Hobo Origins: Lost in America Part II

Denise and I in Montana(circa 1974)

     I lay in bed in Petaluma, California, listening to the litany of dates being announced on the radio.  It was August 5, 1971 and I, along with my best friend Pete, were staying at the home of his aunt and uncle, as our journey hitchhiking through the West was ending.  The dates being selected randomly and broadcast over the airwaves held personal importance.  It was the lottery for the military draft.  The month and day of one's birth became a statistical horoscope of your near term future.  There was a war in need of young men.  With a draft number of 221, however, mandatory conscription and Vietnam were not in my future (though I enlisted several years later) and I was temporarily free to go about my life.
     Freedom from military service was not freedom from the war.    My generation were children of the war.  We grew up with Vietnam in our living rooms, its warriors, arsenal, and battlefields electronically painted across television screens, sharing the ether with the banal (Bonanza) and the extraordinary (moon landings).  Vietnam was an electric snake wound  around every neuron of the American psyche and which fed upon the very polarity it created.  Its psychic charge left little room for middle ground. It ionized the American consciousness with an air of black and white, right or wrong, for or against.  This polarizing current influenced art, politics, religion and served as the topic du jour for discussions held in big city diners and small town cafes.
     Perhaps nowhere was this more apparent than on college campuses.  Making a few runs at college during the early seventies, (University of Utah),   I found a dynamic energy where any and all topics were discussed and/or debated openly and earnestly, especially outside of class.  Here were people who read, wondered, and questioned as much as I did.  While attracted to this bohemian intellectual atmosphere, I was there without direction and the highway was constantly tugging at me, urging my return.  One quarter after finals, I loaded up the old Chevy Impala I had recently purchased for $150 and headed to Los Angeles.  After a couple weeks of visiting - including spending several nights camping in the freezing desert just north of Mexicali, Mexico, surviving the cold nights with the help of cheap tequila bought south of the border - the car's automatic transmission began to fail.  I traded the car for a flute, caught a cheap flight back to Salt Lake City and continued hoboing.  I worked roughnecking in Wyoming and Utah (drilling ventilation shafts rather than going for oil), as a gandy dancer(section hand) for the Denver and Rio grande Railroad, and working underground pulling copper and rail out of a defunct coal mine in Kenilworth, Utah.
     Work was interspersed with periods of jobless wandering.  I spent some months living in Los Angeles with my oldest sister, hanging out and experiencing people and situations far removed from the small town culture I grew up in.  There were a stew of characters - ex Black Panthers, acid poets,  political playwrights, students and ex cons -  all mingling in the same pot, an apartment a few blocks from Los Angeles City College.  Here the electric snake coiled tightly, ready to strike at the least provocation. I moved through this surreal cultural and political banquet as a tourist, tasting but not feasting on all its offerings.  There was nothing to anchor me here.
     Adventures came and went.  Time moved in fitful spurts, dizzying one minute, with the speed and volume of life moving so rapidly it was impossible to process in the moment; and possum like the next, when, in the illusion of youth, time stood still and all eternity lay as an ocean before me, its waves lapping lazily at my feet.
     Age teaches us that time is never static.  Moving at Mach I or contemplating a dew drop falling from a leaf  - time moves on.  And so it has with me; marriage, children, degrees, work...all changing the overt appearance of the hobo life to something more...traditional?  At first glance, perhaps.  While marriage  and children have been joyful, fulfilling experiences, I've never felt  any prolonged satisfaction  settling into a job or place until the farm concept began to take hold.  Pulling a honey super off a hive or seeing red worms in my compost bin create the same joy I used to feel  hitchhiking with the smell of sagebrush and asphalt in my nostrils.
     As we mature we also learn that, other than Texas Hold 'em, few things are all or nothing, black and white.  While farming stirs up a deep felt passion, I frequently lie  awake at night captivated by the call of a train whistle.  And though the feel of my hands deep in the soil is soothing to my soul, I still enjoy the pavement rushing beneath my feet as my wife and I head out on the motorcycle for a two hour ride or the rare multi-day tour.
     The hobo lesson is this: that we are all on a journey with a beginning and an end, and we travel unaware of  the joys and challenges that will face us along the way.  The best I can hope for is to say,  I travelled mindfully.

     

Hobo Origins: Lost in America Part I

     I remember staring out the window of Sister Justine's third grade class.  It wasn't that she was a bad teacher; she was a good teacher and I enjoyed her teaching.  But what was happening outside the school building was often more fascinating to me than the activities inside - unless it was geography class.  On a warm Spring day it didn't take much to draw my attention outdoors; the sound of an airplane engine droning overhead, the aria of a train whistle, or May's whispers of school ending and Summer's promise of untold adventures.  My wanderlust is hardwired, a part of my DNA.  I was forever wondering where the tracks, a road, or even the irrigation canal made their end.

