WillaBella Farm

Springtime is for rebirth. Bulbs begin to emerge, fruit buds swell, my favorite time of year. As the days grow longer, I spend more time slogging around the muddy property with my two very dirty labradors in tow. I stop to marvel at plum tree blooms starting to open, soft yellow daffodils peeking through the muck, rhubarb, hellebore, large leaf lupine, trilliums, regenerating after the long dark winter. The chickens and ducks start laying again and begin their broody ways. Hormones rage, while roosters and drakes attack everything that moves. Draco, our large Muscovie Duck showing off his lovely plumage to the wrong gal. Albuquerque the Turkey is simply not impressed.

Spring is also kidding, calving & farrowing season on small farms. Pudgy piglets, fluffy lambs, tiny goat kids, bundles of bouncing farm babes. I love visiting local farms this time of year, fascinated by the natural ways that animal motherly instincts kick in. Some day I will be brave enough to breed an animal myself and experience the full life cycle on this small sustainable farming journey.

Despite large confinement operations ruling our modern food supply, a good number of spring animals are born into small farms. Where they are loved and cared for the duration of their lives. Some live as beloved pets, others go on as producers for milk, fiber, loved by youth, auctioned through 4H…AND yes some to freezer camp to feed local families. The fact is, animals are an integral part of small farm life. Raising animals for any purpose is gut wrenching, back breaking work, not for the weak of heart. The farmers who put in the time to raise them humanely, have earned my deepest respect. Animal rights advocates, I feel you, and only hope that this story will help to open a wider lense to this complex tale between farmer & eater. Advocacy is important, but until a person has experienced raising and caring for a production animal themselves, they cannot truly have a full picture view…AND SO MY STORY BEGINS…

Years in clinical diagnostics offered me a first hand look at the negative effects of a broken industrialized food supply on public health. Taking a breather after my 2nd child, I turn my focus to plants and sign up for the master gardener program. Making valuable community connections and learning all I can from other farmers & gardeners. My passion becomes narrowed to soil biology, home orchards and food soil web ecosystems. Truly the best gift I ever gave myself. But sometimes deeper knowledge makes you see things on a level you wish you hadn’t. If only I could go back to enjoying the canopy of an old fruit tree, rather than seeing only disease, blight and pests.

Five years volunteering in the program, endless plant clinics, & lugging around enormous plant manuals, I realize that I am not a master at anything. Rather more of a “master looker upper.” Most everything found through a simple Google search these days. My science brain migrates to reputable, non-anecdotal sources of course. Coupled with Co-dependent personality disorder from childhood, I become consumed with all things farmy. Friends stare blankly, as I ramble on about regenerative food systems at every gathering.

Preferring the company of animals more anyway, I try my hand at raising my own pastured meat birds. Little Cornish savages bred to eat until their legs buckle under their own weight. I find myself unable to emerge from the farm house without literally being chased down by 50 fat little white zombies hobbling toward me in mob fashion. Throwing feed as fast as I can to escape, truly stuff of nightmares. Butchering day could not come fast enough. Enjoying the satisfaction of serving free ranged meat to my family, while harvesting all that golden poop to build the clay garden. Always in learning mode, I chose to move on to a more natural, slower growing, less frightening heritage breed next time around.

In the spring, multiple science experiments happening on the farm all at once, propagation, permaculture, natural pest controls. I stare out at the empty front field, covered in meadow nap-weed longing to cultivate. The time had come to challenge myself to take the next step into large animal production. The purpose? To educate myself while rehabilitating our weed covered pastures & fill our family freezer with healthy proteins. The mere thought made me shiver. If I was to truly be a small farm advocate, livestock was a necessary step in being accepted among the ranks of “real” farmers. Husband on board, scared and excited, I begin the process of diving into everything Cow!

The homesteaders of our farm had cows on our fields over 80 years ago. I loved the idea of bringing back their heritage. One of my four brothers agrees to build me an animal shed in exchange for a small amount of cash & beef. Raised in Montana, former Eagle Scout and self taught Jack of all trades, Kevin could literally build anything. The 3 sided structure must be small enough for building code, durable to stand against large animals scratching their behinds & yes movable. The challenge, finding a dry location on our increasingly soggy marine climate property. He visits for a few days over the summer and construction begins. Grateful to have returned to diagnostic sales to help pay for this expensive little ditty. My only job, to deliver snacks and drinks to the building site, in between my neverending corporate conference calls. His girlfriend playing with my young daughter, stopping to let me know when he needs a refill on his beer cooler. Annoyed by the extra time other women always seem to have, I do as I am asked, keeping multiple balls in the air at all times. As if my life isn’t already insanely crazy. Yes I really do need therapy, if only I had the time.

My livestock research takes me to local area farms. Positioned as yet another Saturday fun farmy family outing. Too numerous to count, my middle schooler rolling his eyes, sitting slumped in the back seat. We arrive on a peninsula dairy farm. Pulling down the long dirt driveway, I notice overgrazed pastures, noxious tansy, endless broken fences and work, lots of work. I gaze at my hubby staring straight ahead trying to avoid eye contact with me. We enter the field to interact with some sweet calves, as the humongous momma cows close in. Curious creatures staring at eye level quietly chomping their cud. Intimidating in size alone, scaring the holy hell out of us. I stand shaking in my flip flops, while my hubby calmly reassures my kids. The gray haired female farmer emerges from her milking parlor and begins rapid firing, literally yelling, complex details of cow rearing at us. I had made an appointment in advance to come see her calves, explaining my gross inadequacy in livestock. She was clearly not interested in mentoring anyone. Realizing in that moment that I am not a farmer. I am a coward. We drive home in silence. Cross fencing ranging upward of 10K, I begin to panic…BUT I had promised my brother grass fed beef.

There is something very powerful about growing & raising your own food. Once you begin to share your bounty with others, it’s almost like a switch turns on. Neighbors and family begin to reach out requesting swiss chard, fresh eggs, figs.. oh those amazing succulent figs! Suddenly you’ve taken on a sense of duty, an obligation to your community. I spend countless hours working the farm, distracted from my “real” job, the one that actually pays the bills. Growing in my knowledge, studying local food systems, planting more gardens. I plunge deeper into the connections of every living thing within the complex ecosystem of the planet in which we live.

Fall approaches, I paint the new animal shed barn burnt red of course, because I must adhere to real farmer norms. Back in the day, farmers covered their barns with linseed oil which turned the wood red. Dark burgundy with white trim from our local hardware store will do just fine, taking care to match the color to our chicken coop. The kids help me knock it out in short order. I stand back in admiration. The front field starting to look like a real farm, not just another old craftsman house on empty sterile ground. I catch myself day dreaming, someday this hard pan clay field will produce food for the masses. Perhaps a community garden with space to teach children.

Months pass as I gaze upon my beautiful new fence less, red shed barn standing alone in an empty field. I begin to imagine what putting meat on the tables must feel like for our local small farmers. Eating meat is a personal choice for each of us. Often based in childhood, societal & cultural norms. Raised in Montana among hunters and ranchers, its just part of my DNA. For me, it is important that animals used for food be loved & treated humanely and able to live their best life outdoors in large spaces, regardless how long that should be. There is little money to be made in small regenerative farming. Small Farmers do it as a religion, a passion, a secret society that I desperately want to be a part of.

Early spring arrives, I stop by a local farm to pick up orders for our community co-op. My gruff farmer gal pal takes a few moments from her busy farm life to show my daughter her newly weaned piglets. I watch my daughter timid and scared of these sweet little pink sausage shaped creatures clambering all over her. I think to myself, Yes pork, why had I not thought of that before!

While the farmer proceeds to lecture my daughter on the principles of pig behavior, I take visual snapshots. Cheap metal step in posts, livestock panels. No fencing envy here. I wonder to myself, why do livestock farmers always seem so cranky, as I hurry home to tell my hubby about my plans to raise swine for our family freezer. Something I will certainly come to realize in short order. Farmers who raise meat sold within the food system require major regulatory hoops, USDA licensing, health department permitting, inspections etc. I have so much respect for those who tackle this enormous feat. A few hogs for our family freezer will be easy, no regulations needed. This I can do myself!

The next day I begin the arduous process of pounding in 50 step-in posts, taking multiple trips to my local feed store for twenty five, 16 foot long rigid hog panels. Working with the supply yard guys to load, carefully bowing one at a time into my small short bed truck. Back and forth, week after week, they begin to greet me by name. At one point even allowing me to drive the fork lift to assist in the loading process. Thinking back this may have actually been the exact moment my aching body started to show itself. I am determined to do every bit of this project myself in my effort to not burden my already exhausted first responder Hubby. I hear of a farmer friend in my peninsula female farmer group who is weaning GOS piglets for sale. Glauchester Old Spots are a heritage breed hog specific for meat production. Reaching upward of 600lbs full grown. Plenty of meat for my brother and our extended family. Here we go on my path to become a real farmer!

My daughter and I work together to capture the slippery, fast little weaners. Slipping and sliding, covering ourselves in stinky mud and poo. All the while the farmer attempts to hold back Wilma, a very angry, massively huge momma. A sweltering hot early summer day, deafened by piglet screams, we finally wrangle them into the back of my truck. Spraying down their hot little bodies with cold water and head on our way. We deliver two to another nearby farm, because that’s what real farmers do.

We finally get them home and comfy in their new perfectly painted, straw lined red shed barn. Pinching myself, I stand back with camera in hand. Taking in every moment of those adorable curly tails. We finally have real livestock on our farm! My daughter soothing them in her gentle animal whisper ways. Myself enjoying the moment, while secretly trembling in my flip flops about what lies ahead. We will have 6 months to prepare I tell myself. I let my kids name them despite my hesitation to do so. Hammy, Porkchop, Kevin Bacon… We settle on something a little more loving. Watching pink chubby piggies with curly tails frolic on fresh pasture is a beautiful sight.

