Axe Murderers and Amish Rebels

My next farm was located in northwest Montana, about an hour north of Missoula. I spent a couple days visiting my sister in Santa Fe before making the trek.

I had never been to Montana before, so my goal was to drive as long as I could the first day to get up there quickly, then take the next day or two exploring the new territory. Normally, I avoid interstate highways on road trips, but time was an issue so I made an exception. I drove a good 14 hours in one stretch, which started to take its toll on me.

At a rest area just north of Denver, I picked up a hitchhiker named Joe. I’m always a little skeptical about hitchers, but this guy had a camera that was nicer than anything I owned—which isn’t saying much—so I figured he wasn’t likely to rob me unless he really wanted an 8-year-old iPod that only works half the time. And he didn’t have an axe, which is a good sign.

Joe was a real friendly guy in his mid-40’s. He was laid off from a welding job when the company was bought out and his truck broke down shortly after that. He refused to let lack of funds or a vehicle stop him from visiting some old friends in the Rocky states, so he resorted to his thumb. He pointed out that he could have taken a bus, but hitching was far more fun. He had hitched up and down the west coast a few times, which he said was pretty easy with all the hippies driving along that route. Out here, however, getting rides was considerably more difficult. Until I picked him up, he had only traveled ten miles in two days. A sympathetic 7-11 clerk let him sleep in a storage shed the past couple nights.

It was on my route, so I drove him all the way to his destination in Casper, Wyoming. Joe grew up in Wyoming and helped keep me awake with lots of stories about baseball-sized hail and ice fishing accidents. He was documenting his trip and wanted to take my picture, so I asked to take one of him, too:

I made it to the Montana border after dropping Joe off and slept in my car at a rest area. The long day of driving was worth it because I got to soak in a good bit of the state at a leisurely pace the next day. When I passed through Butte, I learned they were hosting the National Folk Festival, which began that night. Admission was free (my favorite price) so I spent most of the evening there.

I arrived a couple hours before the first band went on. A few families were setting up blankets and chairs in front of the main stage, so I followed suit, laid out a beach towel and fell asleep on it. When I woke up, about half an hour before the band started, there were a million people around me. I had no idea how huge this festival was!

I watched a bluegrass band, a zydeco band, a Celtic band and—my fav—a honky tonk musician named Dale Watson. I’m a sucker for rockabilly (longtime Elvis fanatic), so that made the night for me. With loads of swing dancers, his tent was by far the liveliest.

Sunsets look different in every state. I always thought New Mexico had the best until I saw what Montana had to offer. They don’t call this big sky country for nothing. Magic hour lasts a long time here, and it’s intense. The entire sky turned a pale burnt orange color and everything and everyone around me was glowing as if they were all made of gold. I think I took more pictures of the sky than I did of the festival.

After the music, I looked for a campground. There were plenty nearby, but they were all full, so I slept in the car again. Believe it or not, those two nights curled up in my back seat were two of the most refreshing nights of sleep I’ve had in weeks. It sucks not being able to stretch out when I want to, but I’m a total insomniac and any chance for a good night of rest is well worth it. Now I know that if I have trouble sleeping on a farm I can always crawl into the car. Ha!

I spent the morning at the Missoula farmer’s market, then made my way up to the farm in St. Ignatius. I arrived just in time for the Amish auction up the road, where I met the farm owners and Anna, an old friend of mine who currently works for them. The auction was a little strange. I lived in Pennsylvania and have had plenty of experiences with Amish culture, but this was quite different. These Amish drink Coke, use digital cameras and cell phones and buy parts from Walmart to build their furniture. I think somebody needs to tell them what it means to be Amish.

At any rate, I got settled into my new cabin at the farm and met the extended family of the farm owners. Today was supposed to be a day off, but rain was threatening to ruin the hundreds of hay bales sitting out in the field. The bale-lifting tractor was misbehaving, so we hitched a trailer to the back of a pickup and went to work running through the field and hurling bales onto the flatbed. It was backbreaking work, and I felt like I had a baptism by fire, but I really enjoyed it. The family recently finished building an outdoor cob oven and treated me to homemade fire-roasted pizza afterward.

