We have begun the long process of pruning the grape vines at Bainbridge Island Vineyards. As we work among the rows, carefully selecting next year’s fruiting canes, I marvel at the diversity of life that abounds in the vineyards and surrounding habitats. Most conspicuous, of course, are the birds. Canada geese feed in the fields while widgeons flock overhead in the hundreds, filling the air with the whistle of wind through wings and their distinctly squeaky call, comically reminiscent of a rubber ducky bath toy.

The more elusive species, often heard but not seen, add another layer of complexity to the vineyard ecosystem. As I head out to the vineyard in the early morning, a song sparrow greets me from a nearby bush, warbling proudly, and the croak of a ring-necked pheasant echoes from the peach orchard beyond the ponds. Later in the afternoon, an Anna’s hummingbird chirps, unseen, from a nearby treetop, while a varied thrush issues its buzzing call at the edge of the pinot noir. The ponds themselves are inhabited by a variety of waterfowl behind a screen of vegetation, with predominantly widgeons, mallards, and geese by day, but hooded mergansers and scaups ducks by night.

Large predators, what ecologists often refer to as “indicator species”, also grace the vineyards with frequent visits. Bald eagles, osprey, and hawks soar overhead intermittently during the day in search of prey. At night, one can occasionally be woken by the chilling screech of a barn owl or the haunting cries of a pack of coyotes making their way across the farm.

Even more remarkable than the abundant birds and mammals are the microcosmic ecosystems that inhabit the vines themselves. Each vine is host to a menagerie of tiny flora and fauna. Perhaps because we use strictly organic practices in our vineyards, the vines are covered in a lush carpet of moss providing a home for mushrooms, snails, worms, and in the warmer months, a plethora of insects and spiders.

I’m not certain whether these creatures add to the quality and character of Bainbridge Island’s estate grown wines, but they most certainly add to the character of the vines and the unique personality of the vineyards.

Betsey, Hailey, and Cassie planting garlic on Bainbridge Island

23 October 2011

As soon as I rolled onto Day Road Farms on Bainbridge Island, a deer immediately bounded past me, directly into a large market vegetable garden.  Further along the gravel road, a flock of fifty geese foraged for cover crop seeds and blueberries.  A cacophonous murder of crows, several hundred strong, dived into the rows of grapes, plucking forgotten fruit off the vines.

Day Road Farms is a rare example of a combined agricultural property, jointly owned by the city of Bainbridge and several farmers who manage separate parcels of land for various crops:  corn, pumpkins, raspberries, blueberries, nursery trees, wine grapes, storage crops, and fresh market vegetables.  However, the farm was also host to an abundance of wildlife, to the simultaneous delight and the bane of the organic farmers who worked there.

The crows were such ubiquitous and mischievous denizens that one of the farmers at Day Road Farms named her own farm after the crows’ habit of ostensibly laughing in mockery while pulling garden labels, seed garlic, and cover crop seeds out of the soil.  Like so many other farmers challenged by wildlife, Betsey Wittick of Laughing Crow Farm hired sheepdogs to chase the geese out of her fields, noted the tendency of people to leave the farm gates open, thereby rendering the deer fencing obsolete, and spoke of the challenges posed by the crows, who seemed nearly impossible to outwit.

But unlike most other farmers, who spend as much time talking about pests or their tractors as about their crops, Betsey waxed ecstatic about two other ungulates on the farm:  Red and Abby.  These were her farming partners responsible for the heavy lifting and hard pulling at Laughing Crow Farm.  The two Suffolk Punch draft horses were athletic, heavily muscled, frisky, and bursting with energy.  Although prone to frequent bouts of playful behavior when not harnessed, Red and Abby were gentle and curious around people, eager to approach and investigate new visitors at the farm.

As I listened to Betsey speak passionately about her two young horses, I began to develop a sense for the strong appeal of draft animals to some small farmers.  “Working with draft horses requires you to be completely, 100 percent, in the present.  You can’t be distracted, thinking about bills or next year’s garden, or the horses will know that you’re not in control of the situation and take advantage of it.  I learned this the hard way.  It’s not like driving a tractor where you can zone out and think about other things.  Tractors don’t have a mind of their own.  With horses, as soon as you let your concentration slip, you run the risk of a dangerous situation.”

The zen-like mindset required while driving a team of powerful draft animals, whether horses or oxen, seemed to harken from a simpler era, when soil fertility, water availability, and crop health took precedence over all; a connection between man and beast was forged out of necessity for mutual survival; and internal combustion engines or fossil fuels were as yet unheard of.

The use of draft animals on a farm was historically intended not only to ease the work load for a farmer, but also to increase their self-reliance by providing soil fertility in the form of animal manure, which nowadays is frequently purchased by farmers from distant locations, often in a packaged and pelleted form.  Some farmers even use their draft animals to grow and harvest their own animal feed, using a combination of pasture, hay, and minimal grains to “power” these living tractors, thereby completely severing their ties with the fossil fuel industry.  In addition to serving as a medium for recycling energy (in the form of labor), nutrients, and organic matter through the soil, draft animals also provide that additional perk of being able to reproduce.  As one farmer put it, “A tractor cannot produce another tractor.  But a horse can produce another horse.”

