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.

The Bucket Brigade

Sometimes being Dad is tough. It wouldn't have been such a big deal if it weren't late and if it weren't raining like a Cambodian monsoon. When I announced that the water tubs were going to have to be filled by bucket tonight, those crocodile tears and agonizing sobs nearly melted my heart. I SO wanted to rescue my girls and do it myself--I LOVE the way rain-soaked creosote smells against the background of wet corrals. Filling your lungs with it will add years to your life; and doing chores in a downpour is one of life's simpler pleasures. But my progeny has yet to see the light.

A while back, I spent $350 on a fire hose for fast, easy filling of the 75 gallon water tubs that sit in each of the corrals. The garden hose thing always took forever, so I replaced the garden hose hookup in the irrigation system with two inches of "hold-on-Nellie!" The girls loved it, and it made their chores take less than one third of the time. Problem was, they got careless with the hose and I would often find it inside the corrals where the mules were using it for a stomp n'chew toy. At first, the warnings to the girls were gentle, then more forceful--I will not replace that expensive hose. Remember what it was like without it? Put it somewhere safe when you are done with it so the mules don't ruin it!

Nothing seemed to persuade them--sheer juvenile lack of concern and forgetfulness on full display. Time to lay down the law, (pause here for effect...) pater familia's law. So here's the deal, I say a couple of weeks ago. Next time I find the hose inside the corrals, we'll put it away for a week and remember how nice it is to have it. I PROMISE that I'll do it! I add for emphasis. Well I'll be hanged...tonight I go out to do my chores in the pouring rain, and see the mules playing games with my swank hose again!

Bracing myself against their wails with a smile, I started working on a batch of hot chocolate for them for afterward. Then I grabbed the camera for a couple of shots and went out to carry a couple of buckets myself. We don't have a garden hose that will reach across our acre, so it has to be hand carried for the coming week, starting tonight. Bucket by bucket, one step at a time--a real piece of work. If you must know, I'm not feeling the love. They never met a worse Dad, they ASSure me. Whatever life I added by breathing that sweet, rain-scrubbed desert air tonight was certainly cancelled out by the daggers I caught for dishing out this little lesson.

Roar of a King

We took a family ride out around St George's replacement airport early this morning. A certain anonymous daughter of mine threatened to delete any picture I took of her riding my jack, Rusty. Being the oldest daughter and all, I thought she might enjoy her first chance to ride him (I don't let just anyone climb on my prize ass.) But the morning light was so good, the jack so majestic, and Kailee so cute on him, I am loathe to keep the pictures from the world...

To hear Rusty bray is a magical experience. To feel him bray under saddle is a soul stirring encounter with a king of beasts. His deep, tone-clear baritone pierces the hidden chambers of the human heart, bellow after bellow, until finally, he shudders with a surprising sub-base growl that sounds more like that of an elephant. Glad you took the chance and climbed up there, sweet kid. Merry Christmas.

Embrace Warming: ClimateGate Disappointment

You know? I'm feeling a little let down these days. I was really hoping global warming was for real...for two reasons. First, we aren't supposed to get winter in St George--we live in a snow-bird mecca that is known for its balmy weather. But it has been exceptionally cold and snowy here for the last few winters. Second, we have property that we hope to build on someday in one of the coldest parts of the state. So with all the talk about how CO2 emissions warm the globe, I was doing my dutiful best to drive the wheels off my truck, dragging my horses all over the place and commuting to work, one tank of fuel after another. Heck, I even bought 3 beef cows to fatten up for slaughter that will eat about 8 or 9 thousand pounds of corn by the time they are ready for the butcher. Between their corn-intense diet and their fragrant flatulence, cows are better for global warming than cars, according to some scientists. If that weren't enough, St George city planners have repeatedly stressed that we who live on acre sized properties add to urban sprawl, which increases traffic with its attendant energy use. I thought I had all my bases covered--a one-man mission to reduce brrrrrrrrrr.

Then came the bombshell-revelation that the whole stinking Global Warming thing is a hoax. ClimateGate. If you are unawares, just Google it, or pay attention to the news. Its a big enough story to leave a big foot print in cyber-space for many years to come. Like a kid who just found out Santa Claus is fake, I now must face life knowing scientists are just a bunch of politicians that have no regard for the truth. I guess it is time to resign myself to normal ebbs and tides of cooling and warming. And I might as well get myself a little fuel-miser car for my daily commute. I mean, why waste all that fuel if it ain't going to help?

The snow really is pretty though...

Preston and I took Kailee and her two friends riding to the Snow Canyon overlook. When we got to the edge, Preston exclaimed, "Dad! Is this heaven?"

