Intern housing at The Farm

Way out in the Tennessee hills lies a 1750-acre establishment that has been quietly affecting change for almost four decades.

The Farm, an intentional community, was formed in 1971 by Stephen Gaskin and a group of hippies who were tired of the status quo. Like so many other groups at the time, they chose a new path, dropping out of society and moving to a plot of land outside Summertown where they could start fresh. Like other groups, they were dedicated to peace and love and new age spirituality.

Unlike many other groups, The Farm survived.

39 years later, it’s not much of a farm. In fact, almost no farming goes on. It feels more like a small town with its own roads, store, school, town hall and university. The long-term population is around 150 people, with plenty of visitors who come and go. This is a huge drop from the peak population of 1500.

People used to drop their lives and come live on The Farm, but it doesn’t work that way anymore: now, they come for education and training, then take their knowledge back home.

One of The Farm’s biggest draws is its school of midwifery. Ina May Gaskin is the author of Spiritual Midwifery, a seminal book that reinvented childbirth practices in the 1980s. Ina May is now considered “the mother of authentic midwifery,” and continues to practice, teach and write. Together, the five Farm midwives have birthed over 3,000 babies in 38 years.

But that success couldn’t shield The Farm from the harsh realities of survival in America. By the mid-1980s, the group was deep in debt and, to save themselves, had to abandon some of their more radical practices. From a loose commune, they became an intentional community: a group of like-minded individuals who are responsible for their own wellbeing, while still sharing the most important resources.

Residents own the land in common and share property taxes, roads and water costs. Apart from that, they’re on their own to build their homes, create their lives, and figure out how to survive.

As a part of the community’s evolution, Farm residents began taking on individual projects that were supported by community money and chosen by a vote from all members. This led to the founding of Gaia University, Plenty International, Kids to the Country and other endeavors. The Farm had become, rather than a unidirectional commune, a diverse community united by a desire to improve the world.

From what I could tell, the key to The Farm’s success is that it has adapted over time. From a fever dream of hippie farmland to a grown-up, idyllic town, this group has clearly dedicated their lives to finding the answer to that age-old question: how can we all live together in peace, without going broke?

Not to wax overly poetic, but that’s really what it’s all about. Residents of The Farm appear to have figured out that their work here can have wider effects: they are a testing ground for a new type of community that most people only dream of.

That’s why The Farm was chosen as the host of the Bioregional Congress in 2009. And that’s how I came to visit Summertown, Tennessee.

Hilarious: a TVP silo.

Next up: uh, what’s a bioregional congress?

Related posts:

1. Welcome to the Bioregional Congress
2. Little Farm on the Subdivision
3. The Waterpod: life on a New York boat

© jessicareeder for Uprooted, an eco/travel blog, 2010. | Permalink | 2 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: alternative, community, ecotourism, education, farm, featured posts, gaia university, green living, intentional community, sustainable, Tennessee, the farm

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I like to move around.

Throughout this journey, I’d always been happy to move on to the next spot—but leaving Asheville hurt just a little. Still, there were adventures ahead. No time to stop, not now.

I took the bus to another bus, to another bus, to a hotel in Nashville, Tennessee. The road wound through the Blue Ridge Mountains, and was lined with new sights: little towns that seemed to be no more than bus stops… soda-sipping teenagers in camouflage, heading off to war… endless ridges fading from green to emerald to blue to purple to grey, forever into the distance… and here and there, little bursts of red on the leafy hillsides, signaling the onset of autumn.

I’d hoped to be in North Carolina to see the leaves turn, but with red leaves come cold nights—and after New Mexico’s horizontal snow and Colorado’s ice rain, I didn’t want to get stuck in the cold again.

Hey, it’s another Elvis statue!
photo by SeeMidTN.com

Santa and Elvis on the Roof
photo by robot_zombie_monkey

And so I went to sunny Nashville, where Kevin and Nicole joined me.

