Slacktavism to Activism--Forest Wars

The clear cut near our place

Our little homestead is 10 acres surrounded by forest-covered foothills in the Pacific Northwest. It’s also timber country—vast swathes of the forests around us are privately-owned or state-managed tracts of harvestable trees. 

In fact, the property on our western boundary and that of our nearest neighbor is owned one of the largest timber companies in the region. 

When we first moved out here, the main road from the nearest town was a breathtakingly scenic drive: dense forests grew right up to the road shoulder, but you’d get occasional glimpses of rugged, deep-green foothills several thousand feet high.

Year by year, however, the trees in those forest tracts have been harvested. Now you understand, I’m all for sustainable forestry. Culling out the brush and weak trees so the biggest cedars and Douglas fir can thrive seems sensible to me.

In our area, there’s very little sustainable forest management practices; the forest lands are clear cut. Every last tree chain-sawed and loaded into trucks by an excavator, leaving unsightly vehicle ruts, piles of logging slash, and nothing more than a stump farm.

The landscape in our area—property either adjacent to the road or high on the slopes of the foothills—has been dreadfully scarred by clear cuts. Bare strips of land that are a stark contrast to the deep green forests right next to them.

In my homesteading book Little Farm Homegrown, I wrote about a clear cut that was done only a few hundred yards away from our place. One day there was a lovely forest of some 75-acres, a week later, that forest had vanished.

Seeing the destruction of what had been a dense, quiet fir woods, I had been devastated. And I wondered, what happens to the little forest creatures when their homes have been destroyed? My grief over the vanished forest inspired me to write a magical children’s story: The Mystery of the Christmas Fairies.

In any event, I never, ever thought I would be on the side of a timber company.

The forest with the illegal trails, next to the clear cut

That all changed when a nearby property owner decided to build a 3-4 foot wide dirt bike track in the privately-owned forest right next to us—just adjacent to the clear-cut tract I mentioned.

Decades ago, the timber company had agreed to allow hiking and horseback riding on their land. They had never posted “No Trespassing” signs anywhere in this forest. 

They prohibited motorized vehicles and trail-building, but other than that, the forest was available for anyone to enjoy.

The narrow trails back there, created over time by the horse folks, were fairly popular, and were always respected—“gently used,” as it were, by riders, hikers, and mushroom hunters. But this trespasser has confronted users to keep them out of the area, has destroyed trees, and now, along with his buddies, tears through the forest on his bike.

I had just recently discovered the trails through this clear cut and the forest. This past spring, after the bike accident that kept me from cycling for several months, I turned to easy hiking to recover.

Hiking on the clearcut, I discovered the place I’d once found so unsightly had been replanted with firs, many of them now 5 feet high or more. Fireweed and other wildflowers were everywhere, alder trees 15-feet tall, and the delicate, rich green leaves of vine maples fluttered in the breeze.

I saw that the land that had looked so damaged years ago was actually recovering—and the clear cut abounded with wildlife: bees and birds, rabbits and deer. Bear and bobcats, coyotes and cougars stayed on the down-low, but we knew they were there too. Yes, this tract would be harvested again, but that wouldn’t take place for maybe 40 years.

My “activism” if you can call it that, had been pretty non-existent up to now. I was happy to pay more for produce from local, organic farms, or buy as many green or organic products as I could. I read everything I could about climate change, but only worried about it—classic “slacktivism.” Which means, you might feel very strongly about some issue or another, but you don’t really get involved.

Yup, that was me.

John has been more of an activist the last few years; he has used his own funds to support the various causes he feels strongly about, and often writes letters to our Congress-people.

But the pillaging of the forest next door galvanized us both into real action.

Motorized vehicles in forests are a wildfire danger, particularly in the summer when we might go two months without rain. And our place is 8 miles from the nearest fire station. The noise pollution from the dirt bikers has been immense. Horse folks and hikers have become reluctant to use the trails, in case they might get hit by the bikers.

And you know, it was the principle of the thing! The illegal dirt-biking was ruining everybody else’s enjoyment of the forest.

Luckily, all our other neighbors—seven other families—felt the same. I, along with John and the others, have embarked on a campaign to put a stop to the trespass: hours of writing emails, strategizing via in-person meetings and getting together for work parties. After mostly keeping to ourselves for years and years, John and I and the other folks living along our little private lane have created a true community.

