The Silver Light of the Moon

The trail was barely visible beneath our mules feet as we rode through the thick darkness of starlight. We watched night steal the red from the canyon walls and repaint them in shades of black and white, as if we were riding in an old western movie. We were climbing out of Hop Valley late Saturday night after a day of riding through the narrows of LaVerkin Creek. A warm breeze changed the Day smells into night smells and hooves falling on rock echoed off the cliffs above us as we swayed in our saddles, without visual reference to help us maintain perfect balance.

Emerging from the canyon to the terraced table tops of Smith's Mesa, we could see a brilliant white blanket laying over the desert savannah far to our west. Our trail disappeared in the sage and scrub oak while our muted sense of direction caused us to wonder how we would find that one gate in the miles of barbed wire fence standing in our way. But the mules knew and we let them pick their own way across the landscape. Suddenly Molly stopped. Like an apparition, the gate came into dark focus just inches from her flaring nostrils.

The white blanket to our West seemed to be moving closer to us. Brilliant as a hard frost in the dead of winter, every tree, bush and towering sandstone rock sparkled with a cold, white luster. The view caused an inevitable sensory conflict with the pleasant warmth of the gentle draft. As we neared the trailhead, we stopped and turned with fascination to face the advancing silvery frost. A distinct line separated our blackness from this faux winter and it began to hasten until we were on the verge of being overtaken by its chill. Abruptly, we were in the light of day as the nearly full moon peaked its edge over the hill whose shadow had kept us in the dark. The world, still painted in shades of gray, was promptly in full view and our mounted silhouettes cut a sharp moon-shadow below our feet... And that physical anticipation of feeling winter's cold was warmly unfulfilled by the silver light of the moon.

WindRiver Wolves

She trotted along the boulder-strewn clearing, parallel to our trail which hugged the treeline above Upper Silver lake. With a hunter's instinct and canine curiosity, she monitored our progress as we coldly made our way back to camp. August's end in the WindRivers is a confusing time for the weather. Summer is showing her age and winter intrudes, fighting for turf and hoping for an early kill. It had just rained an icy-hail as we climbed out of the Washakie river, and the sun was throwing rainbows at the stiff wind that had us burrowed into our oilskin coats. Jim suddenly stopped. "Is that one of our dogs out in the clearing...?" Appearing out of some low brush, she turned to face us as we peered through the trees. Tall, gray, and fitted with a massive head, she stood in the open, staring for a moment. Knowing she had been seen, she casually loped over a rise and out of sight into a shallow ravine.

It is the talk of the town. A morning earlier, we sat in the only cafe-slash-saloon in Boulder, Wyoming, having our traditional last-chance breakfast before penetrating the wilderness. One table away, a lone, weathered cowboy sat nursing his breakfast. Hearing our meal-talk, he glanced over his coffee and peered wistfully through the brim of his trailwise hat, "The wolves have come back. They are up there. Damn shame too. We sure went to a lot of trouble getting rid of them the first time. Just last week, Buster Johnson's crew had a whole pack trailing them as they pushed their cows off the mountain just North of here."

We spent the next 7 days exploring and fishing. Winter advanced in the battle with summer for the first six of those days, one storm after the next. Summer struggled to melt the frozen darts that were thrown, but returned some clear skies and warmth on the day we came back out. Jim, Landon, Brother Mike and three of my kids racked up nearly 88 miles of saddle sore, much of it with heads bent into the wind, rain, and snow. It felt like we were traversing hallowed ground, and a distinct sense of the Divine pierced the biting air inside the peak-ringed basins of Middle Fork Lake and the Bonneville.

On day five, at first light, I stood shivering in my long-johns at the edge of Raid Lake, casting my Jake's spin-a-lure repeatedly while everyone else slept. Preston finally woke and came to be by Daddy's side. Suddenly, my ultra-light pole bent in half, nearly being yanked from my hands. I had spooled it up with that fancy Fire-Wire stuff that won't break no matter how hard you pull on it. The drag on my reel screamed for about three seconds while the power of a submersed giant pulsed all the way to my core--then SNAP!.. About 40 feet of line and lure gone. Preston and I just stood and stared at each other, mouths open, in total dis-belief. Nothing in my life's experience of catching fish in high altitude lakes prepared me for this--I didn't think fish could get that big all the way up here. I'm sure no one believed my story, until later that evening when Preston came back to camp with more fish than he could carry, and it was just ONE fish. "Dad, I think I snagged a rock, can you help me get it unstuck?" Just a minute kiddo, wait til I... OH MY GOODNESS, THAT'S NO ROCK! Hang on... reel it carefully...don't force it...easy there...wait wait, don't drag it out of the water yet, let me grab it...

