by Paula Manalo
* * *
The following story is based on entries from my farm logs, notes from my first year of solo farming in Oregon’s Willamette Valley. Mine was a venture growing organic vegetables on about a tenth of an acre in the French Prairie region, about twenty-five miles south of Portland. On reviewing the logs, I estimate that 47 percent of my time that first year was occupied with concerns about the western pocket gopher. Whether I was talking about him, watching him, hunting him, lamenting him, or just plotting against him, it was 47 percent.
Actually, this story is only half the truth. The other half can’t be told without a laundry list of curse words. If you want the rest of the story, the gritty and heroic part, you’ll just have to take up farming and find out for yourself.
The paradox is this: One of the simplest ways for a farmer to reduce a gopher population is not to farm.
METHODS
You can shoot them. My neighbor told me he gets them with his .22. You can trap them. I saw some guys doing that in the field next door. Poison them. I saw a sign on the highway advertising gopher-poisoning services for twenty bucks. You can smoke them out with sulfur and a torch. (Peter, the owner of the farm, swears by that method.) You can bury metal mesh under the field to keep them at bay. How much mesh would that take to protect my field? Would I need it under the whole field or just on the perimeter, sort of like a moat?
* * *
My first attempt at eradicating gophers involved hunting them with nothing more than a shovel. This was not the right weapon for the job.
* * *
For a while I considered building barn owl boxes in the field, in hopes that the owls would come and do the work under the cover of night. I heard that one barn owl could eat two thousand gophers in a year. Adding more dogs and cats to your farm is another method to employ. My buddy Nate says cats are really good at hunting gophers. Then there’s the possibility of flooding the gopher tunnels, Caddyshack-style, but where does all that water go? My brother Tim — who, as you may be able to ascertain, is not a farmer — proposed a plan to plow the fields at a depth of six feet because I told him that gophers den at roughly this depth. The only question is, “Which tractor implement to use for this mighty scheme?” Some of my farm friends prefer the strictly antagonistic approach of throwing their cigarette butts down the gopher holes. And a neighbor at the farmers’ market told me not to bother farming at all until I was sure all the gophers were dead.
My first attempt at eradicating gophers involved hunting them with nothing more than a shovel. This was not the right weapon for the job.
SEASONAL NOTES FROM MY JOURNALS
Spring
I talked to Noel this morning (Peter’s wife and the gracious steward of the farm). She said the gopher ate almost all her garlic and she pulled the rest because she would rather give it to the chickens than let them have it. I told her my garlic was fine. She seems paranoid.
My plot looks good. The beds are shapely, weeds are at a minimum, and most notably the gophers seem to have largely overlooked my location. Am I like a gopher whisperer or something?
Early Summer
I shot a bunch of gophers this week. I told Noel I was pretty sure I got them all.
I didn’t get them all.
Summer
Today I harvested potatoes and realized I now might have a little gopher problem. How many could there really be, though?
A lot.
Shot more gophers today. Gophers have terrible eyesight. You can get within a few feet if you’re sure not to move much when they surface and look around.
I’ve graduated to trapping gophers. I’m getting some and chasing out the rest with my bad attitude.
Trapping, I have come to learn, is by far the superior method. You can place the traps in fresh holes, in areas with crops that are particularly vulnerable to a gopher’s big weird teeth and appetite. And traps are far, far, far less time-consuming than walking around hunting them. Although shooting the gophers enables the farmer to witness their demise, with their pouches full of garlic, carrots, parsnips, and the like (the western pocket gopher has a large storage pouch on either side of its mouth for efficient harvesting of my vegetables), and this is very satisfying, it can be a slippery slope toward an unhealthy perspective on the matter.
Late Summer
I can’t believe gophers will eat the whole root from a chard plant! I mean really, the whole thing, like nothing’s left but some wilted leaves. They ate half the salsify, too. Did you know they also like parsley root, leeks, carrots, parsnips, and onions? Who likes parsley root? I’m going to plant winter carrots and parsnips anyway. I’m pretty confident I can keep them at bay.
I’m really excited about salsify. Nobody else at the market has it and a couple of chefs have come to my stand and been really impressed that I’m growing it. I can understand the gopher getting some of the leeks and stuff, but I can’t help but feel that the salsify is personal (taking this personally by way of projecting intent is part of that slippery slope, to be discussed shortly, right after the gopher finishes eating my parsnips).
Fall
Parsnips: gone. Winter carrots: gone. Chard: gone. Beets: gone. Kale: holding steady. My attitude: suspect.
Winter
If a gopher eats the last of the parsnips in the field but the farmer has long since given up, is it still annoying?
INSIGHTS
Farming is as much a philosophical endeavor as it is a confluence of skill, knowledge, luck, technique, and effort. That said, a balance must be achieved.
Gopher management is necessary, but not to the extent that the farmer assumes a role of preeminence over the land and the larger order of things, in which he is equally as insignificant as the gopher, lest he become the agent of his own demise, or that of his neighbor.
