Problems Abound

What could possibly be going wrong on such an exciting adventure you may ask?

Broken laptop monitor
Lost cell phone
Lost glove
Lost trailer flag
New cell phone is always roaming because digital signal only
At this rate may take 6 months to Oregon
Money is going to run out
Invested in 100 more t-shirts but don't have time to sell 'em
Hard to coordinate conventional farm visits
Not writing enough (can't because I don't have a computer now)
Writing doesn't capture the experience...grossly oversimplified
Recording NPR quality interviews takes more practice than I thought
Good friend of mine just lost her brother unexpectedly
Can't call anyone because I lost all my numbers with my cell phone
Partner organizations not a whole lot of help
and oh yeah...my girlfriend's married!

But don't worry. I'm having the time of my life when I don't think about all these things.

No question about it....life is a challenge and keeps you on your toes. One doesn't embark on a trip such as this and not expect kaboodles of things to go wrong. I'm going to enjoy venting today. Here goes.

Almost two weeks ago now, the monitor on my laptop quit working. There were little signs even before I left that the monitor wasn't exactly tip top, but what could I do. Then on a hot Sunday afternoon, I stopped in the town of Booneville, KY and found wireless internet connection on the porch of the county jail (strange place I know). It was so hot that day even the shade was hot. My computer fan was buzzing and my personal cooling system was pumping coolant down my forehead and neck.

Just as I was getting ready to publish all my Polyface farm pictures, splat, no more monitor!

I arrived in Berea the next day and after weighing my options (purchase a brand new computer for $850+...problem is no programs installed on a new computer, or purchase a new monitor, have it shipped, then figure out how to attach it without paying an arm and a leg) I purchased a used replacement monitor from e-bay. I spent20 minutes trying to get the transaction to go through with a change of shipping address. Frustrated I placed the order, unable to change the shipping address and sent the seller an e-mail asking him to ship the monitor to my mother's house in Birmingham. She and my stepfather are paying me a mid-trip visit at Mammoth Cave this weekend and rather than attempting to rendez-vous with the package I figured she could just bring it up.

This was all a great idea (I'm leaving out my attempts to locate a CompUSA to have it installed and my attempts to request CompUSA to become a sponsor for my trip so that I wouldn't have to pay the $150 standard service fee for the work). I attempted to contact the seller to ask him to change my shipping address. I sent one e-mail, no response, two ...nothing, three...four..... begging, pleading to change the address. He never responded. I still haven't heard from the lousy so and so, and now my monitor is sitting at the Post Office in Athens, GA and I'm weeks behind in writing about my experiences.

Ah....This is such a cathartic excercise.

Today I finally had my first flat and it took all day just about to fix. I left St. Catharine's late this morning around 11 am. My visit there was fantastically refreshing as I was housed in a sustainability cabin for the last two days. All the electricity was solar, all the drinking and bath water was from a cistern which collected rainwater from the roof and then filtered it. The toilet was composting. I relaxed, I stretched, I read books by Wendell Berry and Jeremy Rifkin, I cooked zuchinni soup and ate apples with peanut butter and heirloom tomatoes. I was well rested and rejuvenated....then I decided not to backtrack to the scenic route but to push on down a state road and kazaam.....big fat truck traffic all morning and......ba booom.....lots of time on the shoulder and ........whoaaa nelly.... glass everywhere.....ahhhhhhh....a health food co-op at Bottown. I go in and stock up on organic peanut butter and granola, I come out and the tire on my trailer is flat as a fritter.

It's noon now and the sun has come out. Now you are supposed to carry a spare tube, and I have one for my bike tires but not for my trailer, so I set to patching. I found three holes. After patching, I didn't let them sit long enough on the first try and had to reseal and sit and wait. A nice lady came out and offered me a frozen bottle of water. A man delivering clean laundry came and sat a big stack of clean towels on top of my trailer and said "Take these with you." Isn't that great? It was the only thing he had to offer. A big stack of towels was not something I needed I tried to explain and kindly thanked him.

As soon as I got the tire pumped and headed down the road, I knew it was starting to sink again. I went about 300 yards to a gas station. I'd been at it for about an hour already now. This time I found a new hole. Patched it, resealed old holes and decided to let them all sit for a while and harden. Went in and had myself a chicken salad sandwich, chips, soda, and two Reese's cups, one with caramel, one super cup with white chocolate. Now I was a bit refreshed. Just before I put the tube back in I rememberd to do the required check on the inner side of the tire and hoila! I found a nail. I felt sure I was about to be back on the road now.

Nope. Those patches weren't going to hold. Those little holes, once you got some high pressure air behind them were just blowing those patches up like Hubble-Bubble bubblegum. It was time for some help. All my fear of approaching total strangers is long gone by now and some young guys who installed air-conditioning systems were buying some beer and they had what I needed, a long bed truck and plenty of room in it. I asked if they were going towards Bardstown and asked for a lift. They didn't seem too thrilled but I didn't really give 'em any room to say no. Down the road about three miles we pull into Wal-Mart. They said they didn't think there was a bike shop in Bardstown and did I want to go here. Well no, actually I've been thinking on this trip that it is a moral responsibility of all consumers to use better judgement than to shop at Wal-Mart. I pulled out my map and looked up the bike shop phone number, called it and sure enough....out of service.

I could tell they were looking for me to get out so I said, "Hey thanks for the ride, I'll just get out here." Now the sad part of this story is Wal-Mart had exactly what I needed, and while I was there I bought a car charger for my phone too so I can utilize my solar panel again.

Now I'm at the Bardstown library, it's about 5:45 pm and I'm tempted to go down the road to the Maker's Mark distillery and get snookered.

This is all part of the experience to be honest. I enjoy figuring out these problems and pushing on. I'm not discouraged. Frustrated maybe, but not discouraged.

I found out a little over a week ago that the fella that started this same adventure, same time as me in Yorktown got mentally and physically beat down and headed home. I was stunned because he had been dreaming of this trip for 19 years and I threw my trip together since December. The pieces I am gathering are quite amazing. It's so hard to fully appreciate the experience because of the pace.

It's very difficult to know what this journey is about at this stage. There is no question that something powerful is happening within me, in how I see the world, in how I communicate, in my understanding of what it feels like to be a farmer in the modern world, with the nature of the struggle they face and the culpability that every individual in America has in how our food is produced. I am beginning to posess a skill I didn't have before. I can talk to the traditional farmer and relate to them. If you are able to get a farmer to talk about their dream, their vision for their farm, then you will truly see something special.

I received one other challenge from the road this week. Someone I was once close with sent me the following comment regarding the content of my travel stories.

"Don't rely too much on fate or God or some other external force to guide you on your path. [....] Strength comes from within."

I share this personal exchange hesitantly as it is easy to hurt feelings discussing private exchanges in a public forum. I care about this person, and that's why this statement bothered me.

I have utilized this experience and this forum to open up in way that I have been afraid to for many years. I am an extremely private...almost secretive person....some might say downright mysterious, and a lot of that has been out of fear or shame, or doubt. A lot of that is dropping away from me now as I realize that I am just human like everyone else out there. I've made some whopper mistakes, and if I'm going to learn anything from them I can't be afraid to talk about them.

One of those mistakes has been to rely solely on my own strengths in building character and principles that are worth something. When I have relied on my own strenthgs I have tended to be overly proud when things are going well, and overly depressed (one might even say devestated) when things aren't going so well. When I am overly proud I tend to show off my accomplishments which either makes people around me feel inferior or annoyed. When people feel inferior or annoyed there is no chance of learning anything from them, having a genuine exchange. Same is true when you are depressed.

Inner strength is extremely important, but what is the source of that strength? That is the important question I am asking on this trip. Is there a difference between genuine strength and the outward appearance of strength? Most of what we call strength today is actually pride, or a disguise, or a defense, a prop.

I have placed myself in a very humbling situation, one in which I am exposed and vulnerable, where without the goodwill of man I would never survive. I'm not pushing on because I want to prove how strong I am. I am absorbing strength through interactions, through learning, through nature, through generosity and exchange, and yes, through prayer. That is my experience. Perhaps for the first time in my life, I can feel the difference between feeding off of other people... the competition, the positioning......and genuine sharing with other people.
Some walls are falling down around me, even as I struggle with setbacks and challenges. It's time to get a bit further down the road. I've still got a long way to go.

