Wild Westcoast Winter Weather

05 Saturday Jan 2019

Posted by in Farm Life, Seasons, Weather

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Barely two weeks into winter and two big weather events under our belts already!

It has been a wild one so far, with the worst windstorm in BC Hydro’s history battering the west coast on the eve of the winter solstice. Three quarters of a million of us lost power, some for more than two weeks, and over Christmas too. We were lucky here in our muddy valley, our lights stayed on and our well stayed online. We had no internet for a couple days, and no cable TV, but those were minor inconveniences. 

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A couple days after the windstorm, we drove 300 km up island to spend Christmas with family. We got lucky again, it only took three hours, not the 6.5 it had taken our kids the day before. The traffic lights were back on, thank you BC Hydro crews, but the highway corridor was still a war zone.

Both sides of the road and the centre line were green with fir needles, twigs and boughs. In some places, huge conifers lay every few feet all along the roadside, fallen soldiers with raw fresh-sawn stumps glowing rusty orange through the grey wintry gloom. Side roads were closed entirely.

From Boxing Day to the 29th of December, 96 straight hours of west coast misty rain lubricated the efforts of the 900-odd people working double shifts to repair our power grid, and they had the lights back on most everywhere by the 31st.

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New Years was quiet, but on January 2, with our creek still busy digesting her latest voluminous meal, the most massive rainstorm in years stalled over Vancouver Island for 48 hours, delivering record-breaking amounts of rainfall. It just poured.

So here we are, still only at the beginning of January, with peak mud levels in our muddy valley. The creek is a many headed hydra, snaking all across the north fields before collecting herself to slip under the heavy timber driveway bridge with bare inches to spare. Still in a mad rush, she squeezes her bulk into the narrow deep channel that skirts the house, filling it to its very tippy top and splashing over the edges. 

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We are lucky too, that the people who built this place situated the house where they did, on the high side of the creek. Any overflow goes the other way, out towards the fields, and our valley-bottom house never floods, no matter what Mother Nature throws at us.

Today, finally, exactly two weeks into winter; sunshine. The calm after the storms. I luxuriate in the rays of honeyed light. With no new storms in the forecast, things should settle down now for a bit. What a relief, for us and the barnyard crew. Everyone is pretty fed up with this challenging weather.

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Oh. Crap. What’s that? You gotta be kidding me, another weather warning? Wind gusts to 90km/h tomorrow? Sigh. Ok. Here we go again.

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Merry Muddy Christmas!

23 Sunday Dec 2018

Posted by in Chance, Chickens, Farm Life, Seasons, Weather

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It took me two afternoons’ work, the last of my leaf hoard and a bale of shavings to get the upper hand over the barnyard mud, but it’s done. Victory is mine for now. My chickens will be cozy for Christmas. 

Is it silly to fuss about the barnyard creatures at this time of year, with everything else needing doing? Maybe, but a humble barnyard plays a pretty high profile role in the Christmas story, so it seems apt to me. 

So far, it’s been a warm fall / winter with zero snow, rain storm after rain storm and a huge windstorm the other day, “the worst in twenty years!” No trees down and no power outages here in our muddy valley, lucky us, although we lost internet for a couple days. And we’re experiencing peak mud; a treacherous thin coat of the slippery stuff engulfing every pathway, soggy corners in every coop and spongy, squishy fields. The creek is roaring with delight, but the disconsolate equines don’t even ask to go out on grass. They know that without a hard freeze, they are stuck in their hog fuel paddocks until things dry up.

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In our wet coast climate, keeping the critters somewhat mud-free will continue to pose challenges until springtime. Even after all this weekend’s work, I know that a few days after Christmas, I will be heaving sopping shovel-loads out of the most popular barnyard hang-outs and as a last resort, laying pallets across the worst bits to keep the birds up out of the mud. Once the pallets are down, they are there till spring, when I will pull them up, hose them off and stack them away for next year.

But we’re not there yet. In the dirt-floored Hen Hotel, my American gothic pitchfork does a wonderful job of lifting the top muddy, poopy inch to reveal dry soil below. The birds are thrilled at the dusty fresh dirt, and commence bathing instantly. Purpose-built peat moss and wood ash dust baths are within easy reach, but they much prefer the summer-dry soil, as long as it lasts anyway. I think they know it has an expiry date. The mud is coming.

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Old man winter likely has a few more surprises up his sleeve, but I have a few tricks up mine too. Keeping the barnyard functional is lots of physical labour, and just what I need to keep my body moving, so I don’t mind a bit. Getting exercise while accomplishing something ticks all my boxes and always has. And keeping the barnyard creatures comfortable is pretty darned satisfying too.

