Country Grit: A Farmoir of Finding Purpose and Love

by Scottie Jones

Tater

  Paco

  Patches (the good dog) and Cisco (the bad dog)

  Turkey poult

  Photo credit: Shawn Linehan

  Harold the day after the attack

  Deedee and Nona at two days old while they were still living in the house

  Shearing in the barn

  Tater scattering the sheep

  Photo credit: Dennis Rivera

  Photo credit: Paul Deatherage

  Scottie and Paco

  Photo credit: Alexandra Shyskina

  Herding sheep

  Photo credit: Shawn Linehan

  PART THREE

  ANOTHER NEW YEAR OLDER

  The snow fell, separating us from all our tribulations. Our girls came home and we celebrated another small Christmas. There was no disappointment this time because there was no expectation for more. Less was not only enough, it was comfortable, it was intimate. We lost power and huddled together under lamplight, warmed by the woodstove, enjoying the respite from our chores. We were family and we were community enough for each other to lift the dark of those December nights.

  The New Year brought the annual tally of income and expenses. If it was like last year, it would be followed with grim atonement for the sins of ignorance and naiveté.

  The net from the sale of the lambs was up 5 percent. It was the right direction, showing we were improving, but not nearly enough. The net from the turkey sales doubled the net from the lambs. Now that was more like it. And we reduced our feed costs by haying. Unfortunately, all the gains were off-set by the monthly tractor payment. In five years we’d have the tractor paid and then the gains would mean something. It would mean we would be losing less money.

  Farming is a high capitalization business and it always has been. Even when the government gave land away for homesteading, many could not “farm up.” They lacked the capital to buy the necessary tools, seeds, and livestock to farm. Today, with four-hundred-thousand-dollar combines sitting ten months of the year in tractor sheds, the cost to farm-up has never been higher.

  This is the point where rational people look at the numbers and acknowledge it’s been a great adventure, but it’s time to quit. Of course, rational people don’t leave lucrative careers to buy money-sucking farms in the first place. Greg’s income was enough to keep us afloat, and he found he actually enjoyed the variety offered by the dual career lifestyle. One occupation was nearly the opposite of the other in skills and activity, which kept him fresh and engaged. As for me, the principal farm operator, I still felt I could make the farm pay for itself. As I noted, rational people don’t buy farms.

  With small farms, it’s about the niche. That’s what the turkey sales were telling me. I had to find those areas that big ag couldn’t or wouldn’t address and farm to that market. So, it’s not about one niche, it’s about finding multiple niches. In that way, small farming differs dramatically from large scale, monoculture farming with ever greater levels of one-crop efficiency. Small farming is about maximizing diversified crops synchronized to the seasons, enabling the small farmer to be nimble and responsive to the market. How could I apply niche marketing to sheep?

  After researching sheep breeds, I hit upon Katahdins, a hair sheep from Maine. Hair sheep shed their coats, saving me the cost of shearing. Remember, sheep are bred to specific purposes, so the wool from meat sheep is unsuitable for textile. Coming from Maine, the breed seemed well adapted to Oregon wet, reducing the risk of hoof rot. Further, they were much leaner than other breeds, imparting a milder, more delicate flavor to the meat. The flavor advantage should command a premium price, but only for a consumer educated enough to ask for Katahdin. So how was I going to find—or develop—that educated consumer? Not likely the big grocery chains would do it. No, I needed a group of consumers I could talk to directly. I needed a community of consumers that supported local agriculture—a CSA (community supported agriculture). So my problem was two-fold: find a breeding herd of Katahdin, and find a paying group of consumers. Easy peasy.

  Not every advancement could be counted in dollars. This year we had greatly extended our connections into the community. Greg had joined the Grange, a century-old fraternity for farmers to connect and exchange ideas. I was mining the Ag Extension Service for workshops on farming. The Extension Service is pure Jeffersonian agrarianism, linking farmers to ag scientists at the land grant colleges. It keeps farmers tuned up on the latest developments in science, and the scientists grounded in the practical needs of farmers. And that keeps America at the forefront of farming. Small farmers don’t get government subsidies, but we do get the Extension Service, and that’s a lifeline in a stormy sea.

