Wild Fibers - Winter 2011 Issue

Winter 2011/2012

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ild Fibers

Trafficking in Andean Luxury? (18)

Indigo’s Black Roots. (6)

Winter 2011/2012 wildfibersmagazine.com

Have “Ewe” Met? (46)

Features 6 Who Turned the South Black and Blue?

Meet Eliza Lucas Pinckney, the teenager from Antigua who “created” American indigo.

16 True Blue

From magical potions to human horsepower, the new film Blue Alchemy explores the history of indigo around the world.

18 In the Andes, There’s a Deadly Chase for Luxury

In the vast horizon of the Altiplano, protecting the vicuña herds has become a deadly business.

28 Reflections in the Canyon While the Andean condor soars through the clouds, the people on the street are equally alive with splendor.

34 Nicolae On the edge of Transylvania, one of the most engaging shepherds tends his flock.

46 A New Ewe for the Holidays Buying local isn’t anything new in Sweden, it started with “Mr. Potato” back in the 1700s.

56 Love Is in the Air There’s no rest for yak rancher Chris Devaney when there’s love in the air and Peanut is up chasing after the girls half the night.

64 Rise and Shine Getting up when the rooster sings isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but for just the right bird it can be more than worth the trouble.

Cover: Nicolae Toma casually posing in his bunda. Photo by Linda N. Cortright.

A shepherd like no other. (34) Winter 2011/2012

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Winter 2011/2012

Publisher and Editor Linda N. Cortright Contributing Editors Chris Devaney Advertising Sales Linda N. Cortright Ad Design Elizabeth Nelson Copyeditor and Proofreader Sheila Polson Circulation Suzanne Lacasse Subscription rates are $30/yr. for four issues in the U.S. and its possessions, $42/yr. Canada, $58/yr. international. Please send payment to: Wild Fibers Magazine, P.O. Box 1752, Rockland, ME 04841. (207) 594-9455 or online: www.wildfibersmagazine.com. Contributions: Address all editorial communications to Editor, Wild Fibers Magazine, P.O. Box 1752, Rockland, ME 04841.

We consider contributions in the form of manuscripts, drawings, and photographs. All material must be identified with the sender’s name and address. Material returned only if accompanied by sufficient return postage. Care is taken with contributions, but we are not responsible for damage or loss. All contents of this issue of Wild Fibers are copyrighted by Grumble Goat Productions, 2011. All rights reserved. Projects and information in this issue are for inspiration and personal use only. Exact reproduction for commercial purposes is prohibited and violates copyright law.

Wild Fibers is published quarterly by Linda Cortright at 20 Elm St., Rockland, ME 04841 (Issue 8, Volume 4). Periodical postage paid at Rockland, ME and other mailing locations. Postmaster send change of address to Wild Fibers Magazine, P.O. Box 1752, Rockland, ME 04841.

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The Bell Curve I know that what goes on behind closed doors is supposed to stay behind closed doors, but just once I wish I could peek inside another editor’s office at deadline to see what level of carnage has occurred. It’s not that I have a sadistic desire to revel in another person’s misery; I’m just curious to know if my own brand of mayhem falls somewhere along the top of the bell curve.

For the past few months I have been having some renovations done on my house that are guaranteed not only to improve the overall insulation factor from my previous subzero norm, but to also I trust drive me firmly into debt for the next 20 years. I mention this not because construction work is in any way related to the business of natural fibers – unless I were building a yurt – but rather because I realized it was not humanly possible for me to create a magazine amid a chorus of pneumatic nail guns and the workers choice in background music.

Therefore, in the interest of everyone’s safety (more theirs than mine), I officially banished the crew a week ago so I could get my job done. The fact that there are places in my house where the only thing separating me from the chilly outdoors is a huge ball of rumpled cellophane is irrelevant.

By definition, putting words on a page shouldn’t be all that stressful.

How much does it take to write your own name, I ask? But finding the perfect word over and over and over again, in order to describe a mood, a place, or another person – perfectly – can be excruciating. And for reasons that I trust will become apparent when you have finished reading this issue, I didn’t want to deliver anything short of perfection for the stories and the people you will meet. On top of that I should also add that I know everyone reads Chris Devaney’s crazy adventures at

the Yak Outback first. Even I read them first. It’s akin to starting with dessert, but past a certain age in life one is allowed to make these choices. No doubt if you haven’t already read it, you are in for another perfectly outrageous adventure with “Love Is in the Air.” While we’re on the topic of outrageous, “The Deadly Chase for Luxury” will leave you shaking your head in amazement at the thought of a “cop” protecting thousands of vicuñas from poachers while riding about on a bicycle at 14,000 feet. To me, it makes about as much sense as walking into a lion’s den with only a safety pin for protection. When I say there is great truth to the adage “you need the right tools to do the right job,” it’s not just because my property has recently been converted into a Makita tool warehouse. It’s because you’d have to be an idiot not to walk in there without at least two safety pins.

I would also like to share with you that when I began researching the history of indigo in North America and stumbled upon Eliza Lucas Pinckney, my first reaction was amazement and admiration. Imagine being 16 years old, taking care of an ailing mother, managing three plantations, and telling your father who lives in Antigua to please, please, send more indigo seeds, the last crop was eaten by worms! This woman was so far ahead of her time in every way imaginable that I think ol’ Betsy Ross needs to sit out a few rounds on the dance floor while Eliza takes a well-deserved and overdue turn in the limelight.

Then there is Nicolae, the source of such great pleasure and so much pain.

Not quite a year ago I went knocking on the door of a total stranger in Romania and in a few short hours I walked away with some of the most magical memories of my life. You know why it’s so difficult to be a writer? Because when

you meet people like Nicolae, describing them in terms anything short of perfection just simply won’t do. Isn’t it always the way when someone reaches inside and shines a light in your heart?

Finally, a word about the new format, which I suppose was officially new in the last issue and now it’s just our regular format. Apparently the new dimensions of the magazine didn’t create anywhere near the kerfuffle I had feared, but my-oh-my did the pictures of those dear little old bare-breasted women in Mexico incite people’s dander. I will not repeat some of the words people used to express

Just hanging out on the edge of a cliff waiting for a condor to fly by.

their discontent over my apparent lack of taste and judgment, but you must believe me when I tell you that if they had uttered them to my face instead of by e-mail, even my construction crew couldn’t have repaired the mess that would have ensued behind closed doors. Just because I aspire to perfection is no guarantee I will ever, ever ... achieve it. But I trust you will enjoy my ongoing quest to get there.

Thank you as always for being part of the wild herd, there would be no Wild Fibers without you.

Enjoy.

Linda Cortright Publisher and Editor Winter 2011/2012

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Who turned the South

Black and Blue?

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“

Indigo proved more beneficial to Carolina

than the mines of Mexico or Peru were to Spain...

The source of this vast wealth, the foundation of fortunes... was the result of an experiment by a mere girl.

(Historian) Edward McCrady

Story by Linda N. Cortright

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ot much is known about Elizabeth Lucas Pinckney before the age of 16. She was born in 1722 on the West Indian island of Antigua, the oldest of four children, and loved both music and plants. Given her brief and proper schooling in England, few, if any, suspected that Elizabeth would one day embark on a career that would define America’s role in commercially cultivating indigo. And fewer still would have imagined that years later, George Washington would be among her procession of pallbearers.

Not only did the sweet and quick-witted island girl called “Eliza” rise to great prominence as a success-

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ful plantation manager, but outside of the classrooms in South Carolina where she is known as the “Indigo Lady,” Elizabeth Lucas Pinckney is also an untrumpeted hero in the annals of natural dyes.

When Eliza was 15, her father, Lieutenant Colonel George Lucas, moved the family to South Carolina. In part, he wanted to escape the political unrest in the British West Indies that was increasing as the threat of war with Spain continued to rise; he was also concerned with finding a climate that would better suit his wife’s poor health. In 1738, the family settled on Wappoo Plantation, one of three plantations Lucas had inherited from his father. Although the property

was only 17 miles by land and 6 by sea from Charles Town, which at the time was the most important trading port south of Philadelphia, the land was otherwise not geographically desirable. It abutted Wappoo Creek, a salty inlet unusable for traditional irrigation, which made the profitability from traditional crops challenging at best.