My first week with the piggies is a comedy of errors. Smallish but mighty, they manage to destroy everything, ripping up the pasture turning it into muck and boulders. Digging up artifacts from days gone by, an old spoon, farm tools, an old padlock. With each find, I wonder about the Hansen family that worked these pastures before us. What were they doing when they dropped this? Wrangling cows, haying the fields, repairing fences? A few short days into my piggy project, the little devils manage to crush my foot. (Note to self don’t wear flip flops with livestock..EVER). Achy and bruised, ridiculed by farm girl peers, downplaying the pain, I forge ahead.

My perfectly painted red shed barn now stands covered in mud. Closer inspection reveals tunnels under the shed causing the heavy structure to tip. I spend countless hours limping around in my new $100 mucking boots, strategically bordering up the sides of the shed with scrap posts, boulders, pallets anything I can find to protect my beautiful and very expensive prize from the little rooting monsters.

As the weeks follow, I work tirelessly on building a piggy palace fortress. So incredibly reinforced now that I failed to notice that I can nolonger access the pasture with the tractor. I stand defeated, staring at my masterpiece, trying to figure out how to overcome yet another Epic fail. I have no choice now but to hand dig a wallow to help the little suckers cool off in the intense summer sun. Something the Kubota could have taken care of in a few quick swipes, becomes an all day back breaking ordeal. Turns out piggy’s are prone to sunburn, who knew? They need mud to cool them off and protect their sensitive skin. I spend many more days digging and transplanting Cedar saplings for shade. Only turning out to be a quick snack for these omnivores, completely chomped to bits that same afternoon. I slip into bed with Tylenol in hand, reflecting on the epic fails of my pig farmer existence.

Despite my rookie farmer challenges, these strange creatures are starting to grow on me. Realizing there is no way we can keep 600lb pigs as pets, I begin to have conversations with my family about butcher day. My son minimally interested, more focused on our companion pets, while my daughter especially growing in her affection for the farm animals. I pitch to my husband an idea to lesson the blow. Let’s adopt 2 Kune Kunes as pets for the kids, I beg. Deep down realizing this is likely more for my psyche than them. Supposedly smallish in relative pig size, we bring home the adorable little terrified bacon bits. Kept separate from the others, as any new addition most certainly results in biting, squealing, drawing blood and complete pig hiarchy chaos.

The cute little bundles grow fast and before our eyes weigh 100 plus pounds. Despite my continued efforts to reinforce the fortress, the little escape artist bust through the chicken yard chain link that borders the hog pasture. After a full day of trying to capture them before they end up in traffic, I vow to keep them well fed. Surely this strategy will help intercept their continued attempts at a fresh chicken dinner. Turns out pigs enjoy meat, much more than lettuce.

Forever the sales gal, always finding partners on my journey, I make arrangements with a new farm to table restaurant for biweekly produce. As our farm scraps are mere pittance for these enormous creatures. The owner and I become fast friends as we work together to source local farm fresh ingredients to his restaurant. We join forces doing public speaking on the importance of supporting small sustainable farms. Having finally found my people, I stand proud to introduce myself as a regenerative Hog Farmer. We spend the summer in a symbiotic relationship with his Chefs. The kids and I dropping off fresh picked fruit in exchange for four 30lb bins of scraps twice a week. Together my son and I toss the bins over the fence, while we watch in awe as these snorting ravenous creatures explode in size right before our very eyes. My busy captain hubby and chef extraordinaire rarely making an appearance, drops by to marvel on how he can already smell the pot roasts filling the air.

It doesn’t take long before I begin to understand the personalities of my little porky friends. Not immediately realizing that I am low man on their private herd hierarchy. As food production hogs, I chose not to spay as their time is limited on our farm. Another epic fail, I quickly begin to feel the full effects of an intact crotchety female in heat every 21 days when her needs are not met. No longer the sweet little porky baby, now a squeeling torpedo locked and ready to kill me. Nothing more frightening than a 200lb hog charging at you full speed. How on earth did I go from a corporate sales professional to a mud soaked crazy lady.

Waddles, affectionately named after the dangly appendages beneath her snout, begins pushing and shoving me in regularity, knocking me off my feet. I realize very quickly that I am no longer in charge. Under farmy friends advice, Bamboo stick in hand, a light tap on the snout. Within seconds I suddenly become leader of the pack once again. Turns out the snout is a very sensitive body part of a pig. Convincing myself that my piggies really do love me, just as long as their bellies are full. My eyes gaze over to the wallow, visualizing my mud covered limp body laying faced down in the hot sun. Grabbing my bamboo stick, I feel empowered to scratch their bellies, whispering sweet nothings to my porky pals. Please don’t kill me today.

Despite my bruises, I become attached to their quirkiness. Loving their vocal response to my hourly visits with orchard windfalls of fresh figs, apples, a rainbow array of fresh garden produce. They continue to bond to me and grow into beautiful large specimens. My little piggy friends finding more ways to dig under fences, tearing up my beautiful red shed barn. Easier to live in denial than deal with hot wiring everything. I add 2 bags of extra hog feed per week to the menu and daily soccer ball with my kids for enrichment exercise. Yes pigs enjoy a good ball game. All other animals are literally ignored as these massive hot dogs take over our lives. All consuming, I truly love these animals with my deepest self.

I find myself thinking about all things pig every hour of every day. Dragging hose in the hot sun, filling waterers multiple times per day, replenishing food, fixing damaged fencing, filling wallows, shoveling endless tootsie roll poop, refreshing straw bedding, deworming, literally a never ending flurry of pig potpourri. I shutter to think about what all of this is costing us in time & resources. Surely the most expensive pork chops in the history of small farming.

As the late Summer days grow hotter, and the lush pasture turns to hard pan clay. I realize why these animals are meant to forage among orchards and forests. Their sensitive pink skin burns easily as they roll in wet mud to stay cool. Despite acres of forest out back, I’m too exhausted to put in more fencing and start this brutal process over…AND how on earth would I ever get them moved? I spend the remaining summer days keeping them as comfortable as possible. Slathering them in sunscreen, spiking waterers with electrolytes, setting sprinklers, foraging for more food waste and digging deeper wallows. You have not lived until you experience watching pigs run through the sprinkler on a hot summer day!

As the crispness of fall fills the air and the dreaded day draws near, I start to tell myself that bacon is overrated. I know deep down that it is not possible to continue to keep up this pace while feeding over 2400lbs of swine. Nor will I be able to keep them contained, veterinary care, trimming 16 hooves and all the other tasks that go along with caring for these animals day to day. The ship has clearly sailed on spaying these beasts. Reminding myself every minute that these massive animals are bred for food production, not pets. Anyone who thinks otherwise has clearly never been through this. I must remain focused, as I begin the process of detaching myself.

I finish them on buckets of fallen apples & pears from our orchard. Feels so good to finally have a no waste farm model. Realizing that we humans may starve to death in the process, the silhouette of my dead, mud soaked body flashes in my mind once again. My porky friends come running, squealing in delight as they see me approach, gobbling up any apple maggot still left among the windfalls. Integrated pest management in the finest sense, my fellow master gardeners would be so proud.

After numerous cancellations, the mobile butcher finally arrives. I remove the hog panels to allow him to drive his truck to the red shed barn and out of sight. No one needs pesky neighbors causing a self righteous raucous. I have all I can handle right now. I hand him cash, quickly retreating to the house to blast music & bury my head. I keep my mind focused, in a few weeks after hung and quartered, we will have a full freezer of pork for the winter to feed our family.

I emerge alone from the house hours later. Kids strategically sent away with friends for the day. As I toss feed to the chickens, gazing upon the empty red shed barn, the stillness is suffocating. Pigs are highly intelligent friendly and full of personality. I feel a deep sense of remorse. I enter the pig pasture gathering waterers and gazing around for signs. Nothing left but a clean piggy bathroom. Contrary to common belief, Pigs are one of the few exceptionally clean farm animals, depositing waste in the same place, far away from their living quarters. I look out at the empty field expecting to see them come running, as I fall to the ground in tears. Quickly collecting myself before anyone sees me, I head over to check in on the Kune Kunes in their temporary housing. Despite having grown as a human in my understanding, I don’t feel like a real farmer. I feel like a failure. The never ending daily commitment for so many months, production animals become a part of your soul. I will miss my hourly visits with my muddy, squealing escape artist friends.

Half a year passes, our busy lives march on as the memories of raising the GOS hogs fades. Feeling a sense of pride as Holidays are celebrated with perfectly glazed ham & roasts from healthy pastured meat I raised all by myself. Grateful for that amazing cook who lives in our household, I suddenly feel empowered to go through it for one more season. Confident that somehow I will grow tougher. With the overwintered Kunes reaching 200 plus pounds and challenging as ever, I decide to take on two more GOS hogs with the plan to butcher all four by fall. By now I know what’s coming, as I brace myself for the inevitable.

With daily attention and management, I get smarter and stronger in my processes. The hogs become a great addition to our youth camps. A diversion for me, as I spend less & less time with them leading up to that dreaded day. Somehow referring to them as hogs now, rather than pigs helps keep my mind in perspective. I learn to cope, as I refrain from calling them by name. “Here piggy piggy” works just fine. I feel so much pride as I listen to my kids tell their peers fun pig facts, while teaching the importance of livestock on a small farm. The next generation of environmental stewards, I have achieved the most important unintended goal.

Processing day is harder this time around and doesn’t go as smoothly with the mobile fella. My hubby is asked to assist. Manly in every way, except lacking in natural hunter mentality. Traumatized by the experience, we decide from that day forward to leave the task to the experienced real farmers. We still eat meat, but now we intentionally chose to purchase from local small farms who raise their animals humanely, in contrast to large industrial confinement operations. It takes a little planning ahead and a chunk of money every spring, but I now have an intimate understanding of how my choices impact the larger sustainable picture.

