Progress

Photo credit: Emma Macon

Despite being a sheepherder (by inclination and avocation), I am a fan of cowboy poetry. One of my favorite cowboy poets is Montana rancher, Wallace McCrae - and my favorite of his poems is one entitled, "Things of Intrinsic Worth" (although "Reincarnation" is a close second!). Here's an excerpt:

"Great God how we're doing, we're rolling in dough, as they tear and ravage the earth. And nobody knows..., or nobody cares about things of intrinsic worth."

Here's the whole poem:

I was reminded of this poem at a meeting on a recent evening, when I heard a local official talk glowingly about a "boutique farm." While I wouldn't classify the farm in question as a "boutique," the statement made me think about what the "official" perspective on farming and ranching has become in my part of the Sierra foothills. It reminded me of the farms and ranches that have disappeared in my home county (Tuolumne) and in my adopted county (Placer). The word "boutique" has been like a sticker in my sock for the last several days - it's bothered me, but I can't quite put my finger on it. Until this evening.

The intrinsic value of authentic farms and ranches, I've come to realize, is in the sustenance of human (and other) life. Here in the foothills, these enterprises produce food and fiber, certainly; they also produce wildlife habitat, open space, and iconic scenic vistas. The folks who run them, multi-generational and newcomers alike, are the warf and weft of our communities - the fabric that make these oak-studded hills a place where I want to live and work. They are the friends who lend a hand when it's needed, who call when they see smoke near one of our pastures, who have shared the stories of their places with me.

Others, certainly, have noted - and capitalized - on these values. I once thought it would be fun to do a photo essay of the subdivisions that include agricultural terms in their names (Johnson Ranch, Foothill Farms, The Vineyards). As I grow older, I'm simply saddened by this trend. Pavement and rooftops are the Sierra foothills version of McRae's strip mines in Colstrip, Montana.

I've realized this week that the lack of authenticity is what bothers me about the term "boutique farm." To me, this implies a farm or ranch that is operated for it's ambiance rather than for it's ability to feed or clothe it's community. It implies an operation that is valued for its appearances rather than its production. A boutique farm doesn't make noise or generate flies.

We hauled all of our sheep (and both of our mature livestock guardian dogs) home last week to be shorn. This process involves dry-lotting the sheep overnight to allow them to empty their digestive and urinary tracts (making shearing more comfortable for them). It also involves temporarily separating them from their lambs. The result is a day-and-a-half of noisy, dusty activity in our semi-rural part of north Auburn. The result is also nearly a half-ton of wool that will be made into clothing and carpets. I'm sure the noise and dust and barking dogs annoy some of our neighbors; I hope that we're also able to explain what we're doing and why we do it. I hope we're authentic about our sheep-ranching. I hope it has intrinsic worth.

I've long thought that many segments of our society value farm and ranch land only as an inventory of future subdivisions. Rangeland, especially, because of the acreage needed to sustain a ranching operation versus the number of houses it can support, is undervalued for its agricultural value. Here in Auburn, I need 2-3 acres of land to support each ewe for a year - and yet there's a proposed subdivision up the road that will have 5-6 houses on the land that could support one of my sheep. I get it - economically, this landowner is better off growing houses than raising sheep - but I wonder if this is really progress.

To end this on a more upbeat note, here's "Reincarnation"