Less than two years after the move, Lucas was called back to full-time military service in Antigua where he was soon appointed governor. Because of his

Creating indigo dye is extremely labor intensive and until the slave trade began to take root in the 1730s, there was a limited supply of cheap labor.

Above: Slaves making dye from indigo. Original image on a map of St. Stephen Parish in Craven County, South Carolina by Henry Mouzon dating to circa 1771. (Image courtesy of Duke University Library.)

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“The rotting vegetation smelled so hideous that even buzzards refused to frequent the area around the indigo vat.”

Above: A bubbling vat of indigo dye.

wife’s weakened condition, he left Eliza in charge of 600 acres and 20 slaves. War was officially declared in 1739 after a series of hostile encounters, most notably the slightly whacky but memorable episode on the high seas near Havana, Cuba, where a Spanish captain seized the British ship Rebecca, believing its cargo was in conflict with trade agreements between England and Spain.

The captain of the Rebecca, Robert Jenkins, did not take kindly to the siege and apparently laid some un-choice

words on the shoulders of the Spanish intruder. In turn, the Spanish captain took great offense at Jenkins’ verbal assault and retaliated by swiftly lopping off Jenkins’ ear with his shiny Spanish sword. Jenkins returned to England (with the ear) and presented it to the king. Although it was not officially called the War of Jenkins Ear until a century later, battles on both land and sea began to escalate and there was little hope of Lucas returning home to Wappoo Plantation anytime soon.

Roots of a Blue Blood Society?

The Winyah Indigo Society, one of the oldest organizations in the country, was formed in the early 1740s by local indigo planters living in Winyah Parish, South Carolina. The group met at the old Oak Tavern on Bay Street on the first Friday of the month.

“The Planters of the Georgetown district … met on the first Friday of each month, to talk over the latest news from London, which was never less than a month old; to hold high discourse over the growth and prosperity of the indigo plant and to refresh the inner man and so keep up to a proper standard the endearing ties of social life imbibing freely of the inevitable bowl of punch.”

By 1753, the profits from indigo had made this aristocratic society’s treasury quite rich and the presiding officer made a proposal to the group.

“Knowledge is indeed as necessary as light and ought to be as common as water and free as air. It has been wisely ordained that light should have no color, water no taste, and air no odor, so indeed knowledge should be equally pure and without admixture of creed or cant. I move, therefore, that the surplus fund in our treasury be devoted to the establishment of an independent charity school for the poor.”

Rules of Winyah Indigo Society, quoted by c. Meriwether from The South in the building of a nation: a history of southern states by Joseph Walker McSpadden.

The proposal was unanimously accepted and the Winyah Indigo Society School was established and ultimately attended by rich and poor alike.

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Eliza was inspired to grow indigo for many reasons, foremost of which was its high value in the European trade market, which had relied on importing it from India and South America. But Eliza was by no means the first to attempt to grow it in North America. Nearly a century before, Dutch settlers had tried to produce indigo dye from plants they found on the outskirts of what is now Manhattan. The Dutch eventually abandoned the project, however, when it proved unprofitable. They had been working with a species of wild indigo that was different from what was grown in the West Indies and other milder climates.

Furthermore, creating indigo dye is extremely labor intensive and until the slave trade began to take root in the 1730s, there was a limited supply of cheap labor.

So at a time when most teenage girls were being groomed for a career as a devoted wife and mother, Eliza was quite enchanted with the process of managing three plantations and planting teeny tiny seeds in her father’s absence, faithfully writing him every fortnight.

“I wrote you in a former letter we had a fine crop of Indigo Seed upon the ground and since informed you the frost took before it was dry. I picked out the best of it and had it planted but there is not more than a hundred bushes of it come up, which proved the more unlucky as you have sent a man to make it. I make no doubt Indigo will prove a very valueable commodity in time, we could have the seed from the east Indies time enough to plant the latter end of March, that the seed might be dry enough to gather before our frost.” (1) The man Eliza refers to is Nicholas Cromwell, an expert in the field of making indigo dye who was from the British island of Montserrat. Lucas hired Cromwell to travel to Wappoo and teach his daughter how to successfully cultivate and process the plant. The reality, however, played out quite differently. Cromwell had no intention of giving Carolina an edge in the indigo market and surreptitiously sabotaged the dye vat.

Once Cromwell’s nefarious mission was uncovered and he was sent back to Montserrat, his brother Patrick continued on in his place. According to some historical accounts, Patrick followed suit and also betrayed Eliza by “poisoning” the dye vats, although Eliza notes in a letter that they finally succeeded in producing 6 pounds of dye that year that was exported to England. In the end, the plantation’s success could be attributed to “a negro” from the West Indies that Lucas hired who was not only well skilled in raising indigo, but was genuine in his intent to share the proper knowledge.

Finally, with the right seeds and the right methodology, indigo became one of the most profitable crops not only on Wappoo Plantation, but also throughout much Winter 2011/2012

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of the south as Eliza began distributing seeds to other plantation owners. The young lady, who by all rights should have long since sashayed her way to the altar, was dedicated to the business of developing one of America’s profitable crops, which lasted until nearly the end of the century.

As far as Eliza was concerned, married life would have to wait. Lucas dutifully made several attempts to find the “right” man for his daughter, but she dismissed them all, including one in particular who had surprising spunk. As she wrote in a letter to her father, “the riches of Peru and Chili if he had them put together could not purchase a sufficient Esteem for him to make him my husband.” Ap-parently the saying “a simple ‘no’ would suffice” was not in her mindset.

Indigo provided a princely profit for its growers in a relatively short amount of time. Its planting season complemented the rice harvest, which meant that when the slaves were finished working in the rice fields, it was time to start working on the indigo. The indigo crop was further enhanced by the many slaves who were already familiar with how to harvest indigo, as it was a common crop throughout much of coastal Africa. In 1745, South Carolina exported 5,000 pounds of indigo – an exponen-tial jump from only a few years previous – and by 1754 the amount had soared to 216,000 pounds. At the same time that indigo production was on the rise in the south under British control, the amount being imported from India declined and indigo prices nearly doubled in a de-cade, going from 2.4 shillings per pound to 4.4 shillings per pound.

It is all too rarely mentioned that indigo not only provided great wealth to the south (see “Roots of a Blue Blood Society?”), but there is strong evidence to support its health benefits as well.

During the 40 years of the “indigo bonanza” in South Carolina, there was a simultaneous 40-year decline in both malaria deaths and cases of yellow fever. Although scientists have been reluctant to directly credit indigo for the decline in malaria, the many rice fields that were converted to indigo directly decreased the amount of stand-ing water that had been present in rice paddies, which in turn decreased the mosquitoes’ breeding ground and perhaps curbed the spread of disease. Unfortunately, the suggested health benefits of the crop itself did not similarly apply to the dye process.

Again, there is some debate regarding the health consequences of indigo. Certainly the smell of ferment-ing indigo was at best a deadly assault on the senses for both man and animal. “The rotting vegetation smelled so hideous that even buzzards refused to frequent the area around the indigo vat.” (2) But whether it was poisonous to the body is not known. There is anecdotal information 12

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that women indigo dyers suffered sterility and others suf-fered from nerve damage. To this day, however, indigo dyers in Mexico carry on without harm and extracts from the plant are widely used to clean wounds and fight infec-tion.

Eventually, Eliza set aside the business of indigo long enough to get married. In 1744 she wed Charles Pinck-ney, Carolina’s first native born attorney who was twice her age. Eliza had been a close friend with Charles’ first wife and there is speculation as to when the relationship with Charles actually commenced.

After Eliza’s admon-ishments of previous suitors it was apparent that she in-

. . . it must be a great satisfaction to you as well as to myself, to know that I have put myself into the hands of a man of honour, whose good sense and sweetness of disposition gives me a prospect of a happy life . . .” deed found Pinckney acceptable at all levels, which she professes in a letter to her father.

