I’ve been feeling like writing another update for a couple of weeks now but we were busy with some preparations that we should have thought about and should have gotten to before it got down to colder than I’ve seen since I was a teenager in Pemberton.
I forgot to get block heaters for the vehicles. I haven’t seen one since Jasper, Alberta in the early 70’s. We were lulled by the long, long fall and the grass that was still greening up in late November. We were fixing fences and building that barn we tore down. We were chopping wood and hauling water to the horses. We were baking for the neighbours to say thank you for all the kindnesses: the free hay and wood chips to bed the goats, the mowing of chin-high weeds back in the summer, the ride to Smithers with the stock trailer to pick up the orphan horse, the help with the barn and all the good advice.
I think our neighbours here see people as a resource. They’re giving us help and time to get settled, because they know that anyone who moves here with the intention to stay will have something to add to the mix. They’re waiting to see what our gifts are, so we can contribute to the richness that is life in the north. But first, we need to get through our first year, and all the anxiety that goes with not being sure that we’ve thought of everything.
Like the chicken house. It’s a wonderful thing in the summer. It’s big, and airy, and I’m doing the deep bedding method, which is, not to bore you (and I really could: I already love my dozen hens and their husband, though he and I step warily around each other and avoid eye contact that could be interpreted as a desire to throw down. I learned from our last rooster that those guys just lose their shit sometimes and come flying at you sideways in mid-air, talons first and they can draw blood through your jeans. Best not to let that stuff get started. You don’t pick up a hen if you can avoid it when he’s watching. You especially don’t do that in the confines of the coop, which is his territory. He’s there to protect those girls from predators and no matter how much warm porridge with raisins you bring, or how many suet balls rolled in black sunflower seeds, if you look at him sideways, he might flip. I’m not sure I want to keep making rooster stew until I meet one a little smarter and more sensitive than the rest, but I notice he’s kind of rapey and the hens put up with him but they don’t actually seem to enjoy being pounced and pinned. I’ve heard there are courting roosters. They bring treats and sing little tunes, but that behaviour has been bred out of a lot of modern chickens…) ok enough about chickens. The thing is, their house is marvelous in the other three seasons, but big and airy doesn’t cut it in minus 30-something.
Tim is a handy sort of guy, and he has build an ingenious cupboard around their roosting area, and we’ve swapped out the shade tarps for clear plastic for a windbreak and to encourage a little solar heating in the daytime. We literally shut the chickens up in a closet at night, once they’ve put themselves to bed on their birch branches. We set the crockpot to high, put on the lid, and say goodnight, knowing that no one else will freeze their feet like their one unfortunate sister did. In the morning, as soon as we hear that first err err err err ERRRR! we go on out and turn on the heat lamp in the middle of the coop, set down the fresh, unfrozen water, and open the closet doors. Penelope’s always the first one out, with Prince Rupert close behind. He wakes up cranky, that one, and it’s hard to tell if he’s trying to get laid first thing in the morning or if he just wants first crack at the chicken kibble. One by one the rest of them flap-flap-flap down into the outer coop. It’s pretty funny. They vary in their gracefulness. We encourage them to use their wings, because when the weather is warm enough, they spend their days outside and they might need to out-flap a marten, or a fisher, a mink or a fox. Or Bea the dog, who is as good as gold most of the time. But dogs are natural predators and chickens are very tempting. The trick is to go “uh uh!!” with a finger raised whenever she even looks at them. I find this works great with horses, and people. Even chickens. Not so much with goats. And cats – just forget it.
So, Bea. Beatrix is our 7 month old farm puppy, with fur so thick that she begs to go outside and lie in the snow when she’s spent too long with our beautiful Elmira Oval cookstove and our downstairs wood heater. Possibly the hardest part of the really cold weather is being so snug and cozy and knowing that the animals are dealing with a very different reality. Like Bea, however, they are adapted to deal with cold. The chickens are all hardy northern breeds (though there most certainly is a limit, and our flurry of modifications to the coop has hopefully addressed that gap between bearable and deadly). The horses often have hoarfrost on their backs, and ice in their nostrils. But if you look closely, their hair is so thick and long and has such good loft that the frost is only on the outer tips. And their eyes are bright, they are fat, their hooves are beautiful and they have tons of energy. They run through the snow, and rear and buck and paw at the ground to eat whatever they find. We supplement them with hay, but I don’t think they actually need it. Horses have afterburners in their guts. They actually thrive on dry, low-calorie grass because they are so efficient in their digestion.
The goats have not been a concern at all through this cold time because they are at winter camp with their baby daddy. They’re hanging out at the neighbouring farm with a herd of thirty nannies and kids and one big, handsome, good-tempered Billy. When Kesia dropped them off, they apparently took one look at this barnful of creatures and jumped into the mangers, bleating pitifully. They don’t actually know they are goats. They probably think they are dogs, judging by how they play with Bea and Jimmy, now that they’re big enough to give back when their ears are pulled and their flanks nipped.
Speaking of Jim, we miss that boy, but he’s on sabbatical in the city with Kai. He’ll come back up when the river is running free again and the green shoots are poking out of the ground. When the air has some warmth to it and the sun sticks around long enough to really get something done out in the garden. Meanwhile, he’s bringing joy to all his friends on the lower coast, and we’re marching through the seasons, learning the lessons as they come so that when our second year rolls around, we’ll be ready.