Rethinking the pasture.

The pasture has never been in great shape.   The irrigation system has always been cobbled together, and the pipes were never large enough to take advantage of our full allotment of water.  although we own five acre feet of water, the irrigation company we are a part of feeds by gravity:  40 psi just won’t drive the volume of water we need through a 1-1/2″ pipe.  Redoing the system has always been on the table, but delayed by various things financial and physical: money, a quarter  million pounds of sandstone that we had stock piled for a time. . . and of course, just chasing bigger problems.

That is changing this year, we are remaking the irrigation with 3″ pipe, new valves, and other improvements that will allow us to deliver the volume of water the pasture needs.  More than that, it will allow us to live a small dream of mine–rethinking what is in and around a pasture.  This is one place where the language of conservation is failing us, because we are so focused on preservation and restoration that we rarely give much thought to ground completely transformed by use.  In valuing wilderness we sometimes overlook the role that the pasture can play in the larger ecological system.  The pasture is more often the problem: the source of nutrient pollution, a monoculture inhospitable to pollinators and a source of exotic seed spread by bird, wind and hoof.  The pasture, however, is also an essential part of our cultural landscape, a landscape that has supported generations of people.  Until very recently, the presence of domestic animals was essential to our lives.  The question I want to ask is how can we reshape our cultural landscape to work in closer harmony with the near-wild lands surround us, such that the presence of the pasture supports rather than degrades the surrounding ecosystem?

I have been circling around this idea for some time, but, the idea was driven home when I saw a video of grazing sheep in Italy.  They were ranging across multiple properties, gleaning from and fertilizing fields, dining on herbs that could be found in salads just as easily as they could be found on the fence line.   As a cultural landscape, you could  see the local customs and aesthetic expectations for how the land should look were in relative harmony–there was no evidence of mowing, or herbicide used on fence lines.  There was clearly a wide range of species growing in the interstitial spaces between cultivated fields, roads and houses.  The landscape simply “was”, and it was beautiful.  While it might seem odd to reconsider or design a cultural landscape, the particular cultural landscape in which I live is barely 120 years old: given the age of the European landscape I am thinking of, it would seem that the die might not be entirely cast.

My evolving “Pasture Principles:”

1) Contain water on site.  Animal waste is an inescapable part of grazing on a pasture.  All run off should be contained on site such that it is infiltrated into the ground as fertilizer at levels that it can be utilized by the vegetation, or collected such that it can be recycled.  At no time should water run off the site on the surface, or enter an adjacent waterway. Plant drainage ways to take up nutrients and slow the flow of water.

2) Plant the margins.  Margins, fence lines, and areas inaccessible to grazers should be planted with native and naturalized plants that provide pollinator forage, and are aesthetically pleasing.  They should be competitive enough to shade out invasive grasses present in the surrounding area (provided enough of a head start).  This will both help to contain the pasture, and present the infiltration of undesired species.  Higher growing plant material at fence lines and around the perimeter of the pasture adds texture to break the wind at the surface of the ground.  Eliminate the need for mowing and weeding the fence line to the greatest extent possible.

3) Incorporate plant diversity in the pasture.  Where native brush establishes itself, allow it to remain.  Plant a variety of herbs and legumes  so that there is true biodiversity.  This will aid in resilience and drought tolerance, and will reduce the amount of grasses that need to be planted.  Actively identify and remove the most problem species, and avoid planting aggressive grasses known to be potential problems in the larger landscape.  Provide varied nutrition for livestock.

4) Use rotational grazing in a subdivided pasture.  Allow plants to become established without grazing pressure, and graze grasses before they go to seed.  Allow time for waste left on the pasture to be taken up and utilized by plant materials.

5) Incorporate shade.  Locate shade trees at appropriate locations in the pasture to provide shelter for animals and to reduce the stress on irrigated vegetation in the heat of the summer: reduce the need for irrigation

I finished the site grading a few years ago. . .  I am having fun designing my seed mixes in anticipation of the new irrigation system.  I am thankful that I have friends with extensive expertise in the specific flora of our area (one of the advantages to living next to a National Park).  I will post the mixes, and the progress, as it unfolds.  I will also note that my friend Junichi, who appears elsewhere in this blog,  is attempting to do “No Work Farming” in the model of Masanobu Fukuoka in South Carolina. . . I think the species we farm in the desert are so foreign to this landscape that such a thing is almost unthinkable here, but I look forward to seeing his experiment unfold.

Farm Evenings

The evenings and nights here have been wonderful–temperature wise at least.  It seems no matter how hard we try, we end the day exhausted from work outside the farm.  Last evening it was hard not to think of Maurice and Wiener as I walked down to put the chickens and turkeys away.  Only hours before I had been the harbinger of death–and now, the turkeys cooed in my hands (even the tom).  For the moment, all was well.  It was hard not to feel some gravity in the moment as I looked up to Venus, Mars and Saturn, shining brightly in the sky, under a sea of stars lighting the dark.

This evening was equally special, though Jumper and Vern regarded me with the utmost caution.  Amy and I sat and watched the Filbert and Hazel (the baby goats) jump on Vern’s back (Vern was standing up) and play on him.  Vern still kept one eye in my direction.  They are knowing and feeling creatures.  Still, life continued.  Amy put some fertile turkey eggs under our broody hens.  Grumpy tom has not managed to get his work done, so, we had to hire out.  We watch him try (sideways, backwards, diagonally), but he can’t seem to hit the target.  It was hard not to think of the teacher John Cleese plays in Monty Python and the Meaning of Life. . . instructing a room full of boys in sex, literally.  I don’t think I could get through to him either though.  Beaker, our Narraganset immediately took to her new eggs, and added a few others to her hoard.  Amy called my attention to the soft noises she made, as she spoke to the eggs, making gentle vocalizations.   We watched My life as a Turkey earlier in the year, and it was nice to hear Beaker doing what all Turkey mothers do.  I will admit to talking to our incubator, but somehow I don’t think I ever got it right.

It’s amazing to watch the turkeys, goats and sheep interact.  To see one animal perched on another, literally, and to see them spend time together.  They have a fellowship among each other that we are only partly privileged to. That was one of the most beautiful aspects of My Life as a Turkey: the film makers captured the experience of being given entre to the world of animals normally hidden from us.  [The film was on PBS as part of the Nature series: http://www.pbs.org/wnet/nature/episodes/my-life-as-a-turkey/introduction/7268/%5D  Although Amy and I are not entirely in their world, as time passes we (sheep and people) understand each other better.  When the sheep got loose earlier in the week I did not have to break a sweat to get them corralled.  Somehow I just knew what sounds to make and where to walk.  We understood each other, and they went where I wanted them to.  It is embarrassing to think of the first time we tried to catch a sheep for shearing: sheep and people alike ended up exhausted.  Things, in the end are already turning to normal.  The chickens, usually fearless eaters, refused scraps from Maurice and Wiener’s heads–though they are getting over it as the scent of their pasture mates is replaced by the smell of decay.  It sounds brutal, but in the end it is life on the little farm.