Who Do I Share These Things With Now?

I know I’ve written this before in this space, but I didn’t grow up hunting. My Dad taught me to fish, which I still love to do, but we were not a hunting family. Sometime in my 40s, I decided to take a hunter safety class, purchase a rifle, and learn to hunt. In my middle age, I decided that I wanted to fully participate in the process of putting meat on our table. And since that time, at least as far as I can remember, I’ve successfully harvested nine black tail bucks (six here in the foothills/Sierra; three on the North Coast). Yesterday evening, I filled my deer tag for the third time since Sami died.

I have enjoyed learning to hunt deer. For me, learning to hunt is similar to learning to work a herding dog - both are skills I’ll never be done learning. Learning to safely operate a deadly weapon is just part of the process - I love learning to understand the behaviors of deer, of knowing what kind of habitat they are likely to occupy, of watching their behaviors change as rutting season approaches. And I also love learning how to process the meat that I harvest, and how to cook venison.

Sami grew up in Burbank - in a family that neither hunted nor fished. But on one of our first road trips together (to Oregon and Washington, to visit veterinary schools), we fished on our way back over Sonora Pass. The limit for trout at that time was 10, as I recall - Sami caught eight, and I (barely) beat her with nine.

That trip was the apex of Sami’s fishing career, but she loved that I taught our daughters to fish (and later to hunt). She liked when I brought home - and cooked - dinner, too. And while she never hunted with me, she grew to love venison as much as I did (except for organ meats - as a veterinarian who understood the function of organs like liver, she wasn’t a big fan).

For me, part of the satisfaction that came with hunting was that of being a provider. Of filling our freezer with meat as winter approached. Of being able to grab a package of venison stew meat or backstrap steaks and cook a meal for our family (and later, as the girls went on to college and careers, for the two of us).

Since Sami died, though, a successful hunt has been more complicated for me. I’ve realized that part of what I enjoy about hunting is being able to share the experience - and the production - of bringing home a buck.

Last evening, I harvested a buck here at my new place. I’d watched the deer all year and had some sense of their patterns. When I walked off my hill with the dogs in the early evening, a buck I’d seen several times before deer season began popped up, looked at us, and bounded off. But I’d begun to realize that once I got to a place where I could settle in and watch, he might come back. He did. And I made a pretty decent shot. I got done dressing and skinning him a little after 9 pm.

After cleaning up and having dinner, though, I found that I couldn’t go to sleep, despite my exhaustion. At first, I thought it was adrenaline - and that certainly may have contributed to my insomnia. But I also realized this morning that I was missing Sami. Intensely. And so I decided to stay home for the day. I haven’t done much all day (besides taking the buck to a friend’s walk-in cooler and going grocery shopping). I found that I needed a day to simply be with myself and with my loneliness.

Getting a deer has always brought me a sense of relief, that now that I’ve provided meat for the year, I can get on with other fall activities (like firewood, or winterizing my garden). I feel that sense today, but I also feel sad that there’s no one in this house with whom to share my success. This afternoon, I feel particularly alone.

Hello Sadness, My Old Friend.... Or the Difference Between Sadness and Despair

Sadness - grief - I've come to realize, is a normal emotion. Despair, at least as I understand it, is sadness without hope of happiness. And at least recently, I'm beginning to understand - even embrace - my periodic sadness. Perhaps because I've also experienced happiness in the three-plus years since Sami died.

These last 10 days have been draining emotionally. Last weekend, we had a living estate sale for my parents. My Mom is in a skilled nursing facility with advanced dementia; my Dad is still living at the home I grew up in but increasingly needs help navigating day-to-day life. My niece and her family are going to buy the house; we're working on downsizing with my Dad. Last weekend, we had a sale at their barn.

My relationship with possessions has changed since Sami's passing and my own move. There were a handful of furniture pieces, kitchen items, and artwork that my folks had that I wanted to keep, but I have neither the room - or the desire - to keep very many of their possessions. I also found myself thinking about what my daughters would want to keep (versus what they'd have to sell when I pass). Nevertheless, I found it difficult emotionally to see the material evidence of my childhood - and my parents' lives - go to other homes. Last Sunday evening, I was entirely drained.