The Feminine: Power to Move Minions

It is no secret around here how much we detest the lack of common sense. Nor is it a surprise that we despise Government's cultural tendency to fall into the temptation of tyrannical turpitude.

St George is busily building a replacement airport behind the ridge line that separates it from the Little Valley where we live. From the moment we moved here in 2001, we have playfully ridden, hiked and crawled all over this ridge. Watching the airport come together from this vantage point has been particularly fascinating for our whole family since they began construction 1 year ago.

Early this morning, Brother Mike, Neighbor Brad Griffith, and my Sweet Wife joined me on a round trip ride that takes us over the ridge in view of the airport. It had rained overnight and St George had that wet-desert smell which consists of a recipied blend you find nowhere else: creosote, mesquite, sage, and red-sand mixed with a hint of Pine Mountain's heights. Getting outside was irresistible.

On the final leg home, we crossed over the only road currently open to the airport before coming off the ridge on the single track trail that gets so heavily used. Brad and Brother Mike went across first, about 30 yards ahead of Chantra and me who were moving a bit slower. As Brad and Mike continued along the road's shoulder, and we approached our crossing, an official St George City truck topped with yellow lights, came up from below. The young city employee who was driving stopped along side of Brad and Mike, leaned out the window and declared in an authoritative voice, "Hey! You shouldn't be up here on this road!" (Not true, plus we crossed at a safe, visible intersection in this still remote, right of way.) He waited for us to cross and angrily shook his head at me while giving me a black look before turning to Chantra who followed behind.

Descending the hill, Brad, Mike and I laughed out loud, wondering what it is that makes a low-level government employee throw the weight of his ASSumed power around like some sort of stooge, as if we had committed high crimes and misdemeanors. From behind, a somewhat perplexed Chantra declared, "I didn't realize he was mad...? He just stared at me and SMILED as I rode by."

Remind me not to leave you home anymore, Hon.

(The irony? Today's paper warmly invites the public to ascend this road and watch the airport's progress in an effort to grant full governmental transparency.)

I Almost Lost My Ass

My Ass nearly fell off a cliff today. In fact, it was closer than nearly.

The Haslem trail is hard work for horses and mules, but for a jack, it is nigh impossible. The valley floor and most of the ascent to the mesa top is covered in deep, powdery red sand. With his small, narrow hooves, Rusty negotiates the Warner Valley sand dunes like a transvestite in stiletto heels. By the time we hit the top, he was dog-tired and fagged-out. I had even gotten off to lead him most of the way up the steep parts of the trail. The going was slow and my partners waited patiently, sometimes helping to push/pull Rusty over some of the technical spots.

Dr. Steve Carr, a Spokane, Washington Veterinarian and his two brothers Tyler and Jeff wanted to experience the high-angle thrills of the Haslem trail. They drove up from some meetings in Las Vegas this morning for the outing. I have known Dr. Carr since my missionary days in Boston, and we studied together for some of our undergraduate work at BYU. Little Preston and Jim Wallick (who helped build the Haslem trail) were along too.

After lunch at the top, we started picking our way back down the honey-combed sandstone ledges. The trail skirts a short, rocky outcropping and scampers over three boulders that overlook a tapered drop off below. Crossing the boulders is the only way down. Rusty decided he wasn't going to traverse the boulders or step over the fissures between them no matter how much we cajoled, pushed, pulled, or cussed. Finally, he tipped over onto the gently sloping edge of the cliff--tired, weak from fighting us, and breathing heavily on his side. After a rest, I gave a mighty pull on his lead rope to help him get up. Before he could get his front feet firmly beneath him, Rusty's back feet slipped against the rolling downward edge and he fell back on his side--this time gravity prevailing. Rusty slipped off the edge. Every single muscle in my body screamed with agony as I gave them all to the lead rope in my hands. It was a tug of war with life and death. Somehow, with strength not my own, he stopped. Only his head was topside, his body hanging against the vertical side of the cliff. And I had exceeded my limits.

Thank goodness for Jim Wallick and the Carr brothers. At the moment I thought I couldn't hold on for another instant they rushed over and grabbed the rope. It took all five of us pulling in unison, just half an inch at a time, to pull Rusty back up on top. After hauling him to safety, we all stood in welcome relief. Rusty just laid there groaning.

Back on his feet again, all five us us dragged, lifted, and pushed Rusty over the 3 boulders. For the rest of the trail, he was a perfect gentleman and after leading him off the steep stuff, I ended up riding him back across the sandy valley floor to the trailer. It was a near death experience for Rusty, and the sight of him falling to the cliff's rock strewn bottom still feels real in my mind's eye hours later.

So, following such a tale, I need to certify here that no animals or asses were harmed in the creation of this post. But it was close. My ass has never been in such a tight spot.