Then another amazing Montana sunset hit us. Incidentally, the cabin where I’m staying is facing a long line of ginormous snow-capped mountains. It’s a hell of a sight to say goodnight to, or to wake up and see first thing in the morning.

View from my cabin porch.

So far, so good…

Mormiquette (Mormon Etiquette)

When I told my parents I was going to quit my job to volunteer on a farm in Utah, the very first thing they said to me was “Is it a Mormon farm?”

They didn’t ask what I planned to do for money, they didn’t ask when I would leave or how long I would be gone and they didn’t ask why on earth I wanted to quit my job to work on a farm for food. They just wanted to know if I would be around Mormons.

In their defense, I come from a long line of German Lutherans. My parents met at a Lutheran seminary and my father, my maternal grandfather and two uncles (one on each side) are all Lutheran ministers. If I were to tell my parents that both of my arms and legs were severed by a tractor, they would be less worried than if I told them I converted to LDS. At least the tractor accident would leave my soul intact, right?

No, the family behind this WWOOF farm is not Mormon. If I knew more about Mormons, I would have realized that right away. We grow wine grapes here and Mormons are not fans of alcohol. I honestly wouldn’t mind if this was a Mormon farm. On the contrary, I think it would be exciting. I seriously doubt there is much of a chance of me becoming Mormon just because I live among them, and the cultural experience would be fascinating to me. I have to admit, I was a bit shocked by my parents’ stereotype that everyone in Utah is LDS. In reality, Mormons only make up about 99% of the population in this area.

So yeah, I live on the only non-Mormon farm in at least a 50-mile radius. It is more than a little unusual to see a vineyard in this part of Utah not only because of the dessert climate, but because of the near-prohibition attitude of the locals. Danny, the farm owner, gets along great with his LDS neighbors—even has a tradition of Sunday dinner with one of the Mormon families further down the canyon. Sometimes they ruffle his feathers, though. A few of them have dropped suggestions that he switch his fields to table grapes so that his life will be easier after he converts (it’ll be a cold day in Mormon hell before Danny gives up his liquor), and several neighbors were on edge when he got a group of four young female volunteers last spring. First they were appalled that the girls stayed here without a chaperone, then they were mortified when it came out that the girls would actually be working in the field instead of just cooking and cleaning for the men.

Danny’s mother is visiting for a week and she invited some of these Mormon neighbors over for dinner last night. I was excited to finally meet them after hearing so many stories. As a matter of fact, all I know about Mormons are gossipy stories about polygamists, petafiles and funny underwear, and they tend to sound too extreme to take without a grain of salt. My only personal experience was running into them on the streets in Oregon. I learned early to put my cell phone up to my ear and pretend I’m having a conversation when I see a guy in a white shirt and black tie make eye contact with me. Once, while at work, I was outside standing on a ladder and holding a power drill when two Mormon girls came up and started talking to me about my spirituality. That was annoying, but I was still polite and asked them to shove off as kindly as possible. I was good friends with a lesbian couple at that time. They both grew up as Mormons in Salt Lake City and met when they were assigned to be missionaries together. During their assignment, they both realized their true feelings for each other—along with their true gender preferences. They did finish their mission before leaving LDS to pursue their lives together. And that’s the extent of my Mormon exposure.

Before the guests arrived, Danny gave me a little debriefing. He recommended I avoid certain conversation topics, such as women’s rights, the futility of marriage, joys of alcohol and how pointless it is to bring more children into an already overpopulated planet. He didn’t mention it, but I assumed polygamy and petafiles was out, too.

I’m afraid I don’t have any juicy stories about the dinner. It was disappointingly normal. No funny hats, no cult chants, no bizarre conversations (the father did have an uncanny knowledge of peacocks, but the rest of the family seemed embarrassed by that so I don’t think I can blame it on his religion). Yep, just plain old neighbors… and they brought over a batch of homemade root beer, which gave them brownie points. Aside from skipping my after-dinner gin, it was like any other dinner. So much for my cultural experience. After they left, I really wished I could have at least found a polite way to ask about the underwear.

