A stately Oak stood proudly on the west side of the farm, lording the expanse of its limbs over the court of saplings and Manzanitas below. An emblem of strength and beauty, the Oak weathered decades of winter winds and summer swelter, sheltering those beneath from both the bite of frost and sting of the noonday sun. Under the tree’s boughs, the grasses grew a bit taller than the rest, and from atop their heights, the birds seemed to sing a little sweeter. In the spring, it’s cascading, yellowy green catkins were abuzz with exuberant bees, and every autumn it shared its bounty of acorns with pigs and squirrels on the ground.
But a wet autumn was followed by an even soggier winter, and the grand tree was conquered in a violent, gusty barrage. A deep moan, followed by a crescendo of snapping and crepitation, marked the end of the towering giant. Where it had once cast its early morning shadow, the massive Oak itself now lay, uprooted, broken, breathless.
I can’t help but mourn the demise of old Oaks, the rings of their memories, once locked within their depths, laid bare in death. Admittedly, my personality is a bit bent toward the melancholy, easily getting weighed down by the end of a thing, preoccupied by the finality of the loss. So I found myself missing that aged tree along the western fence line, feeling a tug within my chest at the sight of upturned roots where a monument of fortitude once lived.
But then, as it so graciously has a way of doing, the hand of the Creator turned a page in His eloquent Book of Nature, revealing once again that while death marks the end of one thing, it often sparks new beginnings for many. Where the Oak rest in the soil it had long cultivated, a new constellation of life emerged. Miner’s lettuce and chickweed burst forth from the once shaded ground, now kissed by the rays of the Spring sun. Bark crumbled from the trunk, mulching the earth, preserving moisture, and feeding the redworms underneath.
Ground squirrels and jack rabbits made the hollows in and under the Oak their nests. So naturally, a Red Tailed Hawk made a nearby snag his new post, stealthily awaiting an opportunity for his next meal. The night watch was kept by a yellow eyed owl, swooping down upon any field mouse who dared leave the shelter of the log.
Pioneering ants soon colonized the timber and made short work of building their endless maze of galleries and tunnels, which in turn would house the microscopic generation of decomposers. Long, twisted limbs, still heavy with water, were cut and allowed to cure over the summer; their dense hardwood providing heat for our home through the very season that downed the tree the year prior.
How pointedly nature articulates the severity of this truth: that for life to endure, there must be death; that great discomfort and disturbance often precede profound revival and regeneration. And what a triumphant promise in which we can take heart - an encouragement I think we all need this day - that the end of a thing is rarely a mere terminus, but is much more the signpost of beginnings anew.
So here we stand now as the seasons’ page turns, as Winter’s lion melts to Springtide’s lamb, and life is begotten from what has fallen. The wonder of renewal is no better illustrated than by the Book of Nature, across its brilliantly sanguine verses of Spring. And when farming in tune with the timbre of nature, we are given an even more magnified perspective of this glorious picture.
In like a lagomorph…
Have you ever enjoyed the crisp, succulent delight that is miner’s lettuce? Northern California’s native gift to greens and the vitamin C deficient, Claytonia perfoliata can both satisfy your salad craving and cure your scurvy. The plant has a remarkable ability to grow in shallow soils where you’d least expect it, though it thrives at the bases of trees and in mulch where the ground stays moist. With a round, happy face punctuated by a tiny, white, central flower, I look forward to its brief visitation every Spring.
Of all the animals, and humans for that matter, that relish the season’s offering of miner’s lettuce, I’ve found none appreciate it like a lagomorph – the humble rabbit. From the wide leaf to the tip of the stem, prehensile lips draw the roughage through chopping incisors, and in a matter of seconds it’s disappeared into the hindgut fermenter. Hours I could spend picking the greens, delivering them by the armload to the grateful rabbits to enjoy during the plant’s short lifespan.
Our does kindle their last litters of kits in the spring, before they take their summer sabbatical. A demonstration of pure instinct, a nesting doe will gather mouthfuls of hay and work for hours to arrange her nest just so. Provided with a large, rectangular box layered with pine shavings and hay, a doe will tunnel into the bedding, then fill it with hair she pulls from her belly. After giving birth to her litter in the small cavern, she will pluck surprising amounts of fur from her underside to completely cover the kits within.
At about 10 days of age, when they are fully haired and with eyes now opened, the kits will emerge from their fluffy refuge and begin to follow the doe. By three weeks, they’ll be healthy competition for the doe’s servings of freshly harvested greens. And at six weeks, the young rabbits will be ready to wean and transition to the mobile pasture pen to forage on their own.
During fall and winter, the rabbits produce a tremendous amount of manure, which would be a problematic sanitation concern if it were not so useful. What at first glance may seem like a mound of waste, is actually a strategic source of refreshment for the soil, especially that of the garden. Unlike other manures, rabbit droppings do not require composting before applying to garden soil. So wheelbarrow loads are made from the rabbit hutches to the garden and spread evenly over the mulch, where they act as time-release capsules of fertilizer throughout the growing season. Dross from one constituent of the farm contributes vitality to another.
…out like a lamb
Lambing season, perhaps my most favorite season of all, is a short, few week period, at the early dawn of Spring. A blissful morning for me is one that starts with an early walk into the pasture, being met by the low, warm murmur of a mama ewe as she cleans her wet lamb, just minutes old. If I’m quiet enough, advancing with slow movements and passive hands, she’ll let me kneel next to her and catch the tottering lamb to give it a quick once over. If my timing is right, mama ewe will turn a little for me to see a second set of downturned hooves, belonging to the twin lamb she’s about to lay down and deliver.