“I have pursuant to your advice as well as my own in-clination, entered into a new state of Life . . . I do as-sure you Sir that though I think Mr. Pinckney’s character and merit are sufficient to engage the esteem of any lady ac-quainted with him . . . it must be a great satisfaction to you as well as to myself, to know that I have put myself into the hands of a man of honour, whose good sense and sweetness of disposition gives me a prospect of a happy life . . .”

With marriage came a new Life, as Eliza capitalizes in her letter, and her new Life meant being a wife and not running a plantation. With the seeds of indigo’s success already planted, Eliza turned her attention to her new role as wife and was soon the mother of four children. It is interesting to note that not only would it have been socially unacceptable for Eliza to run a plantation at the expense of her wifely duties, but her enormous accom-plishments with indigo were not viewed as the result of her being a successful business woman but rather of her being a devoted daughter acting on her father’s behalf in managing the land. The idea of Eliza’s identity as a self-made professional was totally contrary to the time and one that modern day history has tried to atone.

Eliza and Charles had four children, three boys and a girl, although George Lucas Pinckney died soon after birth in 1747, the same year Eliza’s father died in French captivity. In 1753 Charles took the family to England where they lived for five years before returning to South Carolina. Tragically, soon after they returned home, Charles contracted malaria and died. Once again, Eliza was in the position of managing the land alone.

Why are they called Jeans and not Bettys or Helens?

Where did blue jeans get their name? With the notable exception of Mr. Green Jeans for those who can recall the days of Captain Kangaroo, jeans are always blue jeans, but why “jean”? What’s wrong with Helen, or Betty, or why aren’t they called “blue freds”?

Although carbon dating has solved many ancient mysteries, the naming of blue jeans isn’t one of them. At best, there is strong speculation to support the theory that the name originated in Italy by way of Egypt.

During early Islamic times there was a textile known as fustian, which was probably named after Fustat, the original name of Cairo. Fustian was exported to Italy and eventually the Genoese began manufacturing their own type of fustian: a tough, durable cloth typically made from cotton or linen and well suited for hard work.

This “modernized” cloth was dyed with indigo blue and became known as Gene faustian. Eventually the cloth was produced by other weaving centers in Europe and became quite popular, particularly for sailors’ trousers.

It is believed that upon translating the cloth’s name to English, it simply became known as “Gene” or, as they have been called for more than a century, “blue jeans.”

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Without question Eliza Lucas Pinckney was seminal to the success of indigo in America, but a few well-timed wars and a sweet British subsidy were instrumental as well.

Although the War of Jenkins Ear forced Eliza’s fa-ther to return to Antigua, it also sparked a rise in ship-ping rates and suddenly the British became quite inter-ested in South Carolina’s little “experiment.” Beginning in 1748, the British offered a six penny per pound subsidy on indigo.

The dye that was shipped across the Atlantic in the cargo hold soon returned on the backs of British sailors.

In 1754, the French and Indian War broke out in America. Although the impact of the war soon grew global, evolving into the Seven Years War, from the standpoint of indigo, it meant that Britain no longer imported the dye from the French West Indies, thereby putting even more demand on the American crop. War-fare inevitably benefits various industries and during the 1750s the value of indigo shipments surpassed rice. Pound per pound, indigo was more compact to ship, which lowered both freight costs and cargo insurance.

Indigo had its heyday during the American Revolution. It was used as the dye for the blue coats, which became the uniforms of the Continental Army. Ironically, it was also the demise of the very place it was “born” when all of Eliza’s land was destroyed by British raiders.

No one will ever know if America would have had its indigo blue bunting or the indigo blue in the original “Star-Spangled Banner” flag. But perhaps the biggest question is whether or not without indigo, we would have blue jeans.

Indigo’s boom times came to an abrupt halt in America with the invention of the cotton gin. Thanks to its inventor Eli Whitney, the cotton gin was the first machine to mechanically separate cottonseeds from the fibers. The cotton gin not only changed the amount of time and money required to process cotton, but overnight, indigo fields were ploughed into cotton crops, spurning a new generation of slave-driven wealth in the south.

When we look at the billions and billions of denimclad fannies throughout the world, most people give credit to the German immigrant Levi Strauss. Perhaps it is time that we also pay homage not only to indigo, but also to the quick-witted “island girl” who made it possible.

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(1) Excerpt from Women of Colonial and Revolutionary Times by Harriott Horry Ravenel, LULU PR, 2010 (2) Archeology of the New Smyrna Colony by Robert Austin and Dorothy Moore, Southeastern Archeological Research Inc., 1999 14

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True Blue

Hiroaki Murai, an indigo farmer in Nishiwaki, Japan, is standing beside a large pile of bluish black compost.

He gently prods the pile, which occupies almost the entire room, and asks, “Do you need more water?” Then he prods it a bit more and waits for the response. During the weeks that it takes for the indigo to fully compost, Hiroaki maintains a conversation with the softly smoking pile. “There’s life inside this heap,” he says. “It’s as if we are breathing together.”

The scene is from a feature length documentary, Blue Alchemy: Stories of Indigo, by Mary Lance, that takes the viewer on an astonishing adventure around the world exploring indigo farming and many of the traditions and rituals surrounding it. Just as it only takes one visit to a vineyard to discover the intricacies of making good wine, the process of creating the perfect blue is equally magical.

Halfway around the world from Hiroaki’s chatty heap, a small group of men in Kongarapatu, Tamil Nadu, India, are standing knee-high in a pit, rhythmically kicking a pool of blue water. They kick their legs hard and high, causing the water to roll into a sea of angry foam. “It’s working,” says the supervisor. The foam means the indigo is being properly oxidized, and after several hours the kicking will stop and the pool will be drained. The 16

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sediment left on the bottom will eventually be strained into valuable blocks of indigo. But like a vat of good Bordeaux, a vat of good indigo is as dependent on the technique as it is on the raw material.

For centuries, the great masters in dyeing came from India. They were reluctant to share their secrets, making their blend of blue one of the most universally recognized and desired. Modern technology has greatly reduced the number of trade secrets from antiquity, but not all of them.

Hiroyuki Shindo from Miyama, Japan, became fascinated with indigo at an early age. “No one would tell me anything,” he says. “I had to find it all out myself.” Today, Hiroyuki doesn’t believe in keeping secrets. He is one of the most highly regarded indigo dyers in Japan and believes every vat of good indigo requires a good dose of sake dumped inside it.

Although the young Hiroaki in Nishiwaki has only been making indigo for a few years, perhaps instead of asking whether his heap wants water, he should be asking if it wants a drink.

F More information about Blue Alchemy can be found at http://www.bluealchemyindigo.com/

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In the Andes

There’s a Deadly Chase for Luxury Their faces are among the sweetest of the camelids and their fiber is by far the most precious. But the once critically endangered vicuña is at the forefront of a violent battle in Peru.

Story and Photos by Linda N. Cortright

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f you happen to find yourself traveling along the road to Colca Canyon in Peru, which is twice as deep as the Grand Canyon and where tourists migrate to see the great Andean condor, you don’t want to miss stopping at Tambo Cañahuas. Most people pause there just long enough to get gas, buy a souvenir, and wolf down a cup of coca tea to ward off the effects of the high altitude, which dances above 15,000 feet with ease. But if you’re interested in the local fiber scoop, look no further than the kid in the dark blue baseball cap riding a 10-speed bicycle – he’s a “cop.” He may not look like one of the men in blue you see at Dunkin’ Donuts, but he carries a gun and he will use it.

Without a car, a motorcycle, or so much as an imported yak to carry him over the Andean pampas, the bronzed kid with the crooked smile is charged with patrolling nearly 1 million acres of the Salinas Aguada Blanca Reserve with only a set of sturdy lungs and youthful determination. He is one of a half dozen men in the area who, for the sake of argument, represent the vicuña vice squad.

