The ranch gives wisdom

On a Ranch or Homestead, one learns something new every day. For the past week, I have been on agricultural duty at Rock Bottom Ranch, and have learned quite a bit. In a single Tuesday, I built a head-catch for the goat milking stand, had my first truly successful goat-milking session, assisted with the construction of a 'hoop house' green house, and discovered the most humane way to kill a chicken. On the same day, I did morning both morning and evening chores to feed, water, and shelter the many animals, and collect their food products. In the end, it was a workday almost as epic as The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.

Delilah the goat now gives milk in spades—up to four to six quarts a day. Harvesting the white liquid, however, has been a challenge for me. Until recently, I had never retrieved milk fit for human consumption from the dear goat. Every time, she kicked or knocked over or defecated in the bucket. What little milk was salvaged went to the young pigs.

This week, such results would not do us well. We had two children's camps in session (for 4-6 and 6-7 year olds), and both planned to make goat cheese. The pressure was on to keep them supplied.

I needed to improve the milk setup and improve my skills. First, I built a head catch for Delilah, based loosely on a diagram I found online, adapted for our specific stand. Next, Caitlin gave me a milking lesson, advice on how to lead the dance with the reluctant mammal. I learned from Caitlin a number of tricks and techniques, to supplement those I had earlier learned from Hannah.

Prior to bringing Delilah, we shooed visiting cats away and closed the milkroom doors—to block Delilah's biggest distraction, the baying of her kids. We brought her onto the stand. With head catch in place, the goat's range of motion was restricted—and she seemed calmer. Goats have two udders and humans have two hands, but we need several skills. First there is the pinch-and-squeeze with the fingers, which I can do well enough to get by, although my left hand is somewhat clumsy. Then, there is accuracy at milk-squirt, as one must fill a bucket through a small hole in its lid. Most importantly, however, one must learn to take calm control of the milking—strategically pet and massage the goat, feed her grain, push her against the wall when she attempts to jump over the bucket, and generally keep her feeling calm and snuggly... but also let her know who is boss. A multi-pronged challenge, like a karate match. And, like in a spar, one is wise to stay relaxed and fluent, despite the mental urge to tense up. And both activities feature a contact that does not break. Once one takes hold of the goat's udders, one should not let go until the milking session is over—much like the eye contact which does not break between the battling karateka. Although milking is not a fight, it is similar in being a game of control.

Tuesday night, it was my turn again to milk the goat. This time, I applied my new knowledge, and gathered one and a half useable quarts, one small squirt at a time. By the end, my hands were tired, but I felt like a child who had just rode a bicycle without training wheels for the first time.

At my next milking, Saturday morning, I generated two and a half quarts—enough to feed both Delilah's babies, and keep a bit for breakfast. (We allowed the babies to nurse for their first several weeks, but have now switched to bottle feeding; it is more work but makes them become friendlier to people.) Athena and Apollo suck heartily at plastic teat.

Back to Tuesday: After assembling my head-catch, I returned to the back pasture, to work on the hoop house (greenhouse). Throughout the week, the hoop house, which came as a giant assemble-it-yourself kit, has been an area of focus for us all. The instructions are barely decipherable, and the design is outrageously complicated. Hence, it has been cause of great frustration for some members of our team. Nonetheless, I always find it thrilling to build a purposeful structure. We dug post holes, ripped large rocks from the ground as they barred our path (they don't call this place Rock Bottom Ranch for nothing), placed the metal upright posts, assembled the archway, and generally bolted together many pieces of metal (and used all manner of tricks and levers to force the pieces together, as they didn't fit so well on their own.) We sweated and grunted through it, on the ground and on high ladders, under a hot sun. Progress on the greenhouse has been much slower than hoped. Even so, at the end of each day, progress is made.

On Tuesday, after a short time on the greenhouse, Amy announced her departure to deal with two chickens. One was a young meat bird, which had been run over by the chicken tractor, and had a broken hip. The other was an egg-layer, who was caught eating eggs. With such cannibalism, the hen negated her purpose on the farm. The sentence for both was death, with Amy and I as judge, jury, and executioner.

I hate to kill animals. I have done it several times. It has always made me feel like I will vomit, and made me think 'who made me god, to have the right to take life?' Curious then, that I am now a practitioner of animal agriculture, where killing animals is all in a day's work (although it does not yet feel that way to me.)

