. 

Last Friday, we began bottlefeeding the piglets with a cow's-milk-based formula.  Handfeeding the little guys was rather time-consuming, so our farm manager rigged up a feeding station to hold the bottles up for the piglets to suckle on.  Ingenious!  The piglets are crazy about their feedings, crawling over each other to find the "best" bottle of milk.  They guzzle down their bottles and then fall asleep, curled up together in their pen.


 Last weekend, the piglets graduated to supervised daytime parental visits.  Millet and Barley were happy to be reunited with their babies, grunting with excitement.  Millet even showed some signs of mothering instincts, rolling over onto her side (finally!) to let the piglets nurse.  The pig family spends most of the day laying near an olive tree, the adults in the shade and the piglets sunning themselves. 
Millet isn't producing very much milk, so in the evenings, we bottlefeed the piglets, then tuck them into their own pen with a heating lamp and heating pad for warmth.  After their cow's milk breakfast, we carry them out to the orchard in a milk crate to join their parents for the day.  Of all the animal chores, this task is my favorite.

The piglets are growing quickly and becoming more active and adventurous.  They've taken to exploring their environment, so much so that we had to put up another fence to keep them confined, as the little piglets can walk right under the electric fence that holds their parents in.  On Friday, I spotted the piglets wrestling with each other--adorable!

In other animal news, I learned how to milk a cow this week and was able to herd our flock of sheep out to the pasture all by myself. 

Milking Phoebe, our dairy cow is quite a process, beginning with a thorough cleaning of the cow.  First, she gets brushed, then rinsed, then scrubbed with hot soapy water, then rinsed again.  Once Phoebe is clean, you pull up the milking stool and start squeezing, two teats at a time.  I'm still getting the hang of milking, but the basic idea is to let milk into the teat, pinch off the top of the teat to keep the milk from flowing backward into the udder, then squeeze the milk out the bottom of the teat into the bucket.  About 4 gallons of milk later, Phoebe is pretty empty and you can stop milking.  The milk is then filtered to remove any stray hairs or skin flakes, and refrigerated for later consumption.  Fresh milk is wonderful, and best of all, free!  I've taken to making yogurt from the milk, cooking about 3-4 quarts at a time.  Mmm, mmm.  The yogurt is as good, if not better, than the stuff I was paying $7 a quart for at Whole Foods, pleasing both my stomach and my wallet.

Sunday, April 15, 2012

Sleep tight, little one

WARNING: This post does not have a happy ending. 

Friday was a hard day on the farm.  The darkness began during our morning meeting, when Jared, the farm manager, shared the bad news that we only had 5 piglets left.  Three piglets had died the night before, apparently from asphyxiation when their mother rolled on top of them.  Another piglet had already died the previous night from being smashed by Millie.  I was filled with disappointment and frustration.  I had been so excited when Millie gave birth to her piglets--it was truly a joyous day on the farm.  How had such joy turned so quickly into tragedy?

Millie's parenting instincts seem to be nonexistent.  She does not respond to the cries of her piglets.  She prefers to lay on her belly, denying her piglets access to her teats (and milk).  She shifts positions frequently without regard for the safety of her piglets, often rolling over right onto her babies.  She nests right up against the wall of the pen, leaving her piglets exposed to the wind.  Such behavior is completely inconsistent with her breed, American Guinea Hogs, who are regarded for their excellent mothering ability.  Apparently, Millie forgot to read the breed description, and certainly neglected to read "What to Expect When You're Expecting Piglets." 

Late Friday morning, I went to check on Millie and the piglets and found one piglet laying apart from Millie and the rest of the piglets, which is never a good sign.  In general, the piglets stay huddled together for warmth.  I looked closer at this isolated piglet and knew she was sick.  There was foam and blood around her mouth.  A quick physical examination showed no apparent injury--her limbs all felt solid.  Jared told me these were the same signs exhibited by the piglets Millie had rolled over the night before.  I wanted so desperately to help this piglet, but there was little we could do.  I held her close and encouraged her to fight, stroking her soft fur.  We put her under a heat lamp indoors to warm her up, but her breathing grew shallower and shallower until she wasn't breathing at all. 