     The tracks of the Denver & Rio Grande Railroad passed less than a hundred yards from my childhood front door; it's trestle a gateway  for the cars passing beneath it as they entered or left  town from the west.  As children we would hop a passing train on one side of the trestle, ride half the length of a football field, and jump off on the opposite side.  Good training for a hobo in waiting.  At night the rhythmic percussion of train wheels steadily lumbering their way along the track soothed my way to sleep.  By my senior year in high school I found that if I couldn't catch a ride hitchhiking home from Salt Lake, there was always a train going my direction not too far away.
     Just before graduation from high school in May of  '71, I, ironically, turned down a job as a brakeman with the railroad.  When graduation came, the plans I had made for a ride to San Francisco, where I would begin thumbing around California, were thwarted by a car accident and the ensuing financial obligations.  Jobs around the area were hard to come by and I ended up working in a migrant camp near Springville, Utah picking cherries with two friends, Pete and Gary.  Home became a two room wooden  shack of maybe 100 square feet.  We slept shoulder to shoulder on the floor in sleeping bags in one room; the other room was a "kitchen" consisting of a kerosene camp stove, a small wooden table whose finish had worn away many years earlier, and two chairs with barely enough room for as many people to sit in them.  One outside tap provided running water for the whole camp, and the bathroom was a community outhouse.   It was typical that whole families worked together to earn a living.  Little children would even gather cherries from the ground and pick low hanging limbs.  The living conditions didn't bother me.  What was a concern was my lack of skill at picking. Earning 4 cents a pound and on my best day only able to pick around 180 lbs.,  it soon became obvious that after I paid for food, I wasn't making any money.  After four or five weeks of working to just barely provide enough to eat, I gathered my belongings and about eighteen dollars and took to the highway with Pete, who was picking less than I was.  The initial plan was to seek work in Wyoming or Montana where I had relatives in Livingston and Butte.
     That trip lingers in me still.  In Wyoming an old timer picked us up, looked at our backpacks and figured we were heading into the wilderness.  Despite our explanations of how we were just hitchhiking and not really hiking, and in his earnestness to help two young explorers  he took us off the main highway leading to Jackson Hole, past the town of Moose, and dropped us off ten miles from any  travelled thoroughfare. Though the next next morning brought on a long hike back to a road with any traffic, that night premiered stars larger and more numerous than any I can remember.  The same could also be said of the local mosquito population.  In Livingston, Montana we helped my aunt and uncle slaughter and process chickens raised without hormones and antibiotics on their small two acre farm.    They refused to eat store bought chickens long before "organic" was cool.
     At the job service in Livingston, we found little encouragement for finding jobs anywhere in the area and so decided to just follow the road to see where it would take us.  We stopped briefly in Butte to visit another aunt and uncle before making our way through Northern Idaho, Southeast Washington and then to Oregon.  Along the Columbia we saw tugs maneuvering barges that my desert, landlocked eyes first mistook for islands.  In Portland we spent the night in the weeds at a defunct gas station at the crossroads of East/West bound I-84 and north/south bound I-5.
     South of Portland we caught a ride with a rather amiable fellow named Tam.  Tam, who I remember as being around his late thirties to early forties, had recently moved to Oregon from the Midwest and was living with his brother who was a commercial fisherman.  It was the off season for his brother and they were making residence  at the Ten Mile boat camp near Coos Bay. We found his brother's family as warm and open as he was.  For no good reason I could think of, they brought us into their home, fed us  smoked salmon and Blatz Beer for appetizers, and then cooked up fresh sturgeon for dinner.  With our bellies full and the summer light fading, Tam guided us into the local sand dunes  for a good spot to camp and then disappeared.  Pete and I had a good beer buzz going and were sure we would never be able to find our way out of the dunes come morning.  As we were about to settle in, Tam reappeared with about a dozen kids around our age, each bearing beer or wine.

     It was around this point that several remarkable things happened.  We lost the sense of time.  Neither Pete nor I were sure whether it was July or August.  We had no watches, and really cared less about the arbitrary numbers of the clock.  We got up with the sun and slept when it got dark or we were tired.  We began to travel without any grand plan of where we were going, how long we would stay anywhere or what we would end up doing.  We lived in the present moment.
     We had little money when we began our journey.  After spending about a quarter of our funds the first few days on a hamburger in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, we quickly figured out we would have to be much more frugal if the trip was going to last more than a week.  For the two months we were on the road, we thrived mostly on bread and peanut butter, which made the generosity of our fisherman family all the more precious.  Somewhere along highway 101 in Northern California, we spent the last of our funds on one shared cup of coffee at a Denny's Restaurant.  We were literally penniless.  Far from experiencing any fear or consternation due to our financial lack, we found ourselves joyful and content, living without need or want.
     The trip came to a quasi end in Petaluma, California where our forward motion finally came to a rest.  Pete had an aunt and uncle he hadn't seen in years living in the area and we decided to visit.  His aunt was eager to have us stay and encouraged her sons to help find us jobs.  One of Pete's cousins got me on as a painters assistant where he worked. (One of the few things worse than painting, for me, is prepping for painting.)  Pete went to work as a personal orderly for an older paraplegic gentleman who another cousin cared for. He found that he liked that type of work - caring for people who had difficulty caring for them selves. (As an aside - when it came time for him to administer his first shot to the old gentleman, Pete's only frame of reference was witnessing my Uncle Frank in Livingston give a shot to a horse - holding the syringe between thumb and forefinger and then gently slapping its hind end with the back of the other three fingers two or three times before hitting it with the needle, so as not to startle it.  I can only guess at the old guy's confusion on receiving his medication in this manner.)
     Pete decided to stay with his relatives and see where his new job would take him.  I found there was still had a stretch of highway before me, leading me back to Utah.  In another series of cosmic coincidences I also found a job as an orderly, working at the local nursing home in my hometown of Price.  Less than four months later Pete would return home to take the orderly job I was vacating to lose myself in America once again.
     A Hobo Koan:  What is the magic in the sound of tires traveling the highway on a moonlit night?

     

The Dying of the Light

...Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
                                      -  Dylan Thomas

     I know of those for whom the anticipation of snow piled high brings a childlike glee to the center of their being. They have already begun to liberate skis and snowboards from exile, out of desolate basement corners and seldom visited closets.  They tell tales when gathered with other winter enthusiasts, blowing dust off last year's remembrances of shushing down mountain runs with quizzical names such as "Galloping Goose" and "Flying Squirrel".  Then there are those who prefer a higher octane version of frosty revelling, thundering their way though the forest on snowmobiles, their machines vibrating their riders to a state of frozen bliss.  

     There is nothing in those scenes that appeal to my solar powered heart.  I know that Dylan Thomas was not talking about sunlight and nighttime per se in "Go not gentle into that good night", but he could have been.  Death is foreshadowed in the long Winter nights.  Or, at least, if not permanent death, then a temporary other -  a  psychic hibernation.  Where others skate and slide their way to the Winter Solstice, I trudge.

      It must be admitted to here that I am in mourning, and the seasonal chill blowing through me is amplified by loss.  The last day of this year's outdoor Farmer's Market was last Saturday.  I was there to send it off, to pay it homage and lament its passing.  Gone is my weekly ritual celebration of a community's amity and altruism, the festive crowds.  Gone is my summary entertainment of people watching.  Gone is the  chorus of family farming that urges me along my path.  Gone.
     Before you call 911 on my behalf - I know it's a temporary situation.  I grasp that April will return, carrying with her the things I love.  I get that.  Really.  Still, there is an emotional retreat.

