Early one summer morning I was sipping coffee, looking out over the quiet garden. There, on top of the shed, was a Cooper's Hawk — a beautiful, long-tailed, orange-legged bird, not particularly common in the city, even nature-filled Seattle, where I live. I ran to get my binoculars, wishing my husband and daughter were awake to have a look. But then I stopped in my tracks. Cooper's Hawks are bird eaters, and that hawk was perched right above my innocent, six-week-old chickens! In a flash I morphed from “Urban Birder” to “Protector of the Flock.” I ran outside like Ma Ingalls, waving my arms, pink flannel pajamas dragging around my feet, and yelling "Bad hawk! Go away!" The bird threw me a cool glance before leaping into flight, and I scampered barefoot around the muddy coop yard, scooping up the girls to bring them into the kitchen for the day.

I have always been critical of farmers that bait “vermin” such as hawks, coyotes and cougars because of their perceived threat to livestock, and I still am. But since the Cooper’s Hawk incident my thinking has become more nuanced. What if I really was Ma Ingalls? What if I was raising chickens not just because I love to do it, but because I had to do it, because there was no other source of sustenance for my family? What if all this was true and I kept a shotgun over the door?
One of the motivations for modern homesteaders — urban or rural — is the deepening of our "connection to nature." The notion conjures a poetic warmth — we sow, we reap, we nurture our gardens with compost, we stand in rain, in sun, beneath clouds and moon. The seasons are made beautifully manifest from peas to pumpkin. But just as often, the brush with nature is of a much different sort.

This year, crows watched me plant my peas, then nimbly plucked the seeds up with their bills as soon as I left (evidently they could identify the exact place of each seed by the dark patch of freshly-turned earth above it).

Raccoons clawed several of the apples from my new little columnar trees. A mole lifted my young broccoli plants right out of the ground. Most horribly, one night several years ago I was feeling complacent and didn’t shut the chickens in the coop; a raccoon climbed the fence and left poor Beatrix, Iris and Opal nearly dead.
In his indispensable book, Living With Wildlife in the Pacific Northwest (which offers a great deal of insight no matter what your geographic region), Russell Link writes, "We love wild animals, or we hate them, depending on what they're doing." Our hearts lift at the robin's spring song, then in the summer they eat our strawberries.

Our modern homesteading efforts underscore the fact that our dwellings are, in large part, semi-permeable. In our everyday living, we cross into wild nature, and it crosses — distressingly sometimes — back. I truly believe that it is both a privilege and a joy to live alongside wild creatures in our urban homes. But to dwell thoughtfully alongside wildlife, we will have to tolerate some inconvenience, give up some control, allow some slight discomfort. We’ll have to call upon our own wild creativity. We’ll have to remember that when a raccoon gets a chicken, it’s our own dumb fault.

And so we put nets over the strawberries, shoo the crows, and lock the girls into their own little Chicken Guantanamo every night. We take our place in a richly more-than-human world with as much grace as we can muster, with occasional difficulty, and with an ever-deepening delight.

Pictured above: Crow-bill sized hole in the pea patch.  At least I knew right where to re-plant! Photo by Lyanda Haupt.

Lyanda Haupt is a Seattle-based author, naturalist, and backyard  homesteader/chicken keeper.  Her latest book is Crow Planet: Essential Wisdom from the Urban Wilderness and she blogs at The Tangled Nest.

I've been hurt by this farm. Really hurt. I've been bitten, butted, cut, scarred, and brought to tears from pain, stress and exhaustion. This happens over and over and I'm always alone. There are things I won't blog about because I don't want my mother to worry. There are things that happen that terrify me.

This year was the hardest yet. I planted my largest garden ever, raised the most animals, and took on more work and personal projects than any sane human being should. Now that the year is almost over, and the south side of October is days away, I can let out a long sigh and tell you it was all worth it. I found a balance in it all, kept my blinders on, and everything got done. The garden was tilled, weeded, and harvested. The two-week-old goat kid grew up into a spit-fire. The young birds are almost full-sized chickens now and the rabbit doe is due to bear kits any night. Yes, the hive was lost. And yes, I failed the sheepdog I once called my own, but you'll have this from time to time. And you and I don't have enough nights to list my faults. There are many, some are awful. Trust me.