The work week was exhausting - lots of driving, lots of being "on" (difficult for someone who rides the fence between extrovert and introvert). Yesterday, after doing laundry and going for a walk with my dogs, I met my sister and brother-in-law in town to purchase appliances for my Dad's new place. After, I went to the feedstore and the hardware store. I trimmed some of the trees that had caused the California FAIR Plan to threaten to increase my fire insurance premium. I canned some peppers. I went grocery shopping. I did more laundry. In other words, I was (mostly) a functioning adult.

This morning, I slept in - nearly till 6:30! I lazed around - made a big breakfast, did the dishes, did more laundry. I canned more peppers. Took a nap. I felt entirely unmotivated. And sad....

Because for some reason this morning, I had flashbacks to the last road trip Sami and I took in January 2023. I remembered the owl I saw on the day we left for New Mexico - and so I also remembered Sami's aphasia on the trip home. I remembered the anxiety and fear we experienced from February 2023 through her passing in August of that year. I did not feel like doing much today.

But after my nap, I felt more motivated. I did some woodworking, and I serviced my sawmill. And I listened to the last San Francisco Giants broadcast of the year.

I have always loved baseball, but the Giants have been truly awful this year. Today was the end of the season, at least for the teams that didn't make the playoffs. And today was the last time that Giants broadcaster (and former pitcher) Mike Krukow would be a regular. The Giants lost to the Dodgers (as expected); the postgame ceremony with Krukow was amazing. And while listening, I found myself thinking about loss. About the ending of things. About sadness.

I should note - one of the gifts that Sami gave me while she was sick was asking to go to a Giants game in May 2023. We were going to be in San Francisco to meet with her UCSF care team to discuss enrolling in a clinical trial - the Giants were in town, so we went to the game the night before the appointment. Sami wasn't a huge baseball fan, so I realize now that going to the game was her gift to me.

Krukow's broadcast partner for so many years, Duane Kuiper, paraphrased North Carolina State basketball coach, Jim Valvano, who said that every day, you should laugh, you should think, and you should cry (either from happiness or from grief).

As ballplayers I remember from my younger days (notably Bob Brenly and Will Clark) recounted their days as Mike Krukow's teammate, I laughed. As Kuiper, and then Krukow, talked about friendship, I thought. And as Krukow's family, at the end of the on-field ceremony, led the crowd who'd remained at Oracle Park in singing "The Parting Glass," I broke down and cried.

But I also realized that I'm growing more comfortable in my sadness. I realized that I did experience despair during the spring and summer of 2023 - when the seriousness of Sami's illness became clear. When I understood the weight of hoping that Sami wouldn't suffer - and that we wouldn't suffer in caring for her. But today - 37-plus months after I lost my wife of 33 years, I also realize that sadness is an emotion that I will continue to experience. That sadness is, in effect, the result of having been intensely happy. Sadness, I guess, is my friend.

Arbitrary, Unaccountable,… and Maybe Actually Evil?!

During the late winter or early spring of 2023, while we were absorbing the reality of Sami’s brain cancer diagnosis, we received notification that our homeowner’s insurance had been cancelled because our property was on a map that indicated we were in a zone of high wildfire probability. Never mind that our property was surrounded by lawn, irrigated pasture, and grazed annual rangeland. Never mind that there were no shrubs or ladder fuels on our property or on our neighbors’. We were on a map. And so our only option was the California “FAIR” Plan (the quote marks are ironic, in case you didn’t get the joke!). And we got to pay roughly three times our old premium just for fire insurance.

When I sold our place in Auburn and bought my current home in Mountain Ranch (in Calaveras County, within the burn scar of the 2015 Butte Fire), I knew I’d be stuck with FAIR Plan insurance, but I wasn’t ready for the initial quote. My new house, which survived the Butte Fire, was bigger than I needed, but I loved the land around it. I didn’t love the quote - my agent informed me that I’d need to cough up more than $8,000 per year to insure my home against fire - and that I’d need a separate liability policy for other potential hazards. Since I was fortunate enough to be paying cash, I was able to negotiate a lower rate (basically by saying if the house burned, I’d rebuild a much smaller dwelling). Even so, my annual premium - just for fire insurance - was nearly $4,000. I have since learned that some of my new neighbors were able to retain their private insurance. Regardless, I can’t even get a quote from a private insurer.