But that's not necessarily all bad, either.  If I am conscious of my state of being I can redirect my energies to intellectually creative and productive endeavors.  There is real planning to do;  figuring out what resources I have and where best to allocate them.  Next Spring there will be chickens and pigs on Lost Road Farm, along with expansion of the apiary.  Perhaps I'll plant a few more apple trees.  I found a resource that offers Sunday workshops in organic farming starting in January.  They're reasonably priced and I don't have to worry about scheduling conflicts.  Immersing myself in the necessary intellectual undertakings of farming, eases my emotional loss and brings the light of hope.

     The garden, too, has put on it's winter face.  While the tomatoes have succumbed to the colder weather, the greens have continued to do well.  My collard greens are larger and thicker now than they were in the warmth of summer.  The one dill plant that went to seed in late summer, is now a miniature forest filling half the raised bed.
     Creative activities such as cooking and brewing also offer recipes to mitigate winter's chill.  In two weeks I bottle my Espresso Oatmeal Stout.  (I'm already contemplating an Imperial Chocolate Stout).  Dishes such as Chile Verde, Chicken and Dumplings, or a Basque Lamb Stew are made more appetizing  with the chilly weather.  Paired with the right homemade brew they make winter almost desirable.
     Yes, there is a place where people gather to share the warmth and good wishes of the season; to share food, drink and conversation with friends and family.  That place is called Hawaii and those people will be wearing T-shirts and shorts.  The weather forecast for Koloa, Kauai is a high of 79 and low of 71.  All week.  And next week.  And the the week after that...Aloha.

      

Seeds of Imperfection

     The Navajo are renowned for their work on the loom.  Scrutinize any weaving from a Navajo artisan and you're bound to swear the work is perfect.  But you'd be wrong.  It will only be nearly perfect, because each weaver intentionally places an imperfection, called a "spirit string", in each piece.  The spirit string serves two purposes.  First, because they put so much of their soul into their work, they leave a loose string so their spirit can find a way out of the weaving and not be trapped in it.  Second, they believe the things of man cannot be perfect and  take ownership of the imperfection, weaving it consciously into their work so they know where it is.

     I confess I am the inverse of a Navajo weaving.  I am a tapestry of flaws and shortcomings, with failings too numerous to enumerate (but that hasn't stopped anyone from trying).  Label me a misanthropic malcontent who has found it difficult to reconcile my personal values with the commonly accepted goals and motivations that are the basis for living in this culture - especially in the area of employment.  Curious and philosophically unsettled, the hobo way manifest itself early in my youth where, after my release from my high school sentence, I began hopping trains: finding work in a migrant camp picking cherries in Springville, Utah, roughnecking in Utah and Wyoming, working section on the railroad in Helper, Utah, planting trees in the mountains  around Telluride, Colorado, working as a painter's assistant in Petaluma, California.  As I got older, jobs took on a more "professional" air and I found work as a teacher, nurse, sales manager, marketing director [this is a much abbreviated list] - but still moving from one job to the next, finding little satisfaction in any of them for very long.  Restless and lacking financial stability, I am any spouse's nightmare -  imperfection personified.

      There is another side to imperfection, however.  Coming to terms with man's, nature's, and/or our own deficiencies can be a driving force for change and an impetus for creating.  As I mentioned in an earlier blog, it was the realization of the failings of the industrialized food system on the macro level and a bust pumpkin crop on the micro level that awakened my desire to explore sustainable agricultural practices and to create a small working apiary and farm.  My own social flaws make me an ideal candidate for farming.  It fits my introverted personality, allowing me to work without being surrounded by the noise of others and to joyfully focus on the job at hand.
     Don't misunderstand me.  I enjoy the company of others; the gathering of the Farmer's Market or sharing a well prepared meal with friends.  But I seldom seek a crowd just for the sake of  being around people.  I'm not one to have the television or radio on in the background when I'm alone.  I'm often alone but rarely lonely.
     The land too is "imperfect" in the context of growing crops other than grass, so I compost the soil to enrich it.  I plan on putting pigs on a section of the farm this coming spring that I want to plant the following Spring.  The pigs will "roto-till" the soil, eating the grass and plants that currently grow on it, while working in their droppings, providing a premium organic compost as they go about their business. Imperfection is not failure.  It is contextual and temporal.
     It's counter intuitive that all these forces of imperfection should coalesce to generate something of greater value than their flawed individual parts, but it is true, nonetheless.  The farm for me is a spirit string that allows me an escape from my imperfect weavings.  I find some personal redemption in that.

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My friend Pat enjoying the grueling work of brewing

the mash

    

      Winter is a great time for brewing.  With the weather gray and cool and the outdoor work load reduced, brewing provides a creative activity with which to occupy oneself.  I spent the greater part of this past Sunday in the garage brewing a 15 gallon batch of Oatmeal Espresso Stout with the help of my friend Pat.  I even worked in two pounds of honey into the recipe, giving my bees a part of the process.  As I write this, I can hear the sound of CO2 bubbling through the airlocks on the fermentors as the yeast converts the sugars to alcohol.  If there are any all grain homebrewers who would like the recipe, you can email me at: lostroadfarm@yahoo.com.  I would be happy to share the recipe with you.

Dogging it

Kona Dog

      They work as a team.  Andy, a medium sized mixed breed with shaggy curly hair,  sits on command as his owner walks six feet away to the end of his leash.  Tethered to Andy is a short woman with gray pageboy hair who looks to be in her mid sixties, and who walks with a distinctive limp (remnants of a hip surgery?).  Sipping coffee from my bench, I watch their routine played out with  a precision made possible by weekly practice.   He doesn't move.  Someone takes the bait, and compliments Andy's looks or his apparent intelligence and a conversation ensues.  Knowing she haves them on the line, she moves immediately to the next feat, placing a dog bone at his feet where he ignores the urge to eat it until she gives the command.  The discussions center around Andy, when and where she got him, how smart he is, the tricks he can perform.  He is the star; the bait.
      I know the routine well as they have been at every Saturday's Farmer's Market that I have been to for the past several years.  I have been one of those passerby to compliment Andy, to ask about him, to pet him.  They pass their morning at the market, winding their way through the shoppers, back and forth...constantly roaming from one end of the market to the other, pausing occasionally to allow their act to subtly unfold.  The payoff for Andy is a dog bone and a pat on the head.  Her gain is less tangible, but infinitely more important - human interaction.  It doesn't seem to matter that Andy is the sole focus of the fleeting conversations elicited by their well rehearsed act, the human connection has been made, however temporary.  Having been witness to this for two years, I must confess that I know only half the duo's name.