If you read this blog and find it overly positive, dramatic, or analytical: that's because writing about my choices is my daily therapy. I don't see a shrink—I write to 40,000. Sharing my stories and photos on this blog is like a long exhalation. I depend on the people who read this because in the shower I lose count of the cuts and bruises and I want to know they belong to something bigger than my body. All things considered, I am quite small.

Some nights I barely fall asleep, isomniatic from worrying about the delicate balance that is my work life, family life and farm life. I am so grateful for Jazz, my old dog, who looks at me every day like the wise bodhisattva that he is and I will never be. A good dog can walk up to you, slowly, one paw in front of the other, and sit down next to you with great stillness. I feel him lean into me and I realize I'm not the only animal on this farm. I am never alone and it is bigger than us both. He rests and lets me scratch behind his ears and only when he knows I understand the world again, pads off. Jazz isn't my child and he isn't my pet either. He's a good dog. Nothing more.

For quite some time now, people without dogs seem broken to me.

I am a farmer without a farm, a shepherd without a sheepdog, and in love with this big, stupid world without a lover. That's fine. Sometimes I foolishly think everything would be better if I had a mortgage, a collie, and a man. But I know myself well enough to see the idiocy in such black-and-white thinking. I know better. We all know better. Maybe these things will come or maybe I'll be hit by space trash tomorrow. It really doesn't matter. It's the wanting that fuels us. It's the hope. That desire to attain the life you want, whatever it is, and to fold your ears back and run into the wind like you're in harness—is life. Cold Antler farm isn't a place—it is an idea. Knowing I want it means I am already home. Actually getting there, is moot.

Read more from Jenna at Cold Antler Farm 

Photo by JOANNA CHATTMAN

After a refreshingly cool, wet summer (for Kansas), many people are speculating about what winter will bring. Will it also be cooler than normal, with more snow? Will the weather continue to be mild?

You can try your grandma’s best folklore forecast, but picking up the 2010 Farmers’ Almanac will give you lots of other valuable information in addition to the long-term forecast. For example, do you know the answer to these questions?

What’s the gestation period of a goat?

What’s the average lifespan of a donkey?

What are the peak fall foliage dates in Ohio?

When is the Leonid meteor shower?

Can you lick your elbow? (OK, that’s probably not so useful, but it’s fun to know. There’s more to wise living, gardening and farming than simply knowing the facts.)

The Almanac is a bit of tradition mixed with lore, lots of fun facts and useful information. So, are you dying to know the answers to those questions? Scroll down.

Gestation period of a goat is 151 days.
The average lifespan of a donkey is 45 years.
Peak fall foliage dates in Ohio are October 8 through 24.
Most activity in the Leonid meteor shower will be November 17 and 18.
It’s impossible to lick your elbow.

PHOTO BY JENNA WOGINRICH

Will this turkey become Thanksgiving dinner?

Back in May when I was driving to pick up my spring chicks, I wasn't planning on also picking up dinner to-go. But when I arrived at the feed store I discovered I could go home with a free-range turkey dinner for five bucks. Well, if I wanted to raise my own that is...

Inside the brooder crates holding their chirping throngs there were a half-dozen random turkey poults for sale. They were orphans from an abandoned order and had no farmer to raise them. In an act of homesteader-impulse I took one of the broad breasted white poults home with my laying hens and goslings. The plan was to raise him along with the other birds, but unlike his egg-laying siblings, he would be for the holiday table. On the ride back to Cold Antler, I called my parents in Pennsylvania to announce that Thanksgiving Dinner was on me this year. Which is a weird call to get if your daughter is a vegetarian. But that's another story.

Raising a turkey turned out to be an easy and rewarding experience. Since it was the lone gobbler in my chicken coop, it seemed to get along fine with my flock. Some farmers warn never to mix your turkeys and other poultry together, and I suppose in larger numbers that is sound advice. But my little guy never showed any aggression or caused any problems in the henhouse. He lived out his summer as a free range yard bird, plodding behind the geese and chickens. Spending his nights in the safety of the coop on soft straw. I was proud to have him here on the farm, which generally only produces eggs, wool, and vegetables. And being able to hold a three-day-old poult in your palm in the spring, and then help pluck its feathers on harvest day in late October was a wholesome lesson in the source of one family's entree. It felt really good to know I was producing food for the holidays that lived such a great life. TD, as I came to name him (an abbreviation for his destiny) was a gentlemen to the end.