Here at the ranch, we try to give our animals the best possible lives, and the swiftest deaths. I took the egg-laying hen. I examined the Storey's Guide to Raising Chickens (a valuable book which we used both at The Homestead and here.) It described the way to kill a chicken instantly: to dislocate its head from the neck. I remembered how we used this method at The Homestead, but encountered difficulties in executing the process by hand. Storey's next paragraph had a solution: use your feet, and a broom. I read it carefully. I took hold of the hen, placed its head under the broomstick, stood with one foot on each side, anchoring broom and head flat against the ground. I gave the bird's feet a swift, hard pull. I not only dislocated the neck, but pulled the head off completely. The bird went into death throes, and spattered blood all about. Surprised, I dropped the flailing bird. It did somersaults over the ground, as the postmortem electricity surged through it. Other chickens trotted over, and pecked at their sister's detached head. Evidently, they don't share our taboos on cannibalism.

Although it may sound gruesome, the method has its advantages. It is easy to execute, and kills the bird in an eye-blink. Another common way to slaughter a chicken is to put it in a killing-cone, and cut its jugular vein. I am less impressed by this technique, as the bird may suffer for several minutes, while it bleeds out.

The chicken is now in the crockpot. Delilah is out grazing on grass and flowers and aspen leaves. The other laying hens roam about the ranch, pawing the earth in search of worms and seeds. They enter their coop to lay eggs. Inside, I continue to find eggs that were pecked open. I patched a hole through which magpies had been entering, but the problem persists. Evidently, another egg-eating hen is on the loose. We shall keep watch.

The baby goats frolic about the yard. Athena has grown her own tiny udders. One day, she will join her mother among the milk-givers. She will present new challenges at the milk-stand. Every goat is different, and I still have so much to learn.

Hoop house photo by Caitlin Bourassa; everything else by yours truly.

Night prowlers and day petters

Every ranch has its cat. Rock Bottom Ranch is home to three: Titan, Teton, and Cecil. They entertain children, keep the ranchers safe from mice, and threaten native songbird populations. (The dark side of domestic cats has been scientifically documented. Hence, I contend that the ranch should cap its population at three.)

The cats show remarkable tolerance for the visiting children who cannot resist the urge to pet—sometimes en masse. Quite recently, one child held Titan in her lap, while six other hands stroked his fur, and one poked his eye, by accident. The cat didn't flinch, as tolerant as a father lion at play with cubs. Titan seems to have accepted such handling as part of his routine, as natural as climbing fences or stalking birds in the wetland.

In the woodlands beyond the ranch, other cats lurk. Titan's big relatives. They walk silent as shadow; they see us but remain unseen. They observe the ranch and our animals, ready to pounce on the unsuspecting. We kept a few domestic geese at the ranch, until the bobcat found them. Before dark, we must lock the goats inside, for cougars are on the prowl. Living with predators is part of ranch life. We protect our livestock as best we can.

Over a year ago in winter, snow covered the mountain peaks, and the foliage upon them. In search of exposed greenery, an elk ventured downhill, to the valley. He found Rock Bottom Ranch, and its goat pasture. He set to munch, beside his fellow ungulates. Enamored with the luscious grasses, the elk stayed in the pasture--perhaps until a little too late. A cougar leapt from out of hiding; her claws and jaws delivered a swift end to the elk. He became sustenance for the cat and her cub.

Of all terrestrial animals, cats seem the most graceful. Humans are awed by their elegance, stealth, athleticism. They populate our stories and art, and we name countless sports teams in their honor.

I present from my sketchbook a lynx and an imaginary beast which looks sort of feline. I have not yet had the privilege of so close a view of a wild lynx... it is based on photos. I had one close encounter with a cougar in Oregon. That story is for another day.

These goats are in your hands (some of the time)

Photo by Caitlin Bourassa, features goats Charlotte and Corona.

I have some anecdotes to share about our goats. But first, I will share a bit of my sketchbook from Rock Bottom Ranch. These images are all drawn from life—and our animals are moving targets, a challenge for the artist.