Although draft power had been rapidly pushed aside and largely forgotten in industrialized nations as agriculture became increasingly dependent on cheap petroleum and synthetic fertilizers, the use of draft horses and oxen has seen a resurgence in the past decade, particularly among small organic farms with direct marketing to consumers.  Drawing from the traditional knowledge of animal husbandry, training, and equipment from cultures such as the Amish as well as non-mechanized farmers in the Andes, Sub-Saharan Africa, and southeast Asia, a handful of farms in the U.S. are returning to the roots of their agrarian past.

Some of these farmers are motivated to trade the tractor for the yoke by the economics of rapidly rising petroleum prices and the looming specter of “peak oil”, seeking to minimize their farming expenses through increased self-reliance.  Others recognize the need to ween agriculture from fossil fuels if we are ever to achieve local food security and climate stability, especially considering the volatility of oil politics and the fact that agriculture is the second largest emitter of greenhouse gases (after transportation).  Many also contend correctly that truly sustainable food production, by definition, cannot rely upon non-renewable resources.  But most, in my experience, have sought primarily to preserve an intimate and ancient connection to the land that cannot be replicated behind the wheel of a tractor.

Betsey at Laughing Crow Farm resonates with all of the reasons listed above, but emphasizes that to be a successful teamster, you must first and foremost connect with the animal.  As another farmer once told me, “There are many great ethical and environmental reasons to work with draft animals, but in the end, none of these will help when it comes down to the actual work. You ultimately have to really want to work with the animal and step into their world.  It takes a huge daily commitment to another living being, and a willingness and ability to see the world through their eyes, to think like the horse or ox.”  One can see the vital importance of Betsey’s close relationship to her horses when she steps behind the reins or engages in a quick training session.

Although she considers herself a novice at working with draft horses, Betsey is an expert at growing root and storage crops.  Through over two decades of careful variety trials and selection, organic soil building, and seed saving, Betsey has carved out a niche in her local market by producing some of the largest, most diverse, and flavorful potatoes, onions, and garlic in the Puget Sound.

As we pushed 9,000 cloves of garlic seed into the soft, loamy soil, dozens of crows flocked to the nearby trees, laughing as they watched our planting routine.  Occasionally, one would drop down to the soil and pick at a label marking a row.  Betsey later expressed her admiration of the crows’ intelligence to me, despite their seemingly adversarial behaviors.  “I sometimes think of them as laughing because they have achieved a higher level of enlightenment, as I struggle with trying to do too much instead of enjoying the moment.”

In other words, as the ancient proverb says, “If you can’t beat them, join them.”  It struck me how relevant this sage advice may be for farmers today, especially as our means of waging chemical warfare against pests are met with the rapid evolution of resistance by weeds, insects, and diseases, while simultaneously threatening the safety of our food and the health of our environment.  As she dug furrows for garlic seed, Betsey explained to me how scientists discovered that some traditional cultures began to experience malnutrition following the introduction of pesticides to their farms, presumably because the people were no longer ingesting highly nutritious, protein-rich insects with their meals.

I raked the soil over the garlic cloves and listened to the crows communicating in their mysterious language amidst the treetops, watching and waiting.  I realized, as Betsey had suggested, that a greater challenge with organic farming than the myriad “pests” we encounter may be our own tendency to overwork and forget to be in the present, as equal participants in the ecological dance of life.  Although they may not always see eye-to-eye, the crows, the geese, the deer, Betsey and her horses are all integral and closely interacting members of the same ecosystem, cohabiting a common land, striving to eat and not be eaten, and trying to strike a balance between cooperation and competition upon a shared resource.

The Bainbridge Island Winery

The Legacy of Gerard and Jo Ann Bentryn

“Uncommon Wines for Thoughtful Minds”

“The Food You Eat, and the Wine You Drink

Is the Landscape You Create.”

As I stepped into Gerard and Jo Ann’s house, Gerard called over his shoulder, “Don’t mind the mess.  The house is an absolute disaster.”  Having just visited another farm run by a woman with a serious hoarding problem, making the place look more like a junkyard than a home, I was prepared for the worst.  However, as I entered Gerard’s domain, I was struck by how similar to a 19^th century lord’s manor the decorative interior was.  Gerard’s warning was clearly the overstatement of the decade.

The front entryway was floored with a polished slab of marble, inlaid with ammonite fossils.  Various other fossils and geological specimens lined countertops in tasteful, if somewhat haphazard, arrangements.  Antique guns, swords, and duck hunting decoys hung over the 10 foot towering bookshelf, lined with all manner of horticultural and botanical references.  A flintlock pistol of Gerard’s own making was carefully displayed over the mantle.  A full-sized replica of an early penny-farthing high wheel bicycle graced the living room, where wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling windows looked out upon a neighboring farm’s apricot orchard and corn field.  Gerard later explained to me that he had fashioned the bicycle himself as a fully functioning, exact replica of the original models.

I was floored.  This guy was the new Renaissance Man:  organic farmer, vintner (winemaker), entrepreneur, pioneer of Puget Sound viticulture, fossil collector, and engineer all wrapped in one diminutive man.  I imagined him to be a bundle of compact energy in his youth, balancing the physical demands of a growing vineyard and winemaking business with the idealism of the back-to-land movement that drove him and his wife, Jo Ann, to settle on Bainbridge Island.

