Amidst howling winds and the rumble of tin threatening to tear from the roof, the Wilderness woman, perched on her son's single bed, warmly dressed in her granny flannel gown and woolly ski socks, types earnestly away. It has been a successful weekend, all in all; a small shed has been partially cleaned out and the heavy black milking stand installed, the two acre pasture fenced in and containing two milking goats, their low-rolling companion herd dogs, Hector and Maximillian, a male mini-llama paid for and on the way, and a nice variety of chickens safely stashed in an old henhouse and fenced chicken lot.
Thirty-five bales of local hay delivered and stacked on the side of the run-through barn that isn't leaking, left-over Thanksgiving turkey recycled into cassarole, and the scraps added to the dogs' dishes, two-gallons of milk left to curdle into a soft, simple farm cheese for nibbling, the woodstove has been cleaned and the ash carried to the garden to be mixed in with the hay and animal compost for the spring planting.
Now to finish up the rough draft for a spring-time grant. Ten years as a hobby farmer does not a full-time sustainable farmer make. However, The Wilderness Woman is a tough old coot, and doesn't give up that easily. Hops farming has potential in the Western North Carolina landscape, and she feels that offering a local nursery for distribution of hops rhizomes could be a good thing. Always a good listener, the sharp ears of the Wilderness Woman can discern the truth when she hears it. "You can do it, " classmates and instructors insist. "They aren't calling Asheville the 'Beer City' three years running for nothing," a micro-brewer adds.
Now, can an ole' gray-haired girl from the Piedmont get this farm up and running? Only time will tell. We hope you'll stick around to find out.
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