This year, the premium rose to over $4,000. My insurance agent (who is sympathetic), helped me verify the things I’d done to keep my home fire resistant. My “Zone 0” (within 5 feet of my home) is free of flammable material. I’ve pruned up trees and cut weeds within Zone 1 (5-30 feet). And beyond 30 feet (Zone 2), I’ve grazed my property with sheep, goats, and mules to a level that is scientifically proven to slow - or even stop - fire. But much like the phone company in the old Lily Tomlin skit on Saturday Night Live, FAIR Plan said, “We don’t care. We don’t have to.” I was granted a small discount, but my premium was still over $4,000.

After I’d renewed my policy, I received a notice from my agent (and from the FAIR Plan) that my premium would increase by 29% because of the fires in the Los Angeles area in 2025. I can do basic math (usually) - my annual premium would be more than $5,000. That evening, I contacted my California Assembly representative, David Tangipa, and my California State Senator, Marie Alvarado-Gill, about the issue. It’s been more than two months (in an election year), and I’ve yet to hear from either of them.

Tonight, I received three separate notices from the FAIR Plan. I think these are about a tree next to my garage. I think (maybe?) that my premium will increase by more than $700 due to this tree. Or that maybe they won’t cover my detached garage. But typically of every communication I’ve received from the FAIR Plan in the last 3 years, I’m not entirely sure. The FAIR Plan belongs in the Hall of Fame of Government Opaqueness.

When Sami was sick and we were struggling to get our insurance company to respond to our request for alternative treatment, I found that tagging Anthem Blue Cross in my social media posts got the company’s attention. The FAIR Plan is a quasi-government entity (I think - even this isn’t clear!). I find that I don’t know how to publicly shame them! One of the letters I received today indicated that there is an appeals process - that I can send a letter to Victoria Roach, President of the California FAIR Plan. But I have no idea who Victoria is accountable to - she’s certainly not accountable to those of us who’ve paid into the FAIR Plan. Equally troubling, neither Mr. Tangipa nor Ms. Alvarado-Gill are apparently accountable to their constituents.

I get that the mega-fires we’ve experienced in California in the last decade-plus have stretched private insurance companies beyond the breaking point. I understand my responsibility as a rural landowner to keep my property safe - and to work with my neighbors to keep my community safe. But I also know that my elected representatives are charged with representing my interests. I’m terribly frustrated that nobody in our state government seems to have the willpower to take on this issue.

And so tonight, I’m once again tempted by my privilege in owning my home outright. Maybe I’ll simply put the $4,000-plus the FAIR Plan requires into my own bank account. 

And maybe, if the worst happens, I’ll buy a sheep camp trailer….

What would Danny Branch do?

Wendell Berry’s passing this week hit me harder than I expected. I started reading Wendell Berry’s fiction shortly after graduating from college, and I have read (and re-read) most of his works of fiction, many of his essays, and a good portion of his poetry. In fact, the only book I haven’t read is his most well-known, The Unsettling of America, which I purchased while I was in college. I expect I’ll read it now.

I first conceived of this blog post on Monday evening, as I was hanging clothes on the line - I’ve not purchased a dryer, which now seems like a very Berry-esque thing NOT to do. I had difficulty sleeping that night - Berry’s passing hit me harder than I would have thought. It reminded me of the grief I still carry. Of what was lost when I moved back closer home. Of the losses that precipitated the move. And perhaps what was gained.

Danny Branch was the fictional illegitimate son of one of my favorite Berry characters, Burley Coulter. During the final days of Sami’s illness, the story from Fidelity about Danny picking up his unconscious father at the hospital so he could die on a farm where he’d spent much of his life working gave me strength. And inspiration. I thought of this story on the last night of Sami’s life. How many of us are lucky enough to read something so powerful - exactly when we need it.

More than 20 years ago, I wrote to Mr. Berry once. I asked him something about the Amish and the relationship between their sense of community and their way of farming. To my great surprise and everlasting delight, he wrote back! Somewhere in a file, I still have his letter. Around the same time as our correspondence, I got to see him speak in Sacramento. I found him every bit as engaging, humorous, and thought-provoking as his fictional characters.

