The Hay Harvest

Picking up 500 odd bales of hay (small squares) out of the paddock is no easy task.  Especially in the summer heat.  So already from the time of our first harvest we have learnt to start in the early evening, and work into the night.

Back then our attire was also rather amateurish, what with bras, shorts, sneakers and all that.  And of course our daughter was much younger then - we used to put her to sleep, and take the baby monitor with us in the truck.  But if the baby monitor was inside the cabin, it would lose contact.  So I drove the truck, holding the steering wheel with one hand, while holding the baby monitor outside the window with the other hand, all the while watching that the bales would get picked up by the loading arm, and making sure the crew on the back was ok.

What a relief it was when my parents offered to help.  Even just having someone at the house to look after our daughter was a huge relief.

Since those early days, we've also invested in some serious harvesting clothes.  It wasn't a financial investment per se.  More a rummage through the cupboard.  Long sleeved collared shirts, farm boots, long pants that hang over the boots - strategically vented in my husband's case - and good leather gloves.  And all of a sudden you've got a team that's just as ready to go boot scootin, as picking up hay.

Last year we got new neighbours, and they offered to help.  Kar-Lee rocked up, gazed at me sitting in the drivers seat of the truck and commented "Oh, I didn't know you had a trucking license."  I gently rolled my eyes up to the sky, pouted, and muttered something about a few rounds in a private paddock.

Last year must have been easy work because this year the neighbours have offered to help again.  Richard is away fighting fires in the Grampians, so it's just Kar-Lee and kids.

When picking up the bales from the paddock, three people makes up full house on the back of the truck, so the other two kids just run along ahead of the truck, trying to fix up the bales so they align better for pick up.  But when it comes to unpacking the truck, and putting the bales in the shed, it's all systems go, and everyone's in the game.

The younger kids don't have much experience behind them, and at times they are like little mice, dashing across the hay bales here and there, and no matter where they go, they are always in the way.  And of course we're working into the night, so they are getting tired.

But they never lose their spirit, and keep going like little duracell drummer bunnies.  By the end of the second truck the hay stack has grown high, everyone is sneezing, the bales are starting to feel heavy and Kar-Lee's youngest son is swinging from the rafters.  We're in stitches.

Then Kar-Lee and the kids drive off to pick up Richard from two towns down the road.  All merriment vanishes in a puff of the dust they kick up as they drive off, and the night darkens somehow.  We load up the third truck in silence, interrupted by the occasional "slow down" from the truck tray.  We're half way through the unloading when Kar-Lee returns with Richard.  Kids are safely tucked in bed, dreaming of huge hay stacks.

We joke and laugh again, as the hay stack in the shed grows, and grows.  I line up the last four bales on the tray of the truck, and start boot scootin.  Then we're all back in the field picking up the last truck load for Bob.  There's still more bales left in the paddock, but we've run out of room on the truck.  We park the truck, and break open the beer.

Soil Fertility in practice

Okay, okay, I'm sold. How do I do this on my farm?

Well, today we get several presenters who have applied Dr Elaine's method's in Victoria. There is no shortage of volunteers keen to share their story.

One thing becomes obvious. Brewing a compost tea is a science, and these guys, are ... well ... farmers. No surprises there.

Getting the brew right is tricky, time consuming, and can be very disappointing when your perfect brew is destroyed by your machinery as you spray it out on the paddock. Those poor fragile fungi just cannot be squeezed through certain pumps. And even the bacteria suffer. If you can afford to backpack spray, then do so. Do I see a job coming up for some volunteers?

If brewing the perfect tea is tricky, then getting enough fungi in there seems impossible. Wonder if the scientist in me can change that. I won't quit my day job just yet.

I also manage to get my compost samples under the microscope. Sample one is 2-3 weeks old. Some bacteria there, not much variety, a few spores, and one ciliate (bad guy). Sample two is 4-5 weeks old. Heaps of spores, some nice fungi, although still not much variety. Now I'm excited. Wonder what the 1 year old stuff looks like?

The Harvest

We don't produce anything much on our farm as yet (stray bunnies, blue tongues and ducks excepted). But we do get a good crop of hay. Good hay.

Normally, the harvest is in by mid December, but this year, due to glorious rain, the raking and baling is being done as we speak. The truck arrives with a loading arm, and a helping hand called Mitch. I jump behind the wheel and stare back at the loading arm. We've never had anything this civilised. "Just drive slowly forwards so that the loader can pick up the bales", Mitch gives me a friendly wave, then he jumps onto the moving truck. The loading arm is fantastic. It scoots alongside of the truck, and scoops up bale after bale. Mitch and Pete stack the bales on the truck. Boof boof. Oops, I think I just drove over one. Oh well.

