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ps–sorry if the video and image doesn’t appear here on the page–the plugin isn’t working correctly. It will some day, I hope. . . .

A View From the Field

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Charlotte, our Leicester Longwool, has had her lambs, finally. The first week of June is very late to be lambing, but at least it should be nice and warm with plenty of grass. Should, I say, because this week has been more like March than June with cold, wet and windy weather striking us hard.

We got Charlotte in December, but decided to breed her any way to keep her from potentially going barren. We crossed her with my nephew’s fine Cotswold Ram and have been fortunate to get twins–one ram lamb and a nice ewe lamb. We will keep the ewe lamb to breed back to a Leicester or Cotswold ram to continue and grow our wool flock. The ram lamb will be castrated and become next Easter’s Dinner.

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To the Canton City Council,

You may be interested to watch a recent powerpoint presentation I put together for my city council on preserving farmland.

The key here is to create solutions which have impact and power to change peoples lives in the positive. If the City is really spending $250,000 then the situation has long been out of hand. Even a portion of 1400 lots could feed a lot of people and take the pressure off the City without costing a dime. I am sure there are citizens in Canton who would organize and tackle a “city-farm” project with relish. So let’s have a little less legislating and a little more pro-active educating on issues such as High Grass and what people can do about it.

–
The Kitchen Garden Network
http://kitchengardens.net

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I got home, and we unloaded the rig and began to make dinner an hour later—6pm. The phone rang and my nephew told me one of our pigs was on the road. No problem. I threw my boots on, grabbed a crook, whistled for my dog and we went up the road. A daughter tagged along because hearing me cuss at pigs and helping with the fence is better than homework any day.

We’d gone a quarter mile up the road and met Pigathius—a 100 pound gilt—coming towards us. Rowan easily turned her around and we began marching back to the pig area. It didn’t take long to go another quarter mile and get Pigathius into the sheep netting I use to enclose the pigs on a rotational basis. I was so focused on working the pigling and keeping RowRow from biting her, or shooting her off in the wrong direction that I completely failed to notice that all 6 other pigs were missing from the enclosure! The netting was down in several places. I went to turn it off at the charger and found it was—hey, hey—already off! @&%#&#! I got Pigathius in the net and proceeded to race around the pen putting it back up before Pigathius frantically tried to escape. I was dumbfounded at where the other pigs could be. Rowan sat patiently by my crook.  Beansprout—aka “superfinder Beansprout”–always good to have in a pig crisis—began looking for the pigs. She saw obvious signs where they’d been, but could not see them. I sent her back for the rest of the family, feeling an overwhelming knot forming in my gut.

I called Rowan over to where the pigs had been snorking up the moss and had her sniff around a bit.  She has always shown a good tracking ability—from the day we got her she could find lost chickens by tracing their routes around the chicken yard. Normally the pigs don’t go far when they escape. They enjoy being out though. The main problem is our 34 acre, shared farm, is on the edge of a several hundred acre preserve. It was clear from the signs that the pigs had headed into the preserve.  I hoped my wife would think to grab Bailey and bring him with. He’s got a great nose too, but can be a bit of a liability because he’s all about  the chase at the moment.

Rowan and I launched into the dense woods, Rowie apparently following a strong trail. I followed as best and as quickly as I could. I was cheered by the fact the Rowan would prance forward out of sight, zigging to the left and right before re-homing in on her trail. Every so often she would stop and look back at me, tongue hanging out the side of her mouth, panting hard. Bright eyes sparkling, urging me on with her gorgeous smile. And then she was away. Gone  through the Silal, downed cedars and underbrush of the ancient forest. Occasionally I would have to call for her to sit and wait. I was too winded, sore and tired going up hill and down dale, or had to go around some impenetrable obstacle.  Rowan would sit—the benefit of long distance training—and wait for me to get her in sight before I released her with “Okay, find the pigs!” Off she rocketed.

I was encouraged, at first, because we were obviously on the right trial. I could see pig snorking—as opposed to deer rutting sign, which was all over—and Rowan still seemed very focused. We were heading in a direction I knew, and suspected the pigs might be going—towards the shore behind my house. The preserve we were traversing is on a large point with two large, 30-50 acre wye shaped peninsulas filled with a bay in each wye—completely cut off from view of the other. Rowan an I had been heading towards the shore, paralleling the road, but out of sight of the driveway to our place. It is a very hilly area full of steep ravines. I have been back in there numerous times hunting wild flowers, game and Bailey whose run off chasing deer or romance. We crossed the trail to one of the main bays at the head of the larger wye. I got a little confused and began to wonder if Rowan was really following a trial or playing.  She seemed happy enough to be urged forward, tail held high—white tip, a flag waving with each lunge forward.  Of to my left I heard rooks cawing frantically and visions of dead and injured pigs filled my head. I told Rowan we had to go find what their noise was about.