Tears streaming down my face, I buried little Farina in the orchard, beneath a fruit tree.  I set her softly in her grave, wished her peace, and gently covered her little body with dirt.  Once she was buried, I walked across the farm to where I had placed my spirit stick a month before and moved the stick to mark Farina's grave. 

Still grieving over the loss of Farina, I quickly had to shift gears and work to save her siblings.  It was clear that Millie had no situational awareness, and would likely continue to suffocate her pigs, albeit inadvertently.  It was time to intervene.  We removed the four remaining piglets from Millie, placing them in a crate under a heat lamp indoors. 


We prepared a sow's milk substitute from our cow Phoebe's milk and bottle fed the piglets with human baby bottles.  It took them a while to catch on, but they eventually figured out that this was their new food.  The first feeding was quite a mess--little black piglets covered in drops of milk--but it worked.  The piglets will now get bottle feedings every 3-5 hours, around the clock. 

I left the farm that day emotionally drained, mourning for the senseless loss of so many piglets.  However, as I pulled out of the parking lot, I was greeted by a full rainbow, shining bright against the figurative darkness of the day, and felt uplifted.  We would not forget the pigs we had lost, but we would fight to save those who remained.  Rest in peace, Farina.  Rest in peace.

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Piglets!

Congratulations are in order for Millet, our heritage breed American Guinea Hog, who delivered 9 piglets this afternoon!  There are 6 girls (gilts) and 3 boys (boars) and they are cute as can be!

We had practically given up on Millie ever having her babies.  Based on the last witnessed mating of Millet and Barley, Millie's due date was thought to be March 24.  On March 24, we all checked in on Millie, anxious for piglets, but nothing.  The "any day now" excitement lasted for about 3 days, until another farmer who raises the same breed of pigs determined Millie was about 2 weeks away from delivery.  Two weeks seemed like forever, and we settled back into our routines, abandoning "Operation Piglet Watch 2012." 


All the while, Millie kept getting fatter, and her teats more swollen every day.  The short walk from the pens to the pasture became a laborious journey for her, and she would arrive short of breath.  Finally, this afternoon, she decided that she had had about enough of being pregnant, and unbeknownst to any of us, went into labor under an olive tree in the pasture.  All of the piglets were scattered on the ground in the pasture when Jared, our farm manager arrived.  "Piglets!" he shouted, and I ran over from the greenhouse to find him rounding up the piglets and placing them next to their mom to suckle.
Millet with her nine piglets

Piglets attempting to find a teat and stay warm
This is Millie's first litter, and her motherly instincts seem to be lacking.  Apparently, most mother pigs clean off their young and chew off the umbilical cords, but Millie just lay there in the dirt looking exhausted and unconcerned.  Since each piglet was dragging a several inches long umbilical cord around in the dirt, we decided that human intervention was necessary.  Using some thread, I tied off each cord and another apprentice snipped the cord while Jared held the pig still.  Then we returned each pig to its mother to nurse.


Millie has ten teats, so each of the nine piglets has a place at the table, which is good news.  Three of the piglets are on the small side and appear weak.  I'm thinking happy thoughts for them and hoping they pull through.  Nursing on Millie is no simple task, considering that she seems prone to rolling over on top of her piglets, nearly smashing them.  Let's hope that once the fatigue of delivering nine babies wears off, Millie has more energy to tend to her piglets.

Sunday, April 8, 2012

Cultivating a distaste for cultivation

Until now, I have always associated spring with cool mornings, warm days, rain, and the planting season.  After this past week on the farm, I can add weeds to that list of spring associations.  April showers may bring May flowers, but it is also true that March showers bring April weeds, although not nearly as poetic.  Several hours of each day of last week were spent "cultivating" in the main field.  Although cultivation technically refers to the entire body of practices used to manipulate soil, in this case it was being used as a euphemism for weeding. 

Honestly, I've never seen so many weeds.  Without knowing it, I have been really spoiled by gardening in raised beds filled with practically weed-free soil.  Or perhaps it is just that my garden is so small compared to the farm that it is really easy to keep up with the weeds.  All I know is that the weeds are so plentiful on the farm that finding the crops can be a real challenge.