Last week, our neighborhood group met the forester from the timber company, who came to the area to investigate the trespassing. He’s a young family man with two little daughters, wearing a tee-shirt and jeans but a complete professional.

I had imagined the timber company as a bunch of suits counting their big bucks made from killing trees. But it turns out this particular company is a steward of the land. They replant their forests; they manage their forestlands for their long-term health. The face of this huge corporation, I learned, was a real person, with the same concerns for the forests that John and I had.

I believe we made a good case for intervention; we are meeting again with the forester, and the firm is ready to bring in the long arm of the law.

We—our little community of activists—are all feeling hopeful. We’re hoping that soon, the bikers will be gone, the track-building shut down, the noise pollution ceasing.

And we’re hoping the damage they’ve done will heal—shrubs filling in the track, soil rebounding from the ruts and compaction. And that there, in the quiet, calm woodlands, songbirds and bunnies and other wildlife will once again be free to forage and raise their young.

I know that this forest will someday be cut down, just like the clear-cut was next to it. I understand that’s at least a couple of decades away—but when it happens, and I’m still on this earth, I will try to be philosophical.

And I’ll imagine how the land will rebound yet again, and picture the clear cut dotted with baby firs—a new forest in the making.   

Happy Michaelmas!

Michaelmas, or the Feast Day of St. Michael and All the Angels, is an old-timey holiday that was celebrated September 29. 

In the British Isles, Michaelmas traditionally marked the day the grain harvest was pretty much done. People would celebrate with a feast of roast goose and all the trimmings--and the landlords would be pretty happy too because harvest time meant farmers could pay the rent.

Michaelmas also gets a mention in many of the historical BBC series John and I enjoy, created from classic English novels like Jane Austen's or Elizabeth Gaskin's. Those English-country worlds are very idealized, sure, but we all need a wee farm fantasy once in a while!

John and I like to recognize Michaelmas as an early start to the autumn holidays. We set out our set of fall figurines that remind me of an old-fashioned, New England apple farm, and they help brighten the house after the fall rains arrive and darkness comes earlier and earlier. 

We also like to celebrate our own little harvest time. The blueberries are done--we each had our last bowlful of fresh ones this morning--but we're still picking cukes, tomatoes, and zucchini. The fridge is brimming with apples, potatoes and carrots; garlic and onions crowd the pantry.

We definitely won't have roast goose though--a few years back, we bought a crazy-expensive, locally-raised, pastured goose, and I roasted it like turkey. And had to wonder, did I do it wrong? It was tough and gamey- tasting, and given the $40 we spent, we decided never again. 

So I'm preparing beef stew, full of our own vegetables, inspired by a super simple recipe I found in the October issue of Country Living magazine: Braised Beef with Tomatoes and Onions. I'll also make a cucumber salad with the gigantic cuke I found a couple of days ago. And with all the apples around, I think an apple dessert needs to happen. 

After all, with Halloween just around the corner and Thanksgiving not far behind, fall is a glorious time! 

Cottagecore Fun!

Irish cottage featured in "The Quiet Man"

I learned a new term the other day: “Cottagecore.”

Before you ask, “Hey, are you living under a rock?” I will admit, “Yes I am, and proud of it!”

For the uninitiated, aka, folks who are completely out of it like me, “cottagecore” is a trend that came along via the internet focusing on a cozy, rural style. Cottages and farmhouses are prominent features of this mostly idealized way of living.

Victorian houses and English manor houses, I understand, are associated with cottagecore too. The tiny house trend, I’m sure, is part of cottagecore as well—especially if it’s out in the country.

The thing is, I realized I have been a cottagecore fancier all my life. When I was a little kid in Central Minnesota, my dad used to take my siblings and I to a park on the banks of the Mississippi River. There, in the heart of the beautifully tended flowerbeds, was a tiny old cabin.

Every visit to the park, I would peer through the windows, hoping to find something mysterious, or at least interesting inside. There were tatty shades over the glass, but through a torn portion I could make out an ancient armchair and dust everywhere. My sister and I would pretend a witch lived in there. Or a troll. Whatever might be lurking inside, we never lingered around the cabin for long.

Readers of my “Little Farm” memoirs will know that I was a passionate reader of the “Little House” series by Laura Ingalls Wilder. My imagination was gripped by the Ingalls family log cabin in Wisconsin, their sod house in Minnesota, and the spare claim shanty on the Dakota prairie, made cozy by Ma’s little china figurine and handmade quilts.