Salinas Aguada Blanca Reserve is home to approximate-ly 20,000 vicuña, which provide the most precious of all the natural fibers, with its equally precious price tag of about

$535.00 per kilo. During Incan times the vicuña population hovered around 2 million, but after the Spanish conquis-tadores took hold, vicuña were slaughtered with abandon and their numbers throughout the Andes never fully recovered.

By the early 1960s the future of the vicuña was dire at best. There were less than 5,000 animals left on the planet and the possibility of extinction was all but guaranteed. Eventually, they were listed under the Convention on Inter-national Trade in Endangered Species (CITES) Appendix I, categorizing them as endangered and banning all level of trade.

It took 30 years for the population to rebound and even-tually stabilize for the first time in half a millennium. The world population of vicuña is now 340,000 animals and 188,000 live in Peru. They were removed from the endan-gered list and are now classified as threatened under CITES Appendix II, making it legal once again to harvest fiber from live animals – but only under strict supervision. By law, unprocessed vicuña fiber cannot leave Peru, ArgenAbove: The sign at the entrance to the Salinas Aguada Blanca Reserve in Arequipa. Opposite: A curious vicuña by the side of the road in the reserve.

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Above: A variety of vicuña in the reserve.

Below: A member of the vicuña vice squad outside the rest stop in Tambo Cañahuas.

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tina, Chile, or Bolivia without a certificate verifying where it was sourced. It’s a fiber passport minus the mug shot.

There has never been a law created by man that hasn’t been broken by man, however, and not surprisingly, there is a healthy trade in black market vicuña. It’s not known how many kilos surreptitiously cross the border with no papers, no passport, and no hint of authentication. But according to the kid with the two-wheeler, the most recent episode in the reserve involved two poachers on motorcycles.

In as brief a detail as I care to share, the poachers shot six vicuñas, tied the skins onto the backs of their motorcycles, and took off. Even with all ten gears engaged the cop couldn’t pedal fast enough. He tells me that he wishes the gov-ernment would spend more money on providing him with a better rifle for lon-ger shooting range. The one he has is too weak, a “toy gun,” he says, gesturing to the firearm slung over his shoulder.

Thus one of the most peculiar chapters in modern day fiber culture begins to unfold with an animal that was once so highly prized that only royalty were permitted to wear the garments made from vicuña. Modern day vicuña scarves and sweaters sell for hundreds and typically thousands of dollars, making them a hallmark of the elite, but at what price?

When the vicuña trade was legalized in the early 1990s, Peruvian President Fujimori made the unprecedented decision to put the animals under the “ownership” of the surrounding communities according to usufruct rights. Technically, the wild animals are under the auspices of the government and not directly owned by anyone.

The vast majority of the animals inhabit government controlled land such as the Salinas Aguada Blanca Reserve, and the local people are given both the rights and benefits of temporary possession based on their work. The term comes from Roman law and literally means usus (et) fructus, or “use (and) enjoyment.” It was deemed that the long-term health of the animal and the environment, and ultimately the sustainability of the indigenous people, would best be served if vicuñas were under the care of many instead of an elite few.

Judging by the cop who is packing some wimpy heat, there is room for improvement.

Camelids, including the alpaca, llama, guanaco, and vicuña, have defined much of the Andean landscape for centuries. These animals represent a valuable

natural resource, and a crucial part of cultural identity, and play an irreplaceable role in keeping the ecosystem in balance. Recent measures implemented by the government, having intended to increase the vicuña harvest and reduce poaching, seem at odds with providing the expected income to marginalized communities. This could dampen the “feel good” factor in the tourism market that comes to watch the vicuña roundup called a chaku.

Historically, vicuñas were not always killed for their fiber. During Incan times they were rounded up by way of a chaku, an ancient ritual that employs a human chain to circumnavigate a group of vicuñas and eventually funnel them into a holding pen. The humans are connected via a long, continuous string decorated with colorful flags and ribbons. The visual combination of both the humans and the string is typically enough to coerce the animal toward the designated spot. Obviously, if there is too wide a space in between people, an animal may choose to jump the line and avoid capture. Hence, a core amount of manpower is required to make the roundup a success. After the animals have been gathered

How the numbers add up “If in 2001 there was a total of 2820 kg of fiber purchased by the IVC (International Vicuña Consortium), and each animal produces about 200 grams of fiber, it will take four animals to make a woman’s scarf, two animals to make a man’s scarf and 13 animals to make a blanket. (The back of the vicuña is the only part sheared. The belly, legs and necks are not sheared.)

At a total of 2820 kgs of fiber purchased, approximately 14,100 animals were sheared, or about 10% of Peru’s vicuña population. Therefore, each pelt is worth about $77.00.

Looking at the community of Rancas, they sheared 21.9 kg of fiber in 2002. It took about 150 community members to execute the chaku, plus the National Council of South American Camelids (CONACS) technicians and five SNV (National Society of the Vicuña) employees. About eight hours was spent between arrival, organization, execution of chaku, shearing, and weighing. For the 21.9 kg they received, the SNV received $8431.50 in payment. The community received $6,679.50 (reflecting SNV price to community of $305.00/kg after discounts). Dividing that number by the amount of workers and hours spent, the hourly wage is $5.56.”

“Politics of Conservation and Consumption: The Vicuña Trade in Peru” by Amy Elizabeth Cox.

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Above: Pedro enjoying a good time after a few glasses of chi cha.

into a corral, or a temporary holding pen, they can be sheared and released.

It sounds simple on paper but the execution has been fraught with challenges, causing discontent within the communities and a relatively undiminished stream of poachers. It is deeply dis-turbing to note that although the fibers are humanely harvested, there still exists an unacceptable mortality rate to both man and animal. And to suggest that there might be an accurate statistic on the actual number of people who have been killed because of vicuña poaching (either poachers or law enforcement) is ab-surd. Considering that the cops are on bicycles, the notion of reliable documentation is folly.

However, my man in blue tells me that one of his co-workers was killed in the line of duty just two months previous.

I have always appreciated vicuña for its extraordinary softness. Compared with cashmere, with its average fiber diameter of 15.5 microns, vicuña fibers are only 12.5 microns. Although there is a small amount of >15 micron cashmere on the market, you won’t find it on sale at Target for $49.99. Yet it certainly gives one pause to know that the stakes for vicuña are so high in this part of the world that is so brutally poor that the fiber has taken on features common to the illicit drug trade. Be assured that the majority of vicuña on the market is properly sourced and processed. Loro Piana, for example, the kingpin of luxury fibers, has an established relationship with the communities where he sources his fibers, as do other high-end manufactur-

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ers who adhere to good business standards. Clearly the practice is not universal, however, and the proper solution has yet to unfold.

The two of us continue to talk while standing outside the gas station/souvenir stand. It’s the end of January and although technically summer, when the wind comes snarling through the canyon pass, I suddenly feel woefully under-dressed for 14,000 feet. A small busload of tourists pulls into the parking lot and disgorges its passengers; many are sporting that puce-colored complexion that accompanies altitude sickness. I suspect the coca tea sales will super-sede the bargain hunters’ thirst.

The cop tells me he needs to return to his beat. I thank him for the impromptu interview, but before he leaves I ask if he knows where the poachers are coming from. I wonder if perhaps they are crossing the border from Bolivia. “No, they come from within the community,” he says.

“That’s how they know where to find the vicuña.”

Inside the rest stop, Fernando Alvarez, president of Jacques Cartier Clothier, and Carlos Piazenca, head of Piacenza Cashmere, a family owned business that has been producing luxury apparel since 1733, are meeting with Pedro. Pedro is head of one of the communities in the Salinas Aguada Blanca Reserve and is responsible for helping to organize the community for the chaku. By the time I join the men at the table they are busy drinking, but it’s not tea, it’s chi cha, the Schlitz of the Andes, and I suspect it will make me sicker than the altitude.

Sadly, Pedro does not paint a picture much brighter than the one I have just heard, but for different reasons.

He acknowledges that poaching does go on although it has declined now that they have a “police” force. However, the bigger source of frustration is working with the government. Apparently they have twice had to postpone a chaku because the man who was supposed to come from the CONACS and provide the certification didn’t show.