The main weeding focus this last week was our leaf/root block that was partially direct seeded and partially transplanted a couple weeks ago.  The crops that went in as transplants were relatively easy to identify amongst the weeds, since they were several weeks old when they were put into the field, giving them a major headstart on the weeds sizewise.  The direct seeded crops, on the other hand, are pretty much in a neck-and-neck race with the weeds.  When the rains came, the crop seeds and the weed seeds both got watered and germinated, and both are growing side-by-side in the planting beds. 

Weeding out the unwanted plants is no simple task.  Hoes are useful for tackling the weeds that aren't right next to a wanted plant (aka, crop), but when it comes to getting the weeds that are crowded next to the crop, only hand weeding will do.  Hand weeding is just what it sounds like--getting down on your hands and knees and pulling out the weeds with your hands.  It's the same way I pull weeds in my garden, and most of us pull weeds in our yards.  The difference is the scale in which hand weeding happens on the farm.  At Soil Born, we plant in 200 foot beds.  The area of our leaf/root block that we weeded this last week was around 10 beds worth, each with 3 rows of seedlings.  In all, that comprises about 6000 feet of crop to weed, over a mile!  That's a lot of crawling on your hands and knees, and trust me, my body felt it.

The curious aspect of weeding is the fleeting nature of your effectiveness.  One of my favorite aspects of farming is having tangible results at the end of each day, and weeding is no exception.  You start the day with a jungle, and finish with an orderly bed of three rows of plants standing tall.  The problem is that there are always more weed seeds in the seed bank, and the orderly bed doesn't last long.  Last Saturday, we weeded a bed of kale.  By Thursday of the next week, it had to be weeded again.  Weeding is truly a constant battle. 

Already tiring of weeding after just one week, I clearly need to find a way to reconsider my definition of successful weeding.  Rather than considering weeding a one-and-done task, perhaps I should think of it as more of a marathon tennis match--a five setter between Nadal and Federer--that will test both my mental and physical stamina.  Let's just hope that in this battle, the plants win--I need to eat, and I don't really like weed salads!

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

Big Red

I eat meat. But until last week, I had never witnessed the harvest, or slaughter, of an animal for food. The process wasn't easy to watch, but it felt like something I needed to see.  If I wasn't willing to watch an animal killed for food, then I shouldn't be eating meat.  Nowadays, it's so easy to go to the grocery store and buy meat, hermetically sealed and highly processed, such that it hardly resembles its animal of origin.  With the grocery store, meat becomes a commodity, not a precious sacrifice. You don't even think twice about throwing out leftovers--you can just get more meat at the store. To be honest, for most of my life, that is how I've approached eating meat.

However, of late, I'm been trying to eat more mindfully and pay attention to where my food comes from.  We've been buying grass-fed beef at the farmers' market from a local ranch where the cows live a good life.  The natural next step seemed to be to witness the slaughter of the meat I eat.

At Soil Born, we raise chickens for eggs, not meat, but roosters who don't play well with others are not tolerated.  Big Red, the rooster we killed, was on the losing end of a battle with another rooster, getting pretty beat up in the process.  After the fight, it was decided: Big Red had to go.

At the appointed time, Big Red was carried from his isolation pen to the area we had set up for the slaughter.   He didn't seem to know that death was imminent.   Held upside down by his feet, he was practically asleep as the knife that would slit his carotid artery approached.   I really didn't want to watch the cut being made, but felt like I needed to watch everything, every second of the slaughter.  So watch I did, until Big Red's eyes stopped blinking.  Once the rooster was dead, I was amazed at how quickly he was transformed from a fluffy, feathery creature to a skinny carcass as we quickly pulled the feathers off after dunking the carcass in near-boiling water.  Once the rooster was dead, the emotional attachment that I had felt before the slaughter was gone.  It felt odd that now that he was dead, I could handle his body just like any other chicken. 

That night, back at home, I cried for Big Red.  The experience had been harder on me emotionally than I had initially thought, but I was glad I participated.  I hope that I will get to the point that I'm ready to slaughter a chicken myself, rather than just watch, but I'm not looking forward to that day, either.  Life, even a chicken's life, is precious.