Delilah the goat has joined Laura Jean the pig in a proud procession of Rock Bottom Ranch mothers. Delilah's birth-giving was comparatively painless. She delivered her two babies without hitch or tangle. Then she delivered the placenta, which we composted before she had a chance to eat it. (Goat mothers occasionally choke on the afterbirth.) And with the placenta gone, she could focus on her new younglings, whom she watched, licked, nursed. We named the babies Athena and Apollo. They have grown fast in three weeks. When firstborn, Athena was shaky on her feet, and spent most of her time sitting and resting. Now, she runs and jumps and frolics about the yard, alongside her twin brother. They butt heads in playful combat. (John the vet has already led us in “dis-butting” the kids once, but Apollo's horns are already growing back.) Delilah produces milk for her babies, and then some extra. I recently led children in milking her; the mother goat was amazingly patient when a sequence of small hands grabbed her teats. Soon, we can get some good cheese from Delilah's lactation.

The goats are popular among tourists and ranch hands. They are clever and curious animals. Whenever a door or gate opens, they cannot resist going to examine what lies on the other side. They are skillful in outwitting fences. If there is a hole or breach that a goat can pass through, or a gate they can open, the farmer will know in minutes. And each goat has a unique personality. Among our goats, Delilah is shy and cautious, Charlotte is inquisitive and aggressive, and Grey is an irascible old man, liable to butt his fellows with his horns at the slightest provocation. However, Grey mostly gets along with his sister Rosie and lady-love Corona. Corona is the matriarch of our goat herd. Where she goes, the others will follow. (With the possible exception of Deb, who is mostly friendly, but quite independent.)

This week, as part of staff training, we brought Corona and Charlotte for a walk up down the Rio Grande trail and up a juniper-covered hill. The aging Corona (who is Delilah's mother and Charlotte's grandmother) panted and puffed on the way up, but still used her hooves to efficiently traverse the rocky slope. On the way back, Corona determined that she wanted to reach the hill's base in the swiftest possible fashion. I remarked that Corona was “falling down the hill and taking me with her” as I strained on her leash, and scampered to keep up with her downhill trots and jumps.

This past Friday at Rock Bottom was a challenging day. We pushed to get the ranch looking slick and shiny for a special dinner event involving special guest Melissa Coleman, and many noted members of ACES and Roaring Fork Valley communities. I volunteered for lawn-mowing duties, only to discover that both lawnmower and weed-whacker were out of order. And so I reconnected with one of my favorite hand tools—the “golf club” or weed cutter, which one swings like its namesake to slice through plants. After I had hacked for a bit, a comrade suggested that mowing would be accomplished more readily by goats. Following the suggestion, we led the goats to the yard and kept them there. Through the process, only Corona needed a leash; the other goats would not venture too far from the matriarch. Typically, goats are voracious herbivores. But when we brought them over to the yard, they did little grass mowing. Instead, Deb and Corona munched on a shrub while Grey and Rosie just wandered around, particularly in the driveway where they were a hazard to the pickup truck, as it went back and forth on supply runs. We returned the goats to their pen, and I returned to my weed-smacking workout. Like cats or three-year-old children, goats have their own agenda. Luckily, most of them (but not Grey) are friendly to young humans and enjoy a good pet. In that instance, they do make our jobs easier.

As for the yard, I accomplished what was needed by hand, and then lent my hand to comrades. Collectively, we accomplished all else. The Coleman event was a success.

Flash, a goat kid who was on loan to us until recently, accepts grass from a human kid.

The mystery of high fructose corn syrup

I am quite glad to have returned to the practice of ecological agriculture. Here at Rock Bottom Ranch, we strive for sustainability. We raise free-range chickens, pigs, goats, and variegated vegetables and fruits. In our products, you are unlikely to find preservatives, GMOS... or high-fructose corn syrup.

In my college days (early 2000s), The Homestead introduced me to the wonders of growing one's own food. Simultaneously, I became curious about the strange contents of industrial food. I pondered, what the $*(@$*$ is high fructose corn syrup? I saw that it was the first ingredient in so many products at the grocery store, but what WAS it? Obviously a sweet substance, sugar-like, from the sound of it.

Between then and now, Michael Pollan's Omnivore's Dillema and Aaron Woolf's King Corn have enlightened the world on the American corn industry, and the nature of the mysterious sweetener.

In 2003, as part of my comics directed study at Denison University, I crafted a short science fiction comic, with corn syrup as the centerpiece. I will share it here. It is the earliest of my comics yet to be unveiled. (In the future, I will unveil much older ones, as I have been drawing comics since I was quite young.) When I revisit this older work, I see that I have since improved on many aspects of cartooning... but I also detect some techniques that I had forgotten about. I make no apologies. Well, I make ONE apology--that some of the lettering stretches the limits of legibility. Enjoy.