We walked Nashville’s strip that night, trying to get excited about Music City USA, but mostly nonplussed by the tourists and the beer-drinking party hoo-ha. We had better reasons to be here: we were in Nashville to visit a friend we hadn’t seen in a while.

Several laughs, a few tears and one bad movie later, I was ready to hop another bus. Nashville had been a renewal, and I was heading toward something exciting.

The next bus was piloted by a driver with Elvis glasses and a pompadour, who had the thickest hills accent you ever heard. He grinned ear to ear while asking me ten questions about where I was from and where I was going. He seemed to know most of the passengers by name. Three of my fellow passengers were Amish: a quiet family in black and purple.

Later we pulled off the two-lane highway and waited for nearly an hour next to a hospital. The driver explained: there was another Amish family in there, the girl had come down with bronchitis, we were waiting for them to be discharged. Nobody on the bus seemed to mind waiting. We all sat silently in the green heat.

Eventually our passengers arrived, and the bus motored on through lush woods, a sunny winding highway into the southeast corner of Tennessee. Traffic got scarcer as we drove, until finally we pulled off at the Summertown bus stop.

  

  

I had called ahead to have someone meet me here, but the bus was now an hour behind schedule. Nobody was here. The town was little more than a scattering of shops, most of them Amish souvenir stores. The six Amish people had all gotten off the bus with me, and were now riding away in black buggies. The Elvis driver winked a goodbye out the window as he guided the bus back onto the highway.

The bus stop was closed. I was out of food and water, and it was late afternoon. My cell phone didn’t work, and there was no Internet reception; how would I get where I was going?

But I hardly had time to worry before the lone bus-stop employee reappeared from someplace. Country manners kicked in immediately: in short order I was being given a tour of the establishment while phone calls were made on my behalf.

And thank goodness: I hadn’t missed my ride, because they’d forgotten to come pick me up. If I hadn’t called, I’d have spent the night at the bus stop. But they were on their way now, for sure this time. I sat down out front to wait.

Soon enough, a muddy Subaru stopped out front. Two barefoot and bedraggled dudes stepped out, all hair and patchouli. I hopped in the Subaru and we toiled up the hill, a few miles outside of Summertown where we came to:

And I’ll tell you all about that very soon.

Related posts:

1. Life on The Farm
2. Asheville: Heaven is in North Carolina
3. 5 (and a half!) free things to do in Asheville

© jessicareeder for Uprooted, an eco/travel blog, 2010. | Permalink | One comment | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: adventure, alternative, community, farm, featured posts, nashville, Summertown, Tennessee, the farm, tourism, transportation, travel

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We all know we should be eating local, organic produce. And we know why: it’s healthier, it supports the local community, it doesn’t get shipped around the world on oil-spilling ships…

But buying local is inconvenient. In order to get what your neighbors are selling, you have to go to the farmer’s market (or—gasp—to the farm itself!) We Americans are creatures of comfort, we work dawn to dusk, and most of us don’t really “do” farmer’s markets. We’d rather go to a big store that has everything we need, so we can spend as little time buying food as possible.

So, most people still buy fruit from South America via Whole Foods. Environmentally egregious? Perhaps, but it’s easy.

Hana Newcomb sorts produce for CSA members at Potomac Vegetable Farms in Virginia

That’s why local farmers came up with the CSA.

It stands for “Community Supported Agriculture”. The concept is simple: you pay a weekly/monthly fee, and get a box of fresh, local food delivered to your door.

Farmers refer to this as buying a “share” of their harvest. The harvest is divided evenly between everyone who chips in for the CSA subscription. If enough people participate, the farm does well and there’s plenty of food to go around. This helps keeps farms afloat, and it gets consumers more involved with their food and their community.

This one’s a no-brainer, kids. CSAs are (usually) affordable; they support local growers; they help the environment while improving your health—and you don’t have to get off the couch (except, okay, to answer the frickin’ door).

The time to act is now! CSA subscriptions are usually sold at the beginning of each year, with priority going to existing members. New subscriptions for the best CSAs can be scarce, and get bought up quickly.