  My agent at the Extension Service was Melissa. She was part of the Small Farms program, which was responsible for answering questions, registering concerns, networking, and providing educational classes. She connected me to a group of women who farm. Not surprising, since among small farmers, women managers are a growing demographic. And that has had a variety of subtle effects on the cultivation and marketing of food. Our Farmer Jane potlucks are always tasty farm testimonials.

  As for our marriage, it was fine. Without fully discussing it, we had divided our labors and were now engaged in their execution. Greg provided the financial support through his job and tended to the garden and pasture cultivation in the summer. I tended the animals and much of the business of running the farm. We had each gained in competency, and that, combined with a better farming strategy (farm the niche), was improving our financial outlook.

  Or to frame it another way, we were completely dependent on each other without offering a jigger’s worth of support to the other. If either of us had let down for a moment, the whole venture would have collapsed. We knew this abstractly, and we knew that the other person was working hard, but the separateness of our lives prevented us from seeing the exact work and simply acknowledging it or the person producing it. We saw our partner’s effort only when they failed, and then we brought that failure to their attention—fortunately, this was not often. In short, we were desperate, dependent, and alone in our struggle to support each other—and doing a good job of it. So, we were fine, thanks for asking.

  MORE PEASY THAN EASY

  Applying niche marketing to sheep required solving two problems. First, finding a distinctive brand of sheep that would command a premium price and then growing—literally—that brand. Second, finding a dedicated community of consumers who were willing to pay a premium and growing that community of consumers. There are 1,200 breeds of sheep, so selecting a brand is not an easy process.

  The story of sheep is the story of us. Sheep are easy pickings for predators and probably would not last long as a species without the protection of their chief predator. It’s a symbiotic relationship that began ten thousand years ago in the Levant, making sheep the first livestock. They were probably domesticated for their milk, not meat, suggested by the absence of butchering sites in their place of origin. Sheep’s milk, with its high butterfat, is still the best dairy source for quality cheeses in the world. In my mind, I envision some poor man who’s just lost his wife and is desperate to feed his newborn, cornering a feral sheep and milking it. Viola, in a few short millennia we’re enjoying a piquant Roquefort at a Paris bistro. From this initial contact, it would be three thousand years of selective breeding to produce wool sheep. It would be another three thousand years before Jason would go in search of a Golden Fleece or Abraham would move his flocks across the desert to Canaan. Sheep have shared our journey and earned a place in our stories since antiquity.

  My choice of sheep was Katahdin, a hair sheep derived from the St Croix breed. St Croix were brought with slaves to the West Indies, suggesting an African origination of the breed. Like most hair sheep, St Croix are incredibly tough, resistant to parasites and disease, and able to survive on marginal lands. Katahdin have inherited all those traits along with extra resilience for cold, wet weather climes like Maine and Oregon. The one drawback is that they are smaller a
nd leaner by a third than the traditional woolies. When profit is measured in pounds, that’s a problem. Of course, my intent was to flip that formula so profit is measured in flavor, where the Katahdin contain that same proportion of advantage compared to the heavy, tallow flavor imparted by the fatty meat of the woolies.

  I had found my brand of sheep, now all I had to do was find the actual animals. That required a call to the national Katahdin sheep growers association for a referral to the nearest local growers. Then multiple calls to local growers to find the right quality (birth/weight record), availability, and price for breeding ewes. That could take several months, and several months could cost me a year of product if I missed my breeding window.

  Or, instead, a call to Melissa, who knew a woman in a neighboring state selling her entire herd of Katahdin breeding ewes. A week later I had my breeding flock.

  First look was not encouraging. The ewes were shedding hair in clumps, giving the distinct impression of mange. They were small and feral looking, almost like miniature, pot-bellied deer. And they came in assorted shades of beige, not the pristine white I associated with sheep. When introduced into the larger flock, they immediately separated into their own clan. The overall impression—small, feral, clannish—was vaguely reminiscent of my Mainer cousins. Fortunately, they turned out to be just as endearing as my Mainer cousins.