     

     While Andy serves as a people passport for his owner, allowing her to actively engage others, my dog, Kona, has often served me as a confidant in my retreats from civilization.   In those times where individuals or mankind have disappointed and/or disgusted me, he has been there to patiently listen to my rants.  Confessing my own sins and innermost thoughts he responds with non judgemental love, sitting quietly next to me, often placing his head within easy petting distance upon my lap.

     My proclivity for solitary refuge is not only born out of the perceived negative behaviors of humanity.  I often find great joy walking about my farm's few acres, contemplating its next stage of development or simply enjoying the sights, smells and voices of nature.  Kona wanders about with me, sniffing out the social and travel nuances of the farm's resident and migrant populations - deer, squirrels, birds, and the occasional raccoon and fox.  (Unlike some visiting dogs, Kona has an innate respect for our resident bees and avoids hanging out directly in front of their hives.  Some of his friends have had to learn that there is a price to pay for sniffing too close to the hives entrance.)  At times I proclaim my considerations for the future out loud and he is yet to offer objections to any of them, allowing me to work through the list of potential gains and hazards for myself.  He is a natural teacher; a faithful friend.

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     I find the relative quiet of 2 a.m. holds the same attraction as walking the farm during the day. It provides space for uninterrupted thought.  Waking up in the middle of the night might be labeled as insomnia to some; to me it is a welcome chance to create, solve problems, and contemplate the nature of the universe and my place in it.  One morning last week I woke up around this time  and decided to design a mobile chicken coop utilizing pieces of scaffolding I scavenged from my neighbor's barn and that now lie in a pile northeast of the garden.  The process was worked out in my head, without the need for pencil and paper and, more importantly, without the need to leave the comfort of our warm bed.  While I was in the groove I came up with a basic framework for building a shelter for pigs that could also be easily moved around.  Solutions to fencing problems, brewing concerns, plumbing challenges, writing ideas, frequently manifest during this time.

        Sometimes at 2 a.m., in moments of priceless clarity, I have the opportunity to walk a short distance from those people, situations, and things to which I'm tethered, either by choice or imposition, to view and appreciate them for what they offer: a chance to express my humanity.

Farming, Food, and the Meaning of Life

       *** Less than 1% of the U.S. population claim farming as an occupation and only 2% live on a farm. The number of farms in this country peaked around 1935, topping out at 6.8 million. Today there are a little over 2 million farms.  On top of the declining number of farms and farmers add the fact that over 40% of today's farmers are 55 or older. (U.S. EPA)  Who will be growing our food in future generations?***
     Probe any point in my childhood dreams and nowhere will you find the goal of becoming a farmer.  I did dream of having  forty acres with a hundred or so German Shepherds roaming free around my cabin, but farming wasn't ever a part of the dreamscape.
         Sometime in my thirties or forties, in some dusty corner in the back of my subconscious, the idea of living on a farm started to take root. But living on a farm was strangely disconnected from the concept of actually farming.  When we first moved to the Willamette Valley over seven years ago I contemplated a very small boutique vineyard and winery in keeping with the local pinot viticulture.  That idea never evolved past the dream stage.

     It wasn't until about three years ago, after a visit to Spokane, when my brother-in-law, Dan,  sent me home with Pollan's The Ominvore's Dilemma, that farming moved beyond the realm of abstraction to anchor itself in my psyche, not just as an interesting avocation but as a possible vocation.  The confluence of forces - my rebirth to the joys of cooking, sitting on 2.63 acres, news stories of the mysterious disappearance of  bees called "Colony Collapse Disorder", Pollan's revelations about the harsh realities contained in our food chain (monoculture farming, feedlots, etc...) - sent a shock wave across my consciousness.   My brain finally made the connection between quality food and local farming  and I found (or rediscovered) a passion for real food.
     Michael Pollan makes a distinction between food and food products.  He suggests that if you want real food from a supermarket, shop around the outside aisles of the store where the dairy, meats, bakery, and produce are typically located.  The inner aisles are mostly "food products" - overly processed and refined foods, often containing ingredients that you haven't a clue as to what they are or as to their purpose.  Look closer at even the real food.  Where did those tomatoes, apples or peaches come from?  Is it really possible that they were picked at the peak of freshness and shipped halfway across the country or the world to sit unspoiled on a market shelf for a week(s)?
     Unfortunately we live in an era dominated less by quality and more by convenience.  I've been there; buying food products off a route truck or at the supermarket, as we ran about our jobs and shuttled our kids off to a myriad of activities.
      Enter the Slow Food Movement to restore some sanity to our daily lives.  SFM is not just about eating local with quality, nutritious ingredients.  Its about taking time to enjoy the process of cooking and eating as a family and/or group.  Can you still remember a time when people  gathered together to cook and eat, and to engage in discussions; to share their stories and lives.  Too often it seems that the only time people get together to talk and eat is at life's major milestones - weddings, funerals, major birthday celebrations.