Time marches on as we reflect on 18 years living on the homestead, animals and pets come and go, each one leaving a mark on our hearts. The red shed barn now housing Nigerian dwarf goats. My daughters 4H milk goat still waiting out the pandemic to hopefully one day debute at the county fair. Our pig pasture bounces back more beautiful than ever with not a trace of noxious weeds to be found. The garden soil structure begins to improve, as their composted contribution lives on. I begin to think about how to better utilize these animals for teaching youth and am led to pig rescue. With the carefully thought out decision to adopt American Minipigs bred as pets to help teach youth. A cross breed of Juliana and Potbelly from an unintended litter. Realizing that these slow growing munchkins, won’t truly ever stay mini. They will live outside among the other farm animals, rooting around as nature intended. Figburt & Manny become furry family members living out their best lives educating children about the value of precious pig poop….My brain is at rest & my soul at peace.

🐷 Did you know? There are more microbes in a tablespoon of healthy soil, than there are people on earth. Think about that for a minute. How does that happen? Livestock are necessary for healthy regenerative ecosystems, carbon sequestration, soil biology teeming with life. This delicate symbiotic relationship requires large hoofed animals, eating forage and depositing their waste on our pastures and rangelands. We are all interconnected with every living thing & in the food that we chose. Our global cultures eat animal proteins, always have and always will. No amount of animal rights advocacy to the contrary will ever change that. Respecting an individuals choice will always be our mantra, but if you do chose to eat meat, why not support small farmers who raise animals humanely?

We can all vote with our dollars by reducing the amount of meat we purchase from big industrialized supply chain systems. Support small business, build local economies and help reduce our carbon footprint by sourcing from a local small regenerative farmer near you! Thank you for following along & Happy Spring Friends! 🥬 👩‍🌾 🌸

Resources: https://eatlocalfirst.org, Righteous Porkchop: Finding a Life and Good Food Beyond Factory Farms & Defending Beef: The Case for Sustainable Meat by Nicolette Niman, Sacred Cow: The Case for (Better) Meat, by Diana Rodgers

The Holidays tend to bring out thoughts of home, family, warmth, traditions…That deep sense of gratefulness in all of us. Some of the very things that inspired me to write about the Hansen Family who homesteaded our property in 1912. Seventeen years ago, we were fortunate to befriend one of the two remaining descendants still connected to this beautiful place, Mary Lou Hansen. Without her insights, I would not have experienced the same deep connection to this small farm eden we now refer to as RoseOrchards/WillaBella Farm.

Seven months pregnant with our first born, we learn about a historic farmstead for sale in our small Gig Harbor town. The 100 year old farm vacant for some time. Upon visiting the property, I immediately took note of the old buildings, knotty fruit trees and extensive overgrown berms. Although needing some attention, it was clear someone loved this place very much at one time.

The farm house was a small, white craftsman style charmer. Entering via the tiny covered porch, we navigate through the chopped up rooms, peeking under green shag carpet to reveal scratched Fir floors beneath, charming arched doorways, so much history. I could picture starting our family here. It would need some “fixing up” but nothing a little paint and elbow grease couldn’t fix. My skeptical hubby not so convinced. Through his hard working eyes, he saw labor, lots and lots of labor and mucho moola.

Nevertheless, enjoying the adventure of poking around the old barn, he turns to tell the agent that he would like to move on & keep looking. My heart sank. Days followed, I couldn’t stop dreaming of that little farm. I called our agent, a brother of a friend, begging him to show my hubby properties that he would literally hate. Secretly setting the criteria…Busy road, pesky neighbors, junk cars. He agrees to follow along, knowing my end game with some decent commission on the line. Men don’t typically argue with cranky 3rd trimester mommas, if they know what’s good for them.

A few weeks later, we meet Mary. Sitting in the living room of the old farm house. She requested a meeting with the potential buyers. We enter gingerly, no one would doubt by the look on her face, she was focused on sizing up our intentions. Polite, cordial and all business. This was her childhood home after all, her grandparents legacy. She wasn’t going to just sell it to anyone. I recall spending an extended time with her hearing about her love for this place, while focused on putting our best face forward. Promising to not develop the land or otherwise destroy the house, her grandfather built. Appealing to her love for family through my enormously protruding belly and swollen ankles, we made a connection. After many conversations, and thanks to a sizable sales bonus I had earned that year, we subsequently closed on the farm. Baby on the way, we quickly got busy restoring and creating our little farmstead. Rose Orchards was born circa 2004. I was so grateful to share a deep love for this land, Mary and I had become kindred spirits.

Fast forward to 2020, the Farm a youth teaching model renamed WillaBella Farm, combining our children’s names. Now in our mid 50s, teenagers zoom schooling from home with a raging 100 year pandemic underway. We had not seen Mary this past summer, as customary during our annual Fig season. I had been thinking about her and wondering how she was coping. Holidays fast approaching, I decided to reach out to come visit her small coastal town where she has lived for over five decades. Fiercely independent, she insists on coming out to the farm instead, as she has plans to visit her family cemetery plot in Cromwell for some seasonal cleanup.

Now approaching 80, she pulls into our driveway, hopping out of her truck like a youngster. I emerge, admiring how radiant she appears as she loves on our badly mannered chocolate Labrador. She looks up to greet me underneath her mask, with those bright smiling blue eyes. Both masked up, we can’t resist but to give a quick embrace. I haven’t seen her in soo long!

Mary’s grandparents & great grandmother arrived in GH from Norway via Ellis Island. The two brothers homesteaded neighboring properties that shared a common fresh water creek emptying into the eastern edge of Wollochet Bay. An area now known as Point Fosdick. Arriving in 1912, working to build their modest homes from harvested milled & dried trees, cultivating the land for food, and finding innovative ways to capture water into a handmade cistern. Laying down community roots and true self sufficient living long before it was trendy.

A retired physical education teacher, Mary always focused on the wellness of others, we stand in the driveway chatting briefly about our personal health challenges during this strange time. I joke about the pandemic causing one to become either a monk, a drunk or a chunk. Myself, feeling all of them as we approach nine months of being sequestered in our homes. I’ve never felt so grateful to live on a farm. We decide to resume our conversation over a cuppa inside one of the many outbuildings. Built as her Father’s woodworking shop, converted to our family gathering space, slash guest house 10 years ago.

I begin to ask her questions about a simpler time. Snuggling a family photo album on her lap, a very private person, timid in her response. We talk about her grandfather & his brother settling a combined 30 acres together, where they would eventually raise their families. Building 2 boat houses near the beach, sharing the space with the local native Americans who would come to fish each summer. As Mary explains. Beaches were not “owned” by anyone back then. She recalls rowing her mother out into the Bay after school to catch salmon for supper. Now only accessible via a long trek down the ravine, through thick brambles reaching over 10 feet in height. A treacherous, scratchy, muddy hike, our own family has only been able to navigate once in our 16 years here.

She speaks fondly about family gatherings at the farm. Every fall, the extended relatives would come to help harvest grapes & press cider on their giant, hand built apple press. While her Mother, Edna would bake homemade donuts to share with all who labored. So much to get done, while many hands make light work. We have adopted some of the same traditions, hosting our annual grape harvest with family every October. Cows grazing on the back pasture, just below the barn were used for milk, while hundreds of chickens and small poultry houses dot the landscape. The field in front used primarily for hay. Buckets of Island Belle Grapes filling the old farm truck to be driven to a winery on Stretch Island each season.

In addition to trades in carpentry, the Hansen brothers raised eggs & fryers (roosters at 100 days old) that they shipped around the region. Her Dad’s cousin, Henry Hansen, along with his wife Hazel developed their famed “Hansen Leg Horn” Chicken. Building a modestly lucrative chicken business by today’s standards. A local distribution truck would arrive twice a week, entering the rounded driveway to pick up fresh eggs. Mary & her sister Marge collecting them in metal baskets to store in the temperate room beneath the woodworking shop. No refrigeration needed. All this activity taking place where we now sit comfortably drinking coffee some 70 years later. Mary also recalls helping with the chicken harvest and tenuously plucking “All those feathers.” Explaining, “There were no gender specific roles back then.”

The original property that Mary affectionately refers to as “Heritage Place” included the cove at the end of the creek, used as their only source of water. Now 100 years later, the creek crossing several properties, water rights long forgotten, as deep wells were dug in the 70s. Salmon no longer navigate this stream, while most of the creek bed is choked out by erosion, noxious weeds of horsetail, evergreen blackberry & ivy. Some native salmon berry and devils club still peek through the thicket. The original ram still there, covered in moss used for pumping water up to the farm. (A hydraulic ram is a cyclic pump powered by hydropower. The device uses the hammer effect to develop pressure that allows the water that powers the pump to be raised to a point higher than where the water source originally runs).

By the 1930s, the Point Fosdick area, comprised of mostly Norwegian settlers quickly grew into a small close nit community with “Many Mothers.” Smiles Mary with that snarky grin. “We didn’t get away with much”. Joking about the neighborhood kids doing their best to drum up plenty of trouble. Jumping off the pier, catching & throwing jelly fish at each other, so much innocence. “My mother would have killed us if she knew.” The neighborhood school located right across the road (where only rubble remains) with community church still standing vacant a short block away. Speaking fondly about visiting the original neighborhood Anderson’s grocery store, located at the end of 10th street. Now a private residence rented as a VRBO, among the heavily used public boat launch.

Mary’s mother Edna (Kopperman) was a local. She grew up farming with her family in the Rosedale area. Her family cultivating berries as their preferred crop. Rows and rows of Strawberries, Raspberries, Loganberries and others. She fondly remembers the family pruning the raspberries every year. “It wasn’t an option” she says. “It was just part of life”. Making certain to be in ear shot of my kids passing through. “We never referred to them as chores.” Mary did not have children of her own, but as an educator, she knows if we want to raise future generations of prudent, hard working adults, kids or no kids, we are all in this parenting gig together!

