the book is here!

Yesterday at work an email popped up in my inbox, and email I'd been waiting for for a very long time. The subject line just said, "It's Here!" and I saw the sender was my editor, Carleen, at Storey Publishing. Oh my goodness, the book was finally here. After over a year of waiting I would finally get a chance to hold in my hands the same little hardcover that will be in bookstores soon. Maryellen, a Storey employee who lives in a nearbye town, would bring it home with her so I could pick it up that very night. Holy crap. I was an author.

When I got home to the farm, I did all the normal chores but with a little extra music in my step. I was so excited. I doubt that night you'd find a giddier person moving straw into a sheep shed anywhere in the state of Vermont. When all the birds, bunnies, and sheep were set I loaded Jazz and Annie in the car and we headed for Shaftsbury. I felt they'd been with me every step of the way, from writing that book proposal in Idaho to finishing the last edits here in Vermont this summer. They should ride along to come pick it up.

On the way I stopped at the Wayside for some coffee, and talked with Nancy, who owns the store and had become a friend since I've moved to Sandgate. We chatted a little and the coffee was fresh, even at 7pm, which obliged me greatly. I took my joe on the road and headed into Maryellen's neighborhood.

I pulled up to a long red barn and a farmhourse that was over 150 years old. It was such a postcard picture. I walked into her home where a woodstove was puttering along, and her son Ben and Fiance Roy shook my hand and said hello. She handed my book over with a hug. I was in a bit of shock. It was a fine little book alright. A green cloth hardcover with a golden embossed honeybee on the front cover. The jacket flap was a nice matte finish, nothing glossy for me, thank you. I felt like I just finished a race. Two thoughts came to mind. The first was "Who the hell am I?" and the second was "Man, I hope people buy this book. I really want to pay off the station wagon."

WIth those thoughts reeling, I thanked Maryellen for her hospitality and good coffee, and drove home. I stopped back at wayside to show Nancy, because I was in that sort of mood, and then took it home. The sheep were still out in their little pasture, heckling me, as I pulled in (a sound Jazz and Annie's once perked ears has grown numb too.) I stuck the book outside the car window, yelling to the flock, "Hey! Look what your good-for-nothing- shepherd did!" which Maude bellowed back at me in the sheep equivelant to "shut up, bring us hay, it's friggin cold." WIth her proper admonishment throwing me back in line - I brought the dogs in, carried the gang some hay from the porch, and then came inside and lit a fire. I stayed up till midnight reading. Not my book, but a memoir about a man's journey through Scotland for the right border collie. When I finally did fall asleep, I did with a proper balance in place in my mind. Congrats on your little book, I thought to myself, but make sure in the morning you get a new bale from the garage and clean out the rabbit hutch in the morning. Literature and litter pans. A good balance.

Okay, that's all the shallow book posts for a while. I just wanted to share that little bit since so many of you have been with the blog long before the book was even a possibility. I have gotten a request about spinning, and another about gardening - posts I hope to write soon. I also want to tell you about a great pumpkin book, and tonight, Hallows, I'll carve my own pumpkins! Which I think I'm just as excited about as I was to get the book!

book tour dates!

So there's a small book tour in the works. If you live in the New England area see if you can make it to one of these readings. Most of these events will include a ratty old hat, a dog, or a dulcimer... possibly all three (lambs not included.) So set your Tivo for your stories and spend a Friday night or Saturday afternoon with your buddy Jenna. You can read about the Stuyvesant store visit here

Northshire Books in Manchester Vermont
Friday, Jan 9 at 7 PM

Market Block Books in Troy, NY
Saturday, Jan 24th 11 AM

Book House of Stuyvesant Plaza in Albany, NY
Saturday, Jan 24th 1 PM

anya would be so scared

I have four kits ready for their new homes. If you live around Vermont, and always wanted your own fiber animal to spin or knit with, I have four gorgeous bunnies in need of new homes right in time for the holidays (cough gifts cough). They come ARBA pedigreed, tattoo identified, and from champion lines if you're into showing your livestock. Email me if you're interested. They can be picked up here at Cold Antler in about two weeks. Payments are needed in advance to hold your animal.

hello winter

I woke up yesterday morning to a few inches of fresh snow. I took a shot of the chicken coop and the bunny hutch, you can see the little kits' eyes peeping through the hutch's den. I've never lived in a place where winter beat Halloween to the punch. But Vermont sees to have that down. This morning snow is still on the ground. The sheep have little iced-dreadlocks around their faces. The dogs are beside themselves with joy. I think snow brings out the soul of a Siberian huskie. Jazz and Annie hold their heads higher when I bundle up. This morning in the dark of our morning walk we broke out into a run when we hit our lane and that sense of silent cold running came back to me. The way it feels to run dogs at night. Soon enough snow will fall to coat the roads and my little team will harness up our dogsled. We'll meet with my neighbors team of siberians and we'll rip up these Sandgate roads. Soon Enough.