     Somewhere, many years ago, I read about a Native American concept of making death your friend.  I believe the concept is not merely about facing death unafraid, but grasping our own personal finiteness and balancing our priorities in light of our limited time on this planet.  Picture yourself, for instance, on your death bed.  Can you see admonishing yourself for not having spent more time at work or wishing you had a newer car?  The key is to imagine what you  are likely to long for at such a moment and make those things a priority in your life now.
     I've taken the death realization concept a step further and created my own death scenario (actually I have three different ones at the moment).  The purpose isn't to predict the time or manner of my death; it's to give me clarity as to what I truly value now and to elevate those things of value to being the primary focus of my life rather than a sideline or hobby.
     In my self written death scene:  I'm laying in bed in my upstairs bedroom of a two story farm house (the house is yellow, wood frame) with friends and family sitting around talking and sipping coffee.  It is a beautiful sunny day and a summer breeze brushes past the white linen curtains that frame the window.  Just outside, below the window, surrounded by the abundance of the farm sit several dozen people of all ages eating and drinking at old wooden tables covered with tablecloths.  The mood is light and festive.  People laugh and talk; hold their kids; savor their wine and beer.  I don't feel as though I'm the focus of the gathering, but a participant in the celebration that is all around me.  In fact, as I picture this, I don't see myself as I lay in bed.  My viewpoint is looking out at the gathering in my room, and even the festivities in the yard.  There is no feeling of heaviness, no sorrow that accompanies this scene.
    To some degree this scenario has been played out twice in the last four years.  The first was a gathering of friends and family after my father-in-law's death in 2006 and my mother's death in 2008.  Each occasion prompted the gathering of family and friends to mark not only the loss, but to celebrate life and the  bonds we share.  I think food and drink are integral to such gatherings as it blends the extraordinary event with the everyday need for sustenance and the common daily ritual of sharing meals.
     The concept of the Lost Road Apiary and Farm extends beyond the goal of providing ourselves and others with quality food.  It is, in its essence, about the quality of life that I want to live and share with family and friends.  I don't want to wait for my death scenario to be played out to participate in such a celebration.  I want to break bread with friends and family now and often, so that when my time comes to depart this world it will be part of just another perfect day.

     

Monsoon season

                                                  

    Monsoon season has begun.  The weather prognosticators early last week had predicted heavy rains coming in on Friday.  Fortunately they were wrong (what are the chances of that happening?) and the rain held off to Saturday evening, making for a fairly decent Farmer's Market.  The weather outlook for this year's four remaining outdoor markets is not likely to be as dry, as November, on average, is our second wettest month - 6.9 inches.  December is usually the wettest - averaging 7.43 inches.  The great majority of that moisture is rain; snow making only the occasional cameo appearance on the valley floor.
     Having been bred a desert rat, the monsoon season is something that still requires some mental "girding of loins" even though we've been here for over seven years.  My desert psyche craves sunshine in the midst of so much gray.  On the flip side are two positives.  First - the average highs and lows for December (coldest month) are 46 and 34 degrees respectively.  I'm not a fan of the cold and the mild winters here are an acceptable trade off for the notable lack of sunshine.  In my perfect universe the temperature would never drop below 72 degrees (see mention of my fantasy coffee farm in Kauai in a previous blog).  Second positive - green.  Most other places I've lived face brown lawns and bare trees by this time of year.  Here, my lawn's greenest months are in the winter.  This area grows 90% of the world's grass seed, and all that moisture combined with mild temps combine to create green fields of grass wherever you drive.
      I rejoice, also, for the moisture the winter months bring to my fledgling orchard.  One of the primary goals for the farm is to find an economical way to capture and store all this rain for the dry, thirsty months of July, August, and September.  Water tank?  Cistern?  Pond?  All possibilities, but no definite answers as of yet.

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     There is some mysterious force at work that draws me to brewing beer as the cool wet weather descends upon the land.  It's not just the desire to drink beer, but a deep yearning to create a great beer that now tugs on my soul.  I feel a strong need to do something that I haven't done before.  I'm leaning strongly towards an oatmeal espresso stout.  To that end, I'll begin  designing the recipe this week with plans to brew before Thanksgiving.
     This will be the first beer in two years brewed without the collaborative efforts of the Lost Road Farm brew team, as they are now in Sitka dreaming of their own brews.

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Update to my "Ghost Hive" blog of 10/3

      In talking to the experts at October's meeting of the Willamette Beekeeper's Assoc. it appears the sudden disappearance of bees from one of my hives was most likely a case of Colony Collapse Disorder (CCD).  Unfortunately, the reasons for CCD are still being researched and debated.  One of the most recent theories proposed that a combination of a DNA virus and nosema (a disease that attacks bees digestive tracts) was the culprit.  Some claim this study is tainted because its author was paid by a certain company to downplay the role of pesticides in CCD.  While the reason for the hives demise received a name, it doesn't answer the question of what really happened.  The mystery remains.

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     In an earlier blog I stated that I planned to use some of my green tomatoes for a chutney, which I accomplished last week with favorable results.  The recipe was further enhanced by the use of apples from our orchard, along with peppers and scallops from the garden and, of course, our own honey.  The chutney turned out so well that I am including the recipe here.  Keep in mind that the amounts are approximations, as I'm not cooking from one specific recipe and often adjust by frequent tastings along the process.  

4 cups chopped green tomato

2 cups chopped apples ( my apples were tart)

1 1/2 cup honey

1/2 cup apple cider vinegar

1 cup chopped Anaheim peppers

1 Serrano pepper ( this makes a pretty mild chutney, use more if you like hotter)

1/2 cup chopped onion or scallops

2 tablespoons lemon juice

2 tablespoons ginger (you could use fresh grated ginger)

1 tsp. salt

1 tsp coriander

1 tsp cinnamon

1 tsp allspice

5 cloves garlic, minced

Combine all ingredients in a pan, bring to boil, reduce heat and simmer for 2 hours stirring frequently.  Let it cool. The mixture should be thick with a jam like quality.   This yielded about 2 quarts which I put in  jars and keep in the refrigerator.  Enjoy!

Everyday Sublime, nature helping nature, fire primeval

Sunrise at the farm

One impulse from a vernal wood

May teach you more of man,

Of moral evil and of good, 

Than all the sages can.

 - William Wordsworth

     Were we asked to conjure  a scene of grandeur to the mind's eye, our imaginations might  race to the magnificence of such awe inspiring landscapes of the extreme, such as the Grand Canyon or the peaks of the Himalayas; the ocean of sand of the Saharan Desert or the frozen vastness of the Antarctic.  The fact that we likely have not been to these places serves only to testify to the power of their mythic beauty.  I would consider myself fortunate if I were able to, one day, visit all these places.  One need not travel far, however, to experience such exaltedness.