This entry was posted on 7/13/2006 4:00 PM

COMMENTS

• 7/14/2006 11:44 AM Kit wrote:
  Justin,
  I read these daily and it is inspiring to watch you grow. There is a wonderful and amazing plan for you in the future and each of these experiences is preparing you for that, I'm sure. Know that your family is with you on your physical and spiritual journey.
  
  
• 7/17/2006 12:50 PM Dean wrote:
  Right on Justin! I feel those same sentiments about the American lifestyle as did Susannah on her return to America from Guatemala. I haven't lived eight yrs (not even one) outside of the US, but I can still see the discontent in people's everyday faces. Unfortunately, I feel it too, when I'm bound to some "gainly" employment. Apparently, we think the solution to our discontent is to have more, not realizing that contentment is most likely found in the land and lifestyle we choose, rather than a wealth of things to tend to daily. Keep rolling and writing Justin, for all of us!

A Woman of Principles

In preparation for my adventure I contacted over sixty small farmers that were located within 30 miles of my main route between Virginia and Oregon. None were more enthusiastic and supportive than Susanna Lein, owner of Susanna’s Organics on Salamander Springs Farm just south of Berea, Kentucky. I knew little to nothing about Susanna, nor any of the other farmers, but I had been looking forward to seeing her from the beginning. Sometimes you just get a good feeling about a place, long before you ever even get there.

Susanna was well known in Berea, and in the little over four years that she had been farming full time had become the primary producer of local organic products. After taking a hiatus from my bike by spending the Fourth of July with friends, I went to visit one of Berea’s farmer’s markets to meet Susanna for the first time. Berea hosts a farmer’s market three days a week, two on weekdays and one on Saturdays, putting every community I have ever known in Alabama and Georgia to shame regarding support for wholesome local foods and local producers; and all in a community of under 21,000. The forecast for Wednesday’s market was rain, rain, most of the day. When I pulled up Susanna cheerfully said, “Oh look, it’s the bike guy,” and gave me a hug once I disembarked. The best part of my trip so far has been the incredible number of genuine hugs I have received. Susanna’s market tent was filled with color, diversity, energy, and art. As I would soon discover, a farmer’s market tent is a pretty accurate extension of the farm itself. Susanna displayed potatoes, garlic, onions, zucchini, squash, peppers, flowers, mixed greens, dried beans, cornmeal and fresh teas and herbs, all labeled by hand in an attractive scrawl.

Susanna, now in her late forties, had the energy and enthusiasm of an exuberant twenty year old. She’d been raised on a corn and sheep farm in Iowa, and learned early how to work hard and endure. While barely a teenager, her father and brother were killed in an automobile accident on their way back home from a 4-H meeting, leaving her with two older sisters and a pregnant mom. Rather than sell the farm, her mother set to work, and the three daughters learned to farm. Like so many farm kids, she wanted to get away, and after attending college landed a job with a large landscape architecture firm in Boston where she first felt the pangs of destroying nature for the sake of progress.

Susanna didn’t feel good about the contribution she was making. She pleaded with her clients to fit their projects into a more natural landscape, but her ideas were too often rejected. “We were basically prostituting ourselves for the developers,” she states frankly. Disillusionment with the societal image of success and modern creature comforts comes more easily to those who feel a calling to the earth under foot. Susanna possessed that in abundance and signed up for the Peace Corps in Guatemala.

Spending quality time outside of the U.S. had a profound impact on Susanna. After two years living in a small village, Susanna remained in Guatemala, married a Guatemalan, and spent a total of 8 years learning and teaching principles of agricultural and cultural sustainability throughout her mountain community. Those years infused her with a knowledge and passion for living in harmony with the earth, and gave her a grit and strength that few Americans, male or female, can ever imagine. She had learned first hand, how to take an ordinary piece of land and transform it into a beautiful and bountiful sustainable ecosystem; one capable of producing food at the same time it mimics nature’s processes.

Returning to the states was the most difficult experience of her life, but not for the reasons one might think. “It was so sad to look at people; their pasty white faces and blank stares; they just looked like zombies.” A general lack of health born from people’s eating habits, consumption habits, exercise habits and community relationships manifested itself in a person’s weight, appearance, vigor, and state of mind.

As Susanna shared her experience I considered the role reversal she was describing. Typically, Americans think of a subsistence lifestyle in a third world country as so pitiful and undesirable. I pictured living from the land contrasted with the average job working in a windowless retail store, or factory in the states. The connections to life are very direct in a subsistence culture; food, water, work, family, nature. Such contrasts begs the question, how do our trivial material goods and processed foods from so many thousands of miles away affect society?

Salamander Springs Farm is nestled in a holler of the Clear Creek basin just south of Berea. I arrived at 10PM, after a magical ride through firefly lit fields and the deep fragrance of a mountain valley. I found Susanna tending a small fire while reading a book about water development in America’s West entitled Cadillac Desert. She’d been worried about my late arrival and greeted me warmly with another hug. We exchanged brief life histories and she showed me my bed in her unfinished house.

Next morning, I was able to see firsthand what five years of steady patient work had accomplished. Susanna had taken three of her twenty five acres and blended flowers, herbs, grains, vegetables, and fruit trees with human habitats such as her shack, a produce cleaning shed, ponds, composting toilet, shower, and her small two story house. The ingenuity applied in every corner was astounding.

Electricity was virtually unnecessary. Her open air kitchen had two stoves hooked to a propane tank. Water was gravity fed from a spring box she had constructed up the hill. She listened to NPR in the mornings from a small radio powered by solar electricity. Breakfast was cornmeal mash made from her heirloom corn named “Bloody Butcher.” Fresh honey and dried currants added flavor, though the corn itself had plenty of flavor.

Susanna’s crops were all planted in less than two acres of space. Diversity was key to the absence of pests and amazingly, everything was planted by hand, with no mechanical equipment whatsoever; in other words no tilling. “Nature doesn’t till, nature builds up the soil,” she taught. What had previously been less than an inch of topsoil on top of a thick clay hardpan, had been built up to nearly 7-8 inches of loamy soil with cover crops, composted horse manure, and mulch. Tilled soil loses both carbon and nitrogen to the atmosphere, whereas a mulched bed retains moisture and nutrients and makes weeding unnecessary. Susanna hated weeding and from all appearances had very little to weed.

The name for this style of farming is called permaculture, and it encompasses more than food production. Short for “permanent agriculture” its principles include energy efficiency, waste water treatment, recycling and land stewardship. These systems were all being applied. For the next two days, I worked, ate, cleaned, and lived as close to the earth as I ever have. Most people would consider Susanna’s lifestyle an extreme way of living. She nurtured life, fed others and herself, benefited the community, and stayed true to principles she had sought throughout a lifetime. How many of us can claim that?


This brief article was written in haste for publication. My experience at Susanna's was incredibly rich and wonderful and will require extensive reflection to capture acurately. It was one of my favorite stops so far for many reasons that I look forward to capturing. Susanna, if you are out there, thank you.

This entry was posted on 7/11/2006 11:56 AM

Scenes from Eastern Kentucky

Lawn Art in a holler. Eastern Kentucky is beautifully adorned with rusty junk. Everytime I would climb into a holler and coast down the other side I would be intrigued by mountain living and Appalachian decor. It may not appeal to all, but I dig it.



Mountain top mining is everywhere in Eastern Kentucky. This is as close as I ever got to an active mine. The coal trucks didn't bear down on me too hard, but this sure isn't an industry that I felt any kinship with.



This is one of my favorite pictures so far. The blend of color, trivial remnants of the automobile, an old grocery sign, and white washed doors on a crooked barn. This shot was taken on Little Clear Creek Road just south of Berea on my way back from Susanna's Salamander Springs. It's Sunday morning.



Some of the best farmland I've seen yet was on Hwy 52 just east of Irvine. The road is called Red Lick Road. There are a lot of places called something or ruther Lick all over Kentucky which I learned is local slang for Creek. The bottomlands here run along the Kentucky River and incoming tributaries. It was one of my favorite days of riding and you can see why.