Also, I'm sorry but I won't be writing about the turkey here anymore. It opened a huge can of worms with my family. I know this is a homesteading blog but I'm not going to keep talking about things that constantly upset my loved ones. I just know when lambs go to the butcher in a few years it'll be a lot worse! Writing about the processing won't help that. Perhaps in the next book (knocking on nearby wood as I type this)I'll tell you about that morning, and blackie the pet calf who was by my side.

Well folks, the turkey is in the freezer

Yesterday morning I drove him to be processed and oversaw the whole event from start to finish. I'm glad to say that it all went quickly and painlessly, and was done outside at a neighbor's farm so there was never any scary-indoors time or extra stress put on the bird. Now all 26-remaining pounds are fillling up my freezer and we'll have a humanely-raised natural bird for the table come Thanksgiving. I'll write more about it later, right now I am getting over (or through?) a sinus cold and trying to take the day as easy as possible. But after a few hours of sleep, and copius amounts of orange juice, I'll tell you the whole story.

the coup outside the coop

My little chicks I brought home Memorial Day weekend have spent a long summer growing into big fat hens. Now that it's nearly November, they are due to start paying their room and board. Which is why I was so confused that out of the four new gals (three turned out to be roosters. Great) I hadn't found a single new egg. Chickens start laying eggs around six months old but even though the birds were of age I hadn't found a single new egg. Not in the bird yard, not on the porch, not in any of the older gals' favorite spots. No new eggs at all. Anywhere. That was until tonight. I found a whole nest of eggs in a very odd place. The farm animals at Cold Antler are conspiring against the farmer. A bi-species coup was going down. Oh boy.

The new hens are laying alright, but their cluster of eggs isn't in the coop. The gals have been sneaking into the sheep shed and making a nest in the far back corner. I was in the shed tonight laying down fresh straw bedding for Sal, Maude and Marvin while they were out in their pasture munching on some fresh hay, when I saw something in the corner of my eyes and did a double take. There on the old straw, in a perfect little nest, was a pile of tiny pullet eggs. I was amazed that three 140-pound animals hadn't smooshed them, but they were there. Like a pile of dirty golf ball rejects. Which explains why I've seen the new gals spending so much time under foot of the flock. I just thought they just enjoyed each other's company. Turns out they were shacking up. I think I just shook my head and laughed.

You know, nothing really happens here. But I am constantly amazed how entertaining nothing always turns out to be.

the interim

Vermont is caught in this weird time after autumn and before the first true snowfall. An interim. All the trees in the hollow are bare and brown, and when I drive down into the valley every morning to go to work I can see white caps on the mountains higher in the distance. That photo above was taken a few weeks ago at the crest of what Sandgatians call "the notch." The notch is a steep widow-maker curve that looks over the valley below. Things are a lot leafier in the photo than they are now. I moved here last winter, so my initial interpretation of the state is a cold one. And when snow covers this cabin again, I'll have made a full circle. I feel like a Vermonter. I put in my time.

Vermont is the fourth state I've called home. My home state, the one that raised me, Pennsylvania, is close by like a watchful old friend. PA was a place of ultimate safety. When I go back to my parent's house to visit, I can completely relax because notions like curling irons setting the place on fire or leaving an iron on seem like sheer lunacy. Which how I think you can tell if you're parents were great at their job. If just the notion that their home isn't safe creeps into you're mind when you're visiting, maybe they slipped up along the way? But not in Palmerton, and not my parents, which is where. Nothing could go wrong there. Not really. Because even when things do go wrong, it's still home. And that's a holy thing in itself.

After college I moved to Tennessee, and out of every place I've been it's still the only one that haunts me. The Smoky Mountains are what perked my ears to homesteading in the first place. Specifically, Cade's Cove, a preserved mountain settlement you can drive through on this awful tourist loop. But if you park your car you can get off that road and hike up to Abrams Falls or Spence Field and learn what a southern mountain bald is, or what jumping off a 30-foot waterfall feels like, you'll get a better feel of the place. Those are the my true Tennessee ghosts, those and fireflies. But that's another story.

After Tennessee I moved to Idaho, the wild west. Idaho was where I first learned to raise chickens, keep bees, plant a garden and sew up a pair of mittens. It was the place that cracked open all my personal dreams of homesteading that seemed so latent in previous lives. But living in that old farmhouse, set against the Rockies, I had the land and time to learn these things. A friend urged me to write a book about it, so I did. And soon a lot of people will know about that year in Idaho, and how it changed me, like all good states do.

