Whew!
As I write this morning, we're staring at another record-breaking day of heat. Yesterday was a culmination of 72 hours of mitigation measures. Extra watering, mudding the greenhouses, spraying white clay on some sensitive new transplants (reflective protection), setting valve timers in the propagation house, covering lettuces with shade cloth, fixing the walk-in cooler, lots of closing and opening of valves late into the evening and early morning, cleaning filters on the irrigation system (our pump is working overtime), setting automatic sprinklers for the hogs and establishing shady, forested paddocks for the sheep. Not to mention, lots of breaks sitting in sprinklers while drinking copious amounts of water. This heat would feel a lot different if I was instead sitting on a beach drinking copious margaritas.
We're accustomed to some intense heat spikes on the farm (in August!), but this sustained, oppressive heat early in the summer is a new challenge....and a bit frightening. It comes at a time when we're nursing along newly transplanted and seeded fall/winter crops. The irony of this timing is rich. All we can really do is focus on keeping everyone well hydrated while protecting some of the most tender leafy greens from the direct sun. We even went as far as to hang some row cover from the tomato trellises to shield the soon-ripening tomatoes from the most intense afternoon glare.
Mudding the greenhouses has become an annual chore, but never this early in the season. It's one of the few times our heavy clay soil really shines. A thick slurry mixed in a bucket and then flung with a scoop onto the plastic roofs creates the equivalent of about 50% shade and is very effective at minimizing heat stress for our summer crops, and seedlings. Cucumbers, Peppers, Tomatoes...they all thrive in consistent heat, but extreme temperature spikes can cause these fruiting crops to drop blossoms and arrest fruiting altogether. Sometimes they don't recover well.
As you might imagine, the stress on the summer crops coupled with the very unfortunate timing for our heat sensitive fall/winter crops, has thrown me into a bit of triage mode. But the stress is a useful tool. I feel best when I'm on the move, problem solving, doing SOMETHING to mitigate the challenging conditions. It's empowering to see what's possible in extreme circumstances. Every little bit helps, and in this case, it may prove to be the difference between a bountiful fall season and one where we are scrambling to catch up. *Note: I'm also prepared to accept the very real possibility that nothing we do will matter, b/c 114* IN JUNE is just bonkers. Time will tell.
Today, after some early harvesting and watering, I'm moving out of mitigation mode and into a state of curiosity. We've done everything we can for now, and I'm thinking very hard about what this all means for the future. It's one thing to react to a relatively sudden, and extreme, condition....just to get by, for now. BUT, my gut (and the data) tells me this is the fitful start to a new trend, where extreme weather is the new-normal. I'm not interested in bouncing from one crisis to another, with only time to react and no time to build resiliency. We have to make space to be more resilient, which I think means being less busy busy, less consumptive, less impactful, less dependent, less rigid.....just....less.
The climate is part of my day, everyday, on the farm. Sometimes, when I see the dust and the dying pasture and the smoke and the depleted aquifer, and the heat-stressed animals and plants, it's hard to not be fearful. There are forces so much bigger than us at play here, and it's a daily practice to envision how we might build something that could possibly withstand, and thrive, in the face of such sustained crisis. We all have to eat, and believe me I am grateful beyond measure to be part of this incredible, supportive community of eaters and growers and thinkers and doers. Growing food just feels good. AND, it feels best in the context of ecological regeneration. That is the only way any of this makes sense. I hope with all of my being, that many generations from now, children can enjoy snap peas from a farm, any farm, that has clean water, and insects and birds and trees and topsoil that is living and breathing and profoundly, deeply nurturing.
I was hot yesterday. So hot. But I wasn't miserable. It reminded me bit of my California childhood in the Sierra foothills (except I'd have been at the river, not in a field). All this is to say, if you're still with me, that my impulse when things get scary is to lean in; to find a way to be productive and optimistic in the face of so much uncertainty. We humans have lots of work to do to survive, and it's not going to get any easier if we think it's going to get easier without pro-active, long-term problem solving. There is nobody coming to save me from my own existence, and when it comes to water and air and soil and weather, there is no where to run. Eventually even the deepest bunkers will come to reckon with the pale blue dot. I pondered this yesterday as I watched the hogs wallow, giving thanks for our water, and our forest, and our food. I wanted to just wallow too, but there were valves to turn, and sprinklers to move, and coolers to fix, so I took a picture instead.
Enjoy the share this week! Everything in your box is record-breaking! Every CSA box in this region is record breaking! "The first CSA boxes in Oregon packed with vegetables grown through 112* temperatures" If we can handle this, we can handle more. Thank you for giving us reason to grow! Please let us know what you think, how you are doing, what you are preparing with the veggies. Is anyone out there?
Your Farmers,
Conner (+Sarah)