When the truck is full, the loading arm gets detached and we drive the truck to the shed. Unloading time. I get into the fun, games, dust and sinking between hay bales of stacking the hay in the shed. Not to mention the tired hands, heavy lifting and severely scratched legs. Sneezing abounds. Mitch looks like he may have done this before. I swear that next year I will wear jeans.

With 100 bales per truck, our share in done in three truck fulls. We load up the forth truck, and Mitch drives it down to Bob's. I go in the house and start preparing dinner. I see the truck arrive, and the collection goes on. I feel somewhat excluded. What was that about the "farmer's wife"? Or was it "women on farms"? Whatever, I wave my hand.

The last truck load is comleted in late dusk. 652 blales. 648 put away, 1 driven over, 2 burst while loading, and 1 too crooked to load. A harvest this easy I have never done.

(2007, 580 bales. Pete and I collected the lot. Just Pete, just the truck, just me. Took us 8 hours, we finished at 3am. The next day we ate all the eggs and meat in the fridge, in an attempt to recover).

(2006, 248 bales. Pete and I collected the lot. Just Pete, just the truck, just me. Took 5 hours, finished at 2am. We recovered two days later).

Blackberry lashings

I get up early (as usual) and go riding. The house sleeps and snores.

By the time I return, there are a few smug, post-breakfast faces around the table. They all slept well, they're all feeling good. Time for some work.

So we take a trip down to the big shed and drag out the tractor. The slasher rings out with a wining vengeance, and blackberry splinters fly mercilessly. But the minute they hit the ground, a thousand (ok, ok, more like four) rakers, bring them together into neat little stacks.

When the work is done, the kids drive the tractor back into the shed. The horses are fed, the hay put out, and there are left overs for dinner. We bid our visitors a very "welcome anytime" goodbye.

More helpers

Ok, no one reads my blog. At least not the bit about how hard helping hands are expected to work at the ranch. Today, they arrive in hoards, loaded with bedding and supplies. I compare the head count to the room count and shrug my shoulders. After all, it's my husband who invited these people, he can worry about where they will sleep.

The primary task for today is a mountain bike ride. Pete's work mates vanish temporarily, only to reappear transformed as lycra lizards, wearing technically advanced helmets, and state of the art bladders. They hop on their two wheeled steeds and disappear up the track.

We are left to sit back, enjoy a cup of coffee and watch the view. I am so relaxed I feel out of place.

After about three hours, the men return, exhilerated. They jump in and out of the shower, and the fridge (for a beer). Chips roll into bowls. They light the bonfire, and the BBQ. Bottles of red wine appear on the side table, and it takes the women five tries to get the head count right for dinner. The table is heaving under the festive offerings, which come in waves from the hot BBQ. It's musical chairs around the table - if there is nothing left on your plate, then you must offer your seat to the next person. Just when everyone thinks they are full, the damper rolls in. It is delicious. Consumed in seconds.

The troops go to check out the bonfire. Within minutes they are back, soaking wet. "It's gone, all gone." Time for ice cream, and reading magazines, and putting your feet up, and going to bed.

A helping hand

A friend of ours regularly comes up to the farm to lend a helping hand. His sole reward for the efforts - a fast horse ride, and family meals.

He came up by train last night, had a home cooked meal immersed in a happy family atmosphere. It wasn't an early night though, and this morning he is up at 6 to catch the dawn ride. By 7:30 we hit the trails. The pace is on as promised, until we venture into the forest and explore a new track. When we finally make it through the slippery, rutted, boggy trail (hey, it could have been leach infested as well!) we pelt home as fast as horse will travel.

We put the horses away, and agree that second breakfast is a must. Afterwards, I catch a 20 minute lie down, while Anthony is off to help Pete with installing a pipe in a paddock. It involves some hefty earth moving. It's a pretty cold day. Judging by the work men's discarded clothes, they must be working pretty hard.

After lunch the pipe work is completed, and the boys get busy fixing a trench. More earth moving, and shoveling, and pounding the fresh clay and soil into place. The next task is brush cutting and raking the poisoned blackberries. And after dinner, when every worker could rightfully expect to unwind in front of the fire, nursing a glass of port, Anthony is helping to feed the horses, and driving the hay out. Ok, driving the tractor is kind of fun.

On the drive back, he is allowed a snooze. But his day truly ends when he arrives home after 11pm.