I miss the people in Idaho very much.

As for Vermont, Vermont is letting my farm dreams turn into reality. Here is where hoofstock first hit the grass. I now have these sheep, something that was up until a few months ago, a far away goal. But now I have been so involved in the world of shepherding sometimes I think I'm going to wake up and a ram will be hovering over my bed. My world here is one of border collies and sheepdog trials. Phrases like "Did you see the cast on that outrun? He just had to glance at those Scotts at the lift and the fetch was a perfect line right down the slope" seems as common now as saying "Are we out of toilet paper?" Because shepherd words, and the shepherd's life is no longer this wide-eyed dream, but how I spend my weekends. If I'm not at a workshop or clinic learning about sheep and lambing, I'm out at a sheepdog trial learning more about these amazing dogs.

I find a lot of comfort in this form of farming. Sheep are large, but not too large. More like a pacifist gaggle of st. bernards than traditional livestock. They lumber along in a noble faux dopiness I have come to love. But unlike cattle, or a barn of 300 rabbit cages, one person can manage a hundred sheep alone. Well, one person with a good working dog and a vet on call can manage a hundred alone (Or will damn well die trying!) And while I don't want or plan on having Cold Antler Farm become a full fledged lamb and wool operation on my own, it might. There's nothing written in the stars that says I'll find someone I really want to be with. And I don't want to have to depend on a husband or investors to make my farm happen. Sheep are my hope that even if it's just me in ten years opening that pasture gate, that with the help of a really great pair of sheepdogs, we'll make it work.

But that farm is a dream, and I don't have a border collie yet. Just like the current state of the seasons in vermont, I'm at an interim too. But when I do hold the lead with a stock dog on the end of it, I will be investing a lifetime of hope and dreams into it's training with my sheep. The border collie will be the turnkey that opens that door. That if somehow good fortune turns my way and some farm opens up for sale in Jim Thorpe, I could afford it and get started on my life. That working sheepdog is my cowboy's horse, my pilot's plane, my living incarnation of hope for a better life.

Yes, I know that sounds corny and over dramatic. I'm a fairly over dramatic person and prone to corniness. And I don't say this to sound ungrateful for how fortunate I am here in Vermont today, and how much I love my dogs and this little farm. But like all things, this place is impermanent, and I am at an age where I want some true stability.

And due to my nature, and this weird calling of becoming a full-time shepherd in the 21st century, a sheepdog is not another pet, or even a farmhand. It's the first real step towards true happiness. Who has the right to tell me I'm wrong for wanting that?

snow!

Went outside this morning and saw the strangest thing... snow! Not a lot mind you, but enough to coat the sheep's back and require I clear my windshield off before work. Just took that picture this morning a few moments ago when I was outside with the farm. My goodness, fall is over.

the miracle cure

Not every day on the farm is good, some days are just awful. Yesterday was one of those days. A day where you start off the morning sleeping in by accident, and so you have to scramble to get to work on time. And then the office seems to bring nothing but stress and concern and hours go by three times as slow for you as they go for everyone else. When you leave for the day you could just collapse in your car, but you know collapsing would be foolish because as soon as you pull into your driveway there is hay and water to haul, chickens to feed, and dogs that need a walk.

Yesterday was one of those days. It sucked. But I'm not telling you this for compassion. I'm telling you this because I think the miracle cure for the worst days is resting above my mantle. I can spend my daylight hours making every mistake a girl can make, get admonished, and have a bitch of a cold...but if I can pull that dulcimer off the mantle and take three long breathes before I play that sweet music I will be healed up. I think anything short of chronic disease and a broken heart can be sewn up by the drone of a dulcimer.

The dulcimer isn't a cool thing for a twenty-something to play, I get that. And like other mountain instruments the music they make can almost seem hokey out of context. But the context for slow fiddle songs and dulcimer music is a place, not a circumstance. And so it's hard to get the people who make fun of me to understand. They have never laid under the stars in the peak of a southern mountain summer. They don't know how tired you can be after a twelve-mile hike in 100% humidity. They don't know how that music matched with a moving stream, or a thunderstorm sounds, or how it can make the blood-flow in your own weary body change paces.

They don't know because they haven't been there. So all they think of is stereotypes, and make some off-color hillbilly joke and I laugh with them to be polite. But for the most part I feel a little sad they can't know the origins, or feel that soft grass, or smell woodmoke when they hear that music. Not an elitist pity, but a genuine sadness. I feel blessed that I've learned how to return to it, and so when I leave the office feeling 3-feet tall - I come home, light a fire in the fireplace, feed my flock, pet my kind dogs and play that old dulcimer till sad things in the world melt away somewhere in the D chords.