30 years ago, Gerard and Jo Ann moved to the Seattle area from Germany, where they studied viticulture for many years.  They brought with them cuttings of various northern latitude wine grapes that the couple had grown to love for their clean, floral notes and ability to ripen in cool maritime and alpine climates.  Names like Müller-Thurgau, Siegerrebe, and Madeleine Angevine are now hallmark varietals of the Puget Sound AVA (American Viticultural Area) that began with the Bainbridge Island Vineyards.

But the past two years have been demanding for Gerard and Jo Ann.  While a cool, wet La Niña wreaked havoc on Puget Sound vineyards, destroying grape crops with outbreaks of powdery mildew, Botrytis rot, and a failure to ripen for two consecutive years (2010-2011), Gerard and Jo Ann were simultaneously fighting battles against cancer.  Although he now moves much more slowly along the paths of his vineyards, and a tone of cynicism towards the economy and industrial agriculture cuts across his dialogue, Gerard’s voice still echoes with a resolute adherence to the ideals of sustainable, local food that brought him to Bainbridge Island.

In this vein, Gerard and Jo Ann have made an unwavering, lifelong commitment to producing estate grown, non-irrigated wines as a true expression of the Puget Sound’s unique terroir.  As one of their mottos boldly asserts, the Bentryns refer to their business as “Washington’s most authentic winery,” offering a not-so-subtle hint as to their sentiments regarding the sudden onslaught of garage wineries appearing in Seattle’s bedroom communities.  According to Gerard, “95% of the work that goes into producing a quality wine happens out in the vineyard.  All of these wealthy retirees who are buying grapes from huge vineyards east of the Cascades and then selling their wines under their own label are creating a disingenuous product.”  Indeed, this is a feeling I have heard echoed strongly by many other estate-grown vintners.

As Washington State’s first certified Salmon Safe vineyard, Gerard deplores the manner in which Stewardship Partners has been certifying as “Salmon Safe” vineyards that regularly irrigate with water from the Columbia River and associated watersheds, putting their agricultural practices at odds with salmon conservation efforts.  Meanwhile, Gerard’s outspoken criticism of local conservation organizations and other wineries and vineyards puts him at odds with many who believe that any and all efforts to conserve wildlife habitat and support Washington State farmers should be heralded, despite obvious shortcomings and challenges.  Gerard’s political opinions even ruffle the feathers of many liberals in the area.  For instance, he strongly opposes the use of undocumented workers in agriculture, as their employment drives down wages for small, self-employed farmers and those that hire U.S. citizens or legal migrants.

As the 2011 growing season winds to a close, the Bentryns have already sold the last bottles of wine from their tasting room, two full tanks of wine from 2009 are waiting in the winery to be bottled, and flocks of crows dive into the vineyards to pick the neglected grapes from the vines.  In an email, Gerard confided to me his concern and aspirations for the future of his vineyards:  “If this farm is to be saved it needs young, moral, and intellectual people.”

But amidst the crisis that the Bainbridge Island Vineyards & Winery appears to be facing, nobody can deny the perennial influence that Gerard and Jo Ann Bentryn have had upon the rapidly expanding community of organic vineyards and estate-grown wineries in the Puget Sound.  As I visit the newly planted Alli-Lanphear Vineyards on neighboring Vashon Island, one of the farmers expresses the pivotal role that the Bentryns have played in inspiring and mentoring them with their own winegrowing venture.  I see their young, neatly trellised grape vines thriving despite the poor weather, and hear them talk with enthusiasm and purpose about plans for next year’s harvest and fermentation.  Somehow, whatever the fate of the Bainbridge Island Vineyards & Winery, I feel that the legacy of the Bentryns will live on, as much a part of the terroir of the Puget Sound as its unique climate and soils.

For the past two months, I have been working at the Oxbow Center for Sustainable Agriculture and the Environment, nestled within the Snoqualmie River Valley floodplain between Seattle and the Cascades. This organic farm works at the vital intersection between organic agriculture and environmental conservation, feeding several hundred people in the greater Seattle area while engaging in active habitat restoration and education programs along the Snoqualmie River. Needless to say, a tremendous diversity and abundance of wildlife inhabits the farm, ranging from furtive coyotes and bears, to majestic eagles, hawks, and falcons, to cacophonous flocks of songbirds and waterfowl. Recently, the Coho Salmon (and the tail end of the Chinook Salmon run) have been heading upstream to spawn.  We’ve been catching glimpses of them jumping in the river, presumably to either knock parasites from their bodies or loosen eggs in preparation for spawning.

While heading out to harvest basil earlier this week, I spotted a bald eagle perched right along the edge of the Snoqualmie River directly across from me (Oxbow Farm borders the river).  It flew downriver a ways and then doubled back to perch in a tree along the edge of the farm.  I couldn’t tell what the eagle was doing along the river, as it startled and flew as soon as I stopped for a better look.  On my way back from harvesting, a tiny songbird darted overhead, chasing what appeared to be a falcon, probably a peregrine.  The peregrine and songbird engaged in some impressive maneuvers as the songbird harassed the peregrine, which evaded the tiny mobbing songbird with amazing agility. After swerving back and forth overhead across the farm, they hit a tree line and the falcon suddenly braked and swooped upwards.  In the next instant, it reversed direction and dove at the songbird, turning the tables and engaging its own aggressive pursuit of the small bird.  Shortly after, they disappeared behind the tree line, so unfortunately I didn’t get to see who won this aerial contest of speed and agility.