10 pounds. She fed all eight of us that night, and made one little kid feel like King of the Day.

Each night, laying in that fitful sleep that only comes in a sleeping bag, while straining to hear the comforting sound of cowbell, and hoping that our livestock will be fine by morning, the wolves howl. Somewhere nearby, in the thick blackness, they watch our camp, and the dogs growl. The hair on the back of my neck raises. It is an emotional debate. My heart goes out to the stockmen whose livelihoods are threatened by wolves and I understand the naturalists' thrill of sharing the wilderness with them--it sure made our trip extra meaningful. After growing up on Jack London wolf stories, I feel awfully alive laying here in the dark with wolves circling our camp... and awfully glad for the cold magnum steel under my pillow.

Preston's Mule, by Gary

This is a short poem that I made up one day on a trail ride with the Gooch family in Forsyth Canyon, Pine Valley, Utah. It started out as me teasing Preston about having a girl friend and him fervently denying it. With the help of his sister Sunnie, we really got him worked into a lather over the deal. I changed the subject after watching Preston do acrobatic moves and maneuvers on his little mule "Doc" and this is what I ended up with.

August 7, 2010

There is a boy named Preston who has a little mule,

He got him from his Dad, you know, and he's really kinda cool.

Preston decided to play a trick one day and rode him into school,

The teacher , she got hoppin mad and quickly recited him the rule.

"You should know better than to come in here on that little mule!"

It didn't bother the little skinner much cause all the girls thought him cool. (especially Austin)

The teacher grabbed him by the ear and said "listen here sonny!"

"When we get to the principles office, you won't think this is so funny!"

The principle just sat there with a smile 'tween his lips,

as the teacher retold the deed with her hands upon her hips.

The old educator laughed, slapped his leg and declared, "I'll be darn,

I think this here boy was raised in a barn!"

The story told and judgment passed with an evil grin,

Preston stood there a quiverin and took it on the chin.

Thirty days servin chow in the luch line was the punishment for his crime,

but it didn't bother him that much cause he and Doc had a real good time.

When you spend much time in the saddle up by the timberline,

a ridin' through the aspen or in the mighty pine...

The more time a man can spend up there he really starts to see,

that he is in God's creation and that is obvious as can be.

And if per chance, when yer out a ridin on your own favorite mount,

you come across a little skinner named Preston, your blessing you will count.

--Gary L. Christensen (Good friend, compassionate bishop, and Escalante Cowboy, living farther from the night sky than any small town kid should have to)

BMDRA: The Boulder Mountain Donkey Ropin' Association

Day two wasn't supposed to be a 30 mile ride. Nor was the climb supposed to be that brutal. We were on the Boulder, peering over the edge into Escalante's tangled chasm of slot canyons, riding through herds of elk and deer, while surprising a hapless bear. It was scout camp... Cowboy scout camp.

We left a little late on day 2 thinking we had plenty of time to get to our next campsite, figuring on an 8 hour ride or so. I knew my jack, Rusty might not pull the hills without giving out, so I took a spare mule just in case. Rusty is a great ride in the suburbs. He has the suspension of a Lincoln Towncar, the steering of a '54 International truck, and he can go all day with me astride his flat back. But he climbs hills like a windup toy.

By mile 10, we topped out just as Rusty tapped out. And then he just hung his tired head, refusing to move any farther. We were a little behind by then, so I sent my buddy Kent to catch the lead group and bring back my spare mule. I got off and started walking, Rusty reluctantly following. Leather chinks slapped the trail-weary denim of my jeans to the beat of my steps. Dust from each foot-fall rose to mingle with the beads of sweat that were lining up under the brim of my old slouch hat. Time passed. A lot of time. Rusty, leaning back on his lead rope, turned the flat terrain into a strenuous climb and I began to tire. Suddenly, like a scene out of a spaghetti western, Kailee and Preston came galloping up in a cloud, my extra mule in tow. Quickly, we traded saddles and Rusty got to wear an empty pack saddle for the rest of the trip.