For more science fiction, I advise checking out “Tethered”, a film by David Lovett, a wise and imaginative Homestead alum.

And, an update on my previous post. My Rock Bottom Ranch comrade Betsey shared with me this BBC Nature article, which describes how scientists in Japan have observed giant water bugs eating turtles and snakes. Fearsome!

An Aquatic Alien World

"Pond-Dipping"--using net and bucket to search for critters in a pond--is an activity that can win over virtually any child. For that matter, it can captivate most teenagers and adults as well. The miniature alien world (of insects, crustaceans, annelids, algae, and more) piques our curiosity and sense of wonder. Beneath the water's surface, strange creatures fight a life-and-death struggle for survival. Typically it all takes place apart from our notice. Like Dr. Seuss' hero Horton (of Horton Hears a Who!), we must open our senses to discover the hidden world. Running a net through the mud and plants also helps.

Damselfly Nymph

This week, I made two visits to Riverside Middle School in New Castle, Colorado, to guide pond dipping. Our discoveries included leeches, water striders, frog eggs, scuds and small crustaceans, dragonfly nymphs, damselfly nymphs, various fly larvae, duckweed, a dead salamander, a dead leopard frog... and two giant water bugs!

The giant water bug--five inches in length--is truly a giant next to most insects. The creature waits in the water, resembling a dead leaf. When prey wanders by, the ambush hunter springs into action. It snatches the victim with its front legs, paralyzes it with a poison bite, and feasts. With its size and power, the water bug's prey is not limited to other insects. Minnows, tadpoles, and small frogs fall to its merciless jaws. To these creatures, the giant water bug is a monster; insect and amphibian alike flee before it. To the giant water bug, the pond is simply an all-you-can-eat buffet. In turn, the bug is eaten by larger fish and birds.

Handling a giant water bug is not recommended, as its bite is reputed to be among the most painful of insect defenses. It can cause severe swelling, but typically does not do permanent damage.

For a time as a youth, I kept a giant water bug (whom I named Nosferatu) as pet. Now, I am glad to reconnect with these predators in the waters of Colorado.

Giant Water Bug Versus Minnow

A Matter of Birth and Death

After two weeks at Rock Bottom Ranch, I have seen lives end, and new lives begin. High dramas have played out at the hog pen and pasture. Laura Jean, our noble sow, gave birth to her second litter recently. And she lost two from her first litter to the butcher's rifle. The seven-month-old pigs, who had already grown to around 150 pounds, went down instantly at the gunshot, and into the death throes. They have already become sausage and ham. Hence, the food chain, in all its wonder and cruelty. Although I dread to see an animal die, I acknowledge that a grass-fed pig from one's backyard is a protein-rich foodstuff, with a markedly low ecological footprint. And I am glad to see the animals lead happy lives, in the sunny pasture, by the willow trees, against the backdrop of the snow-capped Basalt Mountain.

Laura Jean's second litter was a challenge, especially for the venerable sow, but also for our staff, who watched with great anticipation. Two days ago, the sow's vulva was enlarged, her teats swollen with milk, and she had ceased to eat—all of which should have been signs that delivery was imminent—but no piglets came. Her breathing was heavy, and she alternated between treading slowly about the yard and resting in her pen. Finally, as the time of birth drew nearer, she took to staying in her pen full-time. On her side she lay, under the heat lamp. And still we waited. She returned to eating, in small amounts. And we listened to her deep breathing, and waited.

And in the morning, we looked in her pen and saw two pigs, one large, and one quite small. A female piglet, of perhaps five pounds, scampered about her 400 pound mother. The little one was covered mucus and blood, and a severed umbilical cord trailed behind her. She stumbled about, rapidly learning the use of her four limbs, and sniffed and felt with her nose, to gain understanding of her new world. Central in this world was her mother. The baby sniffed and felt about the mother's stomach, legs, head, vulva. She suckled at the air, and various places on the mother, in search of sustenance. After more exploring, the piglet discovered what it sought, the mother's teat, and she drank briefly, continued her exploration, ever-curious. She returned to the teats, and suckled more.

Laura Jean's previous litter had six piglets. A sow of Laura Jeans's breed (the large black) can give birth to up to thirteen. Typically, they are 20-30 minutes apart. Two hours after the birth of the first piglet, Laura Jean still lay on her side, her breathing heavy, her body periodically shook with labor. But the second piglet was conspicuously absent. This situation caught the attention of our educational and agricultural staff, which includes our leader Margaret, Hannah, Betsey, Peter, Caitlin, and myself. Captivated by the hog pen, we could only depart for essential duties. I spent the afternoon going back and forth from the hog pen to the office, where I used my graphics skills to assist Margaret with the maps and visuals for a grant proposal concerning a new greenhouse, which was due at the end of the workday.