In many ways, Berry was a contrarian when it came to modern agriculture. Even so, I’ve used Berry’s essays in my extension work. I’ve used his fictional works to inform my sense of community. He wrote about the Port William Membership - and I’ve experienced some of that feeling during my ranching and extension days in Placer County. And I’m experiencing it again as I’ve returned to the communities where I grew up. I am reminded (again) that being an old timer in an agrarian community is as much an attitude as a chronological condition. Berry describes Danny Branch in similar terms.

I’ve also used his fictional work to inform business decisions. Making do with old equipment takes willpower for me (I can be overly enamoured with fresh paint and shiny things), but I think of the characters in his work when I’m trying to decide how to ranch. I’m in the midst of conceiving a new agricultural and timber enterprise with my daughters and their partners - and re-reading Berry’s work this week has reminded me - again - of the value of “making do.”

When I think about his life and his writing, I know that I fall short - but don’t we all fall short of fictional and real heroes. Isn’t that the role that heroes play - encouraging us toward unattainable excellence? I’m too into material things. I’m writing this on my computer (rather than in a notebook by hand, as Berry drafted all of his published works). I bought a tractor (he farmed with horses). And yet his written work and spoken words are part of the lens through which I see the world - or more accurately, the lens through which I see the community I hope to be part of.

In Berry’s fictional works, Danny Branch was the heir of everything that was good - and that was hard - about being part of the Port William Membership. He farmed with horses (which I’ve tried). He valued the old ways and tried to make a living from the land in a modernizing landscape. He hung on during an age when small farms were consolidating or becoming housing tracts. As Berry wrote in his poem, “Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front,” every day, Danny did something that didn’t compute. I aspire to do the same!

While I’m sad about his passing, I feel a sense of responsibility. Not to be Wendell Berry, but to create and support the kind of community that was central to his writing. To his life. He could make me think. I’m pro-choice, he was pro-life. But his thinking and writing on the subject (as on many others) wasn’t divisive; rather, I found it well-reasoned, consistent with his other perspectives on life (and death and spirituality), and thought-provoking. And inspired by a love for the world around him.

The morning after his passing, I took a cup of coffee to the top of my hill and watched the sun burn through the mist of the first truly fall-like day. It was not, as Berry writes, season-turning weather, but the autumn feel to the day seemed fitting. I went to lunch at a friend’s ranch - doves in red sauce on polenta. And I felt the pull of membership. That evening, I dined on lamb chops from lambs I raised, squash from my garden, tomatoes grown by someone I know brought to me by a friend. And potatoes from the little store that serves this little town. Before dinner, I split wood and talked to neighbors about deer hunting. And I felt I was part of the membership of this little spot in the Sierra foothills. I’m an imperfect human (aren’t we all?!), but I’m lucky to be able to live like this. Berry helps us see the choices we can make that ensure this way of life persists.

In many ways, Wendell Berry’s work inspired me to start my Foothill Agrarian blog 17 years ago. I have no illusions about how my writing compares to his, but I do think the places on this planet that we live in and work on - the relationship between working landscapes and the people who work on them - need local champions. Of Berry’s many legacies, this is the most important to me.

A Million Sets of Eyeballs

On February 15, 2009, I wrote my first Foothill Agrarian blog post. At that point, I’d been raising sheep and selling meat at Farmer’s Markets for about four years. I had also tried (or would try in the coming years) producing summer and fall vegetables, selling firewood, and getting paid for targeted grazing. Today, more than 17 years (and many hundreds of posts) later, my blog has been viewed more than one million times! Even if some of these page views are from bots, this is a staggering number of eyes that have read my words!

Originally, my blog focused almost entirely on my own farming experience and on the local food movement in the Sierra foothills. I wrote about the day-to-day, season-to-season, year-to-year work of raising sheep. I talked about the joys and frustrations of trying to make a living from ranching without actually owning a ranch. Occasionally, I wrote more philosophical essays about production systems or my community’s relationship with the land. Since Sami’s diagnosis with glioblastoma in 2023, most of my posts have dealt with her illness and death, and with my own grieving process.