Tired donkeys don't lead or herd well. Thank goodness for the talented and charming Colton Gust. We had 20 more miles to travel, thanks to a wrong turn or two in some heavy timber stands with nearly impossible tangles of deadfall. Colton cast his spell as he swung his rope, true, over and over. Heading, healing, and sometimes missing, he kept Rusty on track until we made camp. Rising in his saddle, Colton sang out in perfect pitch, "Yeehaw! Its the Boulder Mountain Donkey Ropin' Association!"

It was nearly dark by the time we got our final bearings. With 6 or 8 miles to go, there was some talk of a survival camp that night. We ferried our camp gear between camps each day and didn't have most of it with us. Nerves started fraying a little, but we decided to ride on. As we descended from Jacobs Lake toward our camp at Cow Puncher flat, it started to rain lightly through broken clouds. The setting sun cast its golden net into the throat of the canyon as our mounts strained against the gravity of our tired weight. The temperature quickly changed, and cool, mountain scrubbed air filled our lungs with the scent of rain and pine. We were in heaven. Ahead, 7 year old Preston, who hadn't complained the entire day, finally called out, "Dad, I don't feel so good."

Just breathe a chestfull of that celestial air, son. I called back. For the next two hours, we rode in total darkness. Gary Christensen led the tired troops down the hill while Dave Gust worried about ever-cheerful Colton and Rusty bringing up the rear. Just drop your chin in your chest and go to sleep, Dave. Those mules know where to go :)

Preston was smiling when we finally arrived at camp, apparently healed by the ozonated draft. Kailee did a wrangler's job of getting the animals squared away for the night, the tack stowed, and the tent set up. Soon, we were enjoying a little dinner and the best night's sleep of the trip. It was a ride to remember, complete with the three things that make any ride unforgettable: good company, good scenery, and GOOD adventure.

I love...

I love clear mountain mornings, little warm puppies, and the bawling of spring's calves weaned from their mothers.

I love granite peaks, verdant mountain meadows, and the reverb of summer thunder as it echos above treeline on a rocky pass.

I love the smell of rain in the desert, the feel of wet sand between my toes, and the roar of solitude that hangs over wet creosote.

I love the smell of marshgrass and wet corrals against the song of the redwing blackbird.

I love the strike of hungry trout in a clear Uinta lake, the smell of mountain scrubbed air, and the bugle of bull elk bouncing off of bally peaks.

I love the smell of hard-ridden horse lather, the feel of a mules breath on the back of my neck while trimming her feet, and the sound of a child's giggle behind me on the trail.

I love the smell of fresh cut alfalfa, the itch of hay leaves against my sweaty back, and the squall of a startled pheasant exploding from a ditchbank.

I love warm milk squirted against the back of my tongue on a cold winter's morn, the swish of her impatient bovine tail, and the insistent meow of the cat wondering if I'll share.

I love the agony of climbing Mt Nebo's triune peaks, the struggle for breath at altitude, and the sound of an airplane flying below our hard fought ascent.

I love the thrill of buck fever in the fall, the aroma of golden quakie leaves scattered along the hillside, and the sharp crack of rifle against the sunrise.

I love the steeled complaint of a kid resisting chores, the sullen glare of defiant eyes, and the "Thanks Dad" from that same growing up kid.

I love a rainsoaked felt hat, the smack of rain against my slicker, and the sound of hooves squishing through the mud below my wet saddle.

I love pushing longhorns through shoulder-high sage, the grandeur of Escalante's twisted maze of canyons, and the sound of the campfire's crackle at sunset.

I love watching hens scratch about for their daily bread, the taste of just-laid-eggs, and the brilliance of morning's rooster.

I love the feel of cold wet feet, the iron grip of wet jeans, and the tinkly sound of sprinkler heads beating across the rows of just-changed sprinkler lines.

I love the taste of hanging summer clouds that have just shed their moisture, the smell of ozone along sandstone cliffs, and the rush of wind across my face while soaring through still, wet air.

I love the smell and feel of lanolin from a lamb's wool, and the joyous sound of bleating as they jump and butt heads in mock battle.

I love the soft breeze in a narrow, red canyon, and the chorus of frogs against the lonely bray of a young mule after dark.

I love seeing a mountain lion leap from its perch, powdery snow flying, and the baying of bloodhounds in hot pursuit.