As we all soldier on through this darkest time of year, stringing our thin lines of coloured lights against the darkness, shovelling away the mud that threatens to engulf us and seeking out warmth and good company, I wish a Merry Christmas to you and yours, and a happy 2019 to come. May you find what you seek, and take joy in the seeking.

Thanks for listening.

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Baby!

15 Saturday Dec 2018

Posted by in Chance, Farm Life

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Chance cruises through most days on the edge of sleep, until something piques his interest. Nothing grabs his attention better than a baby. Any baby. We’re talking zero to a hundred in a nano-second.

It came as a surprise, Chance’s baby obsession. Because for the first couple years of life with Chance, there were no babies around. 

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Wow, he is sure a dog’s dog, we decided. Chance focuses intensely on other dogs, especially puppies. We had in the past always kept dogs two at a time, starting fresh after each pair crossed the rainbow bridge. But after Chance arrived we put off getting a second dog. If Chance got his own puppy, he might never speak to us again. Not intentionally, he simply wouldn’t see us.

And then a couple years ago, with our younger generation into their twenties, we started seeing the occasional baby over for a visit. It has been delightful to play with babies again, and no one has loved their visits more than Chance.

 

Our dear K recently flew in for a visit with her…you guessed it…six month-old BABY! Oh boy Chance! A real BABY!

She didn’t just stay for an hour either, this baby stayed for days. Chance was in heaven. He constantly attended his baby F, observing diaper changes, supervising feeding sessions and willingly accepting (and licking industriously) grabby little hands.  He had to be checked again and again as his enthusiasm exceeded the situation and threatened to overwhelm our little bright eyed little girlie with his doggie love.

 

Luckily baby has three doggos of her own at home. She handled the canine onslaught beautifully. So did her momma, correcting Chance calmly, appropriately and patiently.

When baby cried, as all babies do from time to time, Chance would become frantic. His relief was likewise greater than any of the rest of ours, each time baby settled down. When baby went into her bedroom and the door shut, Chance stayed on guard until she came out again. Every morning as soon as he got up, he ran down the hall to station himself outside her door.

 

When her visit ended and baby F left for home, Chance slept for two days straight.

Babies are tiring eh Chance! You just wait a couple years till she is running around the house after you to dress you up for an afternoon tea party.

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Sunday Sewing

02 Sunday Dec 2018

Posted by in Farm Improvements, Farm Life

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I love my two “lumberjack shirts”. Lightweight and warm, they have lots of pockets and take a beating out in the barnyard.

I have found that if I ignore the rips I inevitably get, they inevitably grow. Luckily recycled blue jean patches and a zigzag stitch fix things up quite satisfactorily and cost nothing but time.

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Today my new black plaid shirt got its first battle dressings, and once that was taken care of I examined my old red one with a critical eye. Hmmmmmm. Patches on patches, and now it needed more. A hand-me-down from DH some ten years ago, it’s getting pretty threadbare. Is it worth it to repair again? When am I going to stop (AKA “let go”)?

When the zipper gives up, I decided, then I will too, and I picked up my scissors to cut another, rather big, patch.

 

Hello Darkness My Old Friend

01 Saturday Dec 2018

Posted by in Chickens, Farm Life, Seasons, Weather

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In yesterday’s growing dusk, as I pushed another loaded wheelbarrow of soppy chickeny mud through Babe’s field to the manure pile behind the barn, I bid a fond farewell to dear November, one of my favourite months.

Most of the leaves are off the trees now, and I have piles tucked away to be portioned out over the next few weeks, spread across muddy pens and sprinkled in coops to amuse my feathery tenants. Every couple of days, I give the slow-drying hoard a good toss with an American Gothic long-handled pitchfork, my hands-down favourite hand tool, happily discovered (for six bucks!) at our local “Re-store” used building supply.

They say it’s going to be a warm winter this year on the wet coast; we may not see any snow at all. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m kind of relieved. I do love the snow, my family rolls their eyes each year at my jubilance when the first flakes fall, but honestly, after the past couple years of climate change drama; the unusually long cold stretches, a foot of snow at a time and worst of all, frozen water lines, I’m ready for a milder time of it this winter. Will I escape this year? Avoid hauling buckets and buckets of water out to the barnyard, defrosting waterers and slipping around solid sheets of ice as I tend my flock? It seems promising. 

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We had decided, due to recent weather patterns, to insulate the water lines this past summer, but it didn’t happen. There are only so many hours in a day, and they got spent on higher priorities. Such is life. Perhaps though, the weather gods are smiling on us, granting a reprieve from the chill and thus another chance to deal with those lines. I resolve we won’t be like the old man with the leaky roof, who complains when the rain drips onto his bed, but sees no reason at all to climb up and fix his roof in the sunshine because the problem has vanished! Surely we will find the time over the next 365 days to get those water lines taken care of. I have high hopes.