Accord-ing to regulations, certification is only given if the agent witnesses the entire harvest. If he’s not present when it’s time to shear the animals, the fiber can’t be certified and sold. This not only results in a direct loss of income to the community (which shares in the profit through participa-tion in the chaku according to the usufruct terms), but by failing to provide the necessary legal channels to tender a profit, it inevitably encourages poaching.

Why participate in a community based program if the government won’t provide the necessary personnel to implement it? Pedro throws his hands in the air to emphasize his point, but magically another round of chi cha appears with the gesture.

The Andes are spectacular to behold, but the stark nature of their beauty translates into limited opportunity to develop capital from the land. Take away the mountains Winter 2011/2012

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and the snow-rimmed volcanoes that all have names and magical tales and it leaves a high desert plateau where both man and animal are challenged to survive. There is a reason why people only stop at Tambo Cañahuas: they want to get to Colca Canyon where the grass is greener, the air is thicker, and despite the steepness of the mountainside, the campesinos (peasants) have learned how to live off the land by growing crops on steppe terraces that were built centuries ago.

Pedro is frustrated, but is far from giving up. He sees great potential and economic gain from vicuña, and also knows it will benefit the long-term welfare of his community to which he is deeply committed. But as one who has spent a lifetime confronting the inevitable inefficiencies of

actual profit margin a might smaller when compared with the value of the entire herd.

Fortunately, vicuña fiber grows slowly – very slowly – and animals can only be shorn an average of once every two years. Furthermore, some animals are either too young or too old, so the 180,000 animals don’t accurately represent the annual yield. But even at half, or a third, of the total, it takes hundreds of chakus and thousands of people to make it all happen. CONACS believes the efficacy of the chaku could be enhanced if the vicuña were fenced on a permanent basis. The fencing would enable the communities to gather the animals more swiftly and would also help to deter poaching. But not everyone is in agreement with this philosophy and several significant factors, including

The Andes are spectacular to behold, but the stark nature of their beauty translates into limited opportunity to develop capital from the land. Take away the mountains and the snow-rimmed volcanoes that all have names and magical tales and it leaves a high desert plateau where both man and animal are challenged to survive.

a Third World country, he remains optimistic.

At first glance, the re-introduction of the chaku seems like an appropriate measure in view of the ritual’s history and the nature of the task at hand, but it is not without controversy. There are more than 180,000 vicuña in Peru, and given that a typical chaku might successfully corral 500 animals and that a newly shorn animal should not be left “naked” on the eve of winter, nor should a pregnant female be left compromised without a coat, the window of opportunity and the availability of manpower make the Above: Along the road to Colca Canyon, well above the treeline and well beyond any sign of civilization.

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the cost of the fencing and the limitation of the animals’ forage, are hotly debated. One could also pose the question as to whether a fenced animal is still “wild.”

I am embarrassed to admit that it is only after I have had a chance to process the various pros and cons of a chaku that I realize I have made a rather large and false assumption. Like many people, I have viewed the chaku as both environmentally sound and culturally appropriate. I believe indigenous people throughout the world need to practice certain traditions not only to maintain their unique identity, but also to ensure they won’t be lost.

However, the people performing modern day chakus actually have no memory of the tradition; CONACS has had

to teach them. Vicuña populations were decimated for so long, and this coupled with the ban on trade means it has been many generations since communities have had the need to perform a chaku within the true tradition. No doubt it would be lost forever if CONACS had not reintroduced it, but the modern-day chaku is not what it used to be.

In Rancas, Cerro de Pasco, the chaku is becoming a big tourist attraction. Busloads of tourists arrive soon after dawn to watch the indigenous people run after the “wild” animals. But next to the busloads of tourists there are busloads of high school students who come to perform other native traditions, including a fertility ceremony that is not historically part of the chaku but is borrowed from an Incan cow ritual.

The commodification of indigenous practices is nothing new.

Native American Indians have honed it to a fine and profitable art, making for good ticket sales. Understandably, the success of these ecotourism chakus is starting to spread with a portion of the profit eventually funneling back into the community. But the process of expanding the chaku from a small-scale community event into a westernized tourist attraction requires more than just a longer piece of string. Yet it may also be one of the more feasible ways to put more money into the community and simultaneously keep the vicuña wild.

I assume that Pedro, Fernando, and Carlos are conducting business, although sharing a few glasses of beer is sometimes all that’s needed to cement business relations. As a native of Peru, Fernando understands the delicate dynamics that take place, es-

Virgin Wool?

“The Peruvians believed in the existence of the soul after death, and also in the resurrection of the body. The good were to live a life of luxury and ease; the wicked must expirate their crimes by ages of worrisome labor. . .

The Empire of the Incas was a perfect theocracy. The reigning Inca was more than merely the representative of divinity; he was the divinity it-

self . . . The virgins of the sun were young maidens dedicated to the service of the deity. They dwelt in convents under the charge of the elderly matrons.

These holy virgins were occupied in weaving the fine wool of the vicuña into garments for the Inca and hangings for the temples.”

The New International Encyclopedia, Dodd, Mead and Company, 1902.

Winter 2011/2012

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pecially when working in rural communities, but developing trust takes more than a pitcher of beer no matter what the brand.

My cup of tea must be working because I’m not terribly bothered by the altitude. If given a bicycle to pedal, however, I doubt I would make it to the next town. The little souvenir shop is starting to close, it’s getting dark, and most people don’t travel the pass after nightfall.

The snow and fog can descend in an instant, trapping people on roads that are hazardous even in the warmth of the noonday sun. If you don’t see at least one overturned truck on the road to Colca Canyon it’s probably because you were too busy looking out for the vicuña.

You can usually see them off in the distance or occasionally grazing along the roadside. When we finally get back on the road, I notice two vicuña running off in the distance. I think about the CONACS motto from a decade ago: “A vicuña sheared is a vicuña saved.”

Let’s hope they’re right.

F

w

Above: Fernando Alvarez with Pedro and his wife at the gas station in Tambo Cañahuas.

Winter 2011/2012

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reflections in the canyon Photos by Linda N. Cortright 28

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Every morning in Colca Canyon, several hundred tourists arrive shortly after dawn in the hope of catching a glimpse of the Andean condor. Even if the birds never show the scenery is still stunning.

Winter 2011/2012

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Just outside of Colca Canyon, everyone heads to the market day in Chivay to stock up on basics and perhaps a few sweets.

Red is everywhere in Peru, from handwoven blankets, to bright city fences and sweet fruity drinks.

Winter 2011/2012

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Only in the highlands of Peru can you take so many vivid colors and combine them with such a variety of patterns to create the most stunning outfits - just to go shopping!

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Winter 2011/2012

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In a country that survived one of the most horrific reigns of communist rule, the utter enchantment of this Romanian shepherd is a glorious

NICOLAE

Story and Photos by Linda N. Cortright

D

uring the summertime Transylvania is paradise. Centuries of farming have kept the hillsides green and bountiful, and the slow onset of modernity has preserved much of its ancient architecture. Romania’s capital, Bucharest, is just starting to appear on the cover of travel brochures.

No doubt the masses will eventually throng west to the countryside where horse-drawn carts and bearstudded mountains still decorate the landscape.

The day I arrive in Romania is not paradise. It's the tail end of winter and the fog is so dense it is impossible to see where the snow stops and the fog begins. It is the proverbial “damp cold” that does not invigorate you but makes you wonder if you will contract pneumonia before nightfall. Ideally, I would have arrived on a day when there was at least a suggestion of sunlight, but alas, there is no camera setting for “remove large wet paper towel,” which is precisely what I fear all the pictures will look like.

Some might wonder why I don’t just return in summertime. Who doesn’t want to visit paradise? The answer is simply that no matter where you go, paradise never lasts, and in order to understand a farmer’s life in this part of the world, one must visit at the end of winter, which offers a generous dose of reality.