I love the staccato bark and pitchy howl of a mamma coyote who follows us along a ridgeline, worried about our proximity to her den of spring pups.

I love the unspeakable glory of stars reflected on a glassy WindRiver lake at 2 a.m. after the mosquitoes have gone to bed.

I love the shock of standing naked in icy alpine water to wash off several day's trail grime, a warm fire, and the feel of fresh clothes for a new day's trail.

I love crawling into a cold, but soon to be cozy bed roll and drifting off to sleep to the gentle sound of cowbell hung around Molly's neck as she grazes the meadow next to camp.

I love flying through Hop Valley's meandering narrows, climbing out of her pine scented bowels, and gazing down upon the miracle of Kolob's handlike tangle of thrones.

I love the look on a 5 year old's face that is seeing the world for the first time, and the tears on a Mom's face when the child wonders about the cracks in the sky during a thunderstorm.

I love the way moonlight paints a night canyon in shades of gray, stealing the redness of her rocks until the sun steals the red back and repaints them in the morning.

I love the youthful cadence and buoyant pitch of my seven year old son's voice when he recites the story of the cross-eyed bull.

Most of all, I love the miracle of friendship.

Ah... but what little pleasure is found taking these things alone. Everything is better in good company. Well, except for the naked part... I like to bathe in shrivelingly cold lakes all by myself.

The Harvest Begins

Just look what comes out of the dirt. It is time for an update on this little garden of eatin'.

Besides the pastoral beauty this neighborhood garden has lent us, we've enjoyed working together and dinner just got a whole lot better.

Working Like Rented Mules

Its coming together, this thing. The fence is up and painted, the garden taking shape. For the past month, we enjoyed an old fashioned barn raising of sorts--neighbor helping neighbor, BBQs, a whole lot of fun, and kids learning that work ain't so bad after all.

Some people make fun of Mayberry USA, but I love living in it. Off our asses and working like rented mules--its what's for dinner.

Spontaneous Generation

Abiogenesis: the hypothetical process by which living organisms develop from nonliving matter; also, the archaic theory that utilizes this process to explain the origin of life. Pieces of cheese and bread wrapped in rags and left in a dark corner, for example, were thus thought to produce mice, according to this theory, because after several weeks, there were mice in the rags. Many believed in spontaneous generation because it explained such occurrences as the appearance of maggots on decaying meat. Encyclopedia Britannica

I have mostly written around the edges of modern community development trends over the past couple of years on this blog. As a topic, it is indirectly relevant to the work we do around here--the use of small scale agriculture for parenting, and for the sheer joy of living. Planning, Zoning, and development style are city things that normally would bore me to death, but for one thing--when we built our home 8 years ago, we veered into a head-on collision with our city over those issues. In short, if you haven't seen the few other posts about it--we settled on an acre in an irrigated 20 home subdivision with AG zoning at the edge of town. The area was masterplanned, and traditionally promised, to remain the large lot, AG zoned part of the city. Then property got expensive. City Fathers soon changed their minds and a tsunami of micro-lot developments began popping up in our "Little Valley." We are now on the verge of complete developmental isolation, agriculturally speaking.

Now I know a lot of biology and medicine, but I have no academic or practical background in matters of building or developing. What I do have is a farm kid's sense of right and wrong, and the mulishness to wade into a fight. I also have the naivete to think that everyone wants to do the right thing for its own sake, so I joined my neighbors in protest. Being the loudmouth in the bunch, the city eventually put me on some committee to examine their new plans, and I spent an entire year trying to convince the city that a contiguous corridor of AG zoning and large lots would add beauty and diversity to the increasingly homogenized pleasantvilles that were flooding our city. I also tried to articulate how the activities that occur in AG zoned neighborhoods benefited the whole community. From the economic impact of AG with the complex network of business that it supports, to its aesthetics, to its role in generating good citizens--it has intrinsic value that transcends short term dollars.

"Beautiful curb and gutter, a nice community make," they argued. "Not the acre weed patches you guys live on."

"Au contrare," I defended. "Good neighbors who love the land and weeds to pull, a nice community make. Where else can the dads among us who want to give our kids chores without the possibility of parole go these days?"