We called the vet about the overdue piglets. He suspected that the second piglet was turned laterally in the womb. He gave instructions to correct the situation. We persuaded Laura Jean to stand for a moment. Margaret donned gloves, and reached inside the mother pig. Carefully, she had to go elbow-deep. She felt many feet within the womb, many babies. The front infant had indeed turned sideways. I stood at Laura Jean's head, tried to pet and reassure her—she was obviously distressed by the whole affair. Margaret reoriented the piglet. Shortly thereafter, it emerged from Laura Jean, feet first. This young male joined his sister, scampered back and forth and investigated the great mass of flesh that was their key to survival.

It seems that Laura Jean's trial would not end. She lay on her side, her nose mashed against the side of her pen. Uncomfortable, it would seem, but unnoticed next to her other stresses. She rode the earthquakes and the plagues and the agony of her own biological machinery. Such are the perils of live birth, the mammalian burden. We wished her luck, and brought what assistance we could.

The vet said that we should get Laura Jean to stand on her four feet, that it might encourage the next birth. By now, however, the sow was rather committed to stay lying on her side. We positioned four ranch hands around her. I took the central position, squatted low beside the sow's belly, and reached across her and took hold along her back. The others said that our goal was to encourage her to stand, not to physically move her, so great was her size. I, however, considered it fine challenge to see if I could physically lift and “roll” her to a standing position. On the count of three, we heaved. We managed to rotate her toward me a bit, a little closer to a standing position—and out popped a piglet! My colleagues congratulated me, gave me credit for this third challenging baby. I do not know whether our efforts prompted the birth, or if the timing was coincidental. In any case, I triumphantly exited the pen, with the mother's milk on my boot.

She labored on, and more piglets came. Slowly, sometimes more than an hour apart, but they came. A fourth piglet, then a fifth and a six. Hannah got us started tossing the football in the yard, as we played the role of 'anxious dads.'

The vet paid us a visit, with a shot of oxytocin for Laura Jean. By bedtime, nine babies nursed at her side, climbed on and around her and over each other. He advised us to check on the sow every hour, assist with delivery if needed, and provide a second dosage of the hormone if need be. I got the one AM shift. I awoke to my alarm, disoriented. I made it to the pen. I sat and spoke to the twitching, heavy-breathing pig, petted her sandpaper flesh. I counted the piglets. Ten. I counted twice more—ten still. Laura Jean's labor had not ended, but it was now for the afterbirth. I sat with the mother for some while, then returned to bed, for it would soon be my successor's turn.

Upon returning inside, I saw a note that I was supposed to see before I went outside. It had the updates from Hannah then Caitlin when they checked the embattled sow, a sort of hourly journal. And another dose oxycotin was there, in case needed. As it was already 1:45, I left the decision to my successor as to whether more drugs would help the pig. I returned to bed, and Betsey soon awoke for the 2 AM shift.

Morning. The sun bright. Ten piglets suckled at Laura Jean's side. She was alive, healthy, if a bit weary. The heroic mother. Although there were only ten piglets, her work was comparable to the twelve labors of Hercules. (Perhaps the afterbirth and piglet-raising were labors eleven and twelve?)

Fifth graders from Rifle Middle School came to visit the Ranch that day. They were enamored with the babies, as we all are. Near the end of the field trip, Hannah and a class chanced upon tragedy. A piglet lay on its side, motionless.

Laura Jean, being a pig, is a devoted and careful mother. She treads with caution about her young. She goes from standing to lying on her side and back again, giving the piglets signals to clear, and keeping her movements wary. Alas, the early hours of life are dangerous for the young. Their mother is groggy, and they are new to the world. And hence, this unfortunate boy piglet—with crease marks on his head from where his mother had crushed him.

Birth and death are common on the ranch. We had lost a chicken to a raccoon earlier in the week, and had lost two pigs for sausage and ham. Typically, animal remains go to the “bone yard,” and become food for ravens. But this instance was special. So much effort to bring the new piglet into the world, so much vivacity and cuteness—to end so prematurely. Peter lifted the piglet with a spade. To the boneyard we went, the five educators and ranch hands.