Shaw Island ravens are as big as eagles, ugly and wily. What’s more is they know I hate them and the feeling is returned. Their one goal in life is to make mine miserable. They steal eggs, pig food, and anything else they can get. I am sure one flew off with the plastic bung to one of my water barrels the other day. They also have a mocking tone in their voice that is beyond evil. Or so it seems when visions of dead pigs fill your head. Rowan also knows them on sight and hates them as much as I do.

Their cawing got more intense, with an occasional kook, kook, kook which echoed through the wood and my skull. Sweating profusely in the humid air, soaked to the skin by rainfall, I directed Rowan to head towards the sound. Up and over many more downed trees, some as big around as a Mac Truck–ancient leviathans in the late afternoon mist—we climbed up to a moss covered bluff surrounded by a ring of trees. I found more pig signs, but which direction had they been headed? A bit further and I could hear the deep flutter of wings and the sky blackened for a moment.

On any other day, at any other time this might have been a pleasant day in the woods. We were in a beautiful area of forest, field and meadow few humans have seen in the last 100 years. Rare wildflowers bloom this time of year, fungi thrive, and the flora and fauna is rich and exciting. But there I was, tired, heart pounding, soaked. Half of me sardonically appreciated the beauty. I noted a few of the more rare orchids and flowers. I thought gladly of the way the fading sun filtered through the trees and the mist. A few times when we paused to rest or pray for the speedy return of whole, living pigs, I wondered at the softness of the mosses. And then there were the damn Rooks.

Rowan leapt into action as she saw the first one. I was on the look out for dangling eyeballs, blood, any sign of dead pigs and the evil ravens forebode.  A huge, ugly example of blackness landed in a tree 15 feet over our heads and danced back and forth on its branch, head bobbing. Rowan barked, snarled and stood on her hind legs to get at it. Poor dear was only 12 feet short of the mark. More and more ravens filled in and I realized we had been lead on a fool’s errand. We had stumbled on the Kingdom of the Rooks (technically Rooks are crows, I know, and there were several there as well. They always seem to both be around together). Large nests blotted out the sky, as did the number of birds and the deafening sound. It was like something out of Poe, or the darker parts of Alice in Wonderland. Here was the place these bloody birds were always flying off to as I took pot-shots at them. Here was the central clearinghouse of all their evil deeds. I was amazed I had stumbled onto such a thing, but couldn’t process it because of exhaustion and the realization that if the pigs weren’t here they were still lost. I called Rowan off her barking, which she only did reluctantly and we tried to pick up the trail again.

Now here is where I made my critical error. I don’t know how long we had been in the forest at this point, but we had been on the right trail. Rowan was addled by the Ravens as well, but also wanted to please me. After all, what more could a loyal, faithful, loving English Shepherd want then to be usefully leading her master on a chase? Or as I began to think of it—how twisted, this bitch of mine, to find sport in being chase through the brush by her master after he had been gone all day. Rowan began to go back the way we came, but I directed her towards the right, deeper into the heart of the preserve, doubling back along the shore to where the pigs lived. Eventually we met up with a daughter here and there and finally my wife.

I was surprised they didn’t have Bailey, but as I’ve said it may have been wise too. Rowan was now having a hard enough time keeping from following all the deer trials. Soon we came to the bay and crossed over to the other point of the preserve. Before long we were all the way at the neighbor’s place—too far for pigs. There had been no signs of them and we were clearly of the trail. We had now swept through only 1/3 of the entire preserve. We decided to head back, 6 of us and Rowan taking a different tack. Eventually I lead Rowie back to where the pigs lived. We tried to re-pick up the trial, darkness and despair were falling fast. We found the trail the pigs had originally taken onto the road.

A picture was forming in my head—they had gotten out and my nephew’s useless farm collie had chased them back in towards the pen, barking at them. He cut one out—his nature—and held it separate. Meanwhile the nephew’s equally useless, over bred Golden Retriever chase the other pigs away off it’s bit of turf. Too chicken to cross the road or leave it’s property the Retriever only go the pigs so far. I tried to follow up the road a ways before cutting in to the woods and circling back to the pig pen. No luck. Rowan was showing signs of fatigue and the only thing that was driving me was the thought of lost pigs, lost profits, and all the money I would have to return to the people who’d pre-paid deposits for their pork. I had visions of land-owners shooting pigs as the tipped over their garbage. I tried to think of who to call to start a phone chain to alert the neighbors on our end of the island to be on the look out for rampant pigs. I thought of the prosecution for property damage. Rowan and I pushed on.