On a more melancholy note, yesterday I observed one of most somber avian behaviors I have ever witnessed.  During the summer, we had a huge abundance of Canada geese on the farm.  They flocked back and forth to and from various waterways in large V-formations daily.  I always love watching them fly overhead, especially when they perform barrel rolls to drop altitude rapidly in preparation for a landing.  Most of them, I suspect, have already begun their autumn migration southward, and the sound of their calls have become increasingly rare.  But yesterday, I, for the first time ever in my life, observed a single lone goose flying overhead.  I have never seen this before:  a goose without its flock.  Unlike the geese flying in flocks, whose flight is very direct, focused, and rapid, and whose calls are quick and excited, this one flew much more slowly.  It was constantly searching back and forth with its head, looking frantically in all directions and honking in what I interpreted to be an apprehensive call.  It almost sounded desperate in its search for others.  For such a gregarious animal, it seemed utterly alone.  I don’t think I’ve ever felt such a strong sense of loneliness before from a wild animal.  It reminded me of the immeasurable importance of social relationships for gregarious animals.

My own time spent working at Oxbow Farm has been highlighted by incredibly positive social relationships with my co-workers, a group of energetic young farmers exuding unmatched enthusiasm for their challenging trade, with perpetual encouragement and mutual support for one another.  The most valuable lessons I have learned from my experience at Oxbow Farm have less to do with how to properly care for soil, nurture crops, and sell produce, than with that lone goose I watched flying, lost and bewildered, overhead:  community matters.  Farming is as much about growing and fostering healthy connections with other human beings as it is about fostering living soil and growing healthy food.

I sincerely hope that goose found the community it was searching for.  Thank you Oxbow Farm, for helping me to find my own.

Hand Farmed Organics

Fall City, WA — Snoqualmie River Valley

“It was totally crazy.  We had less than one day of warning before the river flooded over the banks.  We had just plowed up the entire field, had planted thousands of onions and leeks, the garlic were coming up.  We had to move all of the chickens on top of the single rise, the only high spot, where the beehives are now.  We were literally wading around in a swamp; the water level was up to the featherboards on the greenhouses.  The next day, the news helicopters were hovering above our farm, filming these chickens stranded on this tiny hill that had turned into an island.”  Casey pointed out the high ground refuge, a minute bump rising up from the flat valley, a mere 20 feet across in diameter.

Casey, the young farmer who had just pioneered Hand Farmed Organics (HFO) along with his friend Ryan, were in their first growing season together and, by the sound of it, were learning the trials and tribulations of organic farming in one of the toughest growing seasons in decades.  They had met at a nearby biodynamic farm just up the road, where they had served as apprentices and employees, and had decided to try their own hand at the trade of organic farming.

I stood there, my gaze surveying the lush field chalk full of bushy squash plants, vigorous broccoli and Brussels sprouts, potatoes, various salad greens, full carrot tops, wondering how all of this could have been under more than three feet of water only four months ago.  I had firsthand experience with the endless frustrations of organic farming; my wife and I started our own organic farm in Maine three years prior and, in our first growing season, had lost all of our tomato plants – 350 row feet – to a late blight epidemic that swept across the northeast, transported from Georgia by a big box nursery (Bonnie Plants), and killing an estimated 90% of organic tomato plantings in the region.

“You see, this entire valley is essentially one giant flood plain for the Snoqualmie River,” continued Ryan.  “It doesn’t flood every year, but when it does it can be disastrous.  It’s a good thing we hadn’t disked our field, yet, or we would have lost almost all of our topsoil to the flood.  In fact, there was almost another flood in April, when the river swelled to just two feet from the banks.  We had just planted our tomatoes and would have had to dig them all back up to save them if it had spilled over.”

I asked whether it was difficult to prevent erosion or maintain organic matter and nutrients in the soil during floods.  “It’s extremely difficult,” replied Ryan.  “It’s like starting from scratch with a blank slate after each flood.”  But somehow, they seemed to be making it work.  Using a combination of cover crops, compost from local animals, pelleted chicken manure, and fish emulsion sprays, they have developed an organic system of providing soil fertility and maintaining humus even in a floodplain, where improper or poorly timed tillage and soil mismanagement could mean the permanent loss of topsoil.

Casey and Ryan farm a total of five acres in two separate fields on opposite sides of a back country road in Fall City.  Although surrounded by large tracts of GMO Round-Up Ready cornfields with nary a weed in sight, a Party Pony Ranch, and various cattle pastures, this region along the Snoqualmie River Valley is home to one of the greatest concentrations of small organic farms and young start-up farmers in the State of Washington.  According to Casey, there are dozens of landowners in the area who are willing to lease their land for a few hundred dollars per acre per year.  Another organic farmer in the valley later estimated that one can gross $20-30,000 per acre per year growing and selling vegetables, making the cost of the lease approximately 1-2% of the gross profit.