The next two shots are for comic relief. The town is Ravenna, just south of Irvine. I had a wonderful and inexpensive dinner at Michael's that evening. Ravenna was a town built by the railroad and it kind of looks like it.



This man's mom and dad really had a sense of humor when they named him. Good for him having the kahonas to run for anything with a name like that.



There is something magical about a farmer's market. I learned some new terms when I attended the one in Lexington which was another weekday market that put most weekend markets I've seen to shame.

Apparently you want to stay away from the "pen hookers." These are the folks that buy produce from wherever they can and make up a story to tell you about it. It's an expression borrowed from Try and support the producer / sellers at a farmer's market...close the loop.

This entry was posted on 7/8/2006 11:25 AM and is filed under uncategorized.

COMMENTS
7/24/2006 7:54 AM Rebekah wrote:
Lovely photo journey. Makes me want to travel; see scenery and take pictures of unusual things. Glad you are getting to experience rituals and the way of life in the towns rather than just passing through. Thanks for sharing and bringing it to us.

Long, detailed, not too eventful....just like life.

7.1.06

Pippa Passes to Buckhorn State Park

The last couple of days have been seemingly uneventful. And yet, when I reflect, even within the last three hours I can think of pretty striking experiences that are utterly unique to Kentucky.

I started the morning from Edward and Charlotte Maddens youth hostel. As far as I can remember this is the first youth hostel I’ve ever visited, so I had to ask Charlotte the question that I have always wondered about youth hostels….what does the name hostel mean and where does it come from. Well I didn’t get an answer. I arrived at the Madden’s around 9 PM. I was bone tired and glad to get there before the last light of the day vanished.

Charlotte, who appeared to be in her 70’s more or less, said that there are a lot more hostels in Europe than there are here and that she assumes the name came from there. She and her husband had been putting up bikers ever since the original Transamerica tour in 76. There were close to 3000 people during that trip. Wow, I didn’t know it was that many. That’s crazy. How did that many people not leave a wake of devastation in their path?

Charlotte and Edward had purchased a school building of some kind at public auction, so they used it to stuff bicyclist into during the ’76 tour. Then the school building burned and they added on to the front of their house. When their granddaughters moved in with them, they moved the hostelers into the basement room. I went to check out the common room first as it had the shower and bathroom in it. It basically looked just like someone’s living room, with a sofa, side chairs, a television set, fireplace, coffee table, and framed paintings on the walls. There was a battery powered chiming clock that went off every 30 minutes. When I went to check out the basement room I became frightened. The room was a long, dark, dank tunnel, but equipped for large numbers, with probably 6 or more beds along the hallway. There was a long freezer, a storage fridge, and then an antique fridge with leftover twice baked potatoes, lots of salsa but no chips and some of that nasty Arizona tea. I say nasty now, because I poured myself a glass, took one sip, and discovered that I find it nasty. I’m not a big fan of bottled tea. Tea is a “made fresh” beverage.

So the highlight of the evening was going up to the common room, plopping down, and totally veging out into idiotic television. And that’s what television is, idiotic. I watched some of the world cup, Larry King live interviewing the father of Jonbenet Ramsey, then “Once upon a time in Mexico”, a fabulously stylized piece of crap movie, and then washed it all down with South Park. At the end I felt thoroughly stupefied and stupid, not to mention guilty for wasting the evening. The time was 12:30 and I needed to redeem myself before nodding off to sleep. I had already decided that I was going to sleep in the common room because I was scared to death of the hostel room.

So I broke out the laptop and read an interview with Wendell Berry that was published in Orion magazine. Berry’s genius and depth of vision blew me away. Every answer to every question cut like an arrow right into the heart of the questions I have been asking on this trip. Better than anyone I have ever read, Berry understands the concept and commitment of community. He discussed the necessity of generational oral understanding of the land, of people picking a place and spending their lives there, the importance of asking, “how will this decision affect of the community.”

It’s the most inspirational thing I’ve read thus far on the trip. I went to bed redeemed. I awoke late, around 8:30. I needed the sleep. Edward came through about 7:30. By the way, the great thing about my stay at the hostel was after I gotten comfortable and was watching t.v., Edward came down and gave me a slice of homemade apple pie (made by him) with a side of vanilla ice cream and a glass of milk. How’s that for graciousness.

I got moving fairly quickly. I had to write them a check for the 7.25 as all I had was a 20. Geesh.

After a quick banana and a final pet to all the kitties, I was off. About 2 miles up the road I ran into Peter and Amy, two bikers from Rhode Island that had started in Oregon and were almost done. Peter had just dropped a chain on an uphill climb. They were friendly, but not cheerful, especially Peter. I think they were pretty much ready to be done with the trip. Most of what they mentioned had a slightly negative spin. Although they said the dog chasing thing is a myth. They hadn’t had any problems with dogs. They mentioned a really neat town in Kansas where the local diner had the town mission statement on the wall and it had something to do with protecting agriculture, and you could kind of tell from the place that they took that seriously. They couldn’t remember the name of the place but said to look for a sign that reads “Home of the largest prairie chickens” or something like that.

The morning was cool. I stopped at Arby’s. There are an impressive number of fast food joints inside of gas stations now. When did that happen. I got two subs for $5 which pretty much fed me through the day. I’m ashamed to admit that I kind of stole some lemonade from the soda fountain. I wanted to spike up my water a bit. I’ve got to get out of that nasty habit of taking even small things.

I rode pretty solid for the next two hours. Nice riding, lots of small creeks. Kentucky has a very particular look to it. Everyone seems to be equally poor for miles and miles. Tons of litter along the roads. Lots of dogs chained up in the yard. Lots of home projects uncompleted. Sometime around one I came into a little town called willow fern or something. I was supposed to take 467 to the right, but went left instead. I was ready to get out of the heat. It was beating me down pretty good. I stopped at the bargain buys, which was basically a sad scary yard sale inside a building. They had a chair outside in the shade and that’s what’s important these days. I downed a Mountain Dew but wasn’t quite ready to get back in the sun. I walked by the soda shop, peeked in and decided to sit down inside for a while. I pulled my bike around and stuck my head in. It was obvious they weren’t exactly open, even though there was a guy behind the counter and two little girls eating ice cream. He explained that they hadn’t opened for business yet and the only thing they had was ice cream. I asked about the sodas and told him that I’d like to get one on one condition, I could drink it inside. He said come on.

When I saw that soft serve ice cream, I knew the soda wasn’t going to be enough. Especially considering that a cup of ice cream and the soda were only $1.50.

The fella explained to me that they were testing everything out and were about to open soon. He was a cheerful, friendly guy, with great energy. His last name was Grub, and he explained that everybody’s always saying “Let’s go get some grub,” when they go to get food, so they decided to name the place Grubby’s, which I guess sounds a lot better than Grub’s. It had an old fashioned soda fountain feel to it, with the front counter and round spinny chairs. I took my soda and ice cream and sat at the mini booth close to the front door while Grub tried to figure out how to open the cash register to get my change.

I hung around, enjoying my ice cream and soda, and telling Grub, the two little girls, a local fella, and then two ten year olds, a white one and a black one, all about my trip. They two boys had tons of questions. How far was I going, was I going straight, was I getting paid (I’ve gotten this question several times which is kind of strange to me).

I told him that I thought there would be a Grubby’s franchise one day and he told me to keep my eyes peeled on the stock market and that when Grubby’s hit it big I could say I was there second customer.

The only other interesting part of early afternoon was my stop at Smitty’s market in Hazard, which I wasn’t even supposed to be at, considering that I had taken a wrong turn at Willow Fern. I pulled into gas station got some water and was facing Smitty’s which was a good size little produce market. Things were hopping over there so I decided to go take a gander. I hadn’t eaten my produce that I purchased the day before when I crossed the KY state line and ran across my very first road side market of the trip, so I didn’t really need anything but I thought I would take a look all the same.

The fellas were asking me questions, and its true, riding your bike across the country is the best and easiest conversation starter on the planet. So one of the fellas working there told me that a lot of this stuff came from his farm, so I told him that I was visiting farms. Apparently Kentucky, like Virginia, was big in tobacco, but the Federal Government bought them out. I need to learn more about the details of this buyout. When I asked him what a lot of people were doing now, his primary answer was growing hay. Hay can’t sell too good compared to a real crop.