     Outside my front door exists a beauty no less sublime than these famous natural wonders.  The fact that they are "common" and readily accessible only increases their innate value.  The Sun igniting the clouds with an explosion of orange and yellow would jolt awake the most reluctant of early risers; and no matter how many times I'm privy to this celestial display, its power to inspire joy and wonder never diminishes.  My outlook for the day is infused with optimism for having been a witness to such a sight.
      Not all of nature's artistry is so opulent and their discovery requires a higher level of alertness.  As I walk about the farm, I find my gaze as often drawn downward as upward.  Treasures lie afoot.  I am often surprised by a wild flower I haven't noticed before, or the artistic weaving of a spider seeking sustenance.  Stories I am not yet wise enough to discern are inherent in these discoveries - what type of minerals and organisms in the soil make such a flower possible and what does this specific flower gift to the soil in return?  Might it be a delicacy for a cow, goat, or hog?  What type of spiders are making their living in the farm's tall grass and what does their dining preference tell me about their preys dining preference - does it indicate a warning, a recommendation, or both to the crops I may plant there.   This is no vacuous beauty, this Farm; there's much it has to teach me, so many narratives to discover.  I feel fortunate to be here, to be part of such refinement.  What wonders lay just outside your door?

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     The spiders do not only set their symmetrical traps in the grass.  Their weaving is also noticeable in my orchard trees.  This is the first year I've had apples that are any good to eat.  The trees are still only a few years old, so the apples are fairly small (smaller than a tennis ball).  But one tree in particular has produced several dozen apples with big taste - tart and crisp.  (I hope I don't need to mention again that I don't use any sprays and will never use any toxic sprays).  In every tree that has fruit, a spider has set up shop.  Again, I don't claim to be an expert, but I have yet to hear of any apple eating spiders.  Whether it's coincidence or not, I can't absolutely say, but the apples have not been plagued by any pests, no borers feasting on the inside.  I hope to see them making themselves at home in the orchard again next year.

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     Last week I set match to a burn pile that has been in the making since last Fall.   The pile composed primarily of dead trees I cut down last year, old fence posts I pulled from the ground with my truck in the Spring, and leaves and weeds from various locations on the farm, took a little coaxing before the fire finally took hold.  

     There is something mesmerizing about the raw beauty and destructiveness of fire that draws us to it and magnetizes some ancient part of our brain.  I pulled up a chair, threw my feet on my truck canopy that lay in the grass and watched the burning pile for several hours.  I wasn't alone.  My faithful canine sidekick, Kona, came and sat next to me several times, as we watched the flames work their way along the length of the pile, east to west.  I imagine that Labs, being an ancient breed, must experience that same primordial connection to fire we humans feel.

     By nightfall the fire was reduced to a few smoldering embers and I retreated to the house where an unseen pilot light ignited the gas in the furnace, its flames keeping my home warm and comfortable.

        
                                                                                    

    

A Taste of Living

20 gallon brew pot

     Put down that Bud Lite, step away from that frozen dinner and boxed brownie mix, and take just a minute before you take another sip of that coffee released from the can and fed to your Mr. Coffee just a short time ago.   Now before you get all defensive on me, relax and breathe - this isn't a diatribe against the evils of mass produced food (and food products).  I confess to having partaken of all the afore mentioned products - though less so in recent times.  This also isn't a lesson in self sufficiency.  It is about  consciously engaging your head and hands in labor where your taste buds, as well as your creative soul, reap the rewards.  The farm is a labor of love and it is also about loving what you labor for.  The spirit of the Lost Road Apiary and Farm is, in its essence, about living fully and living well, which, by definition, must include the culinary arts.  For me, any serious discussion of gastronomy must include the topic of beer.

Homebrewed Porter

Erin's Spent Grain Bread.  

       One of the few things better than drinking great beer is brewing great beer.  My own brewing has evolved from following recipes using partial grains and malt extracts  to all grain brewing using our own recipes.  You won't find any fizzy yellow stuff in our fridge, unless it's a hefeweizen.  Some of our best work also includes chocolate stout, strong scotch ale (and lager), and a vanilla porter. 

     Creative all grain brewing involves some knowledge of chemistry, good brewing techniques, and a playful sense of experimentation.  I say "creative" because if you drink a hundred different Porters you'll find something unique to each one.  Even when you attempt to clone someone else's recipe,  you'll end up with a different brew due to variances in grain, yeast, or the conditions it was brewed in.  Being a  home brewer has changed how I drink beer, even those not crafted by my own hands.  I find myself drinking consciously, mindfully mining the flavor profiles of the beer in hand and guessing at the techniques involved in its creation.  The Pacific Northwest is a mecca for craft beers and homebrewing and I feel fortunate to have found my little place in it all.

      In the spirit of the organic nature of the farm, the spent grains from brewing find an afterlife; used either for bread or compost. 

     With all that craft beer being consumed, perhaps it's not surprising that the NW holds another all abiding passion.  Drive through any town or village of more than five households and you'll find another  constant - coffee.  You are more likely to find a drive-thru coffee/espresso shack than you are a gas station in many places.  

     In the search for freshness, I suppose it wasn't a big leap to transition from ground coffee to buying whole bean and grinding my own to, finally, purchasing green beans and roasting small weekly batches.  No expensive equipment here to accomplish that task.  My technique for roasting is simple: throw the green beans in a fry pan between medium and medium high heat, stir constantly, and look and listen (the beans emit different cracking sounds at different phases of the roast ) until you get the roast you want.  I joke (only partially) to Denise that the next step is to get a nice winter farm of five acres on Kauai to grow our own coffee.  She gives me that "as soon as you come up with the money" look, and I settle for the satisfaction of home roasting.

     Naturally if you have a quality beverage in hand, you want the food it compliments to be of like quality.  In my more youthful days I was enthusiastic about cooking and trying new recipes.  As life progressed and my wife and I found ourselves rushing about with careers and raising our daughters, we were seduced by "labor saving" prepackaged meals.  Cooking real food, while hardly rare, took a lower rung on the ladder of priorities.  We still cooked some great meals, but routine pretty much overruled creativity and exploration.  