Although it may seem ironic and counterintuitive that so many organic farms are getting their start in a floodplain, where the land may be better suited for growing rice or cranberries than a diversity of vegetables and fruits, it is precisely the seasonal flooding that makes this region so attractive to motivated young farmers like Casey and Ryan.  The frequent floods make the low-lying regions of this valley prohibitively difficult and expensive to develop into suburban tract homes, and the critical habitat protections for salmon make it unfeasible to do anything that might compromise or harm wetlands and riparian zones.  Consequently, the land along the Snoqualmie River is some of the most affordable farmland in the entire Puget Sound.  Less than 30 miles from Seattle and some of the largest farmers markets and organic restaurants in the country, the challenges of this valley and its unpredictable flood dynamics create a prime opportunity for small organic market farms looking for quick and easy access to high demand markets.

As Ryan prepped the tractor to disc a new set of rows for planting and then laid out irrigation lines, Casey and I began popping broccoli and cauliflower seedlings out of their trays.  Casey was repeatedly interrupted by text messages and phone calls from local chefs solidifying produce orders.  “Man, I was out until 11 pm last night doing restaurant deliveries after the market was over,” he told Ryan.  “And I woke up at 5 am to do all the harvesting for market.  What a long day.  I got in today at 7 am, fed all the animals, and have been in a daze since.  Sometimes we’re really on top of it and super busy, and sometimes we’re not and there’s not much going on.  But we’ve got to get these starts in the ground.  Seeds are cheap but the season is too short to not plant.”

As we settled into a rhythm of planting the new seedlings, I asked how the two of them managed to farm five acres with hardly any help (they have one intern).

Casey replied nonchalantly… “We don’t weed.”

You can visit Ryan and Casey on the web at http://handfarmedorganics.com/

(Continued from Farming Lessons Learned Today, 04 June 2010)

When I first heard Pica scream, my initial reaction (since it was a single brief shriek), was that she had been stung by a bee of some sort.  She often wanders over to the pigpen where she feasts on rotten food scraps left over from last year (disgusting dog), and last year there was a very active yellowjacket nest there.  So I put down my trellising line and walked over there casually, expecting to find her running towards me with her tail tucked, perhaps in need of some Benadryl to alleviate an allergic reaction.  Instead, I came face-to-face with a large, lab-sized coyote (i.e., similar in size to Chestnut).  It turned briefly and ran a few yards, then stopped and looked back at me, wary but not at all afraid.  My immediate reaction was of course that it had caught Pica, but I saw nothing in its mouth.  I was struck at the same time by a deep fascination with the animal that was casually trotting away from me through the forest.

I ran to where the coyote was initially standing, expecting to find her remains but I found no trace whatsoever.  Meanwhile, the coyote was making its way towards our field.  I badly wanted to follow it; it was the first coyote I had seen in Maine, despite hearing their haunting songs frequently and being as close to within 10 meters of a pack without seeing a single animal through the shadows (in contrast, I had seen many coyotes in Santa Barbara and even been surrounded by a pack once while taking the dogs for a walk in the foothills).  The coyotes in Maine have been incredibly elusive and ostensibly shy; their scat and tracks appear frequently on our forest trails and their howls, yips, and cries often wake us in the middle of the night.  So I was torn between tracking the coyote and hunting for Pica.  If Pica had been eaten, what could I do about it anyway?  But to see a coyote up close and track it through the forest:  that’s a rare experience.  In the end, my better sense won out.

I began to scour the place for any signs of Pica or a struggle, while yelling Pica’s name.  Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, I returned to the driveway to find her there, cowering and emotionally scarred it seemed, but physically intact and unharmed.

I imagine she was at the pigpen, saw the coyote heading in her direction, yelped out of fear and ran away as fast as she could on her three legs, before the coyote even realized what she was.  Coyotes are incredibly intelligent and premeditating hunters; the coyote was likely after the decaying pig head still in the pigshed and was not in a hunting or pursuing mode of behavior.  Like (good) human hunters, they probably don’t attack potential prey frivolously but rather engage in very well planned and intentional hunts with sophisticated social stalking and attacking behaviors.  If they encounter prey when not in “hunting” mode, they probably generally ignore it, as it is not worth the additional energy expenditure to incur that added risk of a failed hunt.  I can only guess this means that the coyote didn’t realize Pica was missing a leg.

The coyote (presumably the same one I ran into yesterday) was in our back field almost all day today, feeding on something in the grass and forbs.  At first I thought it might be eating wild strawberries (our own berries are beginning to ripen and are falling prey to a pesky chipmunk and slugs), but the wild ones aren’t ripe yet.  The coyote seemed either very distracted or bold, allowing me to walk out onto the porch and watch it in plain sight.  It was so consumed by whatever prey it was pursuing in the field that it appeared to pay no attention to the audibly clucking and crowing chickens a few hundred feet away.

Brent and I investigated the area this evening after the coyote departed, saw many tracks and trodden upon patches of grass, found some fur, and some scat that suggested it might be eating seeds of some sort.

The photo was taken through a spotting scope; you can barely see the trunk of our maple tree that we planted at our wedding just to the right and above/behind the coyote.  The coyote had brilliant yellow eyes and a white and black crescent stripe arching across its back, as well as a distinctive black stripe along its tail.  I have no idea whether it was a male or female, but Brent said he saw the coyote early in the morning a couple of days ago with a companion — perhaps a mated pair, or two young males that recently left their pack?