For now, my priority is mud control, and each evening has me outside, in my new boots and trusty headlamp, filling a barrow or two, scraping down a roof here and a perch there, clearing out a drainage ditch here and a gutter there.  Respecting the rain, giving it somewhere to go. Accomplishing a little each day, with the goal of keeping my birds comfortable.

And, of course, as I toil I’m thinking about the season ahead. Today marks the start of my annual tumble down December’s steep, steep hill. The month that starts out with my birthday and then, after that minor shock (I’m HOW OLD!?!),  accelerates the closer I get to the bottom. Wish me luck as I work hard to stay upright and in control, my feet well under me and motoring along, getting it all done on the hectic lead-up to our annual celebration of light, and warmth, and family.

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Squirrelling Away the Sunshine

03 Saturday Nov 2018

Posted by in Chickens, Farm Life, Farm Produce, Gardening, Seasons, Weather

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Yesterday’s sunshine has given way to today’s west coast mist, so I am happy that I got out and raked up some relatively dry leafy sunshine for my flocks yesterday afternoon. That meant I had to hit the home office at dusk and work till almost seven, but it was worth it.

We are lucky to have lots of poplars, alders and hawthorns growing in our muddy valley. Unselfish creatures, they delight the eye all year, flaunting their fresh green garments in April’s spring breezes, perfuming the warm air with their snowy flowers in June, shading us from August’s glaring sun, shifting from green to gorgeous gold in September and sharing their leafy bounty freely in October.

I always harvest as many as I can, weather and time permitting, squirrelling them away here and there in unused coops and under eaves. I try to gather them dry, which is often a challenge in our rainforest climate.

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Dried, they make fresh, fragrant bedding, and even wet, the birds love raking through them for tasty morsels. But a wet pile of leaves soon becomes a slimy pile of compost, not much good for chicken keeping although excellent for garlic bed mulch, especially when mixed with liberal lashings of chicken poop.

Today at morning chores I happily scattered bright yellow leafy goodness all around the coops. I can tell my birds appreciate them too. Glowing as if lit from within in this dim grey weather, they brighten everyone’s day.

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And oh boy, just look at how many are still left! Golden riches, held in benevolent twiggy hands that can be counted on to share them generously, every last one, as our tall, slow living, quietest valley residents settle themselves down for another long winter nap.

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A Halloween Tale

01 Thursday Nov 2018

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I learned about “The Hanging Judge” in grade six, watching the National Film Board of Canada documentary. But I never dreamed that one day I would own a piece of the 165 acres Matthew Baillie Begbie purchased in West Saanich in 1859. Until I spotted his name, in a slanted old fashioned hand, right there on the table-sized Saanich Peninsula map at the local historical society.

 

I already knew that before it became a neighbourhood of hobby farms in “rural Saanich”, our valley had been home to a sawmill, then a large farm. The lumber used to build the Royal Oak Hotel was apparently milled here. Our valley has history!

Located conveniently right beside the railway tracks (dismantled in 1923 and now a road named for the rail line) stands a spar tree that might have been used to lever bundles of lumber onto train cars. Topped more than once and otherwise shaped by human hands, then left to grow wildly for many years, today it is our beloved Tarzan Tree, a natural treehouse festooned with ropes and tire swings plus a long metal slide.

Our place was built in 1972, and our barn the following year. And we arrived in 1998 with three small children, the proud third owners of our slightly tired family home. It’s no romantic old country estate full of mystery,  but we have seen one or two strange things over the years.

Our oldest, although not generally given to flights of fancy, swears that one night ten years ago she saw, in the gap between the open fridge door and the floor, a pair of small feet in old style brown leather shoes. When she jumped up to look, there was nobody there. She named her apparition “little brown shoes” and still insists she saw what she saw.

I haven’t seen any house elves myself, not once in twenty years, but I do see something puzzling every day, out in the tack room in the barn.

An alder pole structure with thick cedar plank walls and a hard dirt floor, the barn’s east wall is two thirds open with a couple big walk out stalls, and the last third enclosed. The double barn doors on the north wall open to a rough tack room with a bench, a cabinet, the loft ladder and a wood pallet where we stack a few bales of hay so we don’t have to climb into the loft at every feeding. The dirt floor is always well covered in the myriad bits of hay that escape each time we grab a flake, except for one area about the size of a kitchen chair. This almost circular spot is always completely, utterly, bare. As if a tiny tornado lives there.