Now, don’t get me wrong: we all ought to be waking up bright and early Sunday mornings, grabbing our reusable cloth bags, and walking down to the neighborhood open-air market to shop. But for most of us, that’s neither possible nor golly bloody likely. So cut yourself a break, sign up for that CSA box, and enjoy a year’s worth of real, healthy, good food with no guilt attached.

You can thank me after the sweet corn and tomatoes start rolling in.

Related posts:

1. 6 Reasons to hit the farmer’s market this weekend
2. Farming on Sand
3. Try This at Home: Join a community garden

© jessicareeder for Uprooted, an eco/travel blog, 2010. | Permalink | 2 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: community, csa, energy-efficient, environment, farm, featured posts, food, organic, sustainable

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On our way out to Polyface Farm, Margie and I decided to stop off at Potomac Vegetable Farms‘ roadside stand, where Margie buys squash and ‘maters in summer months. We thought it would just be a brief visit, but we were wrong: this farm had a story to tell.

Northern Virginia is a world all to itself. It’s beautiful, in a Monticello sort of way: rolling hills, lush maples, immaculate lawns, stately houses with shaded driveways…

Yes, there’s plenty of money out here, flowing out of Washington along the freeways and metro lines. Wherever it goes, up spring crops of “McMansions“: sprawling, elegant-looking but cheaply-made homes with columns and fountains and circular asphalt drives. They’re designed to make the neighbors jealous—and even as the economy faltered, more McMansions were being erected on every available piece of land.

Including, as it turns out, smack in the middle of Potomac Vegetable Farms.

Hiu Newcomb and grandson Stephen Bradford

   

Hiu Newcomb and her husband Tony moved out here to Vienna, VA in 1970. In their words, this land was “rustic” and “wooded”; the turnpike was a two-lane road. They cleared a small field and began running what would become a very successful ecoganic farm. Before long, it expanded: by the late 1970s, the Newcombs were farming hundreds of acres in three separate counties.

Three decades later, Potomac Vegetable Farm has shrunk quite a bit. Part of that was intentional: the big farm was too much work, so they downsized and kept only the original Vienna plot and a bigger production farm in Loudoun County.

But as suburbia encroached, land values rose and even this little plot became threatened. Developers started poking around, making offers—but the Newcombs always said no.

In an effort to protect their land, Hiu and Tony’s daughter Anna created the Blueberry Hill Cohousing project. A small pocket of modest houses bordered on all sides by greenery, Blueberry Hill was designed to use up the farm’s development rights, thus protecting the land from the suburban zombie invasion.

But manifest destiny will not be denied, and the Newcombs could only hoard so much land. In the late 2000s, a field behind the farm (one of the last undeveloped pieces of land around) was sold to developers.

The piece in front went too, and Potomac Vegetable Farm was divided in two: their new neighbors paved an asphalt road right through the middle of the farm.

Now, Potomac Vegetable Farm has an easement to drive their tractors across that asphalt, so they can access their crops.

Hiu and Tony’s grandson Stephen drove us out to see it: we followed the farm road up past the cohousing circle, blowing through a newly-placed stop sign. There were mud tracks across the blacktop, and workers planting landscaping shrubs scarcely looked up as we trundled through the middle of their worksite.

And there it was, a brave little plot of land where the buzzing of insects was occasionally audible between the construction and highway sounds. In the background, Tyvek-swaddled behemoths loomed—but here in the sunshine, we talked cover crops and irrigation.

There’s a perverse satisfaction in the idea that these McMillionaires might have to stop their Lexuses to let a tractor cross the road. It’s a small comfort, I wondered aloud, but it must feel good nonetheless? Stephen smiled slyly and admitted nothing. He didn’t have to: it was obvious. In the face of all this sprawl, the Newcomb family’s staunch refusal to move is nothing short of a rebellious act.

Still, I wonder how long Potomac Vegetable Farm will be able to hold up “progress”. Their other property has similar problems: several farms in the Loudoun County recently fought construction of a new “megaschool” in the middle of their agricultural enclave.

