Topography

 At the end of my first year as full-time farmer, I was negotiating the transitions between seasons to reflect on the whole life shift.  Feeling worn down by each season gifted me an appreciation at the start of the next which I had never experienced before, despite having called myself farmer for nearly ten years at that point.  Lessening outside distractions drew back the curtains on what was right in my backyard, what the world was doing day to day.  It was hard for me to realize, but I’ve found myself in the same state of wonder as I suite up to face the elements day after day with a new address.  Staring out and up, freshly hatched from the comfort of my old shell in such a state of shock that the same seasons waft over me like I haven’t lived them or farmed through them before.  Of course, we turned our world upside down this year with the purchase of and moving to our farm but we’re only twenty minutes from where we had been farming so no major shifts in weather or environment.  It’s something else.

The closing date, June 3, became the impromptu move-in date when we arrived home with new keys jangling and several hours of day light.  The sheep followed less than a week later with a few more moving marathons to get just the essentials – we were rushing out of the gate, tripping over ourselves to leave START behind us in the biggest cloud of dust possible.  Nothing had happened on this land for almost a year – no hay was cut, no animals were grazed, the lawn was not mowed.  We were rushing in to play catch up on 200 acres of open fields pushing up already mature canary grass (there’s other species here but humor me and just imagine mature canary grass everywhere, then shudder at the thought).  This long-day high-moisture spot on the map means when we grow grass, oh baby, it’s fast and furious and here we were – sauntering in a month a half late to the end of April growing season kick off.  If “what a rush” could be both emotion and response that was us.  Exhilarated!  Grateful just to be here but, we did not stop to smell the flowers.  Instead we perused field conditions and water sources to come up with a half-assed grazing plan and get to work.  All that blurred hurry met it’s match just a couple days in.

We buy a (mess of a) farm, an entire farm to clean up, and what constantly caught my eye - spiders and mice!  They were everywhere!  I mean I had never seen so many and so many different kinds of flying, crawling, buzzing, tunneling creatures.  Colin and I finally looked at each other one day, the look that warns you need to know if they’re seeing the same thing you’re seeing or is this the beginning of a Twilight Zone episode, and said it, “the bugs!  I can’t believe how many bugs, it’s incredible, if not slightly terrifying, but what an ecosystem!”

Time marched on and we found our footing, gaining ground on barn demolitions and junk removal and grazing onto every bit of acreage we could reach.  The sheep were moved fast at far too low density with the goal to just make as much hoof to soil contact as possible.  I imagined our procession like a welcoming parade to the land: Hey, wake up!  We’re here, we bring gifts of fertility and promise to lessen soil compaction!  Will you work with us? Are you ready?  Over more and more acreage we uncovered witness marks left in the land.  Tractor ruts, old fence fallen beneath newer fence, failed seedings, what ground was tilled last, which fields had been ignored for decades, broken waterlines, washouts, old floods, new beaver dams, freshwater mussel shells discarded by raccoons and crayfish in flooded crossings!  (Vermont has native crayfish!)  Every new day was revealing what was done to this land and how it has responded. 

Headed into fall I was able to scout and hunt deer on my own property for the first time.  Of course, I put in almost no time before opening day of rifle season and positioned myself comically too close to every deer that wandered that way.  Once almost stepped on by a doe who, though shocked to find me in her path, was not as shocked as I.  We huffed at each other and she changed course, no buck following.  Embarrassingly, it took until November and a whitetail falling on top of me to see something was happening here.  The open acreage created for modern cultivation was not being cultivated but ruminants were here.  We had been watching doe with fawns at the creek all summer and crossing fields for the fall rut, making paths from neighbor’s land to ours, and changing course around the bone-headed hunter in their way. 

The fact is livestock living on pasture does stimulate plant activity which triggers soil biology and that whole incredible life-making cycle of sun and water and organic matter that regenerative farming cooperates with.  But this farm was not sleeping for us, some self-appointed savior armed with Voison and Gerrish and Zietsman to make up for previous steward’s shortcomings.  The land does not care about our closing date or property borders dissecting deer paths and waterways. 

Before making an offer on this farm we were warned by multiple people that it would take care and patience to restore it to full productivity.  There was reason to believe it had been overgrazed and soil was not in prime condition.  They were right but since humans vacated the operating farm it’s obvious that the soil has been hard at work to heal itself.  Wildlife was abundant and participating in the system as they were meant to.  This idea that we were stepping into a lethargic mass of unproductivity was misled.

I do believe in the benefits of grazing ruminants to enhance an ecosystems’ agricultural productivity in a way that satisfies wildlife as well.  I won’t be removing Voison or Gerrish or Zietsman from our bookshelf or selling the sheep and letting everything grow up into woods.  Our vision already wants to see positive ecological impact through grazing, taking cues from the land and wildlife.  Letting the natural systems take charge instead of fighting with them for our ephemeral goals.  We’re simple stewards destined to leave our own witness marks but it began to dawn on my - I am only a tiny blip along the lifespan of this land.

June 4, the first morning we woke up in our little farmhouse, we made a pot of coffee, and went for a walk.  I told you we were itching to go to work but that morning something was different.  The scenery woke up outside our kitchen window and beckoned, the world put on pause for us and required our attention.  Like it was saying, “No excuses, come out here and breath it in.”  I can’t explain to you the shades of coral and gold in the sky scintillating off the heavy dew suspended over the creek.  Chicory bloomed and frog songs muffled thoughts and spiderwebs hung like masterpieces so the world beyond melted away and all you could do was stand in awe of this much life.  It felt like a dome had come down around this land to hold in all the magic and if it were possible to bottle up that moment I would have traded a lifetime for it. 

Since that morning the feeling has not been so overpowering again but it comes in moments fleeting.  Fleeting as in how can I ever again find myself in the shadow of ten thousand snow geese, stumble over another stump the work of a beaver so fresh I must have interrupted them, catch sight of a snapping turtle like a fairytale monster wade through the murky creek, walk up on an owl hunting just feet in front of me, wondering how will I understand this entire farm if it’s improbable, with each step forward that my feet ever return to that exact same location again.  Every day fascinates in small moments as we unravel the normalcy of this place.  Learning when different ground freezes and thaws, how the water moves after each storm, where sheep can find shelter from the wind, where trees cast shadows, and just how much fog settles in our little valley.  We have moved through only two and a half seasons on this farm – summer to mid-winter.  I said five years ago that winter was my favorite and it still is.  Then experiencing this farm in the flush of June was dazzling but I’m on the edge of my seat to see it reborn in spring.  A farm is a dream driving by but the intimacy of walking into a field after a snowstorm to check the flock is trust.  We trust that all the ground will thaw again and fresh forage with emerge.  Fleeting as the world is in constant motion and we see, we take up our charge moving the flock every day or so.  Every day feels a bit like reaching just over the peak of a moving mountain, unsure of what is ahead and whether or not we are prepared to hold on.  But over these fields the sun still rises and at the pond the blue heron perch over muskrat huts and splashing otters.  We’re grounded here, the land throwing out small sparks in the same tone as that first morning constantly to say it’s okay, slow down, don’t rush this.