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Dear Mr. Rulkowski,

We recently read about a family in Oak Park who is being accused of a misdemeanor crime for attempting to grow an organic vegetable garden in their front yard.  We would like to express our extreme displeasure with the fact that a family in your community is being penalized and attacked for attempting to live more self-sufficiently and sustainably.  These accusations defy common sense and are contrary to the American spirit of freedom, self-reliance, and self-determination.  Organic gardens can be highly aesthetic additions to any community, are a healthy source of local, fresh produce that is untainted by toxic chemical sprays, and help to move communities towards a greater degree of food security.

It is astounding that any family who would decide to replace a non-productive, cosmetic lawn with an organic vegetable garden would be penalized by this practical decision.  Lawns are typically maintained with a high level of toxic chemical inputs, including synthetic fertilizers, pesticides, and petroleum-powered machinery (mowers, trimmers, etc.).  In contrast, organic vegetable gardens are largely maintained through the force of human labor and ingenuity.  Whereas chemical-intensive lawns contribute substantially to the pollution of local watersheds and galvanize our dependence on fossil fuels and foreign oil, organic vegetable gardens increase our degree of economic independence and self-reliance, while providing a pollution-free source of recreation, food, and exercise.

When so many American families are struggling to make ends meet, unemployment levels (especially in your own state) are nearing record levels, gas and food prices are showing no signs of decreasing, and people are forced to choose between buying food, filling their gas tanks, and paying their mortgages, it is shocking to witness politicians resisting citizen’s efforts to free themselves of this downward economic cycle by growing their own food.  At a time when a trip to the grocery store can be financially crippling for a family living on the economic edge, a home vegetable garden can be a tremendous source of savings for a family or individual seeking to maintain a healthy, yet affordable, diet.  Furthermore, the record levels of obesity and the epidemic of diet-related diseases that is occurring in America highlights the desperate need to make fresh fruits and vegetables — the cornerstone of a healthy diet — highly available and affordable to American families at every income level.  Despite living below the poverty line for the past three years, my wife and I have managed to grow virtually all of our own food, with the exception of grains, and have maintained a healthy diet and highly active lifestyle as a consequence of our freedom to garden.  In this day and age, for anybody who values fresh, local food on a tight budget, a home garden is indeed a “suitable” and highly practical use of a front yard.

Your assertion that the garden should not be located in the front yard demonstrates your ignorance of the critical importance of location relative to the sun that vegetable gardens require; if the backyard  is small and has a northern exposure or is surrounded by trees, then it may very well be too heavily shaded to support a vibrant vegetable patch.  Additionally, front yard gardens bring neighbors into closer contact with one another and can help to expose neighbors to new ideas.  We have maintained two gardens:  one by our house, and one along the road.  Many of our neighbors have frequently commented on the charm and aesthetic value of our roadside garden, and, now that we are moving, have expressed displeasure that it will be left fallow.

The notion of what is “suitable” or “unsuitable” is entirely subjective and is a sufficiently vague and ambiguous criterion for front lawns to permit the arbitrary enforcement of pet ideologies.  Whereas you may believe it is “suitable” to conform to a community’s established template of well-manicured, weed-free front lawns, many others believe that teaching one’s children where food actually comes from (i.e., the soil, seeds, water and air) is a much more suitable use of a front lawn.  Whereas you may believe it is “suitable” to spray grass, which nourishes nobody, with chemicals like Round Up and fertilizers, others believe it is more suitable to protect our lakes, rivers, and streams from pollutants in order to preserve their integrity for recreation, wildlife, irrigation, and drinking water.  Whereas you may believe it is “suitable” for all yards to look exactly alike in homage to suburban cookie-cutter conformity, others believe that “diversity is the spice of life” and would find it more suitable for neighbors to express their individuality with a variety of artistic and edible landscaping and gardening, creating a mosaic of yards in each community as varied as the American people.

Another family’s front yard is not the appropriate place to legislate or enforce your personal ideologies of what constitutes “suitable” use, as long as that family is doing nothing to harm their neighbors or community.  In our personal experience, keeping a vegetable garden is more often a tremendous benefit to neighbors, as surplus vegetables are given away, sold or bartered, fostering economic connections among the community as they come to support each other for sustenance.  It is time that you refocus your efforts to help move your municipality towards a healthier, more sustainable, and economically secure future.  A front yard, organic vegetable garden hardly constitutes an item of concern for a city’s agenda, and should be supported and encouraged as a practical, healthy, aesthetic, and vibrant use of otherwise non-productive, wasted space.

Sincerely,

Thom and Alia

The winters in Maine are often portrayed as harsh, silent, and foreboding, in which only the hardiest animals venture outdoors and the rest fly south to milder climes or hibernate within insulated dens and burrows.  However, in what may otherwise be considered a desolate, lifeless, snow-covered landscape, subtle signs abound of bustling activity throughout the winter wilderness.  Wildlife tracks are Nature’s encoded flight recorders:  black boxes in the form of animal prints that contain detailed information about the movements, behaviors, and identification of even the most secretive animals.

I spent some of my free time this past winter roaming our forest after the frequent snowstorms (that is, once the driveway had been shoveled clean).  Alone in the forest, silent in the depth of the cold winter, I would carefully scan the fresh powder for any signs of wildlife trails.  Once I encountered an animal track, I would identify and follow the prints in an attempt to assess the animal’s movements and possible behaviors.