Later that night, the Brits and I went to visit Hosey at his trailer for a few beers. We told him about the dinner and that’s when I learned that these neighbors gave both Josh and Aaron copies of the Book of Mormon last time they all got together (before I arrived here). Hosey spoke up and said he loves Mormons.

“Really?” I asked, a bit surprised.

“Fuck yeah,” he said. “Back when I was in the slammer, we got real excited when they’d come visit. They’d always give us copies of that book, and those pages were perfect for rolling weed.”

Yep, Hosey smoked the Book of Mormon.

A Martini Feast

There were plenty of pesky mosquitos in Oregon. I’ve dealt with my share of bloodsuckers on camping trips and river floats and I’ve learned to expect itchy arms and legs for a day or so before the bites heal and comfort resumes. The outdoor adventures are usually worth the inconvenience of some mild itching, so I never thought much about it and never bothered with repellents. Bug spray always seemed like one more thing to worry about that I didn’t really need in the first place. I did wonder if mosquitos would be more of an issue if I worked outside on a farm all day, but I also assumed that Utah's dry climate wouldn't be appealing to the little vampires, so I didn’t concern myself with it.

My first hint should have been when I saw the other volunteers each grab a new can of Off repellent before heading to the fields on my first day here, then throw the empty cans away at the end of the day. Being a natural foodist, I’m not a big fan of insect repellents that contain deet. Deet is a registered pesticide linked to a multitude of health problems, and I’m convinced it can lead to everything from brain damage and cancer to infertility and toenails falling off. I figured I’d just keep my arms and legs covered and deal with it. That worked fine for the first few days when all I did was cut and glue PVC pipes in the shade (with glue that probably also causes infertility). At the beginning of my second week, however, I worked in the fields and had a very different experience.

When I started digging irrigation ditches, I could hear buzzing around my ears and feel the occasional itch of a bite. It wasn’t pleasant, but easy to ignore and I was very proud that I could handle the bugs better than my fellow volunteers—they wore mosquito-net hats, sprayed themselves with Off every half hour and still whined and complained about the pests like frustrated kindergarteners. The bites became more frequent over the next couple days of digging, but were still tolerable. The real shock came when I started weeding.

My first day of yanking dandelions out of the ground almost pushed me to the edge. The grape vines are well-irrigated, and these bugs love water. The buzzing in my ears became incessant and little dark spots constantly fluttered around my face. My ears, neck and wrists—basically anything exposed—began to itch like nothing I ever felt before. I’m not talking about a wussy Oregon mosquito itch here, I’m talking about an itch that made me want to scrape all my skin off with a vegetable peeler if it would just go away. After a very restless night of sleep, I decided to take some precautions.

I still resisted the deadly deet, but wore a mosquito-net hat that covered my entire head and neck with a fine mesh lining. Thinking this netting was impenetrable, I developed a bit of a cocky attitude toward my new invincibility and marched out to the Riesling vines ready to pick a fight with a fleet of vampires. You know that scene in Terminator when he just walks through the police station unfazed while everybody is shooting at him? Yep… that was me.

I actually felt pretty good throughout the day. I could still hear the buzzing around me, but was sure they couldn’t get in and just kept working. I did have one bad experience when I pulled up a mound of grassy weeds that unearthed a large fire ant hill. I didn’t notice them swarming on the ground and just kept weeding until I felt something crawling up my arm. When I looked down, there were dozens of them scurrying into my gloves and up my arms. I never undressed so fast.

At the end of the day, I thought I had the bugs beat (aside from the ground troops) until I took off my mesh hat. That’s when I looked into the bathroom mirror and saw dozens—possibly hundreds—of tiny red dots across my forehead. They followed lines below my hairline, across my eyebrows and down the sides of my face. Twisting around a bit, I could see that the back of my neck was dotted with them as well.