Since most of the “Little House” books were written in the 1940s and 50s, “cottagecore” has actually been around a long time! Classic books like Jane Austen’s novels come to mind; likewise, Louisa May Alcott’s. I’ve pretty much concluded any story (book, film, etc.) featuring a cottage garden brimming with deep pink foxglove and sky blue larkspur counts as cottagecore—with extra points if the garden is next to a cottage or manor house with an Aga range in the kitchen.

On the cover of It Only Takes Once

When I created my Village of Ballydara series, novels and stories set in the countryside of County Galway, Ireland, I was in cottagecore territory and didn’t even know it. Here are some of the Irish cottages on my book covers:

On my Mother Love print cover

On The Galway Girls book cover

My new Fairy Cottage of Ballydara mini-series is all about cottagecore too...a cozy little store in The Little Irish Gift Shop, a Victorian mansion in Becoming Emma, and my upcoming book, Home to Ballydara, is set in, yep, the fairy cottage!

Naturally, I’m a big fan of reading cottagecore-related books too. Last week, I featured a memoir about a guy making a life in his hand-built log cabin in the Alaskan wilderness—a terrific yarn!

 However, I give my highest recommendation to my favorite author: Jenny Colgan. When it comes to cottagecore, she has it all! Her charming novels include a cottage in the Cornwall, England countryside, with honeybees buzzing around the garden, a Scottish farmhouse with a border collie snoozing next to the Aga, and cozy small-town cafés with ancient, creaky stoves in the kitchens. 

My favorite book of Jenny Colgan's is The Bookshop on the Shore, set in a manor house in the Highlands of Scotland, on the shore of Loch Ness! The story brims with cottagecore, complete with an Aga, a drafty attic and a massive library of old books. There’s also a wee bookmobile that trundles around the countryside, packed with old books and new… I hope you’ll check it out! 

Are You Homesteading, Enjoy DIY or Love the Wilderness?

Plant on right is crocosmia, loved by hummingbirds! 

Then here's a book for you!

Whether you're a homesteader, prepper, wilderness-lover or somewhere in between, I heartily recommend this terrific read: One Man's Wilderness: An Alaskan Odyssey.

With a glowing Forward by Nick Offerman--actor from the TV show "Parks and Recreation"--this inspiring, enthralling story follows a seemingly average Joe, Dick Proenneke, who spent a year alone in the high country of Southern Alaska. 

In 1968, Proenneke crafted his own log cabin with only hand tools, using wood from spruce logs he cut and processed himself. He also lived off the land, fishing,  hunting and foraging, and improvised his way through the rigors of an Alaskan winter. 

A keen observer of the wildlife around him, he communed with the squirrels and blue jays, even a weasel who set up housekeeping in his woodshed. He tracked caribou, Dall sheep, brown bear and even wolverines simply for the joy of watching them in their natural habitat--often starting work around his homestead at dawn, then spending the afternoon taking six-ten mile hikes. 

The book is filled with his own photography, showing his rough-hewn homestead, and capturing the majesty of the lake and mountain landscape surrounding him.  

He tends to gloss over difficulties, like his near escape from a bear attack. I also wonder how a guy from Iowa learned all his self-sufficiency skills, like building with logs and butchering game and a hundred other DIY work-arounds. Nor does he include how he came to live on this property, since he didn't mention buying it: Was the land a gift? Did he do a homestead claim? Did he get permission from the land owner to build on the property and live there, just for a lark?    

None of that seems to matter, though; his experiences in simple living were so extraordinary. I had to continually remind myself that this was a modern memoir, not a 19th-century pioneer story! 

His intriguing and thought-provoking statements about modern life will likely have you pondering some big questions: the beauty and harmony of being close to nature, your own place in the world, and how you might live more simply. I hope you'll take a look at this amazing book!

For more homestead-related book recommendations...

Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver.

Farm City: The Education of an Urban Farmer by Novella Carpenter.

The Resilient Gardener: Food production and Self-Reliance in Uncertain Times by Carol Deppe.

You can find more of my favorite resources in the back of my free gardening guide, Little Farm in the Garden!  

Rude (Brood) Awakening...and the Economics of Keeping Hens

 The math just didn’t add up.