Here’s a list of some of the animals whose tracks I found, identified, and followed:

• coyote
• fox
• marten
• weasel?
• raccoon
• deer
• red squirrel
• chipmunk
• deer mouse
• porcupine
• turkey
• crow or raven
• owl?

The most remarkable and fascinating of these tracks belonged to the porcupine.  On one particular occasion, in mid-February, I noticed some porcupine tracks, which are very distinctive, meandering through our forest and onto our driveway, where they abruptly terminated at the base of a large pine tree.  Peering up into the tree’s canopy, the large ball of spines was visibly perched upon a bow 50 feet overhead.  The porcupine remained in the tree for a couple of days, changing branches at least once or twice, before descending.  He (she?) then lumbered up the driveway, plowing determinedly through the deep snow and leaving a wide, sweeping path marking his trail.  I marveled at the manner in which the porcupine appeared to put his head down and charge forward resolutely, irrespective of potential barriers or obstacles, deviating from his course only after apparently bumping into a tree or other obstacle, which he would steer around before resuming his original compass heading.  He continued across the garden, behind the barn, through the forest, and off to another large pine tree nearly a quarter mile away from the first and immediately bordering our neighbor’s yard, littered with various pieces of old, derelict machinery and decommissioned farm equipment.  He stayed up this tree for another two days, very visibly perched high in the tree.

The next morning, the porcupine crossed our neighbor’s yard and proceeded to leave the most awkward, confusing, and humorous tracks I’d ever witnessed.  After passing about 50 feet from the tree directly into our neighbor’s yard, he encountered (or perhaps collided with) an old piece of farm equipment and abruptly turned around 180 degrees, heading away from the obstacle and back towards the forest for several feet.  He then looped around towards his original direction and summarily ran into the same piece of equipment, performing the same maneuver (the “double 180″) in an attempt to skirt the obstacle and resume his original path.  He repeated this maneuver several times after running into various pieces of tractor equipment that presented a veritable obstacle course of metallic barriers to navigate.  Ultimately, his tracks formed an exaggerated, high-amplitude sine curve, his path resembling Percival’s meandering quest for the Holy Grail (in which he was told to “just follow the sun” regardless of the time of day).  The porcupine eventually skirted all of the obstacles and successfully crossed the neighbor’s yard before wandering back into the forest, where they converged with some coyote tracks that were headed in the opposite direction.

Whereas the porcupine’s tracks provided a clear detailed story, transparently betraying the animal’s movements, location, behavior, and identity, other tracks pose an intriguing and often frustrating mystery to be unraveled only by the most determined and astute observers.  I was skiing around the pond at Featherfoot Farm in Aurora last weekend and came across some very interesting markings in the snow in several different spots.  The first tracks I encountered belonged to a fox that crossed the pond and headed into the forest.  But the next set of markings had no clear beginning or end.  It was a large swath of snow about 1 meter by 4 meters that had been ruffled in an indistinct pattern.  Along the edges however, were two marks that bore the distinct shapes of primary and secondary feathers lining a medium-sized wing, probably belonging to a raven or a large crow.  The sheer size of the scuffle that must have occurred suggested that perhaps two birds were fighting over something on the pond.  Further along the lake, another bird had landed and taken off, leaving its own wing marks imprinted in the snow.

Just as dusk was settling over the pond, I had reached the far edge near a point called “Lunch Rock” that we would often swim to in the summer.  Right along the edge of the pond were the crystal clear, unmarred, and perfectly clean imprints of two wings and a tail, with a wingspan of approximately 1 meter.  Directly between the two wings and in front of the tail were two parallel foot strikes, with the talons shaped in a pattern somewhat between an hourglass and a wine glass.  Immediately in front of these talon strikes, were two more identical, side-by-side prints.  The just off to the right and in front of this second pair of prints was a small spot of disturbed snow that was dusted with a thin coating of red powder:  blood.  Past this mark, there were four or five more footprints with the same hourglass pattern, except this time the footprints were alternating in a walking pattern, rather than hopping side-by-side.  The footprints terminated at a spot where the snow was ruffled indistinctly in a roughly circular shape.  And from there the prints disappeared.  There were absolutely no prints leading in to the melee, and none leading out from it.  My suspicion:  an owl that caught a rodent, which was either tunneling underneath the snow or was light enough to walk upon the icy crust on the surface without leaving obvious prints.

Last night, while traversing the northern part of the forest on the Rabbit Trail, which is the trail farthest from any parking lot (about 3 miles away) and therefore the least traveled, I came across a porcupine, a common denizen of the forest that we had encountered in the past.  Misha loves to chase small brown mammals and based on past experiences, I don’t think she can tell the difference between a groundhog (good idea to chase – especially from our gardens), a fisher (bad idea), and a porcupine (very bad idea).  She had been stuck by a porcupine’s quills in the past, but I don’t think the memory of that experience would deter her from the momentary delight of a good chase (on a related note:  Chestnut has been sprayed by skunks on three separate occasions, indicating his inability or unwillingness to learn valuable lessons from his past foibles).

The problem with porcupines, from a dog’s perspective is that they know they are well defended and, when faced with a potential threat, simply expose their tail to the attacker and casually lumber on like a miniature, well-armored tank.  Skunks exhibit more or less the same response.  This behavioral tactic makes it inevitable for a dog in pursuit to catch up to the porcupine, unlike most small brown mammals that Misha persistently chases but never catches (e.g., squirrels and chipmunks being the most common examples).  And so the dog receives her just rewards.  Of course, I would not allow Misha the pleasure of a home surgical procedure to remove the quills (a two-person operation, without anesthetic).  So I sternly yelled at her to “Leave It!” until she relinquished her pursuit.