This concerned me. The Brits didn’t have this problem, and they wore the mesh hats, too. I thought it must be a rash from the netting until I talked to Hosey about it. That’s when I learned that I wasn’t dealing with just mosquitos. “We have skeetos,” he said, “but it’s the flies and the no-see-ums that really get ya.” I knew we had horse flies and deer flies and other biting flies here, but they’re big and noticeable and not very popular. No-see-ums, however, were something I had never heard about. According to Hosey, they’re so small that they’re barely visible and can fly through a screen door—or a mesh mosquito hat. Once inside, they’re relatively protected by the same mesh I thought was protecting me and they can feast to their heart’s content. You can’t even feel their bites until they develop long afterward. It turns out the Brits douse their mesh hats with deet.

The next morning, I couldn't open my eyes all the way. Every one of those tiny dots on my face and neck had swelled to the size of a pea. I don't know if this was a normal reaction or if I have some kind of crazy allergy to invisible bugs, but it was intense. Yeah, I was a freak… and here’s a gross picture to prove it:

And here’s a picture of the fire ant bites:

Every single bite itched like hell. I’ve never done heroin, but I imagine that scratching these bites was similar; I knew it would only make the craving worse, but it felt SO good. Sleep didn’t happen for the next couple days.

Fortunately, I went to visit my sister in Santa Fe right after I was stricken. That’s good because Santa Fe has loads of health stores and I was able to stock up on some different varieties natural insect repellent (I may have caved on the repellent, but I’m still proud to be avoiding deet). I also surfed the net to seek out other natural solutions.

Here’s the new plan: wear light-colored clothing, stay covered as much as possible, avoid foods high in potassium such as bananas and peanut butter (give you an odor savory to bloodsuckers), apply a biodegradable liquid every two hours so that I smell like citrus, lemongrass and peppermint, and NO MESH HATS! Learned that vinegar and baking soda do wonders to help the bites heal quickly.

I also have a plan to kill a few bugs and impale their heads on toothpicks as a warning to others.

Just finished my first day back in the field and so far, so good. My face is also starting to look human again. Sleeping soundly, too. And I’m still taking a lot of pride in knowing that I can handle the bugs better than my British cohorts. None of them have had anything nearly as bad as what I had, but they still whine and freak out with far fewer, far smaller bites—with heavy deet usage. It may not be the noblest thing to be proud of, but I’m determined to show-up England and beat the bugs with all my toenails intact.

There's Something Therapeutic About Digging a Hole

After my first week here, I felt like a complete slacker. The workdays were too short, the work was too easy and there were too many breaks. I came out here to live the farm life and I expected long days and backbreaking labor to be part of that. Instead, I’m getting a disappointingly laid-back vacation with lots of free entertainment. I’m trying to build character, damnit!

Keep in mind that I come from a long line of German Lutherans (100%... both sides of the fam) and we’re ingrained with a strong protestant work ethic. You’re not happy? Just work harder. You are happy? Great, work harder. We don’t talk about our problems, we work until they go away.

I really tried to tell myself to just enjoy this place for what it was for the few weeks I’ll be here, but I couldn’t get past the feeling that I was wasting time when I could be somewhere else doing something more productive. Most of the work we did my first week involved cutting and gluing PVC pipes in a shaded wooden shack with a radio blasting, and I swear that the other volunteers managed to stretch out one day’s worth of work over most of the week. We had to work together and it almost drove me crazy to wait impatiently for the next cut while they found every excuse to slack off. Make a cut, get a drink, eat some food, talk about movies, chase a lizard, complain about the heat, have a pipe-throwing contest, make another cut, etc.

That was week one. Week two, everything changed.

I have a feeling Danny noticed the other volunteers weren’t doing much other than playing video games, eating his food and drinking all his beer. Whatever the reason, he surprised us all Monday morning by handing everyone a shovel and assigning us to dig holes to uncover irrigation pipes. When Danny explained the task, I could feel the awkward silence as the others realized what we were expected to do.