     With the birth of The Lost Road Farm concept in the last few years, the sense of adventure and joy I once held for cooking has returned.  Cooking with fresh ingredients minutes out of our own garden or recently acquired from the farmer's market more than enhances the dining experience, it pushes me to up my skill level in the kitchen; to pay proper homage to the high quality foods our locality produces.   Put a perfect homebrew Porter in my hand, add the smell of Anaheims roasting for chili verde, or the sound of grass fed beef browning in the pan for "boeuf a la mode" and you have a recipe for contented happiness.  

     To coin a phrase from Rocky Balboa, I'm a 'ham and egger' musician, have the drawing skills of a preschooler, but I can creatively express myself with some competency in the kitchen.  I'm living fully when sitting down to a home cooked meal made from homegrown ingredients, shared in the company of loved ones.  Anyway, that's how I'd paint perfection.

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I recommend Dorie Greenspan's cookbook:  around my french table.

     

Ghost Hive, mob violence, and autumn harvest

     A part of my daily routine is to walk up to the farm (a very short walk - I'm only on 2.62 acres) for three key purposes: to let Kona, my loyal canine sidekick, take care of business (less land mines in the backyard), inspect the garden and harvest (at this time this includes peppers, cucumbers, yellow zucchini, and the slowly ripening tomatoes), and to inspect the beehives. This past week after the first two items were taken care of, I walked around to the front of the hives to check out the bee activity.  With the warm dry weather we've been having, the bees are still foraging. All the hives had activity at their entrance, save one, where the absence of any bees was readily noticeable. It was hive number three of the original five hives (three more were added as I caught my own swarms) and as it sits in the middle, its inactivity was particularly highlighted. I walked around the back of the hive and lifted the outer cover, fully expecting to see bees through the hole that is in the middle of the inner cover and perhaps some bees hanging out between the two covers. I found four dead bees on the inner cover and saw no activity through the hole. What I found upon lifting the cover and separating the supers was: about a dozen bees in the upper super, no bees in the main hive body, absolutely no honey, lots of cells with pollen, no brood cells, and perhaps more curious...no dead bees!

We've all heard tales of ghost ships that are found floating at sea with no captain and crew anywhere in sight and no clues to their fate. Here I was with a ghost hive. Now I consider myself to be fairly logical and analytical, but here is a mystery I have not been able to solve. I must state up front that I am hardly a bee expert as this is my first year of beekeeping.  And, it may turn out that when I explain my findings at November's Willamette Valley Beekeeping Association meeting, the answer may be readily apparent to those who have multiple years experience keeping bees. 
     But I am baffled. The bees had to disappear sometime in the last few weeks. As I said, I walk to view my hives on at least a daily basis and this was the first time I noticed anything strange.  I also treated my hives for mites in the past three weeks and the hive was active and full of bees during that time.  When hives swarm its usually due to congestion and only half the hive leaves, leaving brood and especially queen cells for the hatching of a new queen.  Sometimes in the absence of a queen, one of the worker bees will begin laying; but as she is unmated the eggs are unfertilized and only capable of  producing drones.  I found almost no bees and zero brood.  If the bees had been starved or stricken by some mass illness I would have found dead bees.  Again, I found none. 
     My best guess is that I inadvertently killed the queen during the honey harvest in late August, early September.  The brood produced before her demise may all have hatched and there were no replacement queen cells (which seems somewhat unlikely, but possible).  The bees dwindled in number and the honey in the hive was robbed by other colonies. OR, the hive swarmed and the bees left in the hive did not hatch another queen, and the hive died out for the same reasons and the honey was robbed?  I may not ever really know...but it makes for a good mystery story.

MOB MENTALITY

     The story, however, does not end quite there.  Now I had to decide what to do with the empty hive.  What I decided was to put the boxes into storage for next spring and use the top outer and inner covers along with the bottom board on a hive on which I had improvised those pieces with my own construction during the time my bees were swarming and I had run out of  any extra hive components.  Wearing a one piece tyvek suit to cover my shorts and short sleeve shirt, along with a veil and gloves, I picked up the hive which consisted of two mediums boxes plus my constructed top and bottom boards.  I thought I was safe as it was just a few feet away and the bees, for the most part, would be contained in the hive.  I didn't see the bees come out of the hive as I was moving it, but within seconds they were swarming my legs and easily found their way underneath the tyvek pant legs to my bare ankles.  Besides pain, the stings contain an alarm pheromone which invites more bee stings.  It was violence inciting more violence.  The mob had turned ugly.

     For those of you who have ever watched an old western, it was akin to the part in the movie where the hapless farmer comes into town and is harassed by hired gunslingers.  In order to strike fear into the farmer's heart and drive him off his land or goad him into a gunfight, they make him dance by shooting their revolvers at his feet.  Before I started my dance, I had to set the hive down gently and walk several yards behind the hives where I proceeded to frantically brush the bees off my legs.  By the time is was all finished I sustained about a dozen stings divided equally between  both ankles.  After "two stepping" I retreated to the house to remove all the stingers and to throw on a pair of jeans, stuffing the legs into long socks before returning to finish stacking the boxes on their new bottom board and replace the top cover.
    That night as Aleve and benadryl helped ease my way to sleep, I sent out a wish into the universe that the improvements to the hive also improve the surly disposition of its tenants.

     

AUTUMN HARVEST

     My peppers, like the tomatoes, have been slow to mature this year but they are finally making their way out of the garden and into the kitchen.  While the plants of both the Serrano and the Anaheim are smaller than last years, the number of peppers per plant hasn't seemed to diminish much.  My current plan is to use both types of peppers, most of my green tomatoes along with my recently harvested honey to make chutney.   I'll let you know how it turns out.
     What's not to love about Fall?

American Made: Your Local Farmer's Market

     Next time you're shopping at your local supermarket try this: ask the produce clerk when the peaches were picked.  Or, if they're not labeled, ask what variety they are, or what type of sprays were used, if any.  Query your butcher about what breed of cow that beautifully displayed steak is from or what it was fed when it was still on the hoof; corn? grass? a combination of both?  Did it come from a feed lot or direct from the ranch?  I'm guessing a shrug of the shoulders would be about all the information you would be likely to garner.