Amidst the aftermath of the winter storms – sloshy soil, fractured Manzanitas, tree branches tossed across the ground – hearty, little Katahdin ewes can be found about, with their lambs tucked into the brush, dry and warm. Fallen trees and limbs are no bother to them, as the sheep use them for shelter, in addition to feasting on their leaves.
With more first-time mothers last year than in years past, we had a particular problem with predators killing young lambs. The more experienced ewes are fiercely protective, willing to take on predators that equal them in size. The younger ewes, however, are more easily spooked, less likely to stand their ground in the face of a threat. Thus, their lambs proved to be easier prey, which the bobcats and coyotes are more than willing to exploit.
A major vulnerability exposed, the need for improved protection of the sheep flock became harshly evident. The heart-wrenching loss of our priceless livestock guardian dog, Levi, the fall previous, had left us scrambling to raise two pups to fill the giant void he left. With greenhorn LGDs, we turned to creative motion light placement, fox lights, and red-eye patrols night after night until we were confident the threat had passed.
This year, thanks be to God, lambing season had a far cheerier complexion. The silly, little girl dogs of last March have grown up into devoted protectors, and are well known by would-be lamb thieves. We also moved our lambing paddock to a few acres just behind the house, and brought the sheep into a smaller corral enclosure each night. The ewes didn’t love being told what to do every afternoon, but they managed.
The drought and expense of hay last year required that I make drastic cuts in our sheep numbers before heading into winter. Reducing our flock by two thirds, we had just 12 ewes to lamb this spring. Grateful for the twenty-three lambs romping through the woods, I hope these saturating rains will precipitate abundant summer forage and a copious lamb crop of 2024.
Spring’s chickens
At the first sight of buds on the Blue Oaks’ stark branches, we brace for an explosion of egg production from our laying hens. Coming off their winter hiatus, with feathers regrown and nutritional stores replenished, the hens respond to longer hours of daylight by dramatically upping their laying games. Each hen accelerates from laying zero to two eggs per week, to up to one egg per day. This means that what were scant baskets of 20-30 eggs collected daily through the winter, are now filled flats of 70 plus, each afternoon.
Laying hens are incredibly aggressive, omnivorous foragers. They make quick work of turning over the top inch or two of winter tree debris, aerating the forest understory and managing bug populations. The eruption of grasses and insects aplenty provide a diet for the hens that produce that celebrated golden-orange yolk, the quintessential emblem of the “free range” egg. Dense with long-chain fatty acids, vitamins A and E, the chickens’ spring forages make for eggs that delight not only the eye, but also the palate and the body.
While the adult hens are foraging on (and also contributing to) Spring’s bounty, we are already needing to plan for next fall – when the days are growing shorter and the adult lay-dies’ egg numbers naturally decline. One defense against a complete drought of winter eggs is raising up a new flock of hens every other year, timing it so that they begin laying their eggs at the turn of summer to autumn.
Thus, the brooder houses about 100 cheeping, little hens every other Spring, where they will reside until about 6 weeks of age – staying warm under the lights and sheltered from the dangers of the outdoors. While in the brooder, the chickens require more inputs than at any other stage of their lives. Every morning, fresh shavings are spread over the floor to ensure that it stays as dry as possible. Feeders are kept full of chick starter ration and waterers are refilled twice daily.
Trays of grit, small gravel particulates from our seasonal creek bottom, are provided for the chicks as well. These small rocks will be eaten and will collect in the ventriculus (or gizzard), where they’ll act as the “teeth” of the bird to grind feed. Weeds, garden trimmings, and hay chaff are intermittently delivered to the growing chicks to forage upon, facilitating population of their guts with healthy microbes from their future environment.
When chickens are large enough to move out of the brooder, about 250 cubic feet of shavings and bird manure are left behind. Still quite dry, a few hours of shoveling will clean out the brooder down to the concrete floor. The mound of shavings is trailered to an area we call the “woodchip yard”, where hills of chipped wood and shavings are left to compost. Once these piles are transformed into sweet-smelling soil, they are ready to provide nourishment to less fertile areas of the farm.
Barred Plymouth Rock and Golden Comet are the two breeds of chicken we primarily rely upon for our egg-laying flocks. However, we also keep a handful each of Delaware and Ameraucana hens and roosters, which help to keep the flocks balanced with respect to temperament (the Delaware being a very docile chicken) and resiliency (the Ameraucana being pretty savvy in our wooded environment). Furthermore, I adore the variety of egg color we get from the puffy-cheeked Ameraucanas, accenting cartons with orbs of green and blue. I think our patrons enjoy those colorful little surprises as well.
Time devoted to eggs alone multiplies exponentially in the spring. After collection, they are transferred to washing flats, usually by the little hands of my best helpers. Thereafter, every egg is hand washed by yours truly, then air dried. Eggs are weighed to determine size, and candled to determine grade, then packed into their respective cartons according to size. Labels go on the cartons and into the refrigerator they go to await sale. The eggs I lovingly grade as “wonky” - meaning they are shaped funny, have a stained shell, or are for some other reason deemed “less desirable” by the CDFA grading system – go into a basket for our family’s table, appreciated all the same.
We need seasons. They were made for us. We need them in the world tangible and for the soul invisible. Too easy it is to ignore the cadence of the ages, thus remaining in the winters of life far too long. Witnessing Spring, expressed through Nature’s prose, is experiencing life renewed. Keeping in time with the rhythms of Creation makes the upturned roots, manure heaps, and losses of this life not ends in themselves, but opportunities for new growth and fertile ground for revival.