  With the breeding herd secured, all that remained was culling the old herd and finding a ram. Culling was necessary to prevent over-grazing. Grass does not grow evenly, but rather follows an S curve rate of growth, meaning it grows slowly at the bottom and top of the curve. Efficient grass production requires four inches of grass to maintain maximal growth. Grass cut below that baseline will be stunted. The herd must be culled before the pasture is over-grazed.

  Culling involves reviewing lambing records. It’s a matter of eliminating the oldest and least productive. Once the cull is made, those ewes are taken to auction. At the auction are a group of professional buyers who will assess the animals relative to current market conditions and offer competitive bids. Some animals will be sold directly to slaughter while others will be taken to feeder operations. For the buyer, it means bidding, loading, transporting, and selling the animals in the same day, hoping you’ve bid shrewdly enough to make a profit. For the farmer, it is always the least money you can get for your animal. For a conscientious farmer, it is also the least caring manner for disposing of your animal. Though necessary, it is never a pleasant event.

  On the other side of the livestock fence was my purchase of a purebred Katahdin ram. The quality of your herd is determined by the quality of your ram. For this reason, purebred rams command a premium. “Red” was purchased from a biohazard-free farm. It was a closed farm, so outside vehicles were not permitted beyond the designated parking lot. Once out of my truck, I was instructed to wash my hands with an industrial sanitizer and place paper booties over my shoes. Red weighed two hundred pounds, which is big for a Katahdin, and sported a massive mane of red tinted hair around his head and neck, giving him the appearance of a lion. His super-sized testicles added to his lionized stature. Fortunately, his temperament tended more to the lamb. I slipped a halter over him, and loaded him into the back of the truck.

  So, first problem solved. I now had a breeding herd of Katahdin sheep. And a few extra, since I couldn’t part with several of my favorite woolie ewes. The woolies would go on lambing for another six years and their offspring would keep woolie genes circulating in the herd long after that. By happy circumstance, the cross created a weight advantage without noticeably affecting the meat quality. Unfortunately the cross also created a pitiful looking, half-wool, half-hair creature with a perpetually crumpled look. But that look fit the farm. In fact, both the farmers had that look most of the time. Another example of perfect imperfection.

  At this point, all I had done is to transition my breeding herd from large sheep to small sheep. This is not a path to prosperity unless I also convert my consumers to the flavor advantage club. Before that, I needed to find my consumer.

  I advertised my Katahdins on craigslist, but since the public doesn’t recognize the Katahdin brand, I was forced to sell at market price. I was selling at a loss to find my customer with the hope of building a base of customers that would generate a buzz. I launched a website, describing Katahdins, telling my story, and offering recipes to help educate and network my customer base. Once there was sufficient interest about the Katahdin brand, I could start raising prices to a product-sustaining level. It was a process. And since the kill-cut-wrap price (yes, it’s one word in the industry) is the same, regardless of weight, my smaller lambs would always be at a price disadvantage. Meaning, it’s a slow process.

  So, the Katahdin niche market would improve over time as my consumers become educated. Now I just needed my loan agent at the bank to agree with the slow improvement and notch his interest rate to correspond to my slow improvement rate—which would never happen. And that’s farming. That’s how difficult, risky, and expensive a small change in farming practice is to initiate and why the deck is stacked against the small farmer. Yet, small farmers are pulling off these odds-breaking miracles every day. Ever enjoy a glass of world-class Oregon pinot noir? The same story of slow education, stubborn persistence, and bone-crushing finance brought that bottle to your table.

  AN INCONVENIENT TRAP

  Sarah and I walk every morning, whether rain, fog, cold, or clear. We walk to loosen rusted joints and clear our brains. And we walk to stay connected, to sympathize, and synchronize with our families and our community. And I walk for the dogs. Patches and Cisco live for the morning walk. My hand on the front door is the signal to let the party begin. Each dog begins barking and turning circles in their unique version of the happy dance.