     One of the market chains in our area has a wine expert that hosts tastings several times a week, promoting wines that are on sale and answering questions potential consumers may have.  It's a great idea, plus shopping is much more fun after a few tastings. 

     I haven't seen that same effort to educate and inform in the meat, produce, or dairy aisle of any of the chains where I still shop.  You may rightfully ask, of course, "who cares?"  The answer is - I do and I'm not alone.  It's no longer just members of some fringe group of granola eating fanatics who want to know where their food is coming from, under what conditions it was grown  and processed, and what's in it ( or not in it).  With recent incidents such as the salmonella outbreak from one of the mega egg factories in the Midwest, more and more 'average' consumers are becoming  concerned about the safety and quality their food.
     Enter the Farmer's Market, a place where farmers, ranchers, artisan bakers and cheese makers, et al.  welcome questions about the specifics of their food.  Few offer certified organic meat/produce/dairy, but most use best practices for organic farming, though it's not a prerequisite for selling at the market.  Organic focus or not, what you find are people who enjoy what they do and are proud of what they produce.  These are artisans who study their craft, not cogs in a food factory where a chicken or cow become merely widgets to be manipulated to increase the quantity and speed of production.  Some producers showcase their harvests by cooking up samples and offering recipes.  Looking for chanterelles or lobster mushrooms and recipes?  There's a booth for that.  Want grass fed beef, free range chicken and pasture raised hogs?   There are booths for those.  Want purple carrots or cauliflower, candy striped beets or a variety of sourdough bread?  No problem.
     The beauty and genius of the Farmer's Market is that it represents capitalism at its finest - the marriage of producer and consumer without the middleman.  A bond of trust begins to form when the farmer is no longer a faceless entity on a label and the consumer moves beyond being a marketing statistic.

     To reduce the Farmer's Market that I frequent to a glorified fruit and vegetable stand would not capture its essence.  Market is where I  eat Saturday breakfast (usually a burrito with red sauce{hot} and coffee), listen to music, people watch, dog watch, meet friends, and get my weekly dose of community.  Patrons to the market are a cross section of humanity in regards to race, age, ethnicity, political disposition ... It is a weekly celebration of what the community is at its best.
     We're fortunate that our market runs longer than those in other parts of the country - from mid April to about the third week of November.  If this year is like last years final Saturday market,  I'll be sitting alone on a bench in the rain, coffee in hand, moisture running down my cheeks, saddened by the Market's impending dormancy but eagerly anticipating the Spring rebirth of this weekly celebration of agriculture and community.
     The Farmer's Market - it's where I want to take The Lost Road Apiary and Farm when it grows up.
     

     

For or Against

     I don't use toxic chemicals on my land or in my hives.  While one could infer that I'm against the use of toxic chemicals (mostly true), that is not the frame of reference that I'm working from in making such a decision.  My decision process is less about what I'm against and more about what I'm for, with the overall goal of creating a healthy farm ecosystem using sustainable practices to provide high quality nutritional crops.  To that end, I don't use synthetic chemicals to control weeds, fungi,  or moss.  I use no toxic chemicals in my hives to control pests.  I do not use fossil fuel based fertilizers in my orchard or garden.

     That's what I don't do.  I do weed my garden the old fashioned way, pulling by hand or using a hoe and/or shovel.  In other places I let the "weeds",  such as dandelions, have their way.  I stopped mowing my orchard (much to my wife's chagrin) when I found out the tall grass provides a cover for bugs that would otherwise move up into the trees if that cover was reduced.  I care for my bees by inspecting my hives and using  organic methods to prevent and treat for diseases and pests.  I fertilize my orchard and garden by composting.
      I know most people consider the dandelion an undesirable weed.  Perhaps I'm quite alone on this, but I actually love the beauty of the dandelion.  How's this for a weed: most of the plant is edible - leaves, flower and root.  And it's not just edible but nutritious as well, providing more beta-carotene than carrots, more iron and calcium than spinach, and is loaded with vitamins B, C, D, and E along with a host of minerals.  The ubiquitous dandelion has long been utilized for its many medicinal properties.  That it provides nectar for bees is also a plus.

     Knowing what I'm for provides me with a clearer vision of what I want the farm to be and makes it much easier to develop a plan to achieve that goal than does being merely against something.  Simply being against toxic chemicals or synthetic fertilizers could mean that I choose not to be proactive and forgo fertilizing my crops or treating my hives for pests, allowing nature to take it's course.  If that were my outlook I wouldn't bother with farming and would spend my time foraging and hunting exclusively.  Knowing what I'm for gives direction to my continuing agricultural education.  It's said that if you ask ten beekeepers advice on keeping bees you'll get ten different answers.  What I'm unlikely to get from as many queries at my local beekeeping association meetings are insights into organic beekeeping  theory or practice, so I supplement with my own readings.
     Besides the practical physical applications I gain by focusing on what I'm for, there is also greater peace of mind than if I were focused on what I'm against.  In the first instance I'm more likely to be solution minded; in the latter the attention is on the problem and, therefore, likely to be producing more stress.  Knowing my purpose, I set my gaze inward to figure out what I need to do to address a particular concern.  When the problem is forefront, I often waste valuable time looking to place blame instead of resolving the issue.
     I'm always willing to engage neighbors, friends and even strangers who are interested in what I'm doing and passionately relate the "why" of what I do (which is one of the reasons for this blog), but have little need to proselytize about the power of sustainable organic practices to those who really could care less.  Converts to the organic mindset are more likely to be gained if people like what they see (or eat) and become curious to the "why", as opposed to merely attacking someone's long held practices with no context for  discussion.  My own conversion to living a more organic lifestyle has been a process - still is a process -  of learning and practicing new habits that I believe are healthier for me, my family, the land, and the community I live in.
     In being against something, it's easy to develop an "all or nothing" attitude, which is counter productive to the way we human beings actually learn and grow.  Learning, adapting and growing often take place in fitful spurts - sometimes painfully slow and at other times in waves that seem to overwhelm us (remember your teen years).
     Working purposely toward a healthy, sustainable farm ecosystem, I have the opportunity to not only learn and grow, but also to practice much needed patience and acceptance of the world and of myself.