Here's a dulcimer song I wrote about Cade's Cove in Tennessee, or more precisely, about what it feels to sit by a fire after a day in the Cove. Besides mountain dulcimer, there is a drum, the Irish whistle and some shakers. Simple music. But when you listen to it, imagine being very tired, stretching on your back on cool blades of grass of the south, somewhere where the lines of black rolling mountaintops meet navy blue sky, and you'll get it. Of course you'll get it.

i get by with a little help from my friends

Here's Jazz and Annie helping with firewood duty today. Ah, the benefits of working housedogs...what could have been a horrid job was made easy by my canine work force. Together we brought in three sledges of fire wood. Not too shabby! We did it while the Vermont sun gave us a warm (well, warm for New England) afternoon, and now we'll have a fireplace going every night this week without having to buy any extra quick-burning pine that costs a jillion dollars and armload at stores. Now, the cabin doesn't depend on wood for heat alone, but a roaring fire means I can have the thermostat down to 50 degrees and the house can be warmed up to a toasty nest the rest of the way. Plus, who doesn't love a fireplace?

The work went like this. First I'd take the empty sledge (a kids snow sled, but sledge sounds more badass so let's go with sledge) and my trusty hand saw and spend about thirty minutes sawing up the fallen trees in woods near the farm. When the logs were loaded and tied down, I'd harness the dogs to the gangline and give them the ever familiar "Hike Hike!" and they'd lunge forward and drag the sledge back to the cabin (about 100 yards or so) with ease. The sheep seemed to think this made for very entertainng goings-on and watched from the edge of the electric fencing with intense interest while the sibes worked past them. (In that photo above, if you click it for the larger version you can see the wethers watching in the background.) Usually the sled dogs would do anything to get a bit of wool in their teeth, but in harness they are all business and ignored the flock. I'm certain Maude would have mocked them if she had the ability. But regardless of possibly jeering sheep, they got the wood in like rural superheros. Jazz and Annie may be useless at herding, but they sure know how to work as a team.

banjo camp!

A new book just came out for all you future (and present) banjo players! Banjo Camp is part instruction, part history, and part backstage pass to the modern world of this old time instrument. It comes with a CD, which is full of examples and recordings. So not only do you get a written introduction to the world of banjos, you get to hear the lessons (very very important for beginners learning without a teacher.) I'm really excited about this book. I flipped through it at our local bookstore and wanted to take it home (but I think the cover price was already allocated to fresh straw bedding.) Anyway, it looks like a light and rustic introduction to the bluegrass banjo and if you're considering getting that twang in your hands I'd invest in this and then head over to banjohut.com and take home one of those Morgan Monroe Hobos I've been drooling over. (Notice that banjo comes with a Native Ground book, because they are awesome)

All this kinda breaks my heart since I'm currently banjoless. I sold my old one because it was the wrong type for the music I play (it was a big heavy resonator banjo, not an open back for old time clawhammer flailing) And now I just wish I could pick one up and play it. Alas, I can't afford a $280 splurge. But I'll start saving up for one. I'll need it come winter when the music really fills up the cabin and practice gets serious! What else is there to do when you're snowed in and you read all your books?

thank you

I want to take a moment to thank the people who have been silently donating to the farm. A few weeks ago I placed that donation button on the right hand side of the blog, and people have been throwing their pennies in my jar. Thanks to the help of the Cold Antler Farm community trains run on time here. Anything that doesn't go to feed and winterizing the farm goes into a small savings fund for that farmhouse I someday pray I will own. So thanks so much, it really really helps.

a girl and her wethers

I am getting attached to my boys, Sal and Marvin. I didn't expect this, to get to know the sheep as individuals. I suppose this would never happen on a larger scale farm with pasture born lambs, but this isn't a large scale farm. Here at Cold Antler I currently only have three sheep. Since I'm not training a border collie on them yet (and they haven't the fear of god in them) they are happy to be around me. I've actually come to know them pretty well.

Sal's the most gregarious. He will trot right up to the gate and let you grab his ears, scratch his head, pat him. I give him daily updates on the state of the economy, the presidential race, this and that. He always seems genuinely interested (However I'm pretty sure it's because I'm holding second cut hay in my arms when I tell him all this.) Marvin is just as friendly, but much less interested in socializing with me as he is with his flock. He is always always baaing at Sal and Maude. He walks between them and brushes up against them. He's ridiculously trusting of me. When I bend down to tie a boot or open a latch to let them out to pasture he always is right there, his head inches from my face. I scratch his ears. He's a good boy.