I got to work solo, and I can’t remember the last time I dug such a big hole. Maybe I never did. The ground was hard and it was tough work. The heat was in the high 90’s and bugs were biting. I’m not a sweaty guy—I frequently ran a four mile loop in Oregon under a hot sun with nothing more than a misty brow—but my shirt got properly soaked from that digging. My arms and legs were sore and my back felt like it was about to snap, and that was only by lunchtime. I had to keep digging another hour before I found the pipe, and then dig the rest of the day to make enough space to tap into it. Not only that, but our workday went on quite a bit longer before Danny told us to come in. Then we had to do the same thing the next day. It reminded me of that movie about holes where all the kids dig holes all day and there were holes everywhere and they couldn’t go to bed until they were done digging their holes. What was that called?

After the second day, I woke up in a lot of pain. My arms and legs felt like noodles and it hurt to put on my shoes. My stiff muscles resisted every time I moved, even if I turned my neck. It was a good kind of hurt, and it felt great! For the first time since I arrived here, I felt like I put in a good day’s worth of work and could see the fruits of my labor in the big cavity in the ground. I was so proud of my hole. You can bet I was ecstatic when I finally found that pipe.

If you’ve never spent a whole afternoon digging a hole, then I strongly recommend it. You’re stuck there alone with your thoughts—no distractions—and you have some physical exertion to help purge anything unpleasant out of your mind. You also start seeing the faces of people you hate in the hard ground and get a lot of satisfaction ripping them apart with a shovel (that’s also a great way to get a burst of energy when you start feeling tired). In the end, you feel very centered and clear-headed.

We spent the rest of the week digging more ditches, then went on to pull weeds out of the grape fields. That was also tough, but even more rewarding since I was finally getting my hands in the dirt. I really started enjoying this place this week, although my fellow volunteers bring me down a bit. They now complain constantly about how rough life here has suddenly become… and they still find ways to slack off most of the day. Sorry to brag, but my hole was way more impressive than the one the two Brits dug together.

Dad always told me I’d end up digging ditches if I got a degree in film and philosophy. Guess he was right, but I’m sure he never imagined how much I'd enjoy it.

“The pile is the enemy of the hole.”
–Bart Simpson

I'm Going to Hell

I always assumed that if I worked on an organic farm in exchange for food, the food would be healthy and organic—or at least natural. Not so.

Danny gives us free reign of the pantry. It’s a nice perk for volunteers because we choose our own meals and eat what we want. Unfortunately, that pantry is full of processed foods, all containing high-fructose corn syrup, trans fats and Red 5. Danny isn’t big on greens; the only vegetables in the whole house are a case of canned mushrooms and a half-empty jar of artichoke hearts. Most of the meals here consist of bacon, sausage, sweet cereal, rice-a-roni and bacon. Farm-direct veggies normally make up about 70% of my diet and I’m going through withdrawal. I would kill for a fresh head of lettuce right now. And if it were organic, that would make my year, but that’s reaching for the stars.

Danny is from Santa Barbara and is very knowledgeable about the natural food industry. He did, after all, choose to grow an organic vineyard from scratch. Whenever he visits his family in Cali, he stocks up on natural foods for the trip back, but that hasn’t happened in a long time. His shopping choices here are very limited.

“Organic” is a foreign word in the Utah countryside. Even his farming neighbors don’t understand why Danny would want to grow something without pesticides, so there is absolutely no demand for natural or organic food out here. We’re also in the middle of the dessert, which doesn’t help. The nearest food retailer is a tiny grocery in Monticello, about 45 minutes away, and it’s good for overpriced staples (i.e., bacon). Fully stocking up on supplies at an affordable rate, however, requires a two-hour drive to the mammoth discount store in Cortez.

Walmart.

I hate Walmart. I despise Walmart. I wish every Walmart on the planet would burn to the ground, and I wouldn’t hesitate to light the match if I knew they would stay down. Walmart is a plague to our social, environmental and economic well-being. I spent the last five years of my life working at a natural food co-op to encourage anti-Walmart values. Last fall, I needed a new phone charger and drove 20 miles out of my way to avoid giving Walmart money for one. Yet, I’m hungry.