Vision is a remarkable thing, and there are several types of it. Sometimes we see things that might go unnoticed because of contrast. It works that way in the visual world with colors, shapes, movement and lighting. So too with human behavior. I swear we live in Mayberry, USA. Everyone watches everyone Else's back, and just about anything will get everyone together for a barn-raising or a potluck. There is always work to do and people are usually out and about. In contrast, the newest neighborhood next to us is the most micro-lotted of them all so far (100 starter homes planned for 30 acres--mostly filled with nice young families.) But wander around that place and it feels like a ghost town! For months, I have been asking myself, "where are all the people at?" Cars go, come and disappear in garages. We do see lights on over there... It is a city thing I guess--like Boston or St Louis where I have also lived, people hide in their houses. At first, I wanted to blame the new folks for being unfriendly, but suddenly the vision struck me and I had to repent of my evil thinking. It was the contrast thing. Its not their fault. They have no reason to go outside! They have no yards, and they certainly enjoy no privacy outside. Shoot! Our yard is so big, Preston can drop trau and take a leak out there without turning a head. And no one even blinks at the Iverson's daily underwear brigade. We barely have reason to stay inside!

So, tonight, the scenery that started this rant hit me like a train. It was the contrast thing. Among the neighbors, an agreement was reached to turn the empty acre next to me into various types of produce. Iverson plans to do tomatoes, we'll probably do pickling cukes, and others will do various things. McArthur who owns the acre, Iverson and I started putting the fencing up after work that will be needed to keep the rabbits out. Like magic, kids appeared. True to the laws of Spontaneous Generation, they showed up out of no-where. They weren't recruited, but something in the freshly turned dirt spawned them. I couldn't get my camera fast enough (it was elsewhere) so I had to run grab one from a neighbor, and by the time I returned, proof of their soiled birth vanished. But I caught the mixture of dirt clod fights and benefaction they brought with them. After the work ended tonight, I came inside with the question for the ages rattling around in my head. If there's no more dirt to turn, where's the next Spontaneous Generation of kids going to come from?

The Yeoman Farmer

Small scale agriculture. An end unto itself, it is the life-giving, soul enriching work of the Yeoman farmer that blesses a community. Whether producing a vine ripened tomato or selling this morning's freshly laid egg; or maybe just imparting common sense values to the coming generation--small scale AG offers balance to a culture that is far too detached from the circle of life. With all the convenience and attendant benefits of centralized food production, we are left wanting, and that wanting is two things: instinctively we sense that any disruption to our food supply would be catastrophic, and society is becoming increasingly desensitized to natural law. Its the "Froot Loops come from the grocery store" phenomenon. (Some excellent background:Professor John E. Ikerd, UMC)

Modern trends in city development are antithetical to small scale AG. Great reservoirs of agricultural aptitude are being silently drained in favor of perfectly manicured, micro-lot subdivisions. Over the past 20 years, I have observed many communities in Utah pave over vast orchards, gardens, and pastures. I have also watched the traditional tendency to landscape with fruit trees and gardens in urban settings shift to more aesthetic and sterile designs--all in the name of convenience, curb appeal, and conservation.

Thomas Jefferson, always the pragmatic agricultural philosopher, had this to say of development, if you will. You see, he understood a fundamental truth. It takes more than dwellings to make a community. (See Monticello.org for more)

1785 Oct. 28. "It is not too soon to provide by every possible means that as few as possible shall be without a little portion of land. The small landholders are the most precious part of a state." (TJ to James Madison, B.8.682)

We hunted for four years before finding the wonderful little piece of dirt we live on. It measures 1.18 acres and it boasts the right to 6 acre feet of pressurized irrigation water that comes from a well we share with 20 other neighbors. It also has the now nearly extinct AG zoning which imparts some distinct advantages to our usage--one of which is the total freedom to produce and market AG based products from our home.

It is incredible what a person can do on an acre, just using a little help from the kids and a bit of spare time. What follows is a catalog of the AG activities that are currently underway at our little Flying I Ranch--please understand, not as a brag, but as a source of ideas. The day may come where many of us may need to put our productive space to work.

It is a work in progress...

20 x 50' greenhouse full of seasonal variety, winter stuff at the moment

Fruit trees (bitter disappointment--didn't get grandpa's gene for it)

Vinyard--just starting to get that planned and planted in strategic places

Out door garden 40 x 60--probably just corn again this year because it dresses the farm up.

80 laying hens, half are starts, the other half are laying. Preston sells his eggs as fast as the hens drop them and he is learning about life.