Maude's still a jerk.

photo by sara stell

the great fall weekend - part 2

After Saturday's adventures, all five of us just wanted to relax. We came back to the cabin worn out. Jazz and Annie immediately collapsed on their respected bed and couch spots, and us people pretty much did the same. When we were recouped we headed into town to a local tavern, The Perfect Wife, for dinner. We came home to a warm fireplace and watched Songcatcher (a must see movie for mountain music lovers.)

Sunday morning I slept in (till 7 AM!) and even had help with morning chores. After the animals were fed, watered, lead to pasture, and given fresh bedding we came inside to bake a quiche for breakfast. Using my garden's stored veggies (save for the broccoli, which we tried but didn't freeze well and tasted like pet dander) fresh farm eggs, and Vermont cheese we made big ol' egg pie and washed it down with lots of coffee. Now that's a meal.

We decided to go for a long walk, and took a three mile stroll along Sandgate's dirt roads. It's peak foliage season here, and I was happy the girls could visit me at this time and see how colorful it is up in the hollow. Walks like these remind me why I returned to the Northeast. There is no fall like a New England Fall. The colors get into your lungs, make you breath differently. The cold crispness of waking up and seeing your breathe, walking past pumpkins and piles of hay when you leave for work. Little things. I need those things. Jazz and Annie seem to glide over the crunchy leaves like corporeal ghosts.

Well, that was the end of our fun for a while. I needed to trim the sheep's hooves. This went badly.

Badly, but not horrible. Every time I have shepherd work to do I realize none of it will be as easy as the books and pictures show. I was only able to trim one sheep's feet because only one sheep would let me get within flipping distance with hoof shears. Soon as I got Marvin down (which was more of a pathetic wrestle than professional shepherd's flip) Sal and Maude scampered away and watched in muted horror from across the pasture. No bribery could get them near me after Marvin was upright again. So I'll need to figure out some stealth tactics for Sal, and a goddamn miracle to get my hands on Maude. But still, one wether has trimmed feet. A modest victory.

The rest of the weekend ended with a trip into Manchester to putz around town and then a pasta dinner with friends of Sara Mack's who happened to be hiking nearby for the holiday weekend. They came in showered, but mountain weary and we spent the night talking and drinking in good company. I think I may have even made a new dulcimer player out of kathleen, who was very taken by the weird instrument in her lap.

And that's the rest of a very good, but very long weekend. I think it set a lot of things in motion. And time will tell how they all play out. But stay tuned, and you'll hear the whole story. Promise.

photos, again, by sara stell

saturday photos

photos by sara stell

the great fall weekend - part 1

The Sara's showed up on a calm Friday night. They had traveled up to my hollow all the way from Suburban Philadelphia. I set a glowing jack-o-lantern out by the oak trees near the driveway to be their initial greeter. When they came inside I had a fire glowing, fresh-from-the-oven pumpkin bread, and hot tea and cider on call. I felt like I would be asking a lot from them this weekend, and wanted to make it as hospitable as possible. We'd be getting up at 5 AM for the trials and after along day on the road, that's not great news for any guest.

But they were more than graceful. After a light tour of the farm and some unpacking we were all around the fire sipping hot drinks and talking. Sara Stell, as it turns out, isn't just my old college pal's co-worker, she's a violin instructor. She brought her beautiful violin (made in 1894) and played the most beautiful rendition of Ashokan Farewell I've ever heard live. She let me give it a whirl and I played some dirty fiddle music on it. She was kind enough to compliment my homegrown education. Which burst me up with quiet pride. It was a fine evening.

In the morning all five of us headed to the trial. Three humans and two dogs in the hay truck (my Subaru.) I was fairly proud of the fact we were on the road by 6:30, and after a brief stop at Wayside for pumpkin coffee, we hit the road. I'm glad to report we were in Cooperstown before most of the spectators even pulled in. After setting up our folding chairs and scoping out our coffee options - I left the girls to watch the dogs run while I wandered off to meet up with shepherds I knew. I ran into Barb and Denise and soon we were talking about the newsletter (my new job) and Sarah, the sheepdog in need of a shepherd. Barb told me Sarah would be here in a few minutes and I should meet her, look over her papers (ABCA), and walk around with her.

And walk around with her I did. And it was great. Sarah was a petite 30-pound sprite of a Border Collie. For someone who walks a 130 pounds of sled dog with one arm, it felt like I was holding a kitten on a line. She was gentle and quiet with me, but her focus was 100% of the sheep in the field. Barb has been training her on fleece for a few months and when we walked on her thin leather leash around the trial field she trotted with her eyes always on the prize, her tail low, her eyes fixed. She was a beauty. Had I the means, I would've scooped her up and taken her back to Cold Antler to teach Maude a thing or two about R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Alas, not today.

