Up on the Farm
It took getting the bottom of my shoes caked with a mixture of sheep dung, duck poop, and hay for me to realize that I know next to nothing about farm life. Not really a surprising revelation, having lived all my life in urban environments. After all, most of my exposure to animals that don’t bark or meow is when I browse the grocery store meat and seafood departments.
So, my sullied shoes notwithstanding, we had a rather enlightening few days visiting our daughter for her university’s Parents’ Weekend. The school is in a college town with limited lodging options, and the surrounding environs are mainly agrarian. To make matters worse, when there is any kind of event – sporting events, academic programs, etc. – the hotels in town act like they’ve been selected for Travel & Leisure’s annual Best Hotels issue and raise prices accordingly (I could have used the term “price gouging”). So, no one who knows me should be surprised to hear that, given the limited options, I selected a rather thrifty accommodation for our Parents’ Weekend visit – a sheepherder’s wagon.
Yeah, I know – a what? If you think back to all the old western movies you watched as a kid – you know, the ones where the rugged pioneer families are slowly crossing the dusty plains in their rickety, horse-drawn wagons, while on the lookout for marauding bandits and angry natives – you sort of get the picture. Except sheepherder wagons are much smaller, only intended to house a single individual and his belongings. I say “his” because to my knowledge, sheepherders – modern day shepherds – were exclusively men. These hearty individuals would live solitary lives in remote pastures and valleys for months at a time, tending their flocks, with only these small portable wagons for shelter.
The wagon we stayed in was one of three on a farm outside of town. The proprietress, Lois, and her husband, moved out west many decades ago with the intention of starting a farm. The precocious young couple lived in a trailer without electricity or running water while they built a house. Eventually they purchased land, sheep, and nowadays the farm is spread out over 30 acres of rolling hills replete with pastures, ponds, and forests. Lois is an expert wool spinner and weaver, and arguably the preeminent expert on all things sheep- and wool- related in these here parts.
After purchasing and transporting the wagons to the farm, Lois refurbished them, added electricity and heat, and installed beds big enough for two people. Airbnb listings followed. It’s a cozy but comfortable space; the only downside is there is no plumbing. Not to worry though! The wagons are within a short walk of the barn, which contains a rudimentary kitchen and restroom facilities. Wander through a couple of doorways, however, and all hell breaks loose!
The other side of the barn has a rabbit pen, roosters and dozens of hens, baby chicks, ducks, and swallows flitting all about. Occasionally an onery sheep or two are temporarily locked up in solitary confinement. The dirt floors are covered with hay and unidentifiable animal byproducts. Adjoining pastures are home to dozens of sheep, lambs, and even llamas and alpacas. Wild turkeys and deer come and go as they please. At night, the chirping of frogs and crickets is loud but soothing. Lois provides earplugs. It’s a slice of life that us city-dwellers don’t get to see, hear, or smell very often.
Other fun farm facts: Lois’ property – like other venerable farms, I presume – is a living, working museum. Old cars and car parts, abandoned mechanical equipment, strange tools, tractors, and huge prepackaged bags of feed are strewn about, but somehow add to the ambiance of the place. In Lois’ case, add to the mix dozens and dozens of bins containing wool and wool products, stacked on rickety shelves and marked to indicate the variety of sheep, wool color, and dates. At night, an unexpected benefit: the sky hangs heavy with stars, free to express themselves away from city lights.
Births and deaths are a fact of life on the farm. Lois’ most recent additions were some baby chicks, kept in a heated pen, and five newborn lambs. So cute! The lambs were having difficulty feeding – there was some kind of anatomical issue with the mother – and Lois had to feed them by hand multiple times a day. Without her intervention, the lambs would die. Lois described another situation, fortunately a rare one, where a young sheep could not completely eliminate fecal material, resulting in a rather messy rear end. If Lois didn’t help clean the animal, this rather shitty (ahem!) situation would attract parasites which could kill the sheep in a matter of days.
Roaming around and among this menagerie are Lois’ loyal farm dogs, including a contingent of beautiful Maremma sheepdogs, providing companionship for the animals and ever on the lookout for potential predators. Lois proudly informed us that her dogs spanned several generations. I couldn’t help wonder, given their relatively short lifespans, how many times Lois had to say goodbye to a beloved, elderly canine, or conversely, how often she welcomed a frisky puppy?
And what of the sheep? They were numerous, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Lois had names for all of them. Over the years Lois must have said farewell to many of these gentle, woolly beasts who donated their thick coats time and time again. In addition to these natural deaths, occasional losses from cougar attacks, despite the presence of fences and guard dogs, were a reality.
To most of us, losing a pet dog or cat is like losing a family member. Do farmers feel the same when they lose an animal? I suppose farmers and ranchers must be able to emotionally insulate themselves from these inevitable events that go hand-in-hand with their chosen profession. Or perhaps they’re just too busy to form strong bonds with their animals. But I suspect that is not true. My guess is that farmers and ranchers are just much more comfortable with the cycle of life than most of us. That’s not to say that they don’t grieve the loss of a pet, or that they can’t happily cuddle with a newborn, fuzzy lamb. But unlike us urban folk, they see the cycle of life play out almost every day. To them it is a normal, expected phenomenon; maybe even a necessary one.
We got way more value for our money staying on the farm compared with a sterile, overpriced hotel. And I learned that we absolutely don’t value our farmers and ranchers enough. They’ve got tough, often thankless, jobs that we take for granted. It’s not a glamorous life, but there is somehow an almost magical, life-affirming connection inherent and embedded in their daily tasks. I was able to feel just a little of that during our stay. I’d never be suited to live a sheepherder’s life, but I’d gladly stay in that comfy wagon again – only the next time I set foot in that barn with the hay-covered dirt floor, I’m going to be really careful where I walk.
© 2025 L. Wechsler. All rights reserved.
Beautiful article, great photos, and it exposes a side of life often missed by those of us who are totally unaware of of this simpler, off-the-grid way of living, as we whiz by on the nearby highway, headed to or from our consumer-oriented daily activities. We should all
take a day to pull off that highway and
visit Lois’ world —and just “stop and smell the – cow dung?”