Alas, it didn't pan out. The turkey I raised won't be adorning my family's Thanksgiving table (there was some discomfort from some family members about eating someone they knew, and my offer was respectfully declined) but I did get to trade the 26-pound bird for an hour of private herding lessons with a sheepdog trainer. So TD not only helped teach me about raising a healthy meat bird, but in his own way taught me how to work with a border collie on a small herd of sheep. Which in my book is a hell of a trade, and that's a lot more than most people are getting from the Butterballs in their grocers’ freezer.

Jenna Woginrich  is the author of the forthcoming book, Made from Scratch: Discovering the Pleasures of a Handmade Life, from Storey Publishing. Want to hear more about Jenna's turkey? You can visit her blog at Cold Antler Farm or hear her talking turkey on NPR's Morning Edition here.

A few years ago, I lived on some acreage where I raised two pigs from weaner to slaughter size in about 5 months. I was amazed at how fast they were able to put on weight. The little pink critters went from 50 pounds in May when I acquired them to 300 pounds in October. 

It was a rewarding experience interacting with Hambone and Tenderloin. (Never give names like Daisy and Curly Tail to animals you intend to eventually serve for supper.) They would come up to the porch each day, along with the dogs, for their afternoon treat. It was also a very difficult experience raising the pigs - following through on having them slaughtered so we could have ham, bacon, sausage and pork chops in the freezer. We traded the meat from one hog for an equal amount of grass-fed beef that some friends raised on their mountain ranch.

Free-range pork is a wonderful taste experience and Hank Will, the editor of our sister publication Grit has taken on raising some Mulefoot hogs - listed as critical by the American Livestock Breeds Conservancy (ALBC) - that will both increase the continuation of the breed and supply his family with some good eating. Of course with faces this adorable, it is hard to know how they will be able to think of their little charges as hambone and tenderloin. For now, Hank and his wife just enjoy watching them root around in the dirt and take naps in the straw. Be sure to read Hank's blogs here and here. Watch the piggies enjoying breakfast, below.

Photo by Kate Will

So folks, I am finally a shepherd. After years of hype — the hooves have landed. Cold Antler Farm now hosts a small flock of Border Leicester/Romney crosses named Sal, Marvin and Maude. Their purpose is to teach me the basics of all things sheep. Under their watchful eyes I'll learn to trim hooves, birth lambs, and turn the wool on their backs into scarves around my neck. I'll know I made it in this world when I can go out on a beautiful crisp October morning and feed the sheep adorned in the fashions they sported last season. My goals are pretty simple people.

I'll also be using them to train a border collie to herd (a whole other world I can barely keep myself from diving into.) Since I'm getting into all this sheep business without farmhands or a fleet of ATVs, a working dog will be my saving grace when the flock gets too large for a girl with a stick to sort through. Hopefully by the time my future farm happens, he'll be revved and ready to go for some serious practical herding work. And while that future puppy isn't in my life just yet, I am on the lookout for strong herding lines in future litters all over America. With the help of mentors in the North East Border Collie Association — I'll find my sheepdog, train him, and before you know it be out in the trial fields, crook in one hand and lead in the other. Okay, so not all of my goals are simple.

So far, shepherding has already taught me some valuable lessons. Lessons like, sheep aren't the stupid animals people constantly tell me they are. (If you get sheep, expect to hear how dumb they are within 27.8 seconds of people finding out.) But regardless of the stereotypes, Marvin learned how to unhinge the gate and lead his flock to freedom in no time. (I'm not sure I would've figured out the gate that fast.) I’ve also learned about the heaviness of sheep hooves when they step on your feet, and that grain rustled about a coffee can start a stampede. I learned that taking a nap on a sunny afternoon out in the pasture with them can be a meditation on the all. But it’s a meditation grounded in reality, because if your siesta happens to be in the way of some good foraging, you'll be woken up by a cold snout nudging you out of the way.