And so it goes… but for now, Potomac Vegetable Farm continues its mission of good food, land stewardship and education. They can be found throughout the summer selling ecoganic produce in Washington DC, and their CSA delivers throughout the area. Three generations of Newcombs work the farm together, and their wares continue to make a difference in the hearts, minds and stomachs of suburbanites.

Including the residents of that new development, who might even pause to think about where their property came from—while they’re stuck behind a tractor in their driveways.

Related posts:

1. Try This at Home: Get Yer Veggies Delivered
2. Life on The Farm
3. Joel Salatin and the Future of Food

© jessicareeder for Uprooted, an eco/travel blog, 2010. | Permalink | 2 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: agritourism, alternative, ecoganic, ecotourism, environment, farm, featured posts, gardening, green living, organic, potomac vegetable farm, potomac vegetable farms, sustainable, Virginia

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It was September, and fall was falling: leaves beginning to turn, rains getting cooler, fresh breezes brushing lightly at the corners of the day.

After a long summer in the Northeast, I was ready to head South again. But first, I stopped off in Virginia to see Aunt Margie, her husband Larry, and my dear darling grandmother Helen Lee.

I needed family just now: I’d worn myself out from months of traveling, and wanted desperately to slow down, be around familiar faces, and do some laundry. I wasn’t just physically tired, but soul-weary: could hardly convince myself to get up and write, let alone go out and have more adventures. I’d lost a little oomph.

As it happened, I’d come to exactly the right spot.

Margie and Larry are passionate environmentalists, and Margie told me she’d always wanted to visit Polyface Farm out in the western part of the state. I didn’t know a whole lot about the place, but its name had kept popping up during my travels. In my current state of mind, it seemed more like a chore than an adventure: great, let’s drop in on another random farmer and inspect their blighted tomatoes. I just didn’t have the adventure in me. But Margie did, and for her sake I thought I’d go along.

Turns out, you can visit Polyface Farm any time you like—but you can’t just walk in and take a tour. It’s a working farm, after all. They’re busy.

Guided tours cost a mint, and if you want to talk to Joel himself you’ve got to hire him for a lecture—or as a supplier for your restaurant. But if you’ve got gumption, you can always drive down to Polyface and show yourself around for free. We had gumption, or Margie did. She wrote a note to let them know we’d be coming, added her cell number just-in-case, and faxed it in to Polyface’s office.

Monday morning we hopped in the car and sped off toward Staunton. Once we got on the road, I started feeling more eager. I’d researched Polyface over the weekend, and discovered just how special it was. So this was the place that started everybody using chicken tractors! This was the guy that Michael Pollan had written about in The Omnivore’s Dilemma. This visit might turn out to be a pretty good idea after all.

Nerds that we are, Margie and I chose to read passages from The Omnivore’s Dilemma while we drove. That’s what we were doing: Margie driving, and me reading aloud about pigs, when the phone rang.

That’s Margie, a little later, being attacked by pigs.

Margie answered.

“Hello?

That had been Joel Salatin on the phone. “Come on down,” he’d told Margie, “We’re dressing chickens.”

This is where I started to get real excited. Joel Salatin had called us personally! And invited us to watch him kill chickens! Margie seemed a bit less enthusiastic about the slaughtering aspect, but I couldn’t help imagining the photographs.

Someday I’ll tell you about my “thing” for dead chickens.

An hour later, we pulled into the gravel driveway and parked. It was quiet, so we poked our heads around the main building—and there was a big metal contraption covered in chicken blood and feathers. Chickens had been slaughtered here, but we seemed to have missed the show. I thought maybe we should just wander away and avoid bothering anybody. But there was another car just pulling up, and at Margie’s urging we followed its three occupants into the empty office.

The three turned out to be young restauranteurs, here to see the farm and buy some meat. As we were talking, a documentarian from New York walked up with her big camera. Then Joel Salatin himself strolled through the door. He’d just washed the blood off his arms, and was ready to take them all on a tour of the farm. Margie and I, grinning eagerly and trying desperately to look like we belonged, were invited to join the parade.