Shortly before noon I arrive in the town of Tulca, which is within whispering distance of the Hungarian border and technically not part of Transylvania, although its summers are comparably beautiful. The road to the village is narrow and the combination of weary old nags pulling hay carts and wayward sheep clogging the roadway makes for slow travel.

Right: Nicolae Toma holding a healthy young Tsurcana lamb.

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new beginning.

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Nicolae immediately takes me out back to meet his sheep. Their wool is wet and dirty just like the landscape, but what I see is a flock of extraordinarily beautiful creatures.

Above: A Tsurcana ewe with a pair of newborn twin lambs. Right: My friend and sheep aficionado Géza Csát can’t resist a quick peck on the head.

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By the clock, the sun has been up for hours but the village still seems eerily hushed with sleep. Perhaps the impenetrable gloom is keeping everyone inside.

Most of the houses are clustered within a few large blocks connected by crumbling sidewalks and vacant alleys. Everything and everyone live behind walls, making the view from the road not particularly inviting. In truth, it reminds me of the villages I have visited in Central Asia where the chill of communism still lingers. Given that Romania was under communist rule until the revolution in 1989, perhaps the shroud of political oppression is what still clouds the horizon.

My amazing translator, Cornelia Major, gets off her cell phone and instructs Géza Csát, my friend and sheep aficionado from Hungary who is also playing chauffeur, to go down several blocks and make a left. Nicolae Toma, the farmer I am to visit, will be standing on the corner waiting for us.

In a town of less than 3,000 people, the majority of whom are subsistence farmers, it’s easy to find sheep but difficult to find someone who understands wool, particularly the wool from one of the original Romanian sheep breeds, the Tsurcana.

Tsurcana are big hairy sheep with graceful legs and dramatic horns. The name is etymologically derived from the Sanskrit word sturka, meaning sheep-goat. Historically, the animals were used for meat, dairy, and wool. Imported merinos have usurped what’s left of the wool market, however, and aside from Easter lambs the Tsurcana is now a solid dairy animal.

In less than a minute we reach the designated corner where a man in tall black boots standing nearly knee-deep in slush and wearing a wool hat flags us down. Less than 24 hours previous I had been tempted to cancel our interview.

Cornelia’s brother had informed me that Nicolae had just lost 30 lambs and was desperately worried that whatever was “wrong” would result in losing the rest of this year’s crop. I was convinced that the arrival of an annoying American journalist was probably the last thing he wanted to contend with, but I was quickly assured that was not the case. For reasons that both humble and mystify me, shepherds around the world are “honored” by my arrival, and apparently Nicolae was anxious to not only tell his story, but also to share his piece of paradise. Yet true to my original intent, 30 dead baby lambs does not make for paradise no matter what part of the world you are in.

I expect Nicolae to be glum, perhaps properly downtrodden, in view of recent circumstances, but he is anything but.

He does not convulse with laughter like a department store Santa Claus. Instead, I find him so firmly grounded in the sweet sincerity that comes from living with animals that I am all but dumbstruck. From the moment I walk through his front gate it is clear that I am not a visitor but a genuine part of his home. Thus it is on these occasions when I am the one who feels honored beyond words.

Nicolae immediately takes me out back to meet his sheep. Their wool is wet and dirty just like the landscape, but what I see is a flock of extraordinarily beautiful creatures. There are more than 300 Tsurcanas, but he seems to know each one as intimately as if it were the family pet. Over the years I have noticed that one sign of a true farmer is the expression on their face when they are with their animals. Nicolae’s smile when he picks up one of the surviving lambs can only be described as intoxicating. Yes, his deep brown eyes and strong Roman build certainly don’t hurt, but inside there is a man who dearly loves his animals.

He hands one of the lambs to Géza, who instantly cradles and then kisses the lamb’s head, and I quickly drop my camera and extend my arms so I can hold one too. Soon we are all standing around holding wooly babies like proud parents in a nursery. This, for me, is paradise.

Although it is difficult to tell under their thick winter fleeces, the ewes appear healthy, yet they are not producing enough milk for their lambs to survive.

Going to the store and buying 50-pound bags of powdered milk replacer isn’t an option in this part of the world. Animals survive, or not; there isn’t a lot of

Tsurcana are big hairy sheep with graceful legs and dramatic horns. The name is etymologically derived from the Sanskrit word sturka, meaning sheep-goat.

Above: One of Nicolae’s neighbors walking down the sidewalk by Nicolae’s home. Below left: Nicolae in front of his modest shepherd’s hut. Below right: the prancing of the lambs begins!

Winter 2011/2012

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middle ground. Nicolae isn’t sure what’s causing the problem, but he suspects he was sold hay that had been treated with GMOs which can potentially have negative effects on both man and animal. And because of an unprecedented amount of flooding the preceding summer in sections of both Hungary and Romania that destroyed thousands of acres of farmland; Nicolae was forced to buy his hay from a different farmer and he suspects that is the cause of his problem.

Unfortunately, it is too late now to do anything other than pray the remaining lambs will somehow survive.

Nicolae has something the other shepherds I have visited do not, however, and that is a bunda.

Common to both Romania and Hungary, bundas are the granddaddy of all fur coats.

Reluctantly, I put the lamb down and it quickly joins its pals prancing in the mud. There is a peculiar law of physics, which dictates that baby lambs never move in a straight line; everything is done in a series of staccato hops from side to side rather than forward and back. Perhaps it is the ovine foxtrot?

In addition to his flock of Tsurcanas, Nicolae owns a handful of cows, countless chickens, several dozen geese, and an adorable cluster of pigs – all of which will eventually find their way to the dinner table. Even in the cold and muck I can tell the outbuildings are well maintained. And though this is decidedly not the land of barns the size of mini apartment buildings, everyone has enough elbow room.

Yet there is one outbuilding not designated for the animals that is quite small, perhaps only 5 feet by 6 feet, with a long narrow platform inside that has a mattress on top. During lambing season this is where Nicolae sleeps. He needs to be close enough to his sheep so he can hear if there is trouble; it also enables him to provide a second line of defense in case of a predator. The first line is a large shaggy dog that is presently tied up. I suppose there are predators hungry enough to venture past this dog’s bark, but I wouldn’t want to meet one.

I have both seen and slept in more primitive settings than this, but never when a toasty warm bed was a few hundred paces away. Nicolae has something the other shepherds I have visited do not, however, and that is a bunda. Common to both Romania and Hungary, bundas are the granddaddy of all fur coats.

They are designed like a cape and require up to a dozen sheepskins sewn fur side out and weigh up to 25 pounds. Nicolae sleeps in his bunda, works in his bunda, and herds his sheep in his bunda, and for the purposes of my visit he will definitely have his picture taken in his bunda. I can see why the cold is not a factor when you’re buried underneath your bunda, and come morning that desperate leap from under the covers is completely circumvented – you just take your “covers” with you. However, when Nicolae drapes it over his shoulders, he is no longer a peasant farmer swaddled in bedding; he commands a staggering presence that rivals any royal portrait in ancient history.

Without warning, Nicolae quietly disappears into the fog. I sense he is probably going to check on the rest of his sheep and I am timid about accompanying him – and he doesn’t ask me to. A few minutes later he emerges through the cold smoke. He is walking slowly with one hand held out to his side and making a gentle clucking noise. Behind him, a long row of Tsurcanas are marching in single file. There is no pushing and shoving, no one is complaining as I have noOpposite: Nicolae proudly wearing his bunda. The sheep are very respectful of their late distant relatives.

Winter 2011/2012

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ticed sheep are want to do, and they are all in this beautiful straight line following right behind Nicolae. They must be stunt sheep, really! But I know better and what I am seeing is a true shepherd in action. To witness someone so closely connected to their flock is absolute magic.

There are advantages and disadvantages to interviewing someone when there is no common language. Ultimately, I find myself relying much more on gestures and intonations than actual words, and so before I actually sit down to interview Nicolae I already have a sense of who he is.

But when I ask him my opening question, I am in no way prepared for the response.

Cornelia translates for me and asks Nicolae why he decided to become a farmer. His answer lasts almost an hour.