Divergent points of view can lend themselves to friction in forms as varied as my farm plot. Carrot feels that Tomato takes up too much space and won’t share the sunny spots. President Potato is bewildered with Minority Leader Leek over the recent redistricting of the new plot. Farmer wages war against Gopher’s seemingly intentional efforts to destroy all things that he values.
To the contrary, divergent points of view also carry the inherent potential for fresh perspectives. Farmer seeks opportunity in rich soil with ample amendments for prolific plant growth. Gopher seeks opportunity in rich soil with ample amendments for prolific plant growth. It is at my hand that this little paradise exists; who am I, then, to turn around and curse anything else that might also be positioned to benefit?
While I transplant the kale, sow the lettuce seed, harvest the beans, there are international disputes at play, disputes that echo my own little controversy right here on the farm. Where to draw the line? How far am I willing to go to achieve an end? Do I want to bring the glorious salsify to market at all costs? What is my role? Where do I fit into the grander order of things?
To be sure, I have an obligation to try to coax my plants toward market, but of equal importance is my responsibility to steward the land, and to accept that my agenda is not so special from the vantage point of another. Somewhere in this discussion there is a dividing line: where once he may have been burdened, now he is the antagonist of all things.
I’ve decided to strive for some form of balance. I want to be a wise farmer. My girlfriend, Terra, says she won’t stay with me if I’m going to be a grumpy old farmer. So I have a choice to make every day. It’s not so much about whether to manage the gopher population; of course I’ll set traps and shoot one when the opportunity presents itself. The bigger issue is how I’ll approach this whole thing, from what perspective.
I choose the wise-farmer path, at least on most days, and especially on the days when Terra works on the farm with me. There will always be something to hate, and I know my time here is limited. As soon as I step out of the way, the order of things will rearrange and cover my traces, just like an old barn here in the great Northwest, inching toward a return to the earth.
/>
Gopher and Farmer. One.
(I’m still looking into plowing the fields at a depth of six feet, in case this wise-farmer thing is a mistake.)
What I Learned from Gwen
* * *
BY CORY CARMEN
After graduating from Stanford with a degree in environmental policy and spending a few years working on Capitol Hill and in Los Angeles, Cory Carmen returned home to rural Oregon. Today, she and her husband, David Flynn, are the fourth generation to raise their children on the family cattle ranch.
* * *
I’ve always been happiest around cattle; it’s a trait I inherited from my father and grandmother. Since I was twenty-four, raising beef cattle has been my profession. I appreciate the predictable, indifferent ways of cows, how well they fit in to our mountainous landscape, and that they require little in the way of human interaction. But last winter, in the dark corner of a hundred-year-old barn, my friend Liza, also a beef rancher, introduced me to her dairy cow, Jewel.
Generally speaking, ranchers don’t need milk cows. We like our work to change with the seasons rather than taking on routine daily chores. Our cattle are selected for hardiness and thrift, and we count on them to survive with minimal human intervention. On those occasions when we do vaccinate or sort them, they can’t wait for the interaction to end.
Dairy animals are strikingly different. Centuries of breeding for high milk production and easy demeanor have resulted in cows that are intelligent, sensitive, and friendly.
Before my time, our ranch was home to several Jerseys, Guernseys, and a few Holsteins. I knew that Grandma had sold milk to neighbors for years. The family referred to the stash from these sales as the “milk money,” and it enabled her to expand her large collection of antiques and intricate cut glass. When I met Jewel, I thought about all the stories. For the very first time, I thought, I’d met a bovine that was interested in more than just getting out of my way.
As much as I longed for my own doe-eyed dairy cow, we already had pigs, chickens, and way too much to do; another animal around the barnyard was out of the question. Yet something strange transpired the following spring. In a herd of beef cows numbering fewer than two hundred, we saw seven sets of twins. Not designed for milk production, Angus cattle often falter at raising more than one calf. Besides, a cow would inevitably lose one of the calves out on the range, forcing it to fend for itself or starve. We coerced a few Herefords into keeping both of their calves, but two orphans remained. So I called Liza, who connected me with my first Jersey, Gwen.
Gwen came from a huge concrete dairy where, at two years of age, she was headed to slaughter for her low production — just three gallons a day. We bought her at a slaughter price of forty-five cents a pound. Her low production seemed like bounty to us and, despite her lack of experience, Gwen raised the orphan calves with admirable dedication. It was like a dress rehearsal for her because as a bonus, Gwen arrived on the ranch two months’ pregnant.
As fall approached and Gwen neared her due date, we drove five hours, to Portland, to make the last of four weekend deliveries of beef to our customers. We returned relieved and tired, with checks that combined to make one-quarter of our annual income. But then we found the lifeless body of Gwen’s calf by her side. It wasn’t clear why the tiny heifer hadn’t made it. Gwen hadn’t moved from the area of the birth. We took the calf’s little body, already partially ravaged by the coyotes, to bury it. I felt an intense wave of sadness. As my affection for Gwen had grown, I dreamed of a Jersey heifer calf and eventually two lovely cows in the barnyard.