What ensued was an hour or two of mind-stretching commentary on agriculture, food politics, animal character (“the pigness of the pig”) and grass management. I photographed turkeys, pet bunnies and got hog slobber on my boots. And in the process, I started to feel inspired again.

It wasn’t just Salatin’s joy and enthusiasm for his work that inspired me: it was also the sense of hope I felt from seeing real, positive, and effective change taking place. My inspiration had been stymied by the citified consumerists of the Northeast’s urban centers, but here in the grass I could see my path again. And not just mine: humanity’s. I started to remember why I was on this path in the first place: to learn from people just liek Salatin, and to spread the word.

Oh god this photo is so dorky but I’m posting it anyway, as proof

Margie’s husband Larry hadn’t come with us, but he’d prepped me beforehand. “You ask the farmer,” he said, “if his methods can actually feed all the humans on the planet.”

The answer turned out to be “yes”. Margie and I left Polyface with several pounds of meat, ear-splitting smiles, and a brand-new understanding of sustainability.

And that’s how I got to visit Polyface Farm and talk to Joel Salatin.

Want to know more? Read yesterday’s post, Joel Salatin and the Future of Food.

Related posts:

1. Joel Salatin and the Future of Food
2. Little Farm on the Subdivision
3. The Real Dirt on America’s Counterculture

© jessicareeder for Uprooted, an eco/travel blog, 2010. | Permalink | 4 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: agritourism, ecotourism, ecotravel, environment, farm, green living, joel salatin, organic, polyface, Polyface Farm, sustainable, tourism, travel, Virginia

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Joel Salatin has been called “America’s Most Influential Farmer” (Treehugger) and “High Priest of the Pasture” (New York Times). A fascinating mix of farmer and preacher, Salatin didn’t just revolutionize contemporary farming methods—he also used his tremendous gift of gab to spread the word far and wide.

While passing through Virginia, I got to hear that gab firsthand at Polyface Farm, where Salatin works his agricultural magic.

Touring Polyface was inspiring enough, but when Salatin himself turned up as tour guide, things started getting really interesting (more on this fabulous bit of serendipity tomorrow). Salatin possesses a rare combination of intellectual agrarianism, down-home humor, vast insight into the relationship between sustainability and production… and once he starts talking, you can’t think of any reason he should stop.

Neither can he.

According to the website, Polyface, Inc. is a “family owned, multi-generational, pasture-based, beyond organic, local-market farm and informational outreach in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley.” Salatin goes onto explain: what sets Polyface apart is its “ethic of collaborative interdependence”.

“Some farmers see animals as inanimate piles of protoplasmic structure to be manipulated,” he expounds. “If we treat animals like this, we disrespect humans too.

“There’s an ethic that runs from field to fork… Instead of seeing pigs as porkchops, see them as members of the team and they will then express themselves best on the plate.”

He’s got a point—and though his ideals are poetic, this isn’t just some hippie experimenting with manure. Salatin comes from a line of farmers, and his innovations are so effective that he’s become an agriculture rockstar.

Note: Rockstar or no, eloquent or no, a farmer is liable to be upstaged by his own flock.

These are the happiest, healthiest (and noisiest) farm animals I’ve ever seen. But surprisingly, they’re not roaming free across the land. Instead, they’re kept in controlled areas where they graze for a very specific amount of time before being herded on to the next spot.

unretouched, actual photo:
ungrazed on the left, grazed on the right

As it turns out, free-roaming grazers destroy their own food sources by overgrazing the good spots. Salatin points to the next farm over, where a herd of cows roam over brown hills. Several of them lurk by the fence, stealing bits of food from Salatin’s pasture. His land stays green, even in the current drought, because he lets grass grow undisturbed for weeks between grazing sessions.

“This cycle of disturbance and rest, disturbance and rest, is what I call ecological exercise: stretching and moving the ecology to a new level of expression.”