Now let me tell you something dear readers, this truly was a sadistic weekend. I played a fiddle from the 1800's and held the lead of a Border Collie who's grandparents were imported from the UK and who's refined working-dog lineage had won high trials overseas. These two beautiful things I had to relinquish to their proper owners when I left. People commented below and asked if I took Sarah home. I didn't. A dog like Sarah isn't just handed off to people and would cost a small fortune (a small fortune for me anyway, probably equal to the going rate of a fiddle from 1894!) So no, she's not my dog. Sarah is right now in a kennel in a barn in upstate New York, and not playing Parcheesi with Jazz and Annie back at the cabin.

After time spent with Sarah, and the Saras, I was put to work. I jumped into a pickup truck with Warren Mick and we both worked the sheep pens and talked about the trials. I think I have learned more about sheepherding while wrestling with ewes in these pens than I have anywhere or anyhow else! The questions you can ask people are endless, and the whole trial is sprawled out before you to comment on. The advice and answerer are well worth the occasional black and blue mark from a bossy ewe's horns.

I spent the day with good friends. I got to be outside on that amazing fall day talking herding and sheep. I grabbed Scottish Blackface ewes by the horns and touched the black fur of working dog in my own arms. All of this writhing with hope. I'm wrestling with a lot right now. Trying to decide what's next and how I'll get this farm of my own someday. I'm nervous about the book, and how it will do. And I'm worried somehow this will all slip though my fingers and get away from me, like a leash could slip from idle hands on a runaway dog. That I'll end up settling for less because it's safer, or because it gets people off my back. I don't know if I can pull this all off on my own. Everyone keeps telling me I can't. Not without a miracle, an inheritance or pa perfect credit score that is. But I really think I can with a good dog, and some great faith. Or that's what I keep telling myself. When I waiver I just clutch the black fur tighter and say a prayer.

All of it paces in my head when I go to bed at night. I'm just grateful that come morning there is too much to do here at the farm to keep thinking about it. But the uncertainty is exciting, if nothing else. If nothing else, it's that.

p.s. More photos to follow later this evening. Photo of me and Sarah above taken by Sara Mack

two shepherds

This has been an amazing weekend. I can't wait to write more about it. The weather has been ideal, the roadtrips long and winding, and the Fall Folliage Trial was a great learning experience with breathtaking New England fall news. Sara and Sara have been enjoying the trip as well. (They even helped me with some farm chores!) One of the Sara's is an amazing photographer and I'll post her work from the weekend later tonight. But for now here's a picture of Sarah the sheepdog and I. Barb Armata brought her for me to meet, walk around the trial with, and consider. I'm not going to lie, walking around the trial with a working sheepdog was a hell of a feeling.
photo by Sara Stell

losing my cool

It is a drop dead gorgeous fall day here in Vermont. A sunny warm day in the mid sixties with a cool breeze warning us all to pack a wool sweater in the car if our adventuring keeps us out past dark. Tonight Sara and Sara will arrive at the cabin to a warm fire, a glass of mead or wine, and some fresh bread from the oven. I am hoping to make the night as comfortable as possible for them because tomorrow morning I am getting their butts up early as sin to drive over the sheepdog trials. Jazz and Annie are coming too, and the five of us should make for a heck of a road trip. Results are already posted for some of the runs happening right now, with Warren Mick in the lead with his dog Jinty.

I am falling hard for this shepherding life. I am starting to match faces with names and some of the breeders and trainers at these events even know my name. I took on duties as the newsletter designer and my first edition comes out in the winter, which I'm excited about. I'm just pumped to participate in anyway I can. Which might be lame to a lot of my peers. I am well aware the average 26-year-old isn't thriled to raise sheep and stay up late watching the entire Ken Burn's Civil War series on DVD (by the way, every October I watch the whole thing and love the hell out of it). But I am, and I'm perfectly fine with losing the cool my designer life once slung at me. But hey, I sleep better.

rams, lambs, and collies

If I can find a willing shepherd, I want to borrow a ram and have him shack up here for a few weeks. The hope is he and Maude will get it on and come April there will be a lambs born for the first time ever at Cold Antler Farm. So far I've only been able to find people with rams for sale, but I'm not looking for any long-term loving here. I'm hoping a local sheep person will want to make an extra fifty bucks. Now, as I am writing you this, I am looking at a little yellow book the UVM Extension teacher gave us after out first sheep class. It says Lambing Guide, and has a Suffolk Lamb on the cover. There is an empty area to write the year of lambing, and the instant I was handing the book I remember almost instinctfully wanting to write "2009" since it seemed realistic to me. I didn't realize that was now a gestation period away... So maybe these future lamb(s) will be fate? We'll see.