  I have never understood the dogs’ level of excitement. Perhaps I would if they were kept inside all day, but these dogs have their own door. They have unfettered access to chase chipmunks, flush birds, bark at passing cars, and surreptitiously herd sheep. And what do they do with this freedom? Mostly lie around the house and sleep. But look like you’re going for a simple walk and these dogs become apoplectic with pleasure. Must be archetypal memories of the wolf pack at hunt.

  This day we chose an old logging road with soft grass, fallen pine needles, and no trucks. We call the road the “boneyard” because locals favor it for dumping the offal from their hunts. Either that or a satanic cult is operating in the area with a neurotic need for overachievement. We also call it the boneyard because it is eerily quiet. Something about the presence of death makes even the birds avoid it.

  I think it was the quiet that made the shriek coming from the woods so unsettling. A dog was crying out in agony. And the shriek didn’t stop. I whistled. Patches emerged from a thicket but no Cisco. I ran into the dark woods toward the terrible noise. If it was a porcupine encounter, the wail should have stopped by now. Knowing deer and elk carcasses draw a variety of predators to scavenge, my mind was filled with dire images of Cisco being attacked by a cougar

  Through the gloom of the dense forest, I spotted him at the base of a large snag. I called to Cisco but he didn’t run toward me. Something had hold of him. I called again and this time his head twisted in my direction. Concealed behind a snag, much of his body appeared immobilized. As I got closer I could tell his paw was caught. I crouched beside him, throwing off my gloves and reached for his paw. Cisco was in a panic, alternating growling, snapping, and crying. I realized he was caught in a leg-hold trap. The harder he pulled, the worse it got.

  I threw my arms around the dog to stop him from pulling while I tried to press down on the trap with my boot. I could barely make it move, and by pressing on just one side, it pinched Cisco’s paw harder. He yelped and snapped at me. I was not strong enough to hold the dog and open the trap at the same time.

  I yelled for Sarah. When she arrived, I gripped Cisco’s muzzle as she threw her coat over his head to protect us both from his snapping teeth.
I held him in place while she, with all of her strength, tried unsuccessfully to pry the jaws of the trap apart. Neither of us had experience with traps. Then, I noticed the trap had spring releases on either side of the jaws. Sarah used her weight and stood on the releases. The jaws opened. Cisco yanked his paw free just as the trap snapped shut again.

  I gratefully released Cisco and stood up on shaking legs. Cisco sat down to lick his paw and inspect it. After a cursory washing, he rose and ran down the path. There was no limping or three-legged hopping. He was fine and he wanted everyone to know it. No need for a vet or any further inspection of his foot. Everything was alright. Nothing to see here. He went straight home without a look back.

  I tried to thank Sarah but soon realized I was babbling. Like Cisco, I needed to go home, to sit down, and to calm down. Sarah hugged me and told me she was available if I needed her. I don’t remember saying good-bye, although I’m sure I did.

  As I walked back, I was surprised that my hands had become suddenly cold. I had put my gloves on but my right hand was starting to tingle, so I took them off. My hand was caked in dirt mixed with blood. Curious, since the trap had not broken Cisco’s skin. I hadn’t noticed any blood on Cisco. That was because I was the one who was bleeding. Cisco had bitten me.

  Two weeks later, my hand was still bruised with little teeth marks. The antibiotic worked wonders on the infection. As for Cisco, the vet was amazed there were no broken bones. However, getting to look at his paw required a muzzle, a blanket, and three vet assistants. As for the trap, Sarah and I went back the next day to retrieve it. It took both of us to pull the three-foot stake holding it out of the ground.

  I called our local Fish and Game guy to report the heinous crime and found the trap was legally set and registered. Anyone can trap on public lands as long as they register with the authorities. He did inform me that taking someone’s legally registered trap was a crime. I asked if he had spelled my name correctly and proceeded to give him the name of my high school algebra teacher.