This was a good ole boy farmer and if I’d been thinking I would have gotten his number and maybe even planned on heading to his farm that evening, but you know, quick thinking has never been my strong suit. Seriously.

Before I left I had to get one of those good looking ripe peaches to snack on. When I took it to the counter, the young fella told me I could have it. Life is good. It was a good peach too, especially after I washed it off with ice cold water.

So, that about wraps up the day. I rode through some hot weather and climbed some monster hills. My last hill of the day was right after I passed the main entrance to Buckhorn State Park. I cleared that hill, came down fast and then it was right back up another one. I had ambitiously decided that I was going to make it to Boonseville that evening, which was ridiculous because rather than the 18 miles I thought it would take I was actually 24 miles and I was already plumb worn out, but I didn’t know it yet. On my way up that second hill, I saw a strange looking building and heard some singing coming out of it that sounded real good and I kind of knew right off that it wasn’t just a stereo, it was real live music. I kept going up the hill when I saw a sign that said Gay’s Creek Full Gospel Church, services on Friday, Saturday and Sunday. That kind of got my attention so I spun around and listened in a little and the music was good, real good.

You know, it’s funny because I had been thinking for several minutes about the church I would be attending the next day in Boonesville. I was planning on staying at the Methodist hostel and going to their church, and I had been pondering when, where and how I might address a church at some point on this trip, because I have felt that somewhere along the road I’ll be called to tell my story.

Right as I’m thinking about church, one pops up out of nowhere and it’s open and active at 6:30 on a Saturday night. I park my bike and start rummaging around for my recording equipment because I know that I want to keep a memory of this. Right then a kid I noticed sitting on a porch right down the road kind of starts meandering around and I call to him asking him if he thinks its all right to go in the church. He says yes, I ask his name and he utters Jordan.

When I walk in, the place looks pretty good. It’s a pretty full house, the building is long, straight and windowless, filled with pews which are in turn filled with people, some standing, some sitting, but all straight out of Kentucky. And I’m a pretty odd sight to them, but I get a few smiles and welcoming looks so I scoot down into a side pew and turn on my recorder. The first song, that I only got a portion of, was the best song of the evening.

It’s difficult to describe the music, but it was unmistakably mountain music. The band at the front of the room had a ton of people. There was a dobro player, about 5 guitars, base guitar, and organist. The night’s program was straight up praise songs until 9 PM. Everyone in the church could sing at least one song, so one by one they came up and sang, with the band carrying them along, and two or three people singing support. It was fantastic and strange, just the way life ought to be.

This entry was posted on 7/2/2006 12:35 PM

COMMENTS

• 7/3/2006 12:18 PM michelle blackwood wrote:
  Hi Justin,
  I have been reading your blog as you go - it is great! It is a great lunch hour escape from work and brings back lots of good memories from our trip in 1976. Your decision to take a laptop was a good one and I hope your trailer is doing well. I remember Pippa Passes well. We stopped at the school (it has burned down?) and spent the night there. A family (possibly the same family you met?) cooked us this incredible breakfast the next morning with eggs, biscuits, and I don't even remember everything else and charged something like a dollar for it! And they were wonderful people to meet and visit with. Like you say, riding a bike is one of the best conversation ice-breakers.
  
  Your description of eastern Kentucky sounds like how I would have descibed it in 1976 - poor, lots of steep ups and downs and I remember narrow roads with coal trucks. When Ken and I rode through, we were getting stronger every day, but were still glad to see the country open up and get flatter just east of Berea.
  
  Happy 4th of July (tomorrow) and keep enjoying the trip. I am thinking about you every day and wondering how things are going. Also, love your website - really a neat and organized piece of work.
  
  Michelle Blackwood

Man of Character PHOTOS

Charles Kennedy and Alona



The FIRETOWER



Charles's home as seen from atop the firetower.



The Great Channels

Man of Character

Charles Kennedy was described to me as a character, so I knew right off I wanted to meet him. About all I knew was that he lived way up at the top of a mountain and that he grew mushrooms and medicinal herbs. That was enough. He sounded pretty interesting.

Getting to Charles was no small feat. Charles place was only about 18 miles away at a place called Hayter’s Gap, but this gap sat at about 3,100 feet and his house was another 1,000 feet above at the top of Powell Mountain. The ride out was pretty. As I wound up the hill, out of town, there were folks hanging around on their front porch and lots of little side gardens going.

When I reached the gap I was determined to power it all the way up to Charles’ house. It was a noble effort, but I finally had to do something I swore I wouldn’t. I got off and walked my bike.

Charles was in a small field on the mountainside tilling weeds when I arrived. I parked my bike, relieved to be done for the day, despite the short distance covered. Charles was a large, strong man, in his mid ‘50’s, with a great peace and calm to him. His short silver hair, slightly receded, created a contrast with his golden skin and blue eyes. Once he spotted me he turned the tiller off, and in a about five minutes we were fast friends.

We discovered that we both hailed from Alabama, had spent some quality time in the Bankhead Forest (he had me licked on this account) and shared some mutual friends (a strong environmental advocate of the National Forest who founded the magazine Wild Alabama). Charles also had a large snake tattooed on his chest that ran from his navel clear to his neck. As we talked we discovered that we also had a common love for Native American tradition and ceremony.

Charles explained the layout of the place and encouraged me to roam about a bit while he finished the days work. He had built two houses atop the mountain, one for him and his lovely wife Alona who is from the Phillipines, and a guest lodge that they rent to weekend travelers. A number of campsites dot the mountaintop and he directed me toward the bathhouse where they kept two hummingbird feeders. The side of the house was literally buzzing with hummingbirds, 15-20 of them coming and going filling the atmosphere with magic.

Before the sun went down, we trekked into the woods for my first lesson in wild mushrooms. Charles has been studying wild mushrooms for the eight years since he moved to this property. He pointed out turkey tails, and described it one the best natural medicines in the woods. When steeped as a tea it can be taken for diabetes, high blood pressure and other disorders. Then, thanks to the late afternoon shower, we find tonight’s dinner, chicken mushroom. Bright orange with a white underbelly, the mushroom resembles cauliflower in its appearance.

Throughout our wanderings, Charles described how he had come to live on this property and the battle he had been fighting ever since. Shortly after purchasing the 150 acres he discovered that the surrounding land owner was a pallatte company that planned to cut all the timber below him and then develop the hillside into a subdivision of getaway homes. No place is safe from such schemes. Charles was alarmed but he had two tools in his pocket. The company needed his right of way to access the property and he wasn’t going to give it to them and on the next ridge there was a geologic formation that was completely unique in Virginia.

The mountain was constructed of sandstone, the remnants of an ancient coast that sat upon this area over 240 million years ago. As the uplifting of the mountains occurred and water and erosion began to carve through the sedimentary rock, great chasms began to form what are now 50 foot tall beautifully carved walls of sandstone. The formations are known as the Great Channels and are breathtaking in their beauty and power.

Charles began a public awareness campaign to bring the plight of the Great Channels to the people. The Nature Conservancy had attempted once before to purchase the property and failed. During the struggle Charles received death threats, gun shots and was even assaulted. His determination to protect this land was unrelenting.

When Charles was born he was diagnosed with a rare blood disease that gives him absolutely no immune system for about 10 days of every month. As a result he was smaller and less athletic than other boys growing up. His family loved the woods and he took to it like a fish to water. His Croation school teacher really understood what Charles was going through and had picked out a book to read to the class that she thought Charles would enjoy. The book was an action adventure set on a mountain top and involved a fire tower. The book changed his life, and he loved fire towers from that time on.

During the middle of his fight for the mountain, Charles came to know a local well-loved community columnist named Jack Kentsler who was in his ‘80’s. The two became fast friends. Jack mentioned to him one day that he had written a book in his younger days that described the mountain and the Great Channels and would he like to read it. Charles said he would and borrowed the book. He was in the height of his battle, he and Alona were facing bankruptcy with legal fees, and the company had pressured them to the breaking point to sell out.

After holding onto the book for three days, he cracked it open and three pages into it he realized, this was the book that he changed his life as a young boy. In the front of the book was a map detailing the locations of the story. The map was of the Great Channels, Powell Mountain, and the fire tower. As Charles told me this story, he points his finger to the next ridge and says, "That’s the firetower."