The main Point Fosdick Drive road was built of concrete during WWII, sturdy enough to transport heavy military vehicles. The road dead ending at the point, overlooking Hales passage with Mount Rainier in the distance. Barges were used to transport the Bremerton military vehicles to Stillicum and onto Fort Lewis. Mary recalls hearing the large military trucks passing by the farm at night, while she lay in her upstairs dormer shaped room. A ferry at the end of Point Fosdick was the only connection to the Tacoma area. It replaced the “Mosquito Fleet” (small Steamboats used for transportation) and was used to transport gravel for the construction of the first Narrows Bridge, opened in July 1940 but collapsing by November. The second sturdier bridge built after WWII, marking a significant time in history, bridging the Peninsula to Tacoma changing commerce and growth to this area forever.

Another prominent 50 acre farm in nearby Artondale, was owned by Mary’s Aunt & Uncle, the Grant Graham Family. Located up the hill, past the Artondale grange, was primarily used for grass fed cattle. One of their sons purchased the adjoining property and still resides on that land today. The entire Hansen family an integral part of Gig Harbor’s farming history, long forgotten by many. Most of the History of this area is focused on the Croatian Fishing families. While fishing was important, the local food farmers mostly go unmentioned. These inland homesteaders include some key family names as Etman, Kopperman, Hansen, Wall, Hagness, McCormick, Severtson, Lewison, Graham, Stone, Samuelson and Goodall are rarely if ever mentioned among the vast recordings of this area at our local History Museum. Scandinavian homesteaders in the surrounding unincorporated areas and their impact on the local economy and food systems often overlooked. Specifically the contribution small farmers had during the Great Depression of the 1930s. Hence the importance of capturing a mere glimpse of this valuable history from someone who recalls it best.

The Hansen Family, like most every one back then we’re stewards of the land, with a highly technical understanding of healthy ecosystems. They grew crops and raised animals in sync with nature. No chemicals or unnatural inputs were necessary or even a thing. Mary often speaks of the wildlife and natural ways of the earth in a very deep and spiritual way. Her ties to Native American values as a public educator and commitment to her tribal coastal community throughout her adult life. Encompassing a sense of purpose that shines through her every word.

We talk a little about how expensive properties are now on the Peninsula. Back in those days, parents willed their land to their children. Mary’s grandfather leaving the farm to her father, on condition that he would care for them in their elder years. Tragically her grandfather was killed by a car, on PSD while returning home from church. Leaving the farm to her father earlier than expected. We often gripe about how small our 1200 square foot house feels for a family of four, even with the multiple outbuildings. As I listen to her speak in gratitude how many family members lived among this small space, I am humbled. A simpler life indeed, in stark contrast to the ginormous mass produced homes of excess we see today.

She mentions being one of the few women in her family to go to college. Fiscally stable, she describes an experience she had while attempting to buy her first home in the early 70s. The loan officer telling her “You will need to come back with a man to co-sign for you”. She expresses how grateful she was to female trailblazers like Ruth Bader Ginsberg, who literally two years later made it possible for her to buy her first home.

Always extra polite, Mary takes her cup to the sink, proclaiming that she has stayed too long. Wait not yet, leaping forward, my husband giving me the rook eye as I try best to temper myself. Time has flown by, I could talk to her forever. I gesture to a little bag of farm goodies on the table. A small jar of raw Honey, Jelly from the 100yr old grapes, a Fig bread from her family recipe & some recently harvested Kiwis we added to the farm….Along with the sweet little yellow book she sent to me to read almost 2 years ago. Just one of the many artifacts shared with us from Mary over the years. My greatest joy has been to share our harvest with those who appreciate our human connection to the earth and all living things. Always keeping the Hansen family traditional ways in the forefront of my mind.

We wrap up our visit with shared interests in current events. I love how deeply caring and convicted she is about the environment and social justice to name a few. Standing up for so many causes throughout the 60s & 70s, and still doing her part even today. Mary remains passionate about helping the underserved. Having declined a teaching position so many years ago in affluent GH, choosing to teach for less money serving the coastal tribal populations instead. With deep admiration, I look forward to spending more time with Mary, as we promise to connect again after the holidays.

My kids and hubby join us in the driveway. A few tears fill her eyes, as she points to the old giant willow tree and remembers fondly the day her mother planted it. “She grew up with a willow tree, she always wanted one”. Walking toward her truck, she kicks the ball for our pesky chocolate lab, who seems enamored by Mary. Dogs have a sixth sense about people. I can see it in her little brown fuzzy face, sensing what I already know. I help load her car and wave goodbye as she drives away, until next time dear friend….

Hoping this short story brings reading comfort, as you enjoy the holiday season during this unusual time. For more on the history of Gig Harbor, check out: https://www.historylink.org/File/10271….Wishing everyone a healthy, prosperous New Year engaged in whatever family traditions bring you Joy! 🎄

Feeling a sense of peace, as I make the turn onto our street. Just 1/2 mile to go to embrace my littles, who I’ve missed so much. Pulling onto our road that leads to our farm, I see a disheveled looking rooster, taking cover under the salal that lines the gravel roadway. I squint through the rain soaked glass, taking note of its features. Nope not ours thankfully, as I wonder how and why he is there. I continue down our saturated gravel road, little creeks running everywhere. Thinking man we really need to get that drainage finished. Through the open gate, my canine welcoming committee surrounds the car. I enter the farmhouse kitchen. Business clothes covered in muddy dog hair, to find my sweet hubby making dinner. As kids run to me, tossing word salad into the roast filled air. Showered with hugs and feeling a sense of calm, I distribute the expected token airport rewards. I have officially created little Pavlov trinket monsters.

Catching up on 4 days of absentee parenting over dinner, I mention the rooster. My hubby rolling his eyes “Yeah its been up on the road all week”. Annoyance in his voice “People keep coming down here asking if it’s ours”. Just then an older lady with very purple hair and long matching purple fingernails appears at our back porch. Her lengthy hands and face peering over the half opened farm door. Built in the early 1900s, folks would come to this door to pick up fresh eggs. We now leave the top half open for ventilating our small kitchen. Always running the risk of unwelcomed guests, both of the human & fur variety.

“Hello sorry to bother you, but I think one of your chickens is out on the road” My hubby trying his best not to act annoyed, politely leaves his dinner plate and approaches her. “Thanks not ours, all of our chickens are accounted for” “Its actually a rooster, someone likely dumped it.” Trying his best to push her away from his perfectly staged, family welcome home dinner, complete with fresh flowers and gourmet appetizers.

Any sane rooster fearing human knows full well what a pain in the butt a male dominate bird can be. Especially one that stands erect to your knees with 3 inch spurs cocked & ready to rip open your shins. Attempting to capture one is life threatening at best. We have raised many over the years: Peaches, Handsome, BillyTheBully, Donald, BigRed, my most favorite guy snatched by a coyote. The list is long with the battle scars to prove it.

We politely wave her off and return to our meal. My hubby secretly peeking through the wood levelors, as she exits our driveway. He returns, referencing something about a Gold Hummer this time. Taking his seat, he grumbles on about all the “minivan moms” day after day, inquiring about “the chicken”. Apparently rescuing rogue animals is not a male dominated sport. I tease him about being so popular with the neighborhood wives club. A first responder, dealing with the public for so many years, he is not a fan of having his personal downtime interrupted. The “property” is his safe space. The “farm” was my idea…Let’s get some chickens she said. Maybe some bees, how about a goat or two for the kids, we really should learn how to raise our own meat & teach classes. My poor hubby.

The next day unpacking & getting settled back at home, I hear a knock on the door. There is no more room at the inn people. Another unfamiliar neighbor, young kids in tow, asking if we’d lost a chicken. I begin to explain in detail anticipating the ask…”With small children we are not able to take it in” I explain. “An agitated rooster can jump & blind a small child in seconds” Smiling sweetly to her littles peering up at me with those pleading eyes. My daughter shyly wrapping herself around my leg. I continue on..”Someone dumped it” explaining how attempting to corral a rogue rooster is not in the best interest of anyone. Further “All chickens return home to roost at night.” Yes even roosters. She stares blankly, patiently awaiting my long winded sales speech.

Un-phased, she drops the chicken topic & asks if her kids can play on the farm. I explain that this is our home, not a public farm. She pushes, “Well can they atleast go see the animals?” As if somehow having small kids entitles her to a free pass to my front yard. Unable to further hide my annoyance, I hesitantly agree, offering a few notes of caution, as I continue about my chores. All the while, peering outside every few minutes waiting anxiously for her minivan to depart, so I can finally relax on my ONLY. DAY. OFF.

Having a small farm in the middle of an otherwise developed area can have its challenges. Our farm outreach model (still under development at the time), focuses on youth education. Which over the coming years we begin to provide via structured classes & a youth farm stand…..NOT on a Sunday afternoon unannounced, when I have a mountain of laundry calling my name. I think to myself, we really must start keeping the gate closed.

We spend a sunny, crisp spring weekend as a family on the farm. Myself, along with my young kiddos prepping the soil and getting ready for seeding. Spring is my favorite time of year. The tulips, daffodils & hellebore beginning to appear. The fresh smell of earthy soil in my hands. Song birds fluttering about their nesting routines, while the entire farm lights up like a Thomas Kincaid painting. Vibrant shades of Pinks, Reds, Purples. Azaleas, rhododendrons & fruit trees all on full display. Carefully planted by the Hansen homesteaders, Edna & Ollie in the early 1900s. Always over anxious to get those first seeds in the ground. Although I know deep down they will most certainly rot in the wet, cool soil. Despite many hours as a master gardener, I never seem to learn this simple lesson. If only I could get back every dollar wasted on rotted packaged seeds.

I suggest that the kids start a farm stand this summer when school lets out. “A great way to earn money for college.” I proclaim. Always one step ahead of my 10 year farm plan. We discuss what we want to grow, what supplies we will need, the best days, hours and how shall we advertise. Maybe Papa will want to help too. Having spent his childhood bouncing around the small rural farms in Roy, located south of here. We spend the evening writing out a farm business plan. My son carefully mapping out the garden in his best kid writing. Zookeenee, carits, pees. My hubby watching from a distance, sipping his homemade wine, frightened look in his eyes.