If I can't arrange for those "services" I might just wait till spring and buy one of my herding instructors Scottish Blackface lambs. Which is a breed I really like and am leaning towards for my future operations. They are a great duel purpose breed and small enough to manage in larger numbers. So options are out there, just really hoping to try my hand at a small lambing project come spring. If any of you out there know of a third option that a normal person could afford (artificial insemination is out folks, crikey. Let me know.)

Besides sheep pimping, there are other big things happening this weekend and oddly enough it includes three Saras. My friend Sara and her co-worker friend (also named Sara) are driving up from Philadelphia for a weekend on the farm. I told them Saturday morning we'll be getting up crazy early to drive to the Fall Foliage Sheepdog Championships in NY, but they just insisted on coffee (Now those are women I can deal with.) So up they will come, and they even offered to help trim hooves Sunday. At said trial, the border collie Sara, whom I blogged about a few weeks ago, might be there to meet me. She's a started sheepdog up for sale from the same kennel that hosted the Wooly Winds Novice Trials. Now, don't worry skeptics, I am not coming home with a border collie. But getting a chance to see a possibility, be outside in peak fall color at a sheepdog trial with friends, and drink lots of coffee has me so excited for this weekend it's ridiculous. It's good to know at 26 you can still sometimes feel like you're still six the day before your birthday party. Real good.

a good way to spend a rainy weekend

Frontier House

I’m going to make a recommendation, and if you have a library card you can make it happen this weekend. Now, I’m not a huge fan of Reality Television but PBS did something above and beyond.

In 2001, 5,000 families applied to go back in time to 1863. Three were chosen. A young couple from Boston, a rich family from Malibu, and a scrappy family from outside Nashville. For five months of their lives they would live as the original pioneers and homesteaders in the wilderness of Montana. PBS called it “The Frontier House Project” and the rules were simple:Give up everything from the 21st century and live as authentically as possible for five months to prepare for a Montana Winter.

They would have access to a small general store ten miles away to buy supplies. But besides that they would have to live off of their gardens, animals, and short order supplies. The project wanted to see if modern day families could deal with it. It’s an amazing summer to witness. The entire project is only six hour-long episodes. Starting with their lives in their respected modern cities and following them to a pioneer training school. With historians and experts on site they learn everything from making furniture to cast iron cooking to basic horsemanship. It’s kinda cute watching a Southern California debutant bake her first ever loaf of woodstove bread with a smile, but then start crying when they tell her she can’t wear eyeliner.

Soon they take off on a small wagon train that will lead them to an Indian reservation removed from any modern roads or power lines. Only one family has a cabin to move into, the others have to build them from what they can find around. So imagine being dropped in the wilderness, and living in a tent until you cut down enough trees to build a house only to move into the house to try to feed yourself for four more months. But they do, and they learn more about themeslves, their values, and their families than you could imagine.

Anyway, go pick it up from your library and watch it. I promise by the end of the first episode you'll be hooked.

graceful decline

Last night was a killing frost. When I went out this morning to feed the sheep and let the birds out of there coop there was a coating of ice on the water troughs, and the sunflowers seemed caked in white ice. The chilly night put the final nail in the garden's coffin. Which is fine. The garden has long since been chalked up as a loss. By mid August whatever wasn't eaten was froze or put up. I don't have enough food stored to last me a winter (but I doubt my stir-fry skillet will ever want for anything.) When the last sweet corn had been picked and the only things left to grow out were the green pumpkins sunning themselves in afternoon light, I propped up my hoe, slapped my hands together, and let the garden fall into a graceful decline. No more weeding. No more fuss. That's how we roll.

Now those green pumpkins are bright orange and stacked on the hay bales on the porch. I won't bother with them till closer to Hallows' when they'll be carved for the Holiday. The fact that I am carving pumpkins I planted from seed is a big deal to me. October is my favorite month, and pumpkins are one of it's best avatars. Last year my pumpkins in Idaho failed miserably and it crushed me, but this year we're back with vengeance!

I was only able to grow two carving pumpkins (on the smaller side, but gamely clinging to acceptable size) and an armful of smaller pie pumpkins. So it's not like the cards are stacked, but I am hoping to empty out three or so this weekend and make a pie or pumpkin bread for my guests. And if they are unfit as carvers, the sheep will be beside themselves with joy if they get a snack of gourds out in the north field.

sore arms = warm nights

My right arm is killing me. I woke up with a stinging ache, and now know what two hours of constant sawing can do to a girl. Yesterday I used a small bowsaw (a gift from my father, thank you) to start hacking up the hundreds of fallen birches and sugar maples all over the woods on the farm. I wanted them for firewood to help warm up the cabin on chilly nights. With cheap quick-burning pine costing seven dollars an armful at the local gas station. I think the two hours of hard work was worth it. Outside on the porch is four giant armloads of heavy, long burning logs from the downed trees. The fireplace will be happy till next weekend when I stock up again.