Upon the discovery, chills went up and down his spine. Imagine the likelihood of ending up on the very mountain that had touched him as a child. The discovery bolstered his resolve to protect the lands.

Today, the Great Channels are owned by the Nature Conservancy and Charles Kennedy was the man responsible for their protection. Whether you believe in God, karma, fate or coincidence, one thing is sure, the world design intended Charles to come back and save the place that had saved him.

Before I left I told Charles how much I admired him. He gave me a big bear hug. "I haven’t had that type of fight that truly tests my resolve and commitment but if I ever do I’m going to remember you," I told him before pulling off down the hill. After leaving, I went and spent the afternoon at the Great Channels.

This entry was posted on 6/30/2006 9:22 AM

Life is Simple

Tom and Denise Peterson have been journeymen farmers for 25 years. The concept is somewhat of a new one to me, but from the very beginning of their relationship, they have worked, lived, and raised their family on the farms of others. After extended stays in Vermont and Illinois, they decided to look for a place to settle in western Virginia. They loved the Appalachians, were envious of the extended growing season in the south, and wanted to be closer to family now that they had kids. In looking for a place to move, they decided to put a small advertisement in the newsletter of the Virginia Association of Biological Farming, telling people who they were and that they were looking for work. The ad appeared right next to an announcement for a position with Appalachian Sustainable Development (ASD), an organization dedicated to developing markets for sustainable farm and wood products, and providing technical assistance to the producers. Fate is a wonderful thing, and after meeting the organization’s founder Anthony Flaccavento, Tom was hired as their first agricultural coordinator. Shortly thereafter, the family moved to the small town of Abingdon.

They now live in an 1876 farmhouse, known locally as the old Walden house. The house has a notorious history amongst the old timers. At one time about 60 years ago, the home’s owner, Mr. Maddox came home one day and killed his entire family before taking his own life. When the Peterson’s first moved in six years ago, their twin sons, who were six at the time, would occasionally catch a brief glimpse of a sad old man walking around the house. Denise too has caught glimpses of a young girl sitting up stairs staring out the window. Tom finds it a bit spooky that his wife and children have such interactions with the supernatural, as seeing ghosts are apparently not part of his repertoire of talents. The general consensus in the community however, is that the Peterson’s have brought a calm and a joy to the corner house, not felt there for years.

I had met Tom the day before during a visit to Anthony’s farm, the director and founder of Appalachian Sustainable Development. ASD was hosting a Sunday afternoon organic farm tour and the crowd of about seventy-five was impressively large, and diverse, with a number of traditional farmers in the mix. Southwest Virginia, not unlike much of country, is struggling to keep family’s farming. With the bottom dropping out of the tobacco market, and federal allotments being cut by as much as 90%, farmers are looking for alternatives for survival. What Anthony and Tom and the rest of ASD have accomplished is no small feat. The organization provides the link between producers and new markets and has generated a growing demand for locally produced foods at small and large retail outlets throughout the state and beyond. Though organized as a non-profit, ASD operates under an unconventional, entrepreneurial mentality. By making decisions as a business they have created a “middleman with integrity” that helps producers centralize their resources for grading, packing, shipping, and marketing. 38 organic growers now package under one brand call Appalachian Harvest, gaining access to gigantic supermarket chains such as Food City and Whole Foods. They now direct market to consumers, informing them about the farmers and the practices gone into growing the food with written materials available right in the supermarket. The more personal approach sells, and many of the large supermarkets are now mimicking the technique.

When I first arrived at Tom and Denise’s house, I immediately felt at home. They had guests enjoying themselves at stools in the kitchen while Tom cooked potato and corn chowder. One of their friends, Kirsty Zahnke, had just finished giving Denise a massage, as part of her homework for massage school. Denise had a glow on her face, relaxed and happy. Kirsty was also one of the farmers in the Sustainable Harvest network and had returned to her family’s farm after many years abroad to make a go of sustainable farming. She and her parents are English, and somehow settled in Big Stone Gap, a once affluent community deep in the heart of Appalachia coal country. A quite charming woman, (something about an English accent in rural Appalachia makes one charming), Kirsty was strong as an ox both physically and mentally. She possessed an absolute passion and commitment to food, sustainability, the environment and education. She had returned to the farm three years prior and was growing sheep, pastured poultry, and preparing a Devon cow for milking.

The evening was the first of my trip where I not only felt completely at ease (I have been fortunate to find that feeling more often than I would have expected), but also in the company of fellow soul mates. These were people who yearned for doing simple but vitally important things that would improve people’s lives, communities, and surroundings.

The evening came into focus when we discussed how the spirit of community is such a small and simple thing. “Life is pretty simple,” said Tom. “You eat, you breathe, and you die.” Each individual develops a vision of how they want that to happen, and for Tom and Denise the question is “who do you touch in the process?” “That’s what we’re trying to do here. That’s why we have people come over to the house to pick up their produce, because they don’t just come by and grab it and leave, they hang around, their kids jump on the trampoline, they see how we grow the food, and we talk or play some music.” Such a lifestyle was at once as appealing as it was foreign. I was instantly aware of the distance between neighbors in modern society, because the ties and the talents that bind us have been replaced with outside goods.

“In modern society, everything is provided for us,” Tom states and that makes us disconnected from one another. He mentions a friend who had visited an island in Greece where everyone wore shoes made on that island. The people were proud of their shoes because they were good quality and someone from their community was making them. You could actually go and watch them make the shoes. And it’s a skill, it’s an art.

The most fascinating thing about Tom and Denise as we stayed up past 11 pm, pretty late for farmers, talking about our search for community, is that their vision was still out there in the future somewhere and they were still working to attain it. Tom spent his day’s trying to find struggling farmers who were willing to risk the transition from conventional producer on a glutted industrial market, to becoming an organic or sustainable producer selling to local people within a few hundred miles who would read about his farm and have a picture of him in their minds as they ate his veggies.

Interestingly, when I mentioned my wonderful trip to Monticello and discussed Thomas Jefferson, one of Tom’s heroes, we realized that Jefferson too was an imperfect visionary with a similar dilemma. He nurtured the establishment of a nation, but the backbone and integrity of that nation required so much more effort. The work of visionaries is never complete. As recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize and famed theologian Albert Schweitzer once stated, “Example is not the main thing in influencing others. It is the only thing.” The Petersons are a beautiful example of how to live, and one I’ll not soon forget.

COMMENTS
6/30/2006 2:43 PM Anna wrote:
Something is wrong with your last post...lots of code mixed in?? Anyhoo, I mentioned to my friend Bryce, a farmer in Berea, that you'll be travelling through. He'd be happy to have you come by. His website, with contact info, is:
http://www.stewardsoftheland.com/
Too bad it's so damn hot out there!

Reply to this 7/2/2006 12:26 PM Justin Ellis wrote:
Thanks Gal,

I know. I can't simply cut and paste or I get jargon. Ah, nothing is simple after all.

Hey thanks for the tip. I'll give your friend a shout. I love connections like this. Thanks for the help...again.

All my best,

--Justin

Thoughts during my Hungry Man breakfast

(The following article will be submitted to the Roanoke Times for publication)

On the advice of a resident of Troutville, I pedaled my bike down the road a piece to Nannie’s Market in Botetourt County, Virginia where I’m waiting for my Hungry Man breakfast of scrambled eggs, tenderloin pork, potatoes and pancakes, for which I paid under $5.



On my way outside to enjoy the crisp, cool morning air, I spot the headline article for the local paper, the Fincastle Herald; “Botetourt’s fledgling wine industry sours over new law that limits how vineyards can distribute their wines.” The article is a fascinating example of how ridiculous the challenges facing the modern day small farmer in today’s world.

Virginia’s wine industry has rapidly grown to become the fastest growing sector of the agricultural industry in the state. Such success often inspires increased regulation and the Virginia General Assembly recently passed a law, which takes effect July 1, prohibiting wine makers from selling directly to retail stores or over the internet.