Entrenched back into the busy work week, our blissful weekend a distant memory. Alternating Dad on civil servant duty, me working from home, school, activities, shuffling kids around to & fro, managing animals & keeping everything alive. That’s my only job, to keep everything alive. Our proverbial war ships passing in the night. Still in love with this crazy, insane farm life and yearning for more.

The weekend arrives, our anniversary. Sadly I must leave again on Monday, off to the airport for a week of immunochemistry sales training. We secure grandparent sitters & plan a night to go out to dinner. Packing my suitcase with my kiddos, as they secretly hide little tokens of love in the pockets. Barking dog outside, I catch a glimpse of a car at our gate. I peer out the upstairs window and see a blue minivan, well of course. Blue, beige, white..starting to find humor in all of it. My hubby currently mowing the back forty. I send him a text “Looks like one of your girlfriends is here to see you” giggling to my son.

I see my hubby appear at the gate, followed by a short conversation and the woman retreating back to her van. My hubby returns to his running bush hog. Uneventful, I continue organizing my organization. A few moments later I hear honking, only to look out and see the minivan sitting almost on its backend, front hood & wheels pointing to the sky. There it was, sunk deep in our drainage ditch, just outside the gate. I text my husband “uh-oh seems your girlfriend is in trouble” nervously giggling. My hubby texts back several choice words, not to be repeated here.

I watch as the woman, hands on hips with her kids staring curiously at their family home on wheels. My hubby appears from behind the trees, driving our orange Kubota, bucket full of large yellow tie downs. He pauses, sitting high on the tractor, sizing up the situation. I can’t see his face, but I can only imagine. Deciding best to watch from the house to avoid the fray & unwanted small talk. Hours upon hours of jimmying follow, with other neighbors showing up to assist. Our long easement lined with various sizes of pickup trucks. The woman’s husband arrives to help, while she and kids depart. I peer out to see mounds of earth torn up, engines revving, while the little blue van sits at an angle now, still blocking our only exit. Evening falls. It is clear there will be no date night this anniversary.

Back at corporate, freezing to death under the stale air conditioned training room. Getting up only for the occasional bio break & warmer cup of coffee. Surrounded by large scribbled sheets of white paper, covering the ever present suffocating walls. A girl who has spent her whole life outside, feeling like I am dying a slow cold, paper wrapped death. I peer at my itinerary counting the minutes. Dreading the 8 hour planes, trains & automobiles adventure home. I dream of the week ahead without travel, always struggling between professional responsibilities & family farm life. My hubby on duty, grandparents filling in as needed.

Settled in at my home away from home, training materials spread over my perfectly tucked hotel bed. I am certain that I no longer remember how to even make a bed. I pick at my room service tray, while catching up with kiddos over FaceTime. Struggling with the time change, we wrap up the call early with a brief update on my hubby’s ongoing E-Farminy Rooster Romance. I wonder, should I be jealous?

Finally back home in my makeshift office strewn with kid toys, struggling with my usual travel induced cold. Conference calls to adnauseum, son at school, daughter napping, hubby happily pitchforking moles outside. Showing up proudly at my office window with each gruesome catch. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him appear with something larger. I gesture that I’m busy, focusing my eyes back to my screen. Refusing to leave, I see he is holding up an old white cupboard door from our neverending farmhouse renovations. I glance up to see freshly painted black lettering. That consistent frustrated look on his face. I erupt in laughter!

My focus interrupted now, I watch as he heads up the long driveway to fetch the kids from the bus. Carefully & proudly positioning his sign against the pasture fence at the entrance of our farm. He texts me a photo. I laugh hysterically…”Well that ought to take care of it once and for all” I respond. Another photo follows, the backend of a muddy, matted rooster butt in the distance. I laugh harder.

As the hours and days follow, friends & neighbors begin leaving messages. “Whats up with the sign” “Oh boy Scott must really be annoyed by those selfless do gooders” Multiple friends & neighbors, driving up to the house, happily hopping out of their cars to get the backstory. The week is consumed by a constant stream of traffic in our driveway. “Why don’t you just have us over for Coq au Vin” (French soup which literally means rooster cooked in wine). My hubby known for his culinary skills.

Multiple bottles of homemade wine pour, while story telling fellowship ensues. Always the good sport, more annoyed than ever, hubs embraces the attention. My sales brain working overtime….Let the farm stand marketing begin!

The chicken buzz creates neighborhood Facebook action. Before we know it, we hear about a sweet neighborhood lady named Isabelle, known in these parts for her commitment to rescuing horses. Boarding them on a neighbors farm nearby. A man we don’t yet know, but who will eventually become very significant to us in the coming years. See https://willabellafarm.com/2020/08/24/kellee-dogs-story/

She has successfully captured the rogue rooster. Apparently housing it in her kitchen, while ultimately finding a home for it on a rescue farm up north, far far away from here. The Famous Fosdick chicken has finally gone home to roost. No longer having to worry about fending off the hungry housewives, we can all rest easy once again. As we returned to our normal routines, the front gate remaining closed, my heart begins to open to the endless farm possibilities to come….

Roosters are actually misunderstood, beautiful creatures if raised and handled with care. Learn more below:

https://heartwoodhaven.org/adoptions/roosters/https://www.patreon.com/roosterhaus
https://www.pasadosafehaven.org/adopt/farm/

We stood in the stillness of the winter night, calling out her name…”Did you hear that? Over there, did you here it?” Pointing across the dark ravine. We begin calling frantically, stopping every few seconds, listening intently. “That was her, that was her bark.” Minutes pass, then hours, it begins to rain. Nothing,..I lay awake aching for my sweet girl. Freezing rain tapping the window, a lone coyote calling at a distance. My mind racing between hope & loss. Please Lord don’t let her suffer.

That Sunday in January was unusually warm and dry for the Pacific NW. Spending my day off, pruning pear trees while the kids played nearby. My Kellee Girl always at my feet. She had joined our family at the age of 4.

I first saw her sweet, round yellow face via a local pure bred rescue website. I’ve always felt vulnerable without a dog around. It was still early in our grieving, having lost our beloved chocolate lab Kena to cancer, just one month prior. Our next pup had to be a gentle lab, the only breed I’ve ever known. With small kids in tow, we drove to meet this pup in person, currently taking up residence with a local foster.

Upon arriving, we found a sweet, skeptical chubby gal barking furiously with the deepest brown eyes I’d ever seen. Almost human I thought. I took her outside on the stairs, letting her smell me, while caressing her fluffy neck. Our speed date, led to her melting in my lap, looking up at me studying my every feature. So much kindness in those eyes. Welcoming to the kids, while offering only a low growl to my husband. “We are taking her home” I proclaimed. Having endured years of my impulsiveness, “What? Are you sure?” Kids right on cue, preverbial begging to back me up. My hubby, clearly outnumbered turning on his heels to pay the lady standing at the door. We collect her paperwork and load her into the car, snuggling between the kids smiling intently with those eyes. I believe that Kindred Spirits find each other, and today I had found mine. We had an instant indescribable connection. Her paperwork showed that she had been raised as a pup in Moses Lake with a woman and her daughter. Apparently the woman had become allergic…Cheers to Fate & Doggie Dander!

Our 100 year old farm sits back off the road. The orchards are separated from the main road by a large field, dotted with red animal sheds and two large veggie gardens. The entire property just under ten acres. Years fly by, kids grow like weeds (should have stopped watering them long ago). Too many animals to count, Kellee remained a constant, following me everywhere.

High up on the ladder pruning away, ever present, I hadn’t noticed her wandering the field toward the road. After emerging from the house for a short break, I realized she wasn’t with me. I search the orchard, briskly walking around the farm calling for her. As evening approached, I told my husband that something was wrong, we needed to go look for her. We searched well after dark, traversing the outer perimeter of the field, along the roadway, calling out for her. Still Nothing.

The next morning, we awake expecting to find her asleep on the porch. Still not home, she was officially a missing person. Subsequent days & nights were filled with hanging posters, visiting the humane society, calling microchip agencies, posting on lost pet social media pages, & leaving flyers in mailboxes. None of it made any sense. Was she injured, trapped? Did someone take her?

By day 3, neighbors had come out of their homes to join us in search of our sweet pup. We were so moved by the support. Making friends with all The Jones’s within a two mile radius. Hour after hour, day after day, into the night, the search continued on…

That evening, I received a call from a man who said he had seen our girl hit by a car several days earlier. He had been jogging with his own dog at the time. He described a speeding black jaguar sedan (only in Gig Harbor, insert eye roll). The distracted driver swerved, clipping her backend, as she sniffed the grass along the edge of our farm. Describing the exact location where the homesteader of our farm was killed in 1930 by a car speeding by from the old ferry landing. A dangerous corner indeed and not a place we frequent. In fact Kellee had never been up that far, what compelled her to go there? Hearing her yelp, he looked back to see her running down the field toward our home, figuring she would be okay. He had so much regret in his voice. We thanked him for stepping forward providing the clues we so desperately needed. The search turned more frantic, as we looked for an injured or possibly deceased pup. We had friends help us search along the creek in the thick forest behind our farm. Hoping to somehow sniff her out. Crawling under every bush, no stone unturned.

I sat in the moonlight filled window, eyes full of tears thumbing through photos of my sweet pup. She had been such an important part of our family for six years now. Heartbroken that we may never see her again. Photos of her sitting patiently while our toddler dumped cold soapy water over her head, playing dress up. Getting skunked on the trails of Montana. Forever coined our Smelly Kellee. So accepting of barn cats, goats, pigs, the endless fur & feathered over the years. Even tolerating the mean Muskovie duck who jumps on her back daily. Never snapping or harming a flea. Boarding the school bus at the end of our driveway to greet the kids. Wagging warmly to neighborhood farm stand friends.