It’s the breeze, some might say, whistling in under the barn door, whisking the floor clean. But some days, most days really, we have no breeze in our sheltered valley bottom. And it’s just that spot. Every single time I heave open the barn door and look, that one spot is as clean as if licked by a transparent giant, scrubbed bare by invisible hands, polished hard and shiny by a whirling dervish.

And in my mind’s eye, I imagine a little girl about four years old, dressed in a wispy cream dress and with her arms folded across her chest, pale brown hair obscuring her face entirely, dancing, spinning, faster than any real little girl ever could. Maybe wearing little brown shoes?

I can never…quite…tell.

Garlic Is In!

11 Thursday Oct 2018

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Finished planting my garlic today in this years’ spot. Freshly cultivated and amended by K and the Kubota, it was a pleasure to sink all 587 cloves into the deep loose soil.

F1DD918B-A6C1-4F46-918B-6E1E64FB376EI can see my garlic bed from my kitchen window, should be fun to watch it grow over the winter.

 

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And what fun to just sashay out and do the fun bits, after others did all the preparation work.
George and the chickens supervised. The dogs did too but I didn’t get a shot of them.

Time for Tomatoes

30 Sunday Sep 2018

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Here’s about half of what gardener K brought me today as my share of her latest harvest. Italian stallion, Roma, Stripey, Moneymaker and a few Chocolate Cherry. With the fall rains now beginning in earnest, she decided to get ahead of the black rot and mould this year.

Some took up residence on window ledges. Some got tucked away in brown paper bags. Some still on the vine and others not. Every day I will inspect, and as they redden up, I will move them into zip lock bags in the freezer. That is, those we don’t eat along the way. We should have fresh tomatoes till early December.

And all winter long I will have tomatoes for soups, stews, spaghettis, etc.  I use my frozen tomatoes in place of tomato sauce in recipes, employing the “grab and chuck in” technique.

Putting up tomatoes this way is, hands down, the most effortless food preservation technique ever. It takes no time, no equipment, no work and no thought. I love it.

I must remember to process some seed too, before they’re are all gone.

 

Babe’s Field and the Blackberries

23 Sunday Sep 2018

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Babe’s field got its name from the fairly evil mule we had for a year or so back in the 2000’s. We got her because K had always been fascinated by mules and lonely George needed a buddy with a bit more personality than the tractor he had grown fond of.

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But beautiful Babe didn’t last very long here in our muddy valley. Once we sized her up, realized how dangerous she was and attempted to reform her unsuccessfully (highly intelligent and a bad attitude too) we traded her, with full disclosure of her deviousness, to a family who just knew they could fix her. 🙄

 

We got the best of that trade, welcoming George’s old riding stable pal Cobra the big black Standardbred. We later heard Babe didn’t last long there either, going to a rescue farm who presumably could handle her. Cobra lasted here though, he spent his final years with us. ❤️

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These days Roxy and Maria use Babe’s field; it’s just the right size for a couple of adorable hee haws. Lately though, Babe’s field has been looking pretty untidy. In their unending quest for buggy delights the chickens scratched heaps of wood chips over from the adjacent paddock, smothering whole patches of grass. The neighbour’s wild Siberian blackberry plantation mounted a successful border raid. And leftover branches from a fallen poplar lurk in the grass, waiting to turn ankles.

It was past time for a refurb, and I needed a project. Because, after all, everyone needs at least one and preferably a couple projects underway to keep life interesting, right?

So last weekend I raked up all the wood chunks, heaving them by the hayfork load back into the donkey’s winter paddock. Yesterday, suiting up in heavy leather gloves, long sleeves and eye protection,  I entered into mortal combat with the blackberries.

Siberian blackberries have got to be the most nefarious invasive species in our muddy valley.  Well armed with sharp thorns and springy vines, they meet every tug with an immediate counterattack that usually draws blood. They sneak up behind you and pounce, ripping and tearing at clothing and skin with their thorny little knives. I will never cease to be amazed by the fact that even though they move through the world much slower than me, they still regularly manage to gain the advantage, swallowing yards of ground, overwhelming fences and even rooting themselves in the middle of the creek bed in their attempts to dominate the landscape. How do they do it?

Blackberries produce heavy sprays of delicious juicy fruit each August, and we put bags of berries in the freezer every year,  but since our whole neighbourhood is inundated with great patches of them, we can certainly do without blackberries taking over our muddy valley.

I managed to clear about thirty feet of fence line yesterday, and am heading out there again today for round two. Their fruiting is mostly finished now, so as I work my way down the line, I clip the last sad looking little bunches into a bucket for the chickens, and pile the vines into a heap that we will torch in November.

When I am finished, Babe’s field should be good for a year or two, but I know from experience that I will be out there again one of these days, at war with the Siberian intruders.

Unless I get a goat or two. They’ll eat anything. Hmmmm. I wonder…

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