Vineyards and winemakers will now have to sell to middlemen distributors, who may or may not choose to distribute to local stores in the very community in which the wine is crafted. Farmers and wine makers have been cut out of the loop on how to market their own products. The result of such laws is to further the disconnection between consumer and farmer while disjointing communities from the very goods that sustain them.

Farmers have been plagued with such nonsensical decisions for decades now. Grandma Jones hasn’t been able to go out and pick apples, bake them into a delicious pie and sell the pie to you at the country store for some time. Such a delicate operation requires a USDA certified kitchen in a separate unit from your residence. At least regulated kitchen inspections have some notion, however contrary and misguided, of protecting public health. Virginia’s new wine distribution laws benefit no one except the distributors.

Though I am unfamiliar with the detailed history of this new distribution law; who was for it, who was against it, and how it was passed; the effects of this new regulation will begin to take shape almost immediately. The communities that are home to these wineries will never have the ability to be as supportive as they once were. Relationships that are distanced, become strained, or simply dissolve altogether. There is a big difference between a farmer dropping a case of wine off at the local country store, telling them how the grapes are doing, inviting them over for a wine tasting day, and asking how their family is doing, compared to a delivery guy for Milwaukee’s Best and Miller High Life who now delivers a case of wine from a winery right down the road which he knows nothing about. That winery might as well be in China. There is no longer that connection; to the winery, to the farmer, and most importantly, to the land.

Our elected officials, and to be honest most of the rest of us, no longer understand what agriculture is really all about. It’s about the relationships that we as individuals have with the land. Most of us don’t have the opportunity to actually see how the land is cultivated, to understand why this peach tastes so good, or how much effort has gone into raising this beef on grass only. When I walk into a country store, I want to be reminded of these things. I want the lady behind the counter to say, “You like cherries? Farmer Jim just brought these in today and they’re terrific.” Not only do I know that these cherries are going to taste better because they’ve been picked fresh from trees close to where I’m standing, I also now know something about who made them, what kind of person they are, and that I am helping to support them and the lands that produced this food, simply by making this purchase.

If I ever run into Farmer Jim, I can thank him, and he deserves to be thanked. Whether we know it or not, he and I have a relationship. His food and his lands nourish my body. Neither one of us need a bunch of Budweiser delivery people getting in the way of that.

--Justin

This entry was posted on 6/23/2006 5:05 PM

COMMENTS

• 6/25/2006 1:16 PM Rebekah wrote:
  Hello! I am Brent Beall's girlfriend, Rebekah. Brent sent me your shirt in the mail and told me about your project and website. Be careful out there and we will follow your journey.
  Reply to this
• 6/28/2006 1:48 AM Lauren wrote:
  Preach it brotha! I am so pleased that you are having such an awesome journey. I love you, miss you and think of you everyday.
  Reply to this

Day 14 - Natural Bridge to Buchanan ...on way to Troutville

OK. This is going to be a quick one, but my trusted friend demanded I post a blog everyday...which is impossible, but I'll try and do one as often as possible.

I have actually been writing extensively, but I frequently stop at these small town public libraries that don't have usb ports on their computers so I can't transfer my writing to a computer with internet. I've actually been quite suprised at how frequently I've been able to find wireless internet service. Even in some extraordinarily small towns they will have it. And lots of quirky restaurants have it now too. It's actually a great way to draw business because its one of the first things I ask when I arrive in town.

So I realize that I haven't posted that much yet about the farms I am visiting, but that is about to change. In the last couple of days I have really been exposed to some revolutionary thinking in the agricultural world, and I expect that it just might change the way you think about food.

I've also been hestitant to just throw my general thoughts out there before taking the time to refine them. I don't want to offer up revolutionary ideas in such a watered down...blog like way that they go in one ear and out the other.

I am beginning to feel very connected to food. I still stop and buy some trash along the road occassionaly, but I'm noticing some subtle changes. For one, I'm eating a lot more fruit, and every place that I go I try and find the most local variety available. Local is more important than organic. What is the point of organic apples from Venezuela. Shipped food is poorer quality food, and I'll go into detail on this point in the future.

Jefferson's cherries really did get into my head. I've also been reading more about our founding fathers. Benjamin Franklin, likewise, believed in the virtues of a farming lifestyle. He attributed a nation's wealth as coming from one of three sources. The first is outright robbery. Picture the Roman empire, and some of our earlier imperialistic endeavors. The second is commerce, which Franklin compared to cheating. He didn't go into the details, but we certainly live in a commercial society today. And thirdly, farming presents the only honest way to develop wealth, in that it is directly related to the seed you sow. It is a miracle of nature and a blessing by God that the Earth is made in such a way that by working to care and understand the land you can increase its bounty.

There was a respect that these great men had not only for the land, but for the men who made their living from it. Where has that respect gone....because it is certainly gone. Name for me a farmer that you respect and why. I hope that you can name ten, but you probably don't even know ten.

Well the Buchanan library has just turned off their lights and I have 15 miles yet to ride today.

The trip is starting to get interesting.

This entry was posted on 6/22/2006 5:43 PM

Polyface Farms - Swoope, VA - Days 12 and 13

Joel Salatin is a Paul Bunyan looking character. Thick as a tree trunk across the chest, he walks, talks, and guffaws in a big way. I first met Joel less than a week ago when I attended the Farm, Food Voices program at West Albemarle high school. Joel was the MC for the night and was dressed in khaki’s and a sport coat. Joel is a difficult man to place. He doesn’t really look like anybody you’ve met before. He wears glasses and has a real attentive look about him, and so in some ways he struck me as slightly nerdy, in a Brad McLane sort of way (sorry Brad…if you’re reading this).

When I arrived at Polyface farms, late, around 8:30 (this seems to be a popular time for me to arrive), I was slightly surprised at the man who came to greet me. The farm itself didn’t strike me with wonder. The white house with red shutters was a fairly standard looking farmhouse, somewhat flat on the front, no porch, not much of entrance. The walk up to the house was grass with a little gravel before you got to the concrete.

Before walking up to the main house I heard some flapping sounds coming from the barn and I thought I might find someone there. A stretch of the legs after a good long ride is always a good idea anyway so I moseyed over to see if there was still some work to do. I typically like to dive right in to whatever is going on. It reduces the necessity for trivial congenialities.

The barn also didn’t look like anything particularly special. It was a rather large barn, open air, filled with hay on the front two sides, with a clear path through the middle. I walked in and began suspecting that the noise was nothing more than animals feeding. Turned out, that was a good guess because on the backside of the barn were maybe 20 pigs in a pen. They scooted a little when they saw me and then came right up to the fence sticking their ginormous wet noses out wanting attention, food, or possibly conversation. The flapping noise was a plastic door on the feeder that they pushed up with their heads and then closed behind them.

OK, that’s enough snooping around. I headed back to the house. Dusk was settling in good. I rang the bell and Teresa came to greet me. “You must be the fella who’s riding his bike.” “That’s me,” I said. Joel came right behind her, and that’s when I first saw the real Joel. Wearing a t-shirt covered with dirt and sweat, and jeans equally dirty, Joel looked like one might think of a farmer looking; one who had been working real hard all day. They came out onto the small little porch and talked about what it’s like to ride your bike across the country. Joel was real curious, and quite amazed by the whole thing. We chatted for about 20 minutes or so and I asked them where I should pitch my tent.

“Well, you’re welcome to camp anywhere you’d like, but you might be most comfortable at our haybarn. It’s got potable water and you could sleep right on the hay if you’d like.” They both agreed if it was them, they’d rather sleep on hay than in a tent. These were the real deal farmers right here. Neither one had probably spent much time camping, was my guess.

It was getting late, I was tired, they were tired, and from the sound of it, it was going to be a busy day. I gave Joel my general plan, I would work all the next day, stay again that night, and then set off the following day. We now had an arrangement and a plan, so I pedaled on down the dark gravel rode and immediately got lost. When you’re tired, and its dark, and you’re pedaling around dragging 60 pounds worth of gear, getting lost is no fun. There came a point in the road where there were three to four options. I took one, and it just didn’t seem to be going anywhere. He had said that I would pass his son Daniel’s house. I could sort of see a house through the woods, on the other road. I backtracked and drug my sad tired bones up the hill. The nightlife was impressive. Lots of frogs, beautiful sky. I considered sleeping in the hay, but remembered how sick I had gotten as a kid on a hay ride with Dawson Memorial Baptist church. They loaded up a bunch of kids and hay in the back of a Tractor Trailer and then left us to our own devices. Hay was getting kicked up everywhere. That was my first memory of going home, blowing my nose and having dark black boogers. I didn’t want to risk being allergic to hay and ending up worthless on my first day on the farm.