Returning home from yet another night of canvassing the same areas multiple times, my level headed first responder turns to me, conviction on his face “You need to accept that she may not be coming home” “We can’t search for her forever”. I had blown off work, halting all professional & parenting commitments. The earth had literally stopped rotating. I replied filled with determination: “If YOU were lost, I would find You.”

The next day brought some hope. As we were tireless resuming our door to door canvasing with flyers in hand. We came upon a man on a ladder, pruning his apple trees. My son approached him “Have you seen this dog” dismounting the ladder he replied “Yes I’ve seen that dog” pointing to his neighbors yard “slept under that rodedendron the other night.” Chills ran through my body. She was alive! We began to frantically canvass the surrounding yards. Our eyes darting every which way. This area was homesteaded by Scandinavian settlers in the early 1900s. A vast patchwork of unique properties & small farms, irregular borders, long driveways, thick vegetation. The man (now affectionately named Apple Tree Phil) with his charming little house backing up to a wooded drop off, the ravine between our properties. A lost dog would clearly roam the neighborhood looking for food and water, not retreat into the forest, my mind reasoned. That bark we heard came from this direction. I knew it was her! Smothering my son in hugs & high fives. As darkness fell, I ran home and typed up a new flyer. Surely the Jones’s would want this new information. Hadn’t the earth stopped for everyone?

Morning was filled with delivering new flyers to mailboxes we had canvassed days earlier. That afternoon, I received a phone call from an unknown number. I quickly picked up. “Hello” a soft spoken male voice responded “You don’t know me, but I’m your neighbor just a few properties down, my name is Paul” Telling me that he had a dream. Self assurance in his voice. “Your dog is in the ravine behind your farm.” Insisting that we needed to look down near the creek. His dream was very clear and he has hunches about this sort of thing. I politely thanked the man, assuring him that we had been looking in the forest with no luck and hung up. I turned to my hubby, rolling my eyes “oh great here come the quacks.” Unphased, I continued my pursuit, pulling together a search party via social media for the next morning. Normally afraid of strangers, I found myself inviting anyone and everyone to my home to meet up. I was desperate to find my girl, I owed it to her.

Hubby & kids already gone for the day. I counted at least a dozen folks had shown up for the search. Always organizing my organization, I hand out google maps, dog treats, leashes, exchanged phone numbers & communication plans. We head out. I return to the area adjacent to Apple Tree Phil’s, just above the ridge overlooking the forest. Knocking door to door asking to search yards. Neighbors friendly & accommodating. As I look over the edge into the steep ravine, I see a man in a bright blue coat about 400 feet down holding a machete. I could not believe my eyes, no one goes down there. “Paul?” Peering up from the thicket “Yes” “What are you doing?” I hollered. “I’m looking for your dog” he yells back, echoing the ridge. It was that crazy guy with the dream. I question again “What should I do?” He replies “You just keep looking up there, I’m working down here”.

Not sure what to make of that. I head to a corner house at the end of the block. A man invites me in to meet his little sausage dogs and engage in neighborly chatter. Having been there far too long, I graciously cut him off, time wasting away. As I quickly retreat his porch, my phone rings. A familiar voice, “I found her, I found your dog” “Shes injured, your gonna need people to get her outta here” Shocked. I run to the edge of the ridge clutching my phone. What is up with this guy, my mind racing. “I can’t see you where are you?” I shouted “About 100 yards down from where you saw me last” his echo fainter now. I run along the ridge desperately looking down into the thicket, spotting his blue coat deeper into the ravine. “I can’t see her, show her to me” I cry. He shouts up “Your gonna have to trust me, she’s laying in the creek here at my feet”. I desperately yell for my friend, fingers trembling unable to operate my phone, tears streaming. I ask my friend to summon the others back to the farm. She helps me dial my husband currently training on Silcox Island. Elated screams follow that we found her and we need help, my hubby unable to leave his duty, he hangs up quickly to dispatch some off duty fire family.

Numerous cars fly down our dusty road, a neighbor responding to all the commotion. I run frantically toward the orchard to grab pruning tools, sending someone to the goat barn to fetch a dog crate. A retired firefighter friend grabs me by the shoulders “We need bedsheets” he says firmly. I send random strangers into my house to strip the beds. Pruning Tools! We will need lots and lots of tools, my brain fixated on one thing. Supplies in hand, we all march down the hill toward the ridge, several football fields in length. Reaching the edge, I call down for Paul. We can’t see him, but we hear his faint voice deep in the woods. I shout to the volunteers instructing them to follow me, the only safe way down. Muddy, wet slippery leaves cover the trail. I notice two goats falling into line, as if summoned to be part of the rescue. Someone must have let them out of their enclosure. What the hell ever, no time to worry about goats.

Several minutes hacking away at the thick vegetation along the hillside, we drop down to the creek bed, traversing along the wet hillside. I emerge around a corner and in front of me there is the man, small in stature, face & hands scratched up, his blue coat now covering Kellee. Her lifeless body laying immersed in the shallow creek. I run to them, calling her name. She looks up. Giving just one wag of her tail, laying her head back down, eyes closed. I drop to my knees hugging her, emotion overwhelms me. My sweet girl.

Paul summons the men to get busy. Retired Captain Kenny taking charge of the scene, checking my dogs vitals while instructing others to help tie sheets together. I notice complete strangers jumping in, shouting to one another. Everything moving in slow motion. One, two, three they lift my heavy girl and begin to walk straight up the cliff. Several strong men slipping on the steep slope, determined to get her out of this ravine. Unsure of how much time she has left, needing the quickest route possible. Each one sliding backward at every step with Kellee wrapped in her makeshift bedsheet gurney. Halfway up the hill still struggling, sizing up the impossible.

Suddenly out of nowhere, a young familiar firefighter appears at the top of the ridge. Bryson, a strapping mountain climber. Radiating with the morning sunlight, he looks like Thor encircled with an aura behind him. He slides down the hillside, scoops my dog up in his arms and climbs back up the hill. Exerting zero effort whatsoever. We all stand in awe. The men scattered along the hillside, still holding dinosaur bedsheets. Thorson Man continues marching with limp dog in his arms. Up the gradual slope he goes, past the pond, past the barn. Race walking the steep road that runs between the grapes & raspberry hill, all the way to the house. Several of us running along side, trying to keep up. Stupid goats still following. Kellee’s eyes still closed, looking very weak and in pain.

He gasps under heavy breathing “Call the emergency vet clinic on Durango Street, they can help her.” I open my hatchback. He lays her limp body inside, eyes still closed. One friend on phone with hospital, the other jumping in drivers seat. Through the crowd, I see our sweet niece Ellen with her little ones. She lives far north haven’t seen her in years, how is she here too? I glance at my watch, my kids buses are due any time. She offers to grab my kids & corral the ruminants. Reaching my hand out to Paul thanking him as we speed off to the vet, leaving all these known & unknowns at my house. Trust is a powerful thing, when you are desperate to save someone you love.

My first call after leaving the emergency hospital was to Paul, my mysterious hero. I just had to know the details that pushed this man to act in such a selfless way. He explained that he grew up in this area, spending his childhood playing in that gully and having come across a deceased dog trapped down there as a young boy. He admitted when seeing the first lost dog flyer, that he tossed it on the table, not giving it another thought. Upon seeing the 2nd one, he slipped into bed that night, awakened by a dog nudging him at his bedside. So real, that he said that he sat up, turned on his bedside lamp and asked his wife “Is there a dog in here?”. The next morning he awoke recalling his dream of seeing Kellee in the gully, the same dog vividly nudging his arm while he slept.

That’s when he made that call to me. Incredible. I was speechless. He said that he could tell by my demeanor that we wouldn’t be searching the ravine any further. So he decided to stay home from his busy engineering firm, bundled up, grabbed a machete and headed out. He described walking up to the southern edge of the ravine, peering down into that daunting dark canopy of blackberries and just walking in. Traversing along the creek, crawling his way through the thick brambles until he ultimately found her laying there, quietly dying in the creek alone.

Kellee spent her first night at the emergency hospital without us. Her injuries included broken ribs, punctured lungs, cracked bones around hips, legs & severe dehydration. The vets unsure of how she might respond to treatment those first 24 hours. Recapping the events with our kids who missed the rescue. My hubby also in his regretful absence, admitting he was the one who dispatched Bryson to the rescue.

Night falls, the house is quiet. I call the hospital every hour for updates. No news yet. As I sit in the dark with only the light of my laptop worried about my girl. Conversing with virtual friends on the lost pet social media page. At around 2am, one of the LVTs working the night shift posted a photo of my girl, letting me know she was giving her lots of love. Words cannot express how awesome that was to see my girl, tubes everywhere with her sweet dark eyes open. I was so thankful to that technician, to my community and to Paul. All these good humans showing up to help find her, many virtually following along this journey, providing encouragement, the local Tacoma News Tribune even putting her story on Sundays front page!

The next morning good news from the veterinarian, she is responding, but still critical the lungs the focus of their concern. I know deep down she will make it. She is a fighter. They prepare me for many days in the hospital ahead and that dreaded bill. All secondary, I beg to come see her. Allowing a short visit, we scramble into the recovery area whispering her name. There she is, her beautiful brown eyes wide open, she lights up as she sees us, gratitude in her face. Her family never gave up on her…

Fast forward several years, Kellee is now a 15 year old retiree, with severe arthritis throughout her body. Likely a result of the trauma from her accident. Her eyesight and hearing limited, back legs atrophy, floppy, but she continues to insist on following me around the farm. It takes her much longer to catch up, taking short rests along the way. Her breathing is labored, as I prepare my heavy heart that her days are growing shorter. She still has those sweet longing eyes, her face covered in warts. Spending her golden days alongside our newer chocolate pup Roxie, who takes care of grooming her ears, doing her best to keep that mean old duck away and deer out of the orchard.