We met up with my eldest daughter (I have 5) and we went to places I knew the pigs wouldn’t have gone, but desperation dictated we leave no stone unturned. We climbed our mountain and came down the back side to check to see if the pigs bunked in with the sheep for the night. I scanned the pastures for signs. I was on the verge of giving up.  We came back towards the pig pen and I was telling the girls to go home, I was going to exchange Rowan for Bailey and have another go at tracking the pigs—even if it meant a dark hike to another neighboring farm where my pigs’ siblings were incase they headed there.

At one point during all the fracas my elder twin daughters got separated and lost. My wife and one of our younger twins had headed back into the preserve to find them. They had stopped to watch an osprey feed its young in a nest and had come back through the neighbors’ grave yard a different way than we all expected so couldn’t be found. The wife and twin had headed home to see if they were there. All through the mis-adventure we had paused regularly, least of all so I could catch my breath and still my pounding heart and clear my head. Mainly we paused to listen for pigs. We could hear Pigathius crying for her siblings, and birds and bugs and each other, but no other pigs. Most of the time all I could hear was my own wheezing and blood pounding in my ears. And then it happened. Rowan’s ears perked up and she was off. I could hear the girl’s cries too. The pigs had been found.

While 6 of us were chasing through the preserve, one of the 8 year old twins stayed at home playing solitaire because of a vicious cat-bite on her thumb. At some point during her stay she decided to let Bailey out of his crate so he could do his business. She went happily back to her game until she heard Mr. Bear barking up a storm. Mr. B barks a lot, but it was how he was barking that got her up from her game again. There on the point by our own home were six meandering pigs buzzing around like the random things they are. Squidge ran and got some “pig bread”–stale bread we buy from the outlets for animal feed—and went out with Bailey to herd the pigs. Some of them were on the beach below our place and others, which had come up, were overturning the garbage cans by my in-laws. Bailey and Squidge got the pigs into our enclosed yard with the bread and my wife who was racing home to look for the other twins just crested the hill above our house to see Squidget—who is very tiny at 8—climbing our rose trellis to get away from the swarming pigs she had brought through the gate. She’d run out of bread and they wanted more. The piglings again scattered in our yard investigating everything they could. Bailey was put back in his crate because he was a bit out of his depth. Pigs are all well and good, but not when they swarm him. He prefers them one on one where he can play boss without intimidation.

Rowan, Ale and I came up to the postern gate leading out of the orchard just as Kathy and the lost-now-found twins—and the other twins–all converged to heard the pigs up the road. I stopped to grab some fence panels—which seemed to weigh a ton—to help guide the pigs and keep them from peeling back on by one. Ale grabbed Rowan by the collar—we never seem to have a leash for her when needed–to keep her from gripping the pigs too much and worked one side with her and a crook. We walked the 1/2 mile up to the pig zone and with a little prompting and dog work we got them into the net pen. I fell back on the ground exhausted for my 25 mile forced hike. My heart felt ready to burst through effort and relief. Seven, seemingly unhurt pigs back again. All my girls and wife and Rowan all tired but well. 3 hours of our life gone.

We checked and re-checked and tested the fencing to make sure it was hot this time—yup—12000 volts. As we closed the pigs in the net, Rowan patrolled the perimeter looking for escape routes—our usual (when I’m there) routine. She sat and waited until I gave her the “that’ll do” and called her into my arms, grateful for more rest and kisses. Through the whole ordeal I had managed to carry a 5 gallon pale 1/2 full of bread and grain as a pig lure. We fed that to the pigs and another bucket of soaked barley the wife had picked up in the yard on her way through. Darkness had fallen. We limped home to finish fixing dinner. Rowan was as gay and happy as ever—all her people, and her pigs back where they belonged. As we passed below the place we had traversed and re-traversed I realized she had been right all along. She was heading for the pigs 2 and a half hours ago. Those damned Ravens worked their evil and led us astray.  If we hadn’t gone to look for them we would have stumbled on the pigs cavorting on the beach much earlier. Throughout it all Rowan has remained up beat and confident. Looking after her flagging master, waiting when told. Sitting when waiting. Urging me on with her back and forth, “this way, father, this way. . .”

We got home and I got her some fresh, cold water and a handful of treats. She kissed Bailey and collapsed by my feet while we ate dinner. Squidget—the true heroin of the story—gave her a massage. I should have never doubted my girl. Barely two and Rowan has so much to teach us. We’re both heading out to chores now and I’ll be watching Rowie and that English Shepherd instinct at work more closely than ever.

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