Danny did a shopping trip to the wretched megastore today and invited me to come along to help pick out food. I jumped at the chance to make sure something green came back. It turns out that even the Walmarts out here are sparse on veggies. And while Walmarts on the West coast brag about their huge selection of organic goods, the one in Cortez doesn’t have that demand, so they don’t supply. No bother—beggars can’t be choosers. I was ecstatic to fill a shopping cart with the cheapest and most unethical broccoli, asparagus, cauliflower and sweet potatoes I’ve ever seen.

I’m still having some guilt issues over the whole thing, but I’m snacking on a plate of asparagus as I’m typing this and damn, it’s good.

I’m sure my friends from Oregon will understand my conflict. Everyone else will probably just think I’m a snob. Whatev.

What the Hell Kind of Farm is This?

I arrived at the vineyard Monday evening just before sunset. I had to drive down a long, windy gravel road that led deep into the Montezuma Canyon. The area is totally off the grid, and the canyon is amazing. It really is an oasis in the middle of the dessert. Lots of cows on the road, too.

I met Danny, the farm owner and manager, and Hank, his blue heeler, as I pulled up to his adobe house. He introduced me to the other WWOOFers, two from the UK and two from France. All guys about 20 and all friendly. I was a bit surprised to see the inside of the house where they were staying because it was so luxurious. They were all playing guitar hero on a big screen TV and had a table set up for beer pong. I'm not a fan of video games (Ms Pac-Man being the exception) or beer pong and my first reaction was oh my god, I just walked into a fraternity! Not the bare-bones organic farm life I expected or wanted. I started wondering how fast I could find another farm.

No worries... it got better.

Danny gave me a tour of the vineyards on the mule--the ATV that can traverse the rough canyon terrain. He owns over 100 acres of property, but only about 30 of it is suitable for growing. He has over 20 acres of grapes and is planting another 6 acres this summer. He also has some fruit trees, but all of the apricots and cherries were obliterated by a late frost this season. Peaches may survive, and the grapes are all going strong.

Danny's family bought the property 6 years ago and he took it over 3 years ago. He decided he wanted to grow organic grapes with nothing more than some introductory viticulture classes. And he decided to do it in the middle of Mormon country, which considers alcohol to be similar to the plague. So far, it's going well. He makes his own wine in a nearby cave, but only for personal use because it will be a few years before he can get a license to sell it publicly. He sells most of his wine grapes to nearby wineries. Table grapes and other fruits sell at farmers markets in Monticello and Moab.

Next to one of the vineyards, sitting along the canyon wall, is a cozy white trailer. Danny told me all the rooms in the house were full, so I'd have to sleep there. I think he thought I'd be disappointed, but that was the best news he could have told me.

I love my trailer! It's clean, has more space than I need and it gives me some privacy and solitude, which I've learned to appreciate. It also means I can go to bed before the other WWOOFers are done making a late night racket in the house. Of course, I'm welcome in the house whenever I want. It takes about three minutes to walk there.

We went back to the house for a bean soup dinner and I got acquainted with the other volunteers. At about midnight, Danny asked if we wanted to go for a ride. All six of us piled into the mule, two standing on the back, and Danny drove us deep into the canyon. When he reached a small clearing we got out and followed him over some rocks. It was pretty dark and hard to see the ground, but the sound of running water grew closer and closer. Eventually, we shone a light over the edge of one the rocks and saw that it stood over a waterfall that dropped about 20 feet straight below us. We kept climbing across rocks until Danny told us to turn off the flashlights and look up.

It turns out this is one of the best stargazing regions in the country. I had never seen so many stars! Not only that, but shooting stars flared across the sky every few minutes. I had only seen two shooting stars in my whole life, but that night I lost count. We all found places to lay down and stare straight up at the sky, which we did for almost an hour. A really good bottle of rum was passed around the whole time.

I ended up sleeping on the sofa in the house that night because it became too late to get the trailer set up. I fell asleep feeling pretty good.