We learned that when an animal is injured they will not respond to calling. They will often seek a cool water source downhill. Microchips help of course, but searching with eyes to the ground, rallying neighbors, and engaging social media is truly the best way to bring them home. We remain grateful to all our neighbors, friends, firefighters, Gig Harbor lost & found pets Facebook page and the veterinary hero’s at the BluePearl Tacoma Emergency Hospital. This experience changed my outlook on so many levels, instilling new found trust and faith in my fellow human beings. Reminding me never to give up hope…No amount of fresh eggs delivered weekly will ever repay our friend Paul for acting on a dream. ❤️

See TNT Kellee & Paul’s story here: https://www.thenewstribune.com/news/local/news-columns-blogs/larry-larue/article26289589.html

KATHLEEN is the owner/operator of WillaBella Farm, LLC. She holds a Bachelor of Science clinical degree from the University of Washington & recently retired (along with her first responder husband) from a 16 year career in clinical diagnostics/medical research laboratory sales.

She is a small farmer, beekeeper & certified master gardener and operates her 100yr old historic, regenerative farm as a community outreach model. Kathleen has worked on many projects, serving on boards & supporting all things local food, healthy kids & healthy communities!🌱

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As the youngest of 8 in a single parent home, in her attempt to find solace, Kathleen developed a love for the outdoors & self sufficiency at a very young age. Raised in the open expanse of the Montana landscape, free to explore unencumbered, she learned to appreciate the plants & creatures that surrounded her. Curious about all things nature, bugs, wildlife and science. Teaching herself to catch fish & hunt rabbits in elementary school. Spending her summer afternoons enamored by nature, studying the busy ant & insect communities scurrying about the iron ore ladened soil from the smelters in her small mining town. She still retains that deep passion for hands on learning even today.

Wanting to explore, Kathleen packed up at 18 & moved to Washington state. Where she worked various jobs to put herself through college. During her 20s, she could be found, fishing pole in hand, trudging along in the mountains surrounding Seattle, hiking, mountain biking and studying nature. Stopping to observe the diverse creatures that live above and below the canopy.

After graduating with a BS from the University of Washington, she threw a dart at a map, heading to the wilds of Colorado to explore further. She found herself lost on the trails, distracted by nature or freshly fallen snow covering her way. Always making new friends to get herself rescued!

Kathleen returned to Puget Sound for grad school. Shortly after completing her first year, plans interrupted by her desire to deal with mounting student loans & outward personality leading her into the field of sales. Where she enjoyed a successful clinical laboratory science sales career for over 16 years working for global medical science companies ThermoFisher, BioMerieux, Cardinal Health & Avantor Sciences.

Her intense schedule taking her further into the beauty of Alaska & Oregon. Marrying her husband and starting their family, with too much work and little time for nature, she would often squeeze in business travel coupled with nature excursions with her young family. Returning to Montana to backpack each summer.

Yearning for balance and having seen the direct effects of our broken food system on public health. Kathleen decided to follow her passions, taking a “break” from sales to become a master gardener and rehabilitate a 100yr old historic farm with her first responder husband. She spent the next ten years collaborating with local partners to learn regenerative agriculture practices, humane animal husbandry, beekeeping & building an organic farm outreach model in her community.

The focus of RoseOrchards/WillaBella Farm is rooted in healthy ecosystems, research based growing methods, teaching youth science classes, hosting a weekly youth farm stand, advocating for small farmers, wildlife conservation & helping support various food system projects. Working with local government & agri-partners to launch a community farmers market, a buy local program, help with farmland conservation, supporting local co-op models & establishing the Peninsula Farmer Network. Kathleen has served on multiple boards & continues to volunteer with her children on various local food outreach projects.

Now approaching 60, Kathleen has entered the era of kids off to college. Wrapping up her final stint in medical & academia research, she and her first responder husband have both retired from their public health careers as of 2024!

She enjoys growing nutrient dense food, networking with other female farmers, teaching youth science, writing short stories..AND spending as much time as possible immersed in the beautiful Puget Sound nature with her family!

You can follow WillaBella Farm, LLC on Facebook, Instagram and now on @willabellarose2025@bluesky

Weeks of aligning schedules, gear planning, securing farm sitters & prepping for our annual backcountry trip into the rugged Montana Pioneer Mountains. This year we would be heading to the special place where my hubby spent his summers since he was 14yrs old, where he proposed to me atop a ridge at Mount Tahepia & where we will finally spread my beloved Kena dogs ashes. We vowed this trip would happen this year as our teen kids are finally old enough to shlepp their own stuff on this particular hike not suited for the faint of heart.. Who knew we would find ourselves in a 50 minute fight or flight with a grizzly bear!

Our adventure began with a 12 hr power drive straight through from Gig Harbor. Finally setting up base camp by rock creek, under the beautiful pink evening sky. We had a restful sleep & great first day playing boche, hanging out on the rocks along the glacial creek, rushing cold & crisp down from our high altitude destination. Focused on prepping our packs for the 5 hour/ 2,000 elevation climb to the alpine lake where we planned to spend the next few days alone in our mountain paradise.

The Pioneer Mountain range is located in southwestern Montana, outside the Yellowstone bear recovery zone and not known for grizzlies. One of the few mountain ranges void of these large predatory animals and the reason we have always felt completely safe hiking to its beautiful alpine lakes with our kids, ever since they were toddlers. We were ready to go the next day by noonish, later than planned as usual. A native hummingbird flew into base camp, buzzing around our heads. Hummingbirds have been known to show up around our small farm often and the kids believe it to be their Papa watching over us, always bringing comfort.

The beginning of the hike was uneventful with lush green meadows filled with wildflowers, blooming strawberries, butterflies, magpies, an occasional scampering rock chuck. The tree canopy lined with gorgeous boulders, little streams running everywhere. I haven’t been back to this place since we started our family 17 years ago. Although we have spent many summers traversing the surrounding hills with our kids, this hike would prove to be much more difficult in more ways than one. Walking along, my mind was flooded with warm memories of a simpler time with my hubby, senses filled with the smell of ponderosa pine and my soul at peace.

At about 3 miles in, the hike begins to change from easy to difficult with climbing switchbacks and of course the two “bitchers” where you are questioning your sanity… Why did I pack all this stuff, why am I making my kids do this, what were we thinking, why did we spend a small fortune on all this light gear, none of it matters we are too old for this crap…At 6 miles and hours of gradual climbing, our youngest layed down on a cliff face in protest, refusing to go another inch. The accolades were no longer working, she was on to us. We convinced her to just leave her pack behind and Dad will come back for it later. Not ideal, but our only option to get her to move. She stood up and forged on. I grabbed her stuffed pink penguin & sweatshirt from the outside of her pack, cuz I am always a Mom, even though I am currently light headed & about to puke.

We crested the ridge with a glorious view of Mt Tahepia around 5pm and all of the sudden my achy body goes limp with relief. Making our way around the lake, we noticed it was very high with glacial run off, filling the borders, creating small estuarys and plenty of snow for storing a few liquid medicinals. We crossed through the horse camp, traversed the ridge and noticed some large animal scat that we quickly examined, looking fairly fresh with small hairs. Possibly a lone wolf passing through, no biggy and continued on. Finally setting up camp, rehydrating, celebrating & covering ourselves in bug spray, as the thawing landscape gives way to intense mosquitos this time of year. Our bodies exhausted, we enjoyed an evening under the stars with a perfect view of the Milky Way, rarely seen!

Just before turning in, my hubby announced that he was heading to the nearby creek to fill our water jugs, despite my nagging to wait till morning. This process takes 180 pumps per gallon to complete in the dark forest. nope.nada. A few minutes later, I saw his headlamp quickly returning, stating that he’d seen “predator eyes” on the rocks above. Deciding to forego the water till morning, much to my consolation. Likely a raccoon or bobcat and too tired for an encounter. The kids already out, we drifted off enjoying our new lightweight sleeping pads. Maybe all these expensive comforts, delivered daily from Amazon were worth it after all. We aren’t as young as we once were. Our chocolate lab growled some during the night, but otherwise we were in peaceful slumber tucked in under complete stillness…

The morning light brought immense beauty exactly as I remembered. The various colors of the peak glistened in the sun, as I prepared coffee over the campfire and stuffed exhausted kids with oatmeal. My hubby & daughter anxious to get down to the lake, boiling with hungry fish. We had a great morning, collecting wood, searching for big horn sheep in the high cliffs, catching cut throat trout & resting our achy bodies. An obsessed plant person, I took note of the varied wildflowers yet to bloom around our camp, wild current, carpets of huckleberries, so many colors. A fleeting thought passes..hmm if that scat was bear, there would be no sign of seeds, as it’s clearly not berry season yet. My experienced hubby consistently reassuring me in his decades coming here, has only seen black bear twice up this high. I sat on the warm rocks looking through the binoculars, taking in the beauty and spending quality time just chatting with my 16 yr old son. Looking forward to several days ahead of uninterrupted family time off the grid, immersed in the rawness of backcountry nature.

Mid morning, my husband and daughter walked through camp to stash her 1st fish of the trip in the snow, near where we had buried a few perishables the night before. All other food had been hoisted up & out with a pulley system, developed by my resourceful hubby always doing his best to appease my fears. Having grown up in bear country, this is a no brainer. My son & I were summoned over to the snow located below the ridge. There stood a large amount of scat and our cache unburried and gone..all gone. There would be no hotdogs or butter this trip. My Baileys (aka Moms fun juice) gone too!

We examined the crime scene like CSI detectives and determined that it was a medium sized carnivore of some type. Possibly an opportunistic cougar (worst case scenario), but likely a bobcat or raccoon and that we would be sure to stay alert & travel in pairs for the rest of our time here. Noting that the scat matched that of the type we saw hiking in. We went about our day, placing the newly caught fish in the nearby creek (hubby calls “the kitchen”) to keep fresh for dinner. Enjoying the clear blue sky, bald eagles and great conditions, all the while being aware that we had a visitor nearby.