“My father’s mother had a problem with drinking,” he says. “My father’s father [Nicolae’s grandfather, but the word is not used] was a rich man. In 1950 he had 50 sheeps [sic], four horses, and a few cows. There were 200 families in the community and he was the richest. But his wife always had too much alcohol and couldn’t help with the animals. His father’s father had to sell the animals. There was no one to help him.”

Nicolae is sitting on the edge of his daughter’s bed as he recites his family roots. I am sitting opposite him on the edge of his son’s bed. His wife, Ildiko, who has been quietly tending the woodstove, is making sure the living room stays warm, not only for the people, but also for the two parakeets happily chatting in their cage beside Nicolae and for at least one striped cat I notice vying for napping rights by the woodpile. Nicolae continues speaking slowly so Cornelia can translate while I sit utterly transfixed by his openness.

It’s interesting to note that when Nicolae talks about his grandmother there is no sense of shame or scorn, but only sadness. It is a tone that dominates much of his family history.

In 1961 at the age of 17, Nicolae’s father left home and went to work on a state vegetable farm. His father didn’t like animals and so he made his home at the vegetable farm where he met Nicolae’s mother. The two were soon married and had four sons and one daughter. Nicolae was born in 1970 and is the youngest.

“My father genetically became [an] alcoholic,” he says. “He lived with my mother at the vegetable farm and eventually he was able to buy a house a few streets from here. I know it is not the right thing to say this––but I was a happier child when he died. My life would have been easier without him. You understand I know that it is not right to feel this way, but I do.”

I quietly nod my head to show him I understand. Sometimes it is not easy to speak the truth, but I also sense that is all he knows.

After Nicolae’s father was killed in a car crash, Nicolae had to stay home and help his mother. “This is why I have only eight years of school,” he says.

“I had to leave or the family would not eat.”

By the early 1980s Romania was engulfed in the height of President Nicolae Ceaușescu’s megalomania. The ensuing reign of communist based deprivation caused inhumane levels of food rationing, led to daily power outages that left many freezing to death in their homes, resulted in virtually no medical care or access to treatment for people in rural communities, and left a leader who was forced to export virtually every natural resource to pay a $13 billion debt he incurred building his personal “monument” in Bucharest. “The People’s House” as it was ironically called was later renamed “The Palace of Parliament” after the fall of communism and to this day it remains a great source of controversy throughout Romania.

When Nicolae was 12, he went to help his older brother who was working on a state farm. The farm had lots of animals and Nicolae was responsible for gathering the hay and feeding hundreds of cows. At this part of the story his face suddenly changes and the man who was completely enthralled standing out in the field emerges again. It was during the few weeks that he worked at the farm that Nicolae was also able to be with his first sheep. This appears to truly be the beginning of his life, or at least the part he chooses to share.

He was paid a nominal sum for his few weeks of labor but it was enough for Nicolae to buy his very first sheep. The fact that it was 30 years ago is irrelevant; he offers the most enormous smile when he announces that he was

He was paid a nominal sum for his few weeks of labor but it was enough for Nicolae to buy his very first sheep. . . he offers the most enormous smile when he announces that he was only 12 when he had his first flock.

Above: Nicolae enjoys a playful moment with one of his herding dogs. Left: Although he appears gloomier than the weather, this livestock guardian dog loves his job!

Winter 2011/2012

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only 12 when he had his first flock, and now I understand why my opening question invited such a lengthy response.

“Nobody has ever given me anything,” he says. “Everything here is because I have worked.” There was one minor exception, however, and that was a young gray calf he fell in love with when he was eight or nine. The calf belonged to his grandfather who told Nicolae he could have it some day. Not long thereafter the cow was hit by a car and died.

“I don’t want gifts from people,” he says. “I know what happens. It is better to work for things. A man who gets everything will never appreciate what he has.”

With his love of animals firmly engaged, Nicolae decides to move on to his other love, his wife. And with that his smile becomes irrepressible.

“I fell in love before I met her,” he says. “It’s true.” Nicolae was 18 and worked as a shepherd at the state animal farm. The conditions were wretched but he wanted to be with the animals. His brother was still at the vegetable farm and as the story goes the two brothers along with a friend of Nicolae’s brother were sitting around drinking one night when the young man began talking about the pretty 16-year-old who had just started working at the vegetable farm. “You should see her, she is so sweet,” he said. The friend went on to say that the young girl looked very much like one of Nicolae’s friends from the neighborhood.

“Really?” said Nicolae. “Are you sure?”

The friend vowed that it was so and with that Nicolae announced to his buddies, “OK, I don’t stay with the sheep, I go to the vegetable farm and she will be my love.”

It was several weeks before Nicolae could arrange to leave the animals but as promised, he went to the vegetable farm and there in a field of 30 people handpicking spinach, he saw for the first time the woman he was already in love with.

Ildiko has been very quiet throughout the interview, spending most of the time tending the fire or sitting quietly to the side. But now she is listening to Nicolae retell the story of their first encounter and is looking at him in much the same way as I imagine she did standing there with a fistful of spinach.

They became friends but when Nicolae went into the army and they lost touch. When he came out of the army a year later he asked his brother if he knew where Ildiko was.

He did, they reconnected, and in 1992 Nicolae and Ildiko were married. He had 20 sheep and one cow, and they lived with her mother.

Year by year, Nicolae’s flock got bigger. He milked the sheep, he sold their wool, and he culled as needed for the meat market. Life in Romania was difficult – very difficult.

“We wanted freedom but now we are poor,” he says.

In 1995 Nicolae decided it was time he bought his wife a proper house and the only way that was possible was to sell the sheep – all of them. The flock had grown to 50 and

along with the price of the cow he had enough money to buy a small house. It was no bigger than the modest entryway to his present home but it was theirs.

Nicolae worked constantly. He was a “taxi driver” with a horse cart hauling various loads for people around the village and eventually he became the village shepherd, the one who led the other animals out to pasture. “In the morning I would go down the street and collect the cows and take them to graze,” he says. “By evening I would bring the cows back down the street and take them to the families.”

By 1998, Nicolae finally had enough money to buy a few sheep and for the past 10 years he has been able to support his family solely from the bounty of his land. He has a successful cheese

business that involves going to the market three times a week. Up until 2007 he traveled to the market by bicycle, carrying 30 kilos of cheese on the back. But now he has a driver’s license and a motorbike. He built a little cart to go behind the motorbike and now he can take twice as much cheese to market.

“What about the money you get from the wool? What is that worth?” I ask.

“Nothing. Nothing at all,” he answers.

During communism wool was important and people were paid a good price. The soldiers’ uniforms were made of wool. Bed covers were made from wool. Mills were spinning yarn to make socks for everyone and a man could have bought a car with the money he made from the wool of 300 sheep. Now there is no place in the village to even throw it away, so Nicolae stores it hoping that perhaps some day soon it will have value. It certainly doesn’t make him love his sheep any less.

Before I leave I ask Nicolae if I can take a picture of him with his family and naturally he obliges. His three children have been absolutely perfectly behaved, sitting quietly on the beds while I interview their father. They have no television, no computer games, absolutely none of the things Top left: Nicolae sitting in the living room telling the story of why he became a shepherd. Bottom left: Apparently there is only room for one cat underneath the woodstove.

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Left: Nicolae with his wife and three children.

Right: Nicolae and Idilko outside their home.

so many young girls and boys in western countries are immersed in. They have each other.

Yet somehow just saying “thank you” doesn’t feel like enough. I have been so deeply touched by my visit that I vow to Nicolae that I will do my best to share his story with others. It seems our delight is mutual and without hesitation he reaches behind his daughter and takes a picture of an Eastern Orthodox Madonna and child off the wall and hands it to me.

“Please,” he says in a gentle but firm voice. “I want you to have this.”

Tears begin to slowly fall down my cheek,

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and I have no words to say. How can I possibly share what this man has given to me?