30 baby ducks, anticipating their eggs. Duck eggs go for a premium. (Thanks Yeoman Farmer)

3 beef cows: 2 for friends, 1 for our own freezer.

5 sheep: 4-H is a wonderful program for the kids. The AG teacher at Dixie High School set us up for future wins!

2 hogs: couldn't talk daughter #1 out of it. Pigs got us into 4-H in the first place. Love them, but probably won't miss them after April's show.

2 Rabbits: I'm writing this tonight at our diversity's zenith--they are tomorrow's dinner.

4 mules: everyone is better looking on a mule...

2 mustangs: American legends, both. Wouldn't trade them.

1 mammoth Jack at stud: his tone clear bray is its own reason for being here.

2 dogs: they complete the picture. Love them on the trail, or in the back of the truck--they live to go.

1 tom cat named Squishy Head that does the dirty mouse catching job no one else wants.

We certainly have excess of certain things. Some of our AG activities are for pleasure and childhood development. But if push ever comes to shove, we have the room to re-tool and produce an excess of additional other things.

Sadly however, small scale AG is on the auction block. Curb and guttered hell is quickly encircling our delightful 20-home AG zoned neighborhood with its suffocating grip. Not without a good fight, mind you. We passionately articulated the benefits of preserving a contiguous corridor of AG zoning and acre minimums for our geographically distinct Little Valley to our city, and continue to do so. I'm glad I got to raise my kids this way, and we'll make lemon-aid with our lemons until the masses of luckless urbanites get tired of us. But I'm sorry my grandkids won't get the same benefit--at least not in this town.

Here is a pass-along: enjoy this blog titled "The Yeoman Farmer." I gather this farmer is like me--some guy with a real job in town who is doing his part to pass it to the next generation.

The Little Boy Who Cried "Skunk!"

"Preston's Ranch Fresh Eggs" reads the egg-shaped sign in front of our house. With 35 mature hens, and another 40 babies under the lamp, Preston has been selling eggs for $3 a dozen since this summer. Its a pretty good business for a six year old. He feeds, waters and collects the eggs every day. The eggs usually need to be washed before they are presentable for sale, and he gets that job too.

Two dozen eggs a day is pretty normal for these winter months. But suddenly, the yield went to 1 or 2 eggs a day. What the devil? Well, it has been raining. A lot. We are building our chickens a new barn to escape inclement weather, but they are wandering around in the muck this week--maybe that's why. Chickens have to be pretty happy to lay eggs. Bad weather might do it...

Then, 3 nights ago, I smell a skunk out there. Dirty little egg stealers! "That's the problem"' I think. Maybe this is Karma, after all the skunks I've whacked in my life. Somehow, the skunk must be getting in around the construction of the new barn and eating all the eggs--probably living under the unfinished barn. So I round up the boys and send them out to secure the coop! Tyler and Preston plug all the possible holes and we hope the problem is solved.

Next evening's chores? 1 muddy little egg. Customers are showing up, and we are out of product. Not good. How is that skunk getting at the eggs?! My brain starts scheming. Now that the city has moved into our back yard, shooting skunks under the chicken coop is considered poor etiquette and shows a lack of urbanity, or finesse.

So, last night on my way out to feed the cows, I shine my curious little flashlight into the chicken coop and see... 2 dozen muddy eggs! "Well then," I think..."its about time." So I feed my cows and putz around outside--taking in the smells of wet farm. Meantime, Preston comes out to do his chores. Suddenly, he calls out, "Dad, I smelled skunk really strong tonight by the water container."

"We are gonna get that egg thief one of these days!" I quickly reassure him as he goes back into the house, chores completed.

"Glad he came out when he did," I think. "Otherwise, that no good, dirty, egg-sucking thief of a skunk would have stolen today's eggs. Its funny I didn't pick up on the stench myself when I walked by the first time." Passing back by the coop, I shine my light inside one more time, happy that we outsmarted that old skunk. I stop cold. What I see completely stuns me. 2 dozen, freshly scrambled eggs, quietly oozing into the mud.

Its not easy for a 6 year old to admit he has been smashing the eggs for the last week. Stomping the eggs seemed a whole lot easier than washing them up to be sale-ready. That skunk we imagined was living fat off our eggs sure was a great diversion tactic while it lasted. And one more kid gets schooled, out behind the barn.