A few hours later around 3ish, my hubby and I headed to filter water from the creek. As my teenage son was too tired to help out and insisted on a detailed plan as to when he would again access WiFi. Our dog followed, but I sent her back to camp, as she was doing a fine job of clouding up our watering hole. Would later realize how critical that insignificant command would be.

Enjoying some alone time just visiting creekside, discussing how we never get a chance to just talk in private. I watching my hubby carefully filtering the fresh glacial water, thinking this is the top of the world, there are no parasites here. As I capped off the first jug, I gazed over my husband and saw a large fuzzy animal quietly step out from the trees just a few feet behind us. As he sat peacefully on the rocks with pump in hand. I’ve never seen my hubbys large bald head look so small. I whispered “Holy shit it’s a brown bear” “get up, back up slowly, make yourself big” I nervously rambled…My hubby grabbed his gun and quickly turned to face the creature. I gathered some containers as we backed away quickly toward camp. The bear standing in the same position, watching us retreat. I realized by a few distinguishing features that this was a grizzly bear.

Backing into camp both shouting to the kids, “tie up the dog” “get behind the rocks”, with expletive after expletive following…The kids did as they were told, horror in their eyes, as we grabbed the many canisters of bear spray and grappled with the urgency of the situation. Wait a minute, he didn’t charge us. I felt a short sense of relief. My hubby went into protection mode pushing the kids behind him, he was going to protect his family & fight this bear to the death. period. amen. I have never been so grateful for his first responder skills and keen ability to handle stressful situations with ease. That finger steady on the trigger, but remaining calm and collected. We were both trembling on the inside. Myself swearing out loud uncontrollably. Our actions at that moment in time were critical as we would later learn.

We watched in horror as the bear came off the hill, crossing the creek and entered our immediate camp area. A nervous rapid fire conversation unfolded about what to do next. He stopped & stood on his haunches watching us over the hill. I noticed the bear looked scruffy and smallish compared to full size brown bears, which gave me some short lived relief. He must be young I thought, maybe just curious. Stupid girl. Those huge claws still able to rip through my skull. Every field article I’ve ever read about how to respond to grizzlies played out in my head. Born & bred in Montana, an avid outdoor person spending time in Alaska, Colorado & Washington. I’ve been met with a mad mamma moose, stealth like cougars, black bear sows etc.. but never have I been face to face with a grizzly in the wild! I instinctively knew we just had to get outta there.

We instructed the kids to start packing and stay behind the big rock. While I proceeded to stress talk our take care team (aka TCT affectionaly coined by my hubby) through every step. Always the sales gal, I tend to never stop talking, even as I’m about to be eaten alive. My hubby was dead silent, focused, climbing on a large rock to appear bigger, gun in one hand, bear spray in the other. I handed a bear canister to my son who was pleading with me “please mom we need to get outta here”. I replied, “no we are going to calmly pack our stuff, he’s not charging us, we have time, it will be okay.”

The bear retreated to the ridge above the creek where we met him, pacing in a Zigzag pattern, across the edge of camp, over the creek, then back up. Returning every few minutes, coming closer each time to stop and gaze at us. At one point he was maybe 20 feet away at best. I thought about how cute he was like a giant teddy bear, I wanted to snap a picture, but I was too shaky and rambling and swearing to reach for my phone, which I now deeply regret.

While we took turns keeping an eye on him, we worked furiously to pack up, nightfall was upon us. I asked my son for the time, it was a little past 4pm..I told our team we needed to be ready to go by 4:30 at the latest. Type A Mom, always setting goals. Backpacking out at night is a death wish. Our otherwise nonconformist teen boy stepped up big time, taking down the tent, deflating the mattresses and our overpriced gear on his own without a single complaint. While our baby girl cried uncontrollably, as she packed up her stuffies. Pleading that she could “no longer breathe”. All the while, our young chocolate lab Roxie laid in the shade asleep, tied to a tree, completely clueless. She wasn’t feeling well from her 1st ever difficult hike the day before. Perhaps it was the elevation. Whatever the reason, I was grateful for once this pup was quiet.

My hubby stood on that rock as a solid intimidating figure, while keeping an eye on that bears every move locked and ready to respond. We took turns on the rock to allow him to pack the complicated stuff. My turn to keep watch, I saw the bear walk across the edge of the camp even closer. I attempted to scare him off by blowing my whistle and clapping my hands “go away bear”. He stopped full stride and turned to face me head on. I realized at that moment that I had challenged him and I need not do that again. More uncontrolled expletives followed. My daughter cried louder.

We waited and watched for the bear to circle around us, praying it would stay in our sights, each one assigned to keeping watch in all directions. Discussion followed with the best window to make our break as we remain pinned against the lake, it was blocking our only exit. Grizzlies will often “bluff” charge and you never want to unload the bear spray, until the animal is within 50 feet, otherwise you will just piss them off. Certainly looked close enough to me.

We made our exit plan and repeated it back to each other over and over, while stuffing our remaining gear, ramshackle wherever it would fit. Weight distribution was the least of our worries. I loaded down my dogs pack with dried food. Sorry pup, but you weren’t my first born. We reviewed what to do if attacked, telling the kids that no matter what happens on the way out. DO NOT STOP MOVING. “You must continue marching toward the end of the lake, do not run, do not turn around, just keep marching and we will catch up with you” I stated. Making them repeat my instructions. Going over what to do if the bear pushes you down, protecting vitals etc. Tears streaming from both of their sweet innocent frightened faces. The bear returned again, “he’s back” we all echoed in unison. Even closer now within 20 feet. Finger on the bear spray trigger. He then quickly retreated once again. Grabbing a plastic bag from the creek. “He’s got the fish” my hubby whispered. He was taunting us. Scampering up the ridge baggie dripping from his mouth.

Okay this is it. Time to go” “everyone ready?” We quickly helped each other with our packs. Strapping on Roxies, extra bungees tied to her saddle bag with my last minute light weight hiking chair courtesy of Amazon Prime. Mom will lead with dog on leash, girl next, then boy, then Dad at the rear with gun. What about the rest of our gear still at the edge of camp, water filter, cordage, inflatable boat? We will need to abandon it. I hear a coaches voice “Let’s go team” was that my husband or did I say that? Feeling physically ill once again.

We hustled up the small ridge to the right and down the snow bank where a large hole remained from our stolen cache. Pausing at the most critical point, we will need to cross the creek into the bears territory. He was up on the ridge to the left somewhere, enjoying a tasty appetizer it wont be long before he returns. We hustled down the trail away from camp, while he watched us from the trees. We yelled “it’s okay bear” “just passing thru” “you can have your camp “all yours now buddy.” The crows were arguing above us on the ridge. My hubby reminding me how you must always listen to a crows warning.

We moved rapidly like soldiers down that mountain for 2 straight hours before stopping. My daughter constantly blowing the whistle, looking behind us all the way. Grizzlies are known to track you for miles. Our heads and eyes darted back and forth through the darkening forest, as we made our exit down the switchbacks. How can this be happening? Are we really hiking back down just 24 hours after hiking in? We didn’t even have time to spread my old dogs ashes, sitting on the shelf in a pine box for 10 fareeking years! None of it mattered. None of it. We were finally freed from feeling like trapped prey.

Please Lord don’t let us run into any more large game on our way out. The forest colors deepening with sunset, we hustled as fast as our legs would carry us. Still layered with our thermals, messy packs, empty stomachs & not at all prepared for such a hike…BUT at least we had 1 container of fresh filtered glacial water, void of bear feces. My daughter’s fleece pants falling down, quietly whimpering along the last few miles of flat trail. Suddenly she looked 5 years old again. These poor kids.

We finally make it to base camp as darkness fell. My daughter first to arrive, throwing her pack into the dusty fire pit, collapsing. My son followed, huge grin on his flushed face. Overwhelming emotion came over me, we all hugged and celebrated. Still hours from civilization and cell service, we were safe. Scarfing down some Dinty Moore, squished like sardines into the truck canopy to sleep for the night, shaken. There would be no more tent camping this trip. I lay awake all night, a marathon sequence of events running through my head, fearing our kids may never walk into the woods again. We will post a warning at the trail head in the morning. An angel in whatever form was watching over us up there..Kena’s ashes, Papa’s Hummingbird. Who knows, but I lay silent, listening to every sound of the forest, clutching my unopened can of bear spray. Grateful.

Update: Game Warden took our report & we reviewed behavioral detail with the local forest service Biologist. Key components from their perspective…First off, brown bears are extremely rare in this area. Warden questioned repeatedly about it being a light colored, black bear. I assured him, having spent 50 years in the woods, I know the difference. Biologist determining that it was likely a 2 yr old juvenile grizzly, recently booted from its mother. Possibly a female, as they are smaller than males 400lbs vs 800lbs. Although this mountain range is located outside the grizzly recovery area, it is also smack dab in the convergence surrounded by those zones as indicated below. Biologist believes it is likely that a grizzly could enter this area given that the recovery efforts over the years have been very successful as bears must compete for territory & food. Noting that others have definitely fed this bear, unintentionally, as it has learned to associate humans with food rewards. He said we did most everything right, creating distance, not challenging the bear, talking softly, standing our ground, restraining the dog (dogs aggravate bears) and getting out of there before nightfall. Apparently this encounter is known as a “passive attack” meaning that rather than a defensive posture, which is hostile behavior, grunting, vocalizations, etc, this bear was focused on us only, likely as a food source and possibly potential prey. The animal would most certainly have come in closer for more food. A rare, but dangerous situation, common among most species of bear in the evening hours. Sadly we were informed that given the behavior of this bear it will likely need to be dispatched….Friends, if you spend any time in the woods, keep in mind that bears are unpredictable, wild creatures that can kill you. It really doesn’t matter how familiar or experienced you are with the terrain. Bears travel hundreds of miles till they find what they need for survival. Be sure to study and learn how to respond when confronted by a Bear..black, brown, purple, small, large whatever. We had time to react, we were lucky.

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