We couldn't let the ravens have this piglet; it seemed undignified. And so Peter started a hole, next to a cottonwood tree. I took my turn at the dig. Perhaps a foot square. In went the limp piglet. We covered him, and placed a pile of large rocks atop, to mark and protect the grave.

We each took a turn saying or singing a word for the piglet. Hannah sang “I Say a Little Prayer” by Arethra Franklin. I spoke a few words from the book of Ecclesiastes: “All go unto one place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again.” Peter said he was glad that the tree would absorb the nutrients. And we left the piglet to return to the soil.

Several days later, we lost another piglet. She was wounded in the midsection, cause uncertain.

The eight siblings remain alive and vivacious. Eighty per cent is an excellent survival rate, in the dangerous world that baby animals inhabit. The piglets drink mother's milk, and follow her about the lush green pasture, against the backdrop of Basalt Mountain. It is spring—herons fly overhead and Canada goose parents lead their goslings about the pond. It is spring, and Rock Bottom Ranch is full of life.

I have hit Rock Bottom, and consider it a good thing

Rock Bottom Ranch, Basalt, Colorado is my new home, and my new place of work. It is already beginning to feel like a home, even though I only arrived yesterday afternoon. (This entry was composed on April 24th.) I am connecting fast with the landscape, the animals, the people. I have a good feeling about this place. However, work proper begins on Monday, so I should not jump to conclusions too quickly.

First impressions: a quick sketch of the pasture from the porch of the ranch house

The Ranch is located in the Roaring Fork Valley. I stay in a ranch house, next to a stream, with tall willow trees about, whose leaves are now yellow-orange. We are surrounded by pasture, which leads to forested mountains, then snow-capped peaks in the distance. Yesterday, I stood on the back porch and did some quick sketches of the landscape. It snowed this morning, and the snow turned to rain. The pigs deigned to avoid the icy drizzle, and stayed in their pen. The cows and burros seemed to mind less, and were still out grazing. A Canada goose stood atop one of the structures, face to the wind, experienced the elements. The goose stayed there for the duration, and walked back and forth. Whether the bird was out to enjoy the view of the valley, take a cold shower, or something else entirely I do not know.

The ranch is run by the Aspen Center for Environmental Studies. Being an Environmental Educator and Ranch Hand, I will guide youngsters on educational programs involving caring for the animals and learning about ecological agriculture, as well as exploring the wetlands, fields, and forests and learning of the ecosystem therein. I'll also do my bit to care for our local population of chickens, cows, pigs, burros, and garden vegetables.

I have high hopes for this endeavor. I feel that it is in the spirit of The Homestead. It is thanks to The Homestead that I have made pursuit of opportunities like this one; the community in Ohio is the intellectual and emotional impetus for my eco-agrarian ambitions.

It was a long road trip from Seattle to Portland (where I visited Nisus and Stumptown comics shows, and Wealth Underground Farm) and then across Oregon, Idaho, and Utah, to reach Basalt, Colorado. Aerosmith contends that while “On the Road Again,” “you can do what you want.”1 I, however, found that I couldn't do much other than drive for most of the days, so great was the distance. Huge continent we live on. Makes me not even want to think about the size of the Milky Way Galaxy, much less the universe.

Somwhere in Idaho

Somewhere in Utah

Near the end of my journey, I managed to do a bit of tourist activity, at Dinosaur National Monument, mostly on the Utah side. The pastel red and yellow plateaus and desert quietude captured my attention. So did the bones of a giant sauropod, which I viewed on a guided tour.

deserts of Dinosaur

sauropod femur (species unknown)

I also took in the Desert Voices Nature Trail, which had a set of interpretive signs, which were considerably more impressive than what we typically see. They were rich in their level of philosophical depth, and their use of the wisdom and artistic visions of children.

I camped at Green River, where pelicans and Canada geese flew by. The night was cold, and so was the early morning. So much that I became motivated to dig through my tightly-packed Subaru, find my backpacking stove, and use it to boil water. I sipped hot chocolate in the cold desert, and felt like a king, with camp chair as throne.

I shall miss my Homestead-alum friends, most of whom now dwell in Seattle. Such a great group of people I know. I shall also miss Crater Lake, and its supportive community. But I do look forward to my new adventure. And I hope to stay at Rock Bottom Ranch for a while. We shall see how events play out.

1. Pandora's Box disc 1