When Salatin says “expression”, he’s ultimately talking about production. His land produces 5 times as much as the regional average, measured in “cow days” or how much grass a cow can eat in a day. Most farms get about 80 cow days per acre; he gets 400.

Another benefit of Polyface’s methods: no pests, no disease, and no antibiotics. The animals here are healthy and “beyond organic”. How? By relying on the “team” ethic. Here, chickens are not just egg and breast machines: they are pest control technicians, keeping the rest of the farm healthy by eating all the nasty bugs.

Systems like this abound at Polyface. A pair of ducks flock with the turkeys: why? Because when turkeys are young, ducks will automatically protect them from predators. Birds and dogs, rabbits, cows and pigs all work together to keep this farm going, and “when animals do the work, you don’t have to replace things that rust, rot, and depreciate.” Here, the flock takes care of itself, and renews the land in the process. (More on Polyface’s innovative systems in an upcoming post)

“Twenty years ago, I never would’ve thought we’d be here… The exponential increase in fertility has been beyond my wildest expectations.”

that’s a lot of eggs.

So much so, that farmers everywhere are adopting Salatin’s methods. And according to him, every farm that converts doubles its production.

Joel Salatin was profiled extensively in Michael Pollan’s game-changing book The Omnivore’s Dilemma, and has been interviewed in just about every major publication. But by far the most inspiring thing about touring Polyface Farm is Salatin himself. In this time of confusion and strife, it’s nice to hear from someone who’s got a real solution to some of our societal ills—and even better to see that he truly loves his work.

When we get back to the bottom of the hill, I ask him my prepared question: “Can humanity feed itself sustainably using these methods?”

His face lights up. “That’s my favorite question,” he replies, “because it’s so fun to answer. Yes we can. It’s gonna mean a lot of people getting out of their cubicles and back into the fields, but we can do it.”

Amen, hallelujah. Thank you, High Priest of the Pasture.

Come back soon for the semi-incredible story of how I got this personal tour, plus more details on how Polyface Farm’s systems work.

fangrl 4 lyfe!

Related posts:

1. How Polyface brought my oomph back
2. The Real Dirt on America’s Counterculture
3. The Waterpod: life on a New York boat

© jessicareeder for Uprooted, an eco/travel blog, 2010. | Permalink | 3 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: agriculture, agritourism, beef, chickens, cows, ecotourism, education, environment, farm, farming, featured posts, green living, joel salatin, michael pollan, omnivore's dilemma, organic, photography, pigs, polyface, Polyface Farm, pork, sustainable, tourism, video

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August was a slow time for me. I’d parted ways with Quiet Earp back in Boston; he took off for Nevada and Burning Man, while I continued eastward. But I’d been traveling fast, and I needed a break to stop and write about what I’d seen.

It was baking-hot in Beantown, but New Hampshire was halcyon and verdant. My friend Epona lived up there, and had a place I could stay for a few weeks. I hopped on the Downeaster, and soon found myself in Dover.

the Farmhaus, by Epona

Epona lived in an old farmhouse overlooking a wide field. She and her roommates Jamie and Chris had been out there for years, creating their own version of the American Gothic. Three fiercely independent and blazingly intelligent artist-types, they’d filled the Farmhaus with macabre sculptures, stark photographs, maquettes of bone and feather, hand-forged metal works and artfully-deceased flora. Cobwebs and dead things were considered art, and left to flourish in dark corners.

It was the kind of place that could give little children nightmares—which was precisely why I loved it. After months on the tourist circuit, my inner artist craved a dose of freak. In the Farmhaus, I found it.

The inside of the Farmhaus may have been a beautiful crypt, but the outside bustled with life. Jamie, Chris and Epona, in the true, self-reliant spirit of New Hampshire, were teaching themselves to farm.

They had a roost of chickens, raised from infancy and coaxed each evening from the tree branches to their homemade coop. A pair of guinea hens cackled and screamed their way around the yard, followed by a brood of twelve chicks (which, as we soon discovered, they would defend to the death from the likes of us). A white-eyed wolf-dog called Volka strutted, pranced and skulked about, occasionally killing something he shouldn’t. And in every corner of the yard was a garden patch.