So sore arms aside, the weekend went well. Yesterday I spent the whole day at the farm. From waking up to a breakfast of potatoes and eggs with Vermont cheddar cheese (and coffee), to ending it with a long well earned fire and my weekly Sunday night fiddle Lessons. To start a day eating food you grew yourself, and end it with old music is a perfect combination.

I spent the long day doing nothing in particular. I took the dogs on a lazy three-mile walk along our winding Sandgatian roads and then came home to bake and do livestock chores. I made a small round loaf for lunch and washed it down with cold cider. When I wasn't sawing I spent the majority of the afternoon reading a book of New England ghost stories in the hammock, bundled up in blankets. It's not really cold here, but in the shade up in our hollow it's about 45 degrees at the warmest part of the day. So yes, blankets make all the difference.

Having a day to work, care for animals, read, bake, and play music with fiddle students is bliss. If I could someday manage it, I would love to open a center for Appalachian arts. A place where you can apprentice in everything from dulcimer 101 to hand dying wool. It would be an open farm for intro weekends to livestock care (How amazing would it be to take a weekend farm vacation focused on learning to raise chickens and going home with some pullets and and a coop in your back seat!) Writing about this stuff is one thing, but helping other people do it themselves is by far the more rewarding part. I bet with the help of some border collies and luck, it could happen. I need to calm down with all these big plans huh?

Here at Cold Antler, the sheep, poultry, and rabbits (including the four new bunnies) all seem to be doing well. I have already decided that this coming weekend Sara and her friend are going to help me flip the sheep and trim hooves. And Saturday is the big Fall Foliage Sheepdog Trial in Cooperstown New York (who cares about baseball when there's a sheepdog trial going down!) If any of you are in the area, stop in and watch those dogs work and say hi to the girl running around volunteering in the floppy hat.

P.S. I recently found out i can not, under any circumstances give anyone an ARC for a donation. If you sent a donation, email me back and I will work something out with you or refund you shortly. I am sorry, I didn't know.

annie's tv

the best pancakes ever

I love pancakes. I figured out this recipe from adapting a few and it creates the fluffiest, sweetest, pancakes ever. Feel free to add blueberries, chocolate chips, fresh fruit and powdered sugar to top it off. I only use cast iron greased with real butter when I make mine (If you're falling, dive) Enjoy!

Cold Antler Pancakes
1 1/2 cups organic flour
3 tsp baking powder
1 tsp salt
1 tsp vanila
1/2 cup sugar
1 farm egg
1 1/3 cups milk

Tun on the range and heat up the skillet at a medium high heat, make sure a good spoonful of butter is melting in the pan and coating it with a good layer. Mix all dry ingredients in a bowl, then add the egg and milk. Mix fast and quick and then give it about 4 minutes to set and get fluffy (from the bakiing powder) in the bowl. When "risen" pour into skillet to the size you like your cakes. You know a pancakse is ready to flip over when the middle bubbles. Serve hot with real maple syrup (Grade B, son. Grade B is dark, rich, and get this tastes like maple.none of that flatlander grade A sugar water they sell in gift shops okay?)

rain before morning

A few moments ago I was happily rolled up in a warm bed, surrounded by warm dogs. I was perfectly comfortable in that magical way your body regulates the perfect conditions for laziness right before you absolutely have to get up. Outside in the dark of 5AM, a blustery rain was whipping through the changing maples. This made my bed seem ten times better than sheep. Something I will totally change my mind about after a cup of coffee, or four.

Well, I'm up. The dogs however are still curled up among the quilts and blankets. I'm out here getting geared up to lug water and pour feed and they are curling their spines deeper into an arch and getting ready for round two of extreme napping. If I don't down a cup of coffee soon, I might crawl right back into that bed with the wolves, call off work, and not emerge from the bi-species sleeping aparatus until starvation or the urgent need to pee makes me.

Of course, that's not happening. I'm up. I'm in flannel. I can hear Rufus Wainwright crowing through the rain. I'm about to go out into the belly of the beast. Mornings like these are not examples of the perks of having a small farm.

NOTE: The ARCS are not available for donations. They are not for sale. If you sent a donation and are expecting one, email me and we will work something out or refund you.

a great day. Time to get soaked.

jurassic park - vermont edition