I pitched my tent in front of the barn where loose hay had piled up making it nice and soft. I hadn’t eaten yet and also hadn’t bought any extra food so I had two big bowls of oatmeal with fresh granola sprinkled on top. I was gonna need my strength the next day.

Morning chores start at sun up, and that means 6 AM. I awoke about 5 till 6 and then had to get dressed, put contacts in, wash my hair, and move the tent. I knew it would be in the way later that day. By 6:30 I arrived at the pastured poultry fields.

So before I continue I should mention that I know a little bit about poultry. In addition to living in a poultry raising community for 3 and half years, I was fortunate to have gained some rather unique experience working for an industrial poultry business for the four months prior to my bike ride. So I understand the basics of conventional poultry pretty well. When I had mentioned to Joel the night before my familiarity with broiler houses, he had corrected me saying, “Now these aren’t houses. These are pens. Everything here is going to be completely different.”

Pastured poultry is a fascinating concept. So most people envision what they hear called free range chickens and they think a huge field with some fences with the chickens all spread out across green grass. I hope to go to some actual free range farms at some point, and I doubt it will look anything like this. In fact, USDA regulations only call for free range chickens to have some kind of access to the outdoors. So that means they can be kept in a 50 by 500 square foot building with a six foot opening to the outdoors, and that’s considered free range. Congratulations America, you’ve been bamboozled yet again.

Pastured poultry is not free range chickens. The chickens are instead kept in manufactured pens that are 8x12 feet square and about 1.5 feet tall. The pen is constructed of wood, tin and chicken wire, with ¾ of the square covered to protect the birds from the elements and predators, and chicken wire along the sides of the front half, and on the roof of the last 1/4. At the front of the pen, a bucket of water is attached to a tube leading to a red drinker, dangling inside the cage. The birds have to have constant access to water. Each pen also has a feeder trough that’s filled with mashed corn and soybean feed. And that’s it. Only, each of these pens holds about 75 birds, and the Salatin’s have about 30 pens. That’s 2,250 birds. Although a fraction of what one typical conventional poultry house grows (those houses can contain as many as 10,000 birds), these birds live their entire lives outdoors, and on grass. And that’s the difference.

Joel is a grass lover.

Every morning, the field hands, which consist of Joel’s son Daniel, and two interns, Nathan and Jordan, go out and place each pen on a dolly, and roll that pen off of yesterdays patch of grass that has been defecated upon, and onto fresh, new, green pasture. The pens are staggered in a z pattern so that each pen is pulled onto fresh pasture. In this way, the animals are kept healthy by being rotated to fresh pasture, and then the nitrogen from the litter is applied directly to the field.

We spent the morning filling water buckets and feed trays, and moving the pens the 10 feet forward to fresh pasture. Poultry are omnivores and they also eat bugs. Though not a considerable part of their diet, they do, no doubt find bugs in the grass.

The major preoccupation of conversation during the morning chores is how to deal with predators. A number of chickens had been killed during the night and I was curious what varmint was responsible. I expected a fox or a coyote. Surprisingly, the responsible party was a raccoon. Unable to actually extract the chickens from the cages, they simply sneak up to the cage and grab one through the chicken wire, whereupon they pull whatever part they can through the fencing, gnawing away at it, leaving the rest to waste.

There were two types of chickens kept in the pens. One was the standard variety used by the poultry industry, a white bird. I will have to request the name. The other was a black chicken, that they referred to as pullets, which typically expresses the early development stage of laying hens.



This is a photo of turkeys in an electric feather net at dawn

We finished the morning chores and headed in for breakfast around 8 AM. I met Joel and Teresa inside. Breakfast is a big deal on the farm, its an opportunity for Joel to catch up on phone calls, read the morning paper, chat with Teresa and the kids, and load up on plenty of fuel for the days occupations. I quickly came to realize that it is also Joel’s favorite time to talk. He is fresh and invigorated after a good nights sleep followed by the full circulation induced by the morning chores. Breakfast consisted of Polyface farms sausage and eggs, and fresh milk from a dairy down the road (milk is a staple product on a farm). There was some moist, dark sweet bread as well. With little provocation from me, Joel began an unforgettable discourse on the principles of his farm, and how they fit into his overall world view.

He began by laying a foundation for his philosophy and pointed out the ironies inherent to being an environmentalist, a Christian, a libertarian, and a capitalist. Polyface Farm is a livestock operation, pure and simple. They raise beef, pork and chicken and that’s about it. What makes their farm different is that the perennial grasses of the landscape are at the heart of the operation. He points out some important things to recognize when considering the ecological background of cattle. Firstly, they’re herbivores. If you observe herbivores in the natural environment, they graze intensely in one area, then migrate to a new area and graze there. Two things are accomplished, they don’t stay in areas they have contaminated with their own wastes, and they are always grazing fresh grasses, while allowing previously grazed areas to recover. Secondly, they are herding animals.

I’ll pick this stream up and tell you more about my Polyface adventure…soon. There is a lot, lot, lot more to tell.

This entry was posted on 6/21/2006 5:23 PM

Pictures from Polyface

My experience at Polyface Farms was incredibly rich and opened my eyes to the true potential of farming.

I hope to write more extensively on the experience, but in the meantime wanted to go ahead and share some interesting photos.



One of the Polyface interns, Jordan, shares the morning chores with the youngest working Salatin at Polyface farms, Travis.



Daniel, Joel's son, showed me the potential of the next generation in carrying on the farming tradition with strength, pride, knowledge, understanding, and an overall farm ethic. Daniel has operated his own part of the business, raising rabbits for meat, since he was 7 years old. As he dressed rabbits he described how all social movements begin with about 1% of the population considered "the fringe" who, after many years of hard work, influence another 9% of the population, and it is that combined 10% that then influences the world and the movement becomes mainstream. The effort to support locally produced foods is still in that fringe margin.



So this is what pastured poultry looks like and believe me, this makes conventional practices seem.....industrailized. These pens are moved every day so that the birds are on fresh grass, not living in their own excrement, and receiving fresh air and sunlight. And anyone who knows will tell you, happier birds make healthier birds, and healthier birds taste better. This system is so simple, yet so brilliant in its conception that I plan to devote much time to it in the future.



This is the egg mobile. That's right, even the layers are mobile so that the litter is spread around, and again, the birds are always on fresh grass. Neat huh.



Inside view of the egg mobile. The birds are of course free to come and go as they choose. Notice the slats to allow the droppings to fall to the grass below. The bins are where the birds lay their eggs.



These are cute little pigs. One day they will be delicious bacon, but in the meantime they will live sunny, happy lives. I'll describe the sustainable way that Polyface does this in the future.

This entry was posted on 6/21/2006 11:02 PM

COMMENTS

• 8/10/2006 9:49 PM vicki pense wrote:
  Wow! I just found this place with all the photos from polyface. I'm really enjoying it and now I will look at all the rest - as time permits that is! Happy travelling

Day 11 - From Monticello to the Cookie Lady

Eating Cherries at Monticello

In nine days of bike touring one phrase has come out of my mouth again and again. “This is the best decision I’ve ever made in my life.” My every day is an adventure unto itself, each place worth describing, and each encounter worthy of an article, a chapter, something to allow the awe to settle into wisdom. And yet, there isn’t much time for reflection. Something big is right around the next bend in the road.

At the bike level, the world is a very different place. You are able to absorb the essence of your surroundings in a very unique way. All the sights, sounds and smells are connected and the changing world beneath your tires begins to feel like home. I have slept in forested parks, churches, civil war battlefields, homes, barns, and a cross country bicycling museum. I have spoken to vegetable and livestock farmers, farm managers, communal participants, book authors, survivalists, and people with hearts as big as houses. I’ve seen corn, wheat and soybeans fields, vegetable farms, peaches, wine grapes, goats, seed plants, and the gardens of Thomas Jefferson. I’ve ridden upon equipment that sprays fertilizer based on the chlorophyll content of the plants beneath it, harvested carrots and cabbage heads, pulled onions, washed turnips, filled orders for a community supported agriculture operation (CSA), scrubbed the communal dishes, and attended meetings hosted by farm organizations promoting local farming.