I didn’t take many pictures at the Farmhaus. I was there to write, and write I did. I rarely looked up from the computer—but whenever I did, Chris, Jamie and Epona were there with food, beverages, entertainment, art, gardening advice… and we had FUN. It felt good to relax, and it wasn’t long before I felt renewed.

 

Random photos: a night out in Portsmouth, NH

I stayed out there for two weeks or so, and when Epona’s friend Hillary went out of town, I housesat for another week with her head-like-an-anvil bull mastiff, Oden. During that time, I took just a few photos—and so, for the next two days, I’ll be posting images from New Hampshire: the most idyllic August you can imagine in the semi-rugged semi-wilds of the Northeast.

See you tomorrow. In the meantime, here’s Oden.

Related posts:

1. Sunday Photos: Thoreau Falls, New Hampshire
2. The Art (and the dance) of the Bike
3. Chicken in the City

© jessicareeder for Uprooted, an eco/travel blog, 2010. | Permalink | One comment | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: alternative, art, Dover, farm, featured posts, New Hampshire, photography, portsmouth, starving artists

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David DeWitt doesn’t look like a farmer. With his long hair, scruffy beard and t-shirt, he’d fit in more at a Phish show than behind a plow. But appearances are deceiving, and David’s comfy mien belies a passion that is influencing the culture of northern Cape Cod.

To wit: in 2009, David helped launch the Truro Ag Fair—an event that exceeded all expectations and brought huge crowds to local farmers’ booths. He runs the Rock Spray nursery, a Certified Natural provider of evergreens and ornamentals. And he manages the First Light Organic Farm, a lush green spot in a hollow of North Truro. Here, David and his partner Arthur Teubner work year-round growing heirloom and hardy fruits and veggies to sell at market.

David’s a dedicated and inspired agrarian, whose passion for farming keeps him optimistic. But farming on the Outer Cape is the sort of Sisyphian challenge that can wear anybody out.

The hard truth:

The soil of North Truro is not strong enough to support agriculture. Without fertilization, it deteriorates shockingly fast.

David points out a patch of sand with a thin strip of fertile loam along the edge. Last season it was a fertile veggie bed—but it was left un-fertilized as an experiment.

“This is what happens,” David says. “You have to keep feeding it organic material, or it turns back into sand.“

This plot was a test run, left untended for a single season. Last year’s rich loam is now useless sand.

It’s always been this way in North Truro. The Outer Cape is really just a spit of sand—but still, farmers lived here for generations. How?

Salt marsh hay.

There used to be a local tradition in this area: at each spring tide, the local community would head out to the bogs and marshes to harvest the grasses. This was called “salt marsh haying”.

Bringing in the marsh hay, circa 1900

Salt Hay Grass/Salt-Meadow Cordgrass
by Littoraria

Salt marsh hay has no weed seeds, and it doesn’t compact as heavily as other types of hay. This makes it an excellent and bountiful source of compost, and it was used for generations as a soil enricher. But haying had to happen regularly, says David:

“There’s so much oxygen in this soil, any added compost gets burned up in six weeks. All the nutrients get depleted.”

That means soil left for two months without fresh compost will become—you guessed it—sand.

The only way to keep things going here is to keep a steady flow of compost coming in. That means truckloads of hay, and that means a lot of work. Last year, David and Arthur brought in a semi truck loaded with leaf mulch. It worked—but it cost money, and it disappeared fast into the hungry ground. Not a long-term plan.

In bygone times, the whole town of North Truro would pitch in on haying days; now, David’s on his own. Without that community support, it’s nearly impossible for him to harvest hay often enough to keep the farm green.

Meanwhile, in Tourist Town USA…

Provincetown’s official population of 3,500 supports a tourism industry that serves millions of visitors each year. City folk marvel at the quaint charms of the Cape, its idyllic beauty and simple pleasures. And then they go out to eat.