The egg production from our flock of five hens had been very irregular all summer--although for a few weeks we’d gotten two or three eggs per day. But lately, the hens had produced one egg a day—if we were lucky.

The organic, whole grain-and-legume feed John and I buy is a hair under $40 for a 40 lb. sack. It lasts a little over a month, about 40 days. So crunching the numbers, our 1 little egg each day was costing us $1…meaning the eggs we eat cost $12 dollars/dozen!

Now, we have no expectations of earning money from our homestead—it feels like a gift to both of us, raising food for ourselves and sharing what we can with our friends and family. Still, living on our modest income, $12/dozen eggs is a pretty big indulgence.

Realizing the economics of our little flock was a rude awakening for me.

For months, John and I had been dealing with broody hens. That’s when a laying hen’s chick-raising instincts kick in. Instead of laying eggs, all she wants to do is sit on eggs to hatch—it’s a stage that’s supposed to last about 3 weeks.

Problem: In our little flock, as this past spring turned into summer, it seemed like as soon as one hen emerged from her broodiness, another hen would start soon after. Weeks ago, after one particularly broody girl finally returned to hanging out with the rest of the flock, we had exactly one day without broodies. Then the very next day, not one, but two hens wouldn’t leave the nest boxes!

I was getting really frustrated. “This has gone on long enough,” I told John. “We’ve got to do something!” Or at least try to do something.

Actually, there are a few solutions—ways you can try to “break” a broody hen. The point is to get her back to the flock and laying actual eggs. Not just sitting on a nest in a broody trance. After I'd one some research, here's what we've tried:

*Take the hen off the nest, and close off the nest boxes. This is to encourage her to return to customary hen activities: Scratching the ground for bugs, dust-bathing, and especially eating regularly (broody hens seem to have very little appetite).

*Get her away from the coop. Hopefully her little bird brain can maybe forget about her nest and the imaginary eggs she's trying to hatch.

*Separate her from the rest of the flock and give her lots of treats to pique her appetite. Otherwise, any treat you give her will very likely be stolen away by the other girls.

The one thing we hadn’t tried was dunking a broody hen in cold water. A broody hen’s body temperature apparently runs somewhat above normal—again, to keep eggs warm. But to me, a cold dunk seemed so drastic. Cruel even.

So here we were, still stuck with our 1 egg/day problem.

Last week, when John was at the feed store, he told the clerk about our broody problem. She asked, “Have you tried a cold water bath?”

He confessed we hadn’t. But by yesterday, spending so much of my gardening time shifting hens off nests and trying to get them to eat…well, I was at my wit’s end. I decided it was time to get serious. A dunking we would go.

Dunking a broody hen

I didn’t know what to expect, but I dressed for the job: goofy hat I wear to clean the coop, John's old raincoat, rubber gloves and muck boots, and my trusty Carhartt work pants. 

John was on standby, and to record the event—but mostly for moral support. We hauled a tub and hose into one of our orchards, which was fenced off from the other 3 hens. I filled the tub with cold water. Everything was ready.

Fetching one hen out of the nest, I held her firmly, hands holding down her wings.

For a few seconds, the hen didn’t react, then suddenly she squawked, struggled, and before I could keep her down she jumped out of the tub. Who knew a little 5 pound hen could be so strong?

Still, I think she was in shock, because I was able to grab her quickly and try again—although when I got water splashed on my face I was grossed out. And this process did feel cruel. But the $1 per egg strengthened my resolve.

Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t hold her down for long. In a flash, she was out, and ran to the edge of the fence, seeming to watch me warily.

Ready to dunk Broody #2

By now, my pant legs were wet, I had more water on my face, and I was really annoyed. So all fired up, back I went to the coop for the second broody and proceeded to the orchard.

I grasped her as firmly as I could, and lowered her into the water. Now that I knew how strong little hens are, I held her down with all my might.

Can you believe it? I could not keep that five-pound “weakling” in the tub!

Squawking and wings flapping, she splashed in the tub, dousing my face, neck, and glasses. In one second flat out she jumped, running away before I could catch her.

By now, I was thoroughly disgruntled—and feeling filthy and far too ticked off for another go at the tub. I had high hopes that this would cure the broodiness…but time would tell if the cold water bath worked.

In a word…Nope.

The next morning, when John went out to toss the girls their morning scratch grains, four hens came out of the pen to greet him. Maybe we’d cured one hen? Both would have been great, but…

The 4^th hen ended up going back into the coop. Long story longer…we still have two broodies.