Of the farms I’ve visited, one was once owned by the very first man to ever apply limestone to his fields; a true agricultural pioneer. A small family farm further west was started from scratch just eight years ago as a way to instill a strong work ethic and “the value of a dollar” into their kids. Their once poor clay soils now yield a growing bounty for the weekend farmer’s markets, and the kids receive five percent of the day’s earnings. Further still, an egalitarian alternative community (yes, they’re still out there) operates the most successful organic seed business in the southeast. And, as a great example of how wealth and community ideals are influencing agriculture, famous singer, songwriter Dave Matthews is reutilizing some of the best lands south of Charlottesville to feed over 160 families organic produce.

In the midst of all of this, I’ve learned a few things about bicycle touring. 1) Don’t go too fast, but don’t dawdle; 2) At least part of every day is going to be intensely frustrating; and 3) The single biggest challenge is trying not to lose your stuff along the way. Most importantly, there is no such thing as writing too much or taking too many pictures.

I have arrived in the Shenandoah Mountains, and the most grueling part of the entire 4500 mile journey is about to begin. To strengthen my constitution, I am refueling at the home of June Curry, the Cookie Lady, the most famed supporter of bike tourers anywhere in the world. For three decades June has opened up her guest house for traveling bicyclists to stay for free, and today it is filled from top to bottom with postcards, photographs, newspaper articles, and other memorabilia commemorating these adventures and thanking June for her unending generous spirit. I arrived after 8 pm with only a smattering of daylight remaining. As it appeared I would be the only one visiting that evening, I went to ring June’s buzzer. June is the kind of person that you just know instantly. With a twinkle in her eye she invited me in, and for the next hour we exchanged our histories at a lightning sharp pace.

Though she is 85, June tends to the house and greets each biker herself, and until recently would meet them at the road with a plate full of cookies. Her sense of humor and energy are contagious. Her self adopted role as the un-official historian of Afton, VA has been a recent, rising passion. June remembers the good ole days of Afton in vivd detail. In the 1920’s the Afton area was the fourth largest shipping locale in the state for fresh fruit. Each week farmers for miles around would travel by wagon, carrying barrels filled with apples and peaches. In the ‘20’s, Afton had one of the only train routes that cut right through the center of the mountains. The Afton hotel was bustling with visitors coming to escape to the cool, clean air of the mountains.

June’s history comes to life in a rather unique fashion. On her coffee table in the living room, she has built a miniature replica of Afton as it was during her youth, from the cooper building (where they make barrels) to the duck pond where she and friends would ice skate during the winter.

June is a good example of the quality of people I am not just meeting, but learning from, as I pedal across this fascinating state. People with vision and passion do in fact change the world, and they often do so simply by making an impression on the people they encounter.

Just a few days before, I decided to pay a visit to Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello (which means “little mountain” in Italian). Jefferson’s plantation, and lifelong experiment sat at the edge of the western frontier in the mid 1700’s. His home is a good stop for a tour examining farmland as his agrarian vision for the country was implicit in his philosophy, writings, and in his own farming. Jefferson believed that “Those who labour in the earth are the chosen people of God, if ever he had a chosen people, whose breasts he has made his peculiar deposit for substantial and genuine virtue,” Jefferson believed that farmers were able to intuit the laws of God by observing the laws of nature and that by the very nature of their work, became resourceful, neighborly, free thinking, inquisitive, and independent. He contrasts this condition with that of the manufacturer, who by operating as a
specialized yet faceless cog, becomes dependent, subservient, and susceptible to the designs of ambition.

Such heedy thoughts lingered distantly in my mind as I walked President Jefferson’s southern orchards. The grounds were closed, the plantation was empty, and as the sun settled behind the hill, I was enjoying myself on his Montmorency cherries. Fruit trees can offer a permanent reminder of the bounty inherent in the wise planning of a farm. The seeds of Jefferson’s vision still exist today, in every one of those cherries.

This entry was posted on 6/19/2006 3:21 PM

COMMENTS

• 6/19/2006 3:57 PM Kit wrote:
  Justin,
  These entries are great.
  Keep it up.
  
  
• 6/19/2006 7:50 PM Sherri wrote:
  The kids and I enjoy reading about your journey. Have fun.
  
  
• 6/20/2006 9:15 AM Lee and MC wrote:
  Great stuff, Justin! Keep it up, be safe, learn, and most of all- have fun!
  Lee & MC
  
  
• 6/21/2006 8:45 AM Anna wrote:
  Your blog is wonderful...Sounds like you are orbiting more closely to The Center than usual, you know what I mean!!!? Wonderful, just wonderful.
  I took the youth group to Heifer International's ranch in Arkansas last week. I mostly worked in the CSA garden...I orbited with the ladybugs for a while. Happy travels, old man.

Best of What's Around - Scottsville, Virginia

Last names are obsolete during this trip. Even though Eliza picked me up in downtown Charlottesville, helped me load my bike in her truck, carried me to the “Food Farm Voices” meeting at West Ablemarle High School, then let me crash out at her farm house, then today got up at 6:30 AM, began working at 7, and now it’s 6:15 PM and I’m sitting here on her couch before we shower and go out to downtown Charlottesville for the night, we are still on a first name basis.

Eliza is the heart of the Best of What’s Around Farm. This farm has its own unique place in the spectrum of types of farms. This type fits quite well with the Charlottesville community. One of the first surprises was that the farm is owned by Dave Matthews, as in The Dave Matthews Band. The story is that the University of Virginia was given this 1200 acre parcel as a gift. Not being a land grant university, they were at a loss with what to do with such a large parcel of agricultural land, so four years ago they sold it and Dave Matthews snatched it up. Given the lands agricultural roots he was interested in seeing a small organic operation utilizing the existing farm infrastructure.

Eliza’s family has been friends with the Matthews for years, and had some prior experience on farms working for the family of Nina Planck on a farm on Virginia’s eastern shore. As the on the farm manager, she is doing a fantastic job. She’s quite young for both the responsibility and the degree of work. Her personality is low key, friendly, and calm.

Charlottesville is a fabulous town. The downtown mall is the most pedestrian and family oriented downtown I’ve encountered. The main street is paved in brick, and pedestrian only. Dozens of restaurants have tables and courtyards, each with its own character, lining the center of the street. We headed downtown for “Friday after 5,” a free concert hosted by the city every Friday in the summer. The place was packed. They had built a amphitheatre pavilion for concerts at the very end of the street. A salsa band was the entertainment.

After the show and a quick dinner, we headed to a reggae party. On the way there we exited a residential area into an incredibly dense wood on a long dark dirt road. The party was low key, and the reggae below average. Eliza must have been suspicious of their poor reggae taste because she asked me to bring my I-Pod. When we could bear it no longer, we bamboozled the sound system. At first I had to realize that picking danceable reggae songs from your I-Pod without the luxury of pre-screening is difficult. I don’t have the song names memorized, so it was kind of a guessing game. The party wanted to dance, not nod their head and praise Jah. Eliza came over and said, “You don’t necessarily have to play reggae.” I possess boogie tunes in abundance, and let fly.

It was a late night. The next morning Ken and I walked over to Teddy Roosevelt’s hunting lodge which sits on the property. It’s called Knotty Pine, presumably named for the knotty pine posts that support the porch. Unfortunately I didn’t carry a camera to photograph it…but there are lots and lots of President locales to visit in Virginia.

The Best of What’s Around gang had become fast and easy friends. They were young, energetic, enthusiastic, and passionate. Nothing about their farm was typical. For one, the owner wasn’t in a position where he had to derive income from the farm. This changes the entire context of their operation and how they make decisions.

That said, the fields were well managed, the vegetables in excellent condition, the farm, the buildings, and the operations, finely tuned. The young crew were welcoming, and professional and created a real community feel.

This is just a quick summary. I will elaborated in more detail and add some really nice pictures re: this visit soon.

This entry was posted on 6/16/2006 3:10 PM