The first part of my wish had come true, but I wasn’t able to save her. Rage welled up in me. I swore and kicked at the ground, and then, taking a deep breath, recited our family mantra to myself: “It can’t be changed. Don’t think about it.”
Instead, I focused on the task at hand. Gwen faced the very real danger of contracting mastitis, which could prove fatal. The only way to prevent the ailment was to watch her closely and extract all of the milk she produced, at least twice a day.
* * *
I felt gratitude to the small animal that required me to spend those quiet hours in the barn and now enabled me to grieve.
* * *
Thus began my morning and evening rituals with Gwen. There was a certain serendipity to the sadness. Had her calf died earlier in the year, I couldn’t possibly have spared those hours to spend with Gwen. Each and every week prior had been a flurry of phone calls and orders, meetings, and hours of driving. They’d consisted of late nights in my tiny office where I e-mailed beef customers, chefs, and distributors; paid bills; and applied for a larger operating loan. Suddenly, it was November and as the last few checks came in, I realized that for the first time since I began raising cattle, their sum total would be enough to pay off the operating loan. That meant I didn’t have to take a part-time winter job to pay the bills. And that meant I could afford the time in the barn with Gwen.
The responsibility of a newly fresh (lactating) Jersey wasn’t exactly on a par with what I faced when I’d had my first child, but the sense of duty and pressure was strikingly similar. When I brought home our first baby, I read every baby book I could lay my hands on, trying to prepare for all the problems I was certain I’d encounter. Now I was reading about milk fever and mastitis and ketosis and trying to decide how much and what type of grain to feed. I knew that dairy cows were part of my family history, but my grandma and her vast experience were gone, leaving me in the shed with a bucket and a stool, relics hanging on the side of the barn, wondering what to do. How much milk can I leave? How much grain should I give? How many days of colostrum will there be? And when will my hands stop aching?
Balanced on the stool, I rested my head against Gwen’s flank and placed my hands around her long, full teats. The motion felt awkward at first — I pinched with my thumb and forefinger and squeezed with the other fingers, one after the other, until I heard the stream of liquid splashing into the bucket. I repeated the routine morning and evening, each time slightly faster and with more confidence.
The milkings were a welcome reprieve. No phone calls, no e-mails, no lists of demands — just the straw, the warm brown cow with her big black eyes, and the steam that rose from the silver bucket. Some nights I thought about our business and its challenges, but more often I thought of my grandma. Summer had been so busy — with new sales and deliveries and our three young children — that when we heard Grandma’s final diagnosis in July, I could only sit by her side, hold her hand, and invoke the longstanding family tradition of setting aside difficult emotions for later.
And that meant not thinking about losing her and what it would mean to us.
I thought of her sitting on that same stool countless times before me. She was the matriarch, descended from wealthy German immigrants. Her father had left the family business to become a rancher and marry the woman who taught in the one-room schoolhouse. My grandma was the first of their four daughters. She grew up like a pioneer child and spoke often of her love of saddle horses. Grandma rode until she was in her late eighties and after that always claimed riding was what she missed most. She was a loyal and devoted grandmother who taught me how to make big roasts and mashed potatoes and gravy. She canned our fruits and vegetables and delighted everyone with her lemon pies. But these were skills of necessity. Her passion was for animals and, even in her nineties, she would drive the feed pickup for us in the winter because seeing the cows gave her such joy.
When I came into the world, Grandma was already sixty. She lived in a different time, and after my own father passed away, my grandmother was my connection to our family legacy. She and I spent evenings looking at old photos of her childhood. She told me about the milk cows, the pigs, and the chickens that her mother raised. In those days, they kept the steers on grass until it was time to put them on the train to Portland. She had decades of knowledge and experience that tempered the hard times we encountered. When we lost two of our best cows, heavy with calf
, because they fell upside down into a ditch, she told us about a morning decades earlier when Grandpa had awakened to find six dead cows in the same ditch.
Even though she no longer worked on the ranch every day, we felt her presence everywhere. Our cows came from her cows. The barns and sheds we used were once hers. And the house where we live is where she raised my father and uncle. Her lifetime of dedication and perseverance had made it possible for us to ranch, and she passed on to us, along with the assets, her expectations: hard work, taking hardship in stride, pride, faith, charity, and loyalty.
I knew I was in charge of the business of running the family ranch, but her death pushed me to the emotional helm of the ranch, a role that felt overwhelming. I made decisions and implemented changes with confidence, but my assured manner was a thin veil that barely masked the intense pressure I felt to keep the ranch going, and the reoccurring uncertainty that I could pull it off.
One evening before Grandma died, she said, “You do things a lot like my mother.” We had stopped feeding our cattle grain and instead were selling shares of beef to city dwellers who appreciated our connection to the land. We’d also picked up some wholesale accounts and were supplying beef to several colleges and universities, as well as to a large hospital. Grandma’s observation reassured me that, through all the changes, Dave and I were stumbling down a path that had been walked before us.