Proceeding down the trail, I rounded a sharp bend not 200 meters later; in the middle of the path appeared a large black animal, the size of large goat, except much heavier in build.  The animal turned towards me, revealing the large powerful snout and heavy jaw of a bear.  Fearing that Misha and Cassie might reveal a streak of reckless boldness and attempt a suicidal chase of what could only be considered a potential predator (after all, I have seen Misha run “playfully” after an entire pack of coyotes before), I yelled at the dogs, “Wait, leave it, heel,” pulling out every command in the book that might help them to reconsider.  The black bear was clearly disturbed by our presence and turned to face us fully, sniffing the air and eyeing us cautiously, merely 10 meters away.

At that moment, I noticed why she was standing her ground:  a much smaller black bear emerged behind her at the edge of the trail, partially hidden by the brush.  She had a cub!  The urgency of her situation was instantly clarified.  I peeked behind me to check our dogs’ disposition:  they were both dutifully and thankfully maintaining their heel.  I emphatically repeated the commands to the dogs.  Turning back towards the bear, I knew I had to frighten her and her cub off before we could proceed on our run.  I had absolutely no intention of continuing in that direction on the trail, lest we unintentionally place ourselves between the mother and her cub and incur the wrath of a protective mother.  But I also wasn’t about to turn my back to the bear and return from where we came until I knew for certain that she and her cub would not follow us.  Taking a couple of deliberate, assertive steps towards the bears, I yelled loudly “Go away!  Get out of here!”  The cub immediately disappeared into the thick underbrush, but the mother was undeterred.  I could clearly see her massive feet turned inwards and the immense, sharp claws that protruded from her fur.

So, human communication apparently didn’t work.  I thought to myself, let’s try more practical approach.  What would a black bear do if it wanted to establish dominance over another bear and claim a territory?  Opening my arms as wide as I could, standing as tall as possible, I flared my fingers into claws, opened my mouth, and let out a primordial roar.  Taking two more steps towards the bear, I growled again and waved my arms in the air.  The bear conceded her turf, turned slowly away and followed her cub into the underbrush.

Needless to say, we rerouted the remainder of our run that evening through sections of the forest far from the bear and her cub.  As the evening grew darker and shapes and shadows began to take on the appearance of animate creatures in the twilight, I began to imagine bears, wolves, and cougars emerging from the forest, stalking us like deer in the deepening night.  On more than one occasion, I stopped suddenly dead in my tracks as a large shape materialized on the trail, only to discover a trail signpost or bench.  I thought back to all the times I had run these trails in the dead of night without even a headlamp to illuminate the surrounding forest, acutely aware of the possibility of wild predators lurking just beyond the trail.  The similarity to SCUBA diving in dark, shark infested ocean waters, with behemoth leviathans – real or imagined – lurking just beyond the edge of visibility, reminded me with a shock of adrenaline why I loved and craved both of these activities.  I finished the run through an intensifying thunderstorm, soaked by a downpour of rain that spattered through the forest leaves as the sky overhead was periodically illuminated with flashes of lightning.

On the home front, the coyotes have been very active in the areas around Orizaba Farm lately, serenading us with their haunting, chilling howls and cries almost every night.  The lightning bugs have come and gone, temporarily illuminating the night sky with their flashing bioluminescence that converts our long field into a well-lit runway on a dark new moon night.  The relentless buzzing of cicadas during the daytime heat has since marked the peak of summer.  Wild turkeys regularly forage in our field in the early morning, and a mind-boggling diversity of birds eludes my feeble attempts to identify them by song or shape.  I am certain the exciting wildlife encounters will continue to take us by surprise as we continue to explore the state of Maine and the wilderness of Orizaba Farm.

1) If your soil tests indicate that the soil is low in Ca, Mg, and pH (acidic), but high in K, don’t add wood ash, which is a common alkaline liming agent.  Instead, add a dolomitic limestone (CaCO3 and MgCO3) to raise the pH and add Ca and Mg.  Wood ash contains K2CO3, which will cause the potassium levels to rise dramatically, creating an apparent Mg deficiency due to competition for cation exchange at root binding sites.

2) If you sow seeds in a 2-dimensional block (versus in rows), and you space the seeds at half the final spacing in all directions (with the intention of thinning to every other seed), then you will end up thinning approximately three times more seedlings than you originally intended (oops!).  Thinning to 1/2 the original seeds in the linear dimension translates into (1/2)^2 the original seeds, or 1/4, in two dimensions.  Instead, when planting in a block pattern, space rows within the block at the final spacing, but plant seeds within each row at half the final spacing in order to thin half the seedlings later (assuming all germinate, which virtually never happens — hence thinning).

3) If you hear Pica scream from over by the pig shed, and then walk over there to find a coyote, don’t automatically assume she has been eaten, even if it is in your best financial interests.  She may have escaped unscathed somehow, despite her ambulatory impairment (she did).  You however, may not survive your marriage by claiming your wife’s 2nd favorite non-human disappeared without a trace down the gullet of a wild predator.