The Chill

The Chill

By Troy Bishopp

Every once in a while the stars align and your hard work yields an emotional, almost euphoric lift, beyond your wildest dreams.  How many farmers feel the heart nudge when they see their smallest tike win the blue ribbon with the biggest cow?  Who hasn’t glowed over a bumper crop of ten foot corn flush with two ears a piece?  And how about dunking that fresh Italian bread into a juicy bowl of warm tomatoes you grew from seed.  Last week, after moving fences and finally slowing enough to notice when grass farming is truly right, I felt the same kind of sensation.  You know---the one that makes you shiver with pride. 

The chill started innocently enough when I arrived at my leased farm to find all the calves suckling on their mommas in the beautiful afternoon grass.  After checking the water and fence, I just plopped down to take it all in.  I felt almost smitten with joy over having a 100% calf crop and thumbing unconsciously at Wall Street’s “ponsey” schemes to create wealth out of thin air.  My beaming was a genuine tribute to the agrarian gods who would appreciate the simplicity coupled with the sheer complexity of creating a landscape made solely from rich topsoil, grass, sunshine, biological life and a light footprint of man.

The coolness extended 25 miles north to a farm I have leased for 6 years for grazing stocker cattle.  It was time for my yearly dart throwing to monitor the health of the sward.  It wasn’t too long ago you could hardly find a grass or clover plant, being it was over-run with goldenrod and knapweed.  I had a vision back then what it would look like with proper grazing management and animal impact.  Before me, waving in the gentle breeze was the prophecy realized.  I threw the tiny arrow into the pasture abyss.  As I parted the jungle of red and white clovers, orchardgrass and plantain, the point had pierced a pile of worm castings rife with decomposing litter.  The chill came back, but alas, a man and his grazing land were void of anyone to share it with except the ghost of Newman Turner and the Lord himself.

I would be rewarded for my reverence as I headed home to our century farm.  With the sun tickling the horizon, I was joined by my wife, Corrine, and the infamous dog writer, Riley, on a personal pasture walk to move the grass-finishers.  To my wife’s credit, she is a good listener when in the company of a “rambler”.

 I started the tour trying to keep the six pound sniffer out of the numerous cow pies.  The storyline opened like this:  “Remember when I planted those locust trees?  Look how much they grew in three years, they’ll make a good shelter break and sequester some nitrogen.  Remember the sliding parties we had up here?  Look at all those apples?  See how thick this grass is? See the turkeys working in those cow pies ahead?  She smiles and nods her head in agreement but is probably thinking---can we have a little silence too!

No such luck honey. I continued    pointing at the spot where I got hit by lightning, where an old elm tree stood, where the snow drifts are the biggest and where the sweetest stockpiled grass is.  She stands patiently by the hi-tensile keeping the dog at bay while I roll up the poly-tape and banter with the 1000 pound steers for acting like calves again.  From 400 feet away I yell, “That’s what I’m talking about”, as if I was on the great plains amongst the bison.  She just shakes her head and smiles.

I slipped my green, soiled hand in hers and we turned the pooch loose on the way to the plateau overlooking the Mohawk Valley.  The chill came over me again as I stood there hand in hand with my wife watching over 5 generations of landscape design.  No words were needed to drink in this incredible, sun-drenched vista.  In fact it almost seemed condescending to talk.  To enhance the scenery, the fearless terrier, as if on cue from a director’s chair, scared up two, eight point bucks that bounded between the cows similar to gazelle on the Serengeti.  I guess we were really home on the range!

To truly savory the experience, one must share it with others.  This happened yesterday as 40 grazing friends got a chance to make their own judgments about what they saw with one farmer’s management style.  As simple as it is, I’m more excited about showing the intangibles of a grass-based system than anything else.  Or put another way, what you can create with a little thought and a herd of herbivores. The group made it to the pinnacle through the portable fences and watering points, numerous “live”, cow pies, stockpiled forbs and incessant stories from the host to gather for lunch.  This time the chill came directly from eating Troyer’s homemade vanilla ice-cream.  

I have to admit some pride when walking through riparian areas and fields and every farmer pauses to pick some legacy fruit from the old orchard and wonder out-loud which variety of apple it is.  I also enjoy listening to my friends offer helpful ideas and personal stories of their own for achieving the landscape they want by walking through mine.  There is more education in reading the land   together, than in any periodical.  Mentoring these discussions are critical components in gaining really cool hands-on knowledge.

The big chill surprisingly culminated with a symbol from a healthy grassland ecosystem.  As the last guest went down the drive, there on the fence in front of our picture window were several bluebirds vying for a fall fledgling spot.  And as luck would have it, I had my new camera in hand to shoot the scene.  Was this a coincidence, a sign?  What can you, stewards of the land deduct from this random occurrence?  Can we achieve a balance that is not solely driven by a balance sheet?  I submit to you, the cool thing about measuring the value of your management may be in the feeling you get from your passion and not from the calculator.