Even if tourists were interested in sustainable food (they totally don’t care), they’d be hard pressed to find a locally-sourced meal. Raina Stefani serves David’s produce at her restaurant Terra Luna, but it only makes up a portion of her fares: the rest has to be shipped from the mainland. You can’t squeeze blood from a stone, and you can’t get big vegetable crops from sand dunes. End of story.

Well, not exactly.

David isn’t giving up—in fact, he’s got plans and ideas to refashion North Truro’s farming community. Hence the Ag Fair, and the ongoing experimentation with varieties and soils at First Light. David isn’t alone: he’s got the support (and companionship) of a growing group of gamechangers. If the young farmers and foodies of Truro can organize, they might just be able to get local agriculture back on its feet.

Their main opponent? The tourism and real estate industries, which insist upon turning every arable inch of the Cape into somebody’s backyard. The same population that would consume the food produced here is actively inhibiting its production.

No surprise there. After all, what’s the point of farming on the beach?

Related posts:

1. Flowers, Lambs, Worms & Dirt: A Kid's-Eye View of Organic Farming
2. Little Farm on the Subdivision
3. The Real Dirt on America’s Counterculture

© jessicareeder for Uprooted, an eco/travel blog, 2010. | Permalink | One comment | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: agritourism, cape cod, community, environment, farm, featured posts, gardening, Massachusetts, organic, sustainable, tourism

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Okay, it might not be so summery this weekend—
still, New York’s Union Square market will be open for Thanksgiving business.

Sure, farmer’s markets are a great idea. But admit it: you were planning to buy all your Thanksgiving food at the big-box store. Here’s why this weekend is the perfect time to change your plans and shop local.

(...)
Read the rest of 6 Reasons to hit the farmer’s market this weekend (251 words)

© jessicareeder for Uprooted, an eco/travel blog, 2009. | Permalink | 3 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: environment, ethics, family, farm, farmers market, feast, food, garden, holiday, market, organic, shopping, thanksgiving

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Reign of Grace cob bathhouse at Dandelion Sustainability Farm

My longtime readers will remember Dandelion Farm (Lower Lake, California), where I had my first WWOOFing experience way back in December. The other day I received this message from them, and thought I’d pass it along for anyone in California who’s interested in natural building.

Candace Stolley writes:

volunteers building Reign of Grace
Photo courtesy of Dandelion Farm

We have just broken ground for our first little cob cabin in Enchanted Encampment…hurrah! So we are planning our first work/party on the 18-21 of Sept (Fri AM to Monday PM).

We ask $25 ($35/ couple) for first time volunteers only for this period to help with food/expenses.

This is also a good time to get to know us and us you to see if a longer stay would work for all sides. Please have other options for after the party…we may be full even before it starts.

USF students at a 2008 work party

Loren and Candace Stolley

If you have not cobbed before (mud and straw building) this will be a great opportunity to experience this building technique that anyone can do, so naturally! We hope if you are musical you will come prepared to entertain the mud fun. The ponds will be refreshing and a good way to get that mud off. Overnight camping will be available. Bring a sun hat, your sleeping bags and pads and a good flashlight!There MAY be indoor space, but you must reserve early with your $25. to be sure of that.

Please email and let us know if you can make it so we have an idea how many to cook for.

We will possibly host more work/parties later to finish the building. If you can’t make this one and wish a later date let us know!

HOPE we get to share the work and fun with you and show you all the progress that your help here has led to!

Warmly,
Candace and Loren

Queen of Heaven Gate at Dandelion Farm

Dandelion Farm is full of incredible metal and natural art. See more photos or visit Dandelion online—or email Candace and Loren to reserve your spot on the work party!

Related posts:

1. The Future of Dandelion
2. Dandelion Sustainability Farm
3. Art of Dandelion: Bindu Jewelry

© jessicareeder for Uprooted, an eco/travel blog, 2009. | Permalink | No comment | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: agritourism, biotecture, building, California, cob, community, construction, education, farm, green building, natural, organic, sustainable, training, volunteer, voluntourism, WWOOF

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