Obviously, I enjoy writing. I find that exercising my writing muscle regularly helps me improve (or at least I hope I’ve improved). I also find, when I go back and look at some of my earliest posts, that my perspective on farming and ranching has evolved over the last 17 years. The optimism of my early years as a shepherd eventually bumped up against the realities of trying to make a living with livestock. Similarly, the grief I’ve felt over these last three years has also evolved. Through the years, though, putting my thoughts into words and putting my words into the world have been hugely valuable for me. I hope they’ve been valuable to some of the folks who’ve read them.  

Wildfire Up Close (or at least Close Enough!)

On Thursday afternoon (August 20), I was in my cooperative extension office in San Andreas, California, getting ready to meet with a colleague on Zoom - just a typical day. When my phone chirped at 1:18pm, I glanced at the Watch Duty alert I’d received and saw “Loma Fire - area of Loma Serena Road, Mountain Ranch.” Since I live on Loma Serena Road, I immediately opened the app - and saw that Watch Duty put the preliminary point of origin- for what was already a 3 acre fire - on my property! I grabbed my computer bag and my hat and headed for home.

The drive home typically takes me 22 minutes - I made it considerably faster this time. In between calling neighbors (who either didn’t answer or who were also not home but headed that way), a number of thoughts went through my head:

If this fire did start on my place, what caused it? Are my dogs, sheep, goats, mules, and chickens okay? Is the fuel reduction work I did this spring, with grazing, weed-whacking, and pile burning, enough to protect my home and outbuildings? Did the fire start on the abandoned and overgrown property next door? What do I do if CHP and the sheriff's office have already closed the road? Should I try to evacuate the animals or stay and protect them - and my house? And why did I wear this crappy polyester shirt from UCANR!? I ALWAYS wear cotton during fire season!

This was my first direct experience with a fire so close (or perhaps even on!) my property - but not my first direct experience with feeling a mixture of anxiety and adrenaline. As I drove through the town of Mountain Ranch and past Sheep Ranch Road, I began to see smoke in the direction of home. I realized that the fire camera photo I’d seen on Watch Duty showed white smoke, which gave me some comfort that at least early on, the fire wasn’t burning in brush or timber (or my house!). And when I came around the curve past the old Spur Market on Rail Road Flat Road, I could see that the fire was not burning near my house; rather, it was between Old Emigrant Trail East and Swiss Ranch Road. Whew!

I spent the next 90 minutes standing on a hilltop across the road from my house, watching the fire with my neighbors. We were within the mandatory evacuation zone (and a sheriff’s deputy did come by), but the direction of the wind and the location of the fire (in the Jesus Maria Creek drainage) made us feel as though we weren’t in imminent danger. As did the magnitude of the fire fighting effort. Eventually, two S-2 tankers, a C-130 tanker, and two helicopters were working the fire, along with numerous engines and water tenders (from CalFire and Central Calaveras Fire, and perhaps other agencies), and several hand crews. Shortly after I arrived, the fire made it into the timber above the creek, but several water and fire retardant drops seemed to knock it back. By 4pm, the fire was still smoldering but its activity was greatly diminished. Watch Duty reported that the fire was holding within retardant lines. I went home and checked on my critters and my property.

I was not living in Mountain Ranch when the Butte Fire burned through my neighborhood in 2025, but many of the neighbors I talked with were. Others had experienced several other large fires in the region stretching back 40 years or more. As I reflected on our conversations, all of us took this fire seriously, but we were calm about what was happening.

And even though I'm new to the community, I felt (again) the importance of understanding that the word "neighbor" is both a verb and a noun! As I stood on the hill above the fire, both of the young men who have fed my animals when I travel texted to offer help or a place to evacuate my livestock. Family and friends from Tuolumne and Calaveras County called to check on me and offer help. Others texted or reached out on social media. I met new neighbors, too - and while I was (and am!) grateful to the first responders who were fighting the fire, I had a sense that our own community self-reliance is critical.

Later that evening, as fire crews continued their mop up, I went down to the road where the fire had actually originated, and talked to a few neighbors who were more directly impacted. There appeared to be several small spot fires that had started in vegetation that had been mown or grazed, and which hadn’t been able to spread any further - which made me more confident in the work that my grazing animals have done around my house. We also all speculated about how the fire had started - as usual, I suspect, there were lots of rumors (and perhaps some truth).