My advice to any future shepherds out there is to do your homework. Before I had any woolies on the farm I did some serious research. I bought and read a small library of books, attended weekend workshops, visited shepherds and sheepdog trials, and talked with neighbors about the upcoming flock. Because of this I was prepared for some of the potential problems, and it insured a happier group of sheep when they finally arrived. I am in no way an expert, and have more to learn than I care to admit, but at least their shelter faces the right direction and their winter hay is stocked up in the garage. I know what it’s like to be excited and want to just jump in head first (trust me), but for the basic fairness for you and the animals, crack a book. But hey, if you find out a few farm visits later that sheep are for you too, I’ll see you in the fields!

Jenna Woginrich is the author of the forthcoming book,  Made from Scratch: Discovering the Pleasures of a Handmade Life, from Storey Publishing. Visit her Web site at coldantlerfarm.blogspot.com.

Tim Posey lived in a former barracks bought surplus from the U.S. Army at Fort Bliss, Texas, and moved a few miles into the dusty, unpaved village of Anapra, New Mexico in the late 1950s. Most of Tim’s 10 acres was devoted to his business – the Posey Trailer Park. But at the center of his property, surrounded by the trailers and the sand hills, Tim Posey’s homestead teemed with life. Milk goats bleated under a shed. Chickens scratched in the shade. Miraculously, two dozen kinds of vegetables sprung in abundance from the sand behind the horse stable. Past middle-aged, heavy and stiff with arthritis, Tim spent most of his time on a kitchen chair under one or another of the awnings he had built against his barns. He watched the animals, sharpened his tools and visited with his tenants when they stopped by. I remember him in dark sunglasses. I almost never saw him indoors.

I was 9 when Mr. Posey “hired” me. I lived a quarter-mile away with my family. The livestock and the garden drew me like magnets. Once I was certain he wouldn’t chase me off, I started spending nearly every spare moment there. He asked me if I wanted to learn how to milk the goats. Then he asked me if I was willing to do it every day. He paid me in produce, eggs and goat’s milk. My dad paid me cash for the food. It was my first job, and I loved it.

There are places on the continent more barren than the Chihuahuan desert, but not many. Creosote and mesquite bushes dot the sand hills. Most of the plants have spines or thorns. We called the surrounding landscape hills, but they were more like dunes. If you leave a junked car on the downwind side of a hill there, it will disappear under the sand in a few years or a few months, depending on the weather.

Mr. Posey boarded horses. He raised chickens, guineas, milk goats and honeybees.

I don’t know how long he had been moving manure from the chicken pens and horse corrals into the vegetable garden, but he had created a marvel there. Watermelons grew huge and dark green in the tangles of vines. On the ground between the rows of corn was a kind of moist wonderland of dappled light buzzing with insects.

It’s hard to describe the emotional impact of encountering all that life in the context of our garbage-strewn village in the middle of the desert. One person had taken a small piece of land, raked out the broken glass and old bleach bottles, added manure and created a small, earthly paradise. It captured my heart.

I helped Mr. Posey mix a potent fertilizer from chicken manure and water, a slurry that could be mixed with the irrigation water he pumped into the garden. I gathered the eggs. I milked the goats. I don’t remember many sweeter moments, in my life, than walking from my home to the goat pens in the cool early morning, smelling the creosote bushes, then the goats, then the sugary aroma of cracked corn and the warm, delicious odor of new milk. Sometimes we let the goats out into the open desert where they browsed blue gramma grass, mesquite beans and acacia leaves. I loved watching them shop among the plants for those they found most appetizing. The technical term for the way a goat eats is “browsing,” and it’s a perfectly accurate description. They are like shoppers in a supermarket, and even in the desert they seemed to find plenty of goods. While the goats were out of their pen and the gate left open, the chickens and guinea hens moved in and, scratching and clucking, found a feast of their own. I could never tell exactly what they were eating. They probably found scraps of grain and alfalfa, maybe tiny insects attracted by the animals and the manure.

From the chicken pen to the garden to the watermelon; from the mesquite beans to the goat’s udder to my breakfast cereal, I became an eye-witness to an alchemy that struck me then – and strikes me now – as magical.

I thought of Tim Posey as a sort of magician, a magus whose rituals of feed, fertilizer and irrigation catalyzed mystical transformations. I wanted to learn how to practice that magic.