And later, when I lifted the broodies off the nest, they struggled a little, which was a first. They’d gotten scared of me.

Ultimately, I don’t think the cold water bath was worth stressing out the hens, and also irritating the heck out of me. So John and I aren’t sure where to go from here.

We may try obtaining a different breed of hens, which aren’t so prone to broodiness as our Buff Orphingtons. Still, integrating a few new pullets into an established flock would be very tricky.

Otherwise, I guess we’ll just have to live with the situation. With hopes that fall and cooler weather will bring a break from broodies! 

You can find more about broody hens...just check out my May and July 2021 posts!

Garden Planning and Sad Spuds

A sad, scabby harvest

It’s never too soon to plan for next year’s food garden. I learned this the hard way.

In a perfect world, many months before planting season, I’ll have a general idea of what crop to plant in which bed. That means I can plan the kind of amendments a certain bed might need.

Plus it’s a great idea for rotating your beds. (You can find lots more about rotating your veggie beds in my free gardening guide, Little Farm in the Garden!) 

I keep things easy in terms of rotation with a rough little map of my food garden. It probably looks like chicken scratches to anyone else, butt it shows me the planting history of my veggie beds. That way, I can plan to keep 3-4 years between crops.

As you can see, my map is due for an update!

For example, garlic is what’s called a “heavy feeder.” It needs lots of nutrients, so I try to have lots of
chopped leaves and compost on the bed by early fall, so the soil is well-nourished and ready for planting in November.

Also, when you plan ahead, you can make sure you haven’t overlooked other fall tasks. In our area, the soil is fairly acidic. It’s great for blueberries, but not for most vegetables. So in the fall, I’ve gotten into the habit of sprinkling dolomite lime on my veggie beds to “sweeten” to soil—that is, make it a bit more alkaline.

A year ago, getting beds ready for this past year’s spring planting, I had done my usual: sprinkled dolomite lime on the beds before mulching them for winter.

And that was where I went wrong: Liming all my veggie beds.

Now, potatoes like slightly acidic soil—so dolomite lime is unnecessary. What I should have done was chosen a bed last fall and simply mulched it.  

I discovered my “woulda, shoulda, coulda” when I harvested my Yukon potatoes last week. The plants had been pretty weak-looking all summer, small and pale green. The foliage had also died back many weeks before it usually does.

So when the potato foliage had been dry and brown for a couple of weeks, I grabbed my little hand fork and dug into the bed.

My harvest was, in a word, pretty awful. A half dozen barely-medium sized ones, and about 15 golf-ball size or smaller. Not even a third of my usual yield from 9 or 10 hills.

Part of that could have been from something I couldn’t prevent: the hot summer. Potatoes don’t care for a lot of heat. Also, our early summer had been very dry, just when the tubers were forming and needing extra moisture.

The most discouraging part was the terrible scab on the spuds. I went online to research and discovered scab is more prevalent in alkaline soil. Slightly acidic soil inhibits it. So that was on me: I’d planted my seed potatoes in a limed bed.

Scab doesn’t really affect the taste—I baked the least scabby potato last night and it was fine. But these spuds are so scabby I’ll have to cut away half of each one.

So this month, I’m going to be all about planning! I’ve already picked out my fall-planted garlic bed, and I have lots of leaves and compost ready for top-dressing. And when the fall rains start, I’ll be doing my dolomite lime sprinkle on it too.

I’ve also noticed how vigorous some of my crops are this summer: for example, a really robust bunch of cucumber plants. Last year, I’d planted onions there, and had really piled on the dried leaves both during the growing season and for overwintering. So you can be sure I’ll be top-dressing my beds with as much organic matter as I can.

I’ve also picked out next spring’s Yukon Gold tater bed. Definitely no lime there! I’m also trying something new for my Yukons…

Those dots are my pea seeds, and the net is ready!

I saved a bunch of pea seeds from last year’s harvest. As an experiment, I’ve planted them in next spring's potato bed to add nutrients to the soil. You can bet I'll be protecting the bed to keep the towhees from plucking all my seeds out!

The plants will hardly be a few inches high by the time our first frost hits in mid-October—at which point they’ll give up the ghost.

But I’ll just gently till the dead plants into the soil and see what happens next year—after all, the fun part of gardening experiments is that  you’ll always learn something!