Reflecting on Thursday afternoon, I'm realizing that my wildfire preparations aren't perfect. I need to work on several trees near my garage - either taking them out or pruning them back. I need to cut better fire breaks around my sawmill site. I need more water storage to ensure I'll still have water even if the power goes out. I was lucky that this fire started in the next drainage south of my place - the up-slope winds were definitely a driving factor.

But this morning, 36 hours later, I’m relieved that the fire wasn’t more dangerous - but I’m also aware that we’ve not yet reached the worst part of our fire season. I feel for the people in my community who lost outbuildings or other assets (I haven’t heard, yet, whether any homes were damaged or destroyed). I won’t rest easy (nor will my neighbors, I suspect) until the first significant rainfall this autumn.

TWO AARP Magazines?! Really?!

My current mood can be traced back three weeks ago, when I hosted my supervisor and my cooperative extension colleagues on a tour of one of my research sites high in the Sierra Nevada. My supervisor related how she had told one of my advisor colleagues that she should ask me about a car care question - that I had “good dad vibes.”

Make no mistake - among my many roles and identities, “Dad” is one of my favorites. And I also know that being a Dad means sharing - at times unsolicited (just ask my daughters!) - lessons learned from experience. But if I’m honest, her comment also made me feel old.

At the end of that week, I travelled to Idaho for work, and continued on to Colorado to see my youngest daughter, Emma. During my trip, I was especially struck by the respect with which I was treated by complete strangers (in airports, at restaurants, etc.). I don’t know that I’ve ever been called “sir” so frequently. Maybe I was simply more aware of the term.

Tonight, I’ve just returned home after two days of (at least for me) physically demanding field work. I’m exhausted. Along with a handful of colleagues, I am five years into a project examining the effects of targeted grazing with sheep and goats in a commercial mixed conifer landscape. Our work these last two days has involved crashing through stands of 10 foot high deer brush in the Mosquito Fire burn scar to estimate biomass. We’re working on 30 to 45 degree slopes in vegetation where we can’t see one another from 15 feet away.

Last night, we enjoyed an amazing barbecue dinner - I brought ground lamb, hamburger buns, and homemade pesto. My colleagues brought potatoes and corn for roasting, and lettuce and tomatoes for the lamb burgers. We had a great time!

But during the course of the conversation, I realized that I am 21 years older than my next oldest colleague on this project. I was doing a college internship for the California Cattlemen’s Association in the year that he was born! I was well into my career when the others were born. Maybe I am old! And so I also wondered about how my colleagues viewed me - did they take it easy on me as we were trudging up and down the brushy slopes at UC Berkeley’s Blodgett Experimental Forest?! I hope not! But I’m appreciative if they did….

Here’s the thing…. I still feel like I’m 25 between my ears. Younger, sometimes - when I think about asking someone on a “date” and still feel awkward. Some would say that my sense of humor stalled out at about 12 years old. Even when I look at myself in a mirror and see the gray in my mustache, I still see a younger version of me. I never think to ask for a senior discount - mostly because I don’t think of myself as a senior! On the other hand, though, I feel my age after a day like this - after the two-and-a-half hour drive home this afternoon, I was stiff and sore when I got out of the truck. And I don’t have much energy this evening. Tonight, I feel every bit of 59!

Some of my current mood, no doubt, is related to the anniversary of Sami’s passing. Stressful situations, I know, age a person. Whenever I see a photograph of me from before COVID, I’m struck by how dark my mustache was just 6 years ago! I’m certain the stress of being a Dad to a high school student and a college student through the pandemic, followed by Sami’s brief illness and passing, has been part of turning my facial hair silver!

But this evening, as I turned onto my road and stopped for my mail, I found two (that’s right, TWO!!) copies of the AARP magazine in my mailbox. Both addressed to Sami! She would have been so pissed! She hated being called ma’am - and she hated seeing gray in her hair!

Feeling old - and actually getting old, I guess - is a privilege. I hope I get older! And I hope that whatever lessons I’ve learned in 59 years (I’ll turn 60 eight months from tomorrow) are helpful!

But please - just one AARP magazine is enough….