We all walk out to the car together and just before getting in I ask Nicolae if I can have one last picture of just him and Ildiko standing in front of their home. Despite the cold I ask her to remove her black knit cap that is hugging her face. She obliges and as she removes the hat she gently shakes out her hair into a cloud of beautiful brunette curls.

Nicolae takes one look at her and leans over to kiss the top of her head. And that is the picture that will forever remind me of a moment in paradise.

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A New Ewe

for the Holidays

Story and Photos by Linda N. Cortright

No need to make a list and check it twice, there’s a new breed of sheep in Sweden to put under your tree that’s guaranteed to keep on giving long after the reindeer have left town.

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At one time the hills of Sweden (many of which were the hills of Norway, depending upon where you stood) were occupied by flocks of Värmland and Dala Fur sheep.

Top: The ullFORuM building where the sun has just crested the horizon shortly past eleven o’clock on a December morning. Right: A hat kit with Jämtland wool on display at the Christmas festival.

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I

t’s not easy being a sheep in Sweden. The war chant of Western consumers for über fine fibers has successfully eliminated countless heavy wool breeds, and the economics of keeping sheep just for their fiber, fine or otherwise, is rarely profitable. It is a problem that Sweden shares with many other countries, but unlike most, Sweden has taken a proactive stance in shifting the tide. At the 2010 Jämtland Christmas festival held in Ostersünd, Sweden’s “new” wool made its debut. Literally taking center stage at one of the largest holiday events in the country, an assortment of products featuring the new Jämtland sheep set in motion a wooly revolution, but it’s not the first.

At one time the hills of Sweden (many of which were the hills of Norway, depending upon where you stood) were occupied by flocks of Värmland and Dala Fur sheep.

Their fleeces were heavy, their wool was thick, and their pelts made for cozy warm nights by the fire. Beautiful to look at with spiraling horns and soft rounded muzzles, many of the native Swedish sheep fell out of favor almost 500 years ago. The Vikings had a different agenda beyond showcasing ovine pedigrees, and with much of the livestock industry focusing on cattle and pigs, sheep breeders were struggling to survive. Then came Jonas Ahlströmer who envisioned big plans for a Swedish textile industry.

History has awarded Jonas the honor of being Scandinavia’s first “Mr. Po-

tato.” He introduced the spud to Sweden in the early part of the 18th century, thereby creating a platform for tuber sustainability, an act that certainly warrants historical remembrance by anyone’s standard. But “Mr. Potato” also imported sheep; well, perhaps smuggled is the more accurate term.

Somewhere close to 1715, Jonas brought beautiful fine wooled sheep from England, Spain, and eventually Morocco, providing Sweden with the foundation for a textile industry.

Prior to the arrival of Jonas’ flock, Sweden had relied on importing the popular finely woven broadcloth from England and Germany. In an effort to curb the cost of importation, merchants of all descriptions were encouraged to use local material. (Today’s locavore culture is proof that not only does history repeat itself, but apparently “we” didn’t learn our lesson the first time.) The notion of establishing a domestic source for merino-based fine wool eventually went to the top and soon the state offered cash premiums to both farmers and importers who contributed to the country’s growing merino population.

It was a great idea, but it didn’t last. Politics shifted, priorities changed, and Swedish pastures once again grew coarse.

Top: Gunilla Classon (far left) with some of the designers and members of the ullFORuM project. Below: Wooly creations designed to intrigue and inspire on display at the Christmas festival.

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Less than two weeks before Christmas I am standing outside in negative 20 degree Fahrenheit weather just outside of Ostersünd with Per Lindmalm and his flock of 80 Jämtland sheep. For years, Per has been up in the air – literally. Working as a charter pilot he has been constantly away from home, making it darn near impossible to raise a family from 35,000 feet. After a recent job change that now allows him to fly “local” and come home in time for dinner, Per’s new family routine also includes taking care of the sheep. He’s not the first person to say that animals help reduce one’s level of stress; I just sense that for Per that bar is set higher than most.

Ten years ago you couldn’t find a Jämtland sheep. You could find sheep in Jämtland, but not Jämtland sheep. The new ewe on the block is the result of intentional breeding between the Swedish Svea sheep and the Danish merino. The result of this genetic matchmaking is a merino-type looking sheep that has a taste for gravlax and meatballs. It also has a fleece that can be finely spun into yarn or beautifully felted fabric. Per is not about to swap knitting patterns but he understands the importance of the Jämtland’s multipurpose.

“We haven’t been farming for very long, but we wanted an animal that had a good disposition for the children along with profitability,” Per says. “The new mill is right down the road from our farm and it’s important to us to provide something that can be locally processed.”

The new mill is at the forefront of Sweden’s ullFORuM (forum for wool) project sponsored in part by JiLu, the Institute for Rural Development in Jämtland, and the European Regional Development Fund. With a three-year Top: Per Lindmalm outside his farm near Ostersünd. Right: Two very tame reindeer resting-up for a long night on the job.

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. . . we need to have animals back on the land.

There are too many trees now; it used to be the sheep would graze the pastures, but without them, the woods are returning and so are the bears.”

Above: A young child warming his hands at the outdoor Christmas festival.

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budget of EUR 800,000 (U.S. 1M), ullFORuM has purchased a small-scale mill from Belfast Mini Mills with the goal of creating a sustainable, locally based wool industry in Sweden. Sound familiar?

Gunilla Classon, an ambitious Swede who operates at one speed – top speed – manages the project. She can operate a spinning mill, drive a tractor, and engage an audience of international investors, and the only time she sets down her knitting is for just long enough to put both hands on the wheel of her car.

The successful debut of both the Jämtland sheep and ullFORuM is to her great credit as well as to that of her staff, and to farmers like Per. “There are many reasons why this project is so important,” Gunilla says.

“Not only will it help farmers get a profit because the Jämtland breed is valuable for both wool and meat, but we need to have animals back on the land. There are too many trees now; it used to be the sheep would graze the pastures but without them, the woods are returning and so are the bears.”

I soon learn that Sweden has a big bear problem. The number of brown bears has risen so dramatically in the past 20 years that the government has now established an annual hunt to help curb the population. This is discouraging to everyone, including the bear. Fortunately, bear predation is not a problem where Per lives. The bears are still about 50 miles north where they seem quite sated on a diet of berries and reindeer. Apparently foxes and lynx along with the wolverine pose the greatest threat. But to date, the electric fencing has kept the flock safe.

Although the original Swedish breeds did not have the option to be wintered inside, the consistency of the merino fleece coupled with dangerously high levels of snow dictate that Per’s sheep are kept under the roof for most of the season. His barn is a newly built three-sided structure. It keeps out the snow and the rain and minimizes the wind, but I don’t think it’s one degree warmer standing inside than out. Perhaps it is because I don’t have Scandinavian blood that I choose not to linger there, but even Per agrees it’s time for a cup of really hot coffee.

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Once inside, Gunilla, Per, and I discuss some of the challenges ullFORuM has encountered. “Just finding the right cross of sheep breeds was a challenge,” Gunilla says. “Sweden has very strict regulations about importing live animals. A major reason for choosing the Danish Merino is that Denmark is one of the few countries that Sweden will import from. It’s called a ‘Danish’ Merino although its bloodline is from the Cormo Merino imported from Tasmania.

“We wanted to use a native sheep and the Gotland sheep that everyone knows about wouldn’t work. Instead, the Svea sheep, which is a cross between the Swedish Finn sheep and the Texel, a popular meat breed, really made for the best combination. The very first one was born in 2004!”

I find it utterly remarkable that while sitting in the kitchen of an old country farmhouse in Sweden, where a light snow is beginning to fall, I am listening to an airline pilot and a rabid knitter discuss how modern day wool history is being made while just a few miles down the road the annual Christmas festival complete with a pet reindeer celebrates the history that has already been written.

According to Gunilla, ullFORuM has already succeeded at many levels. It has introduced farmers to a new breed of sheep that is expanding their income potential. Large tracts of land are once again being put into profitable use. Fashion designers, fibers artists, and teams of hobby knitters are discovering the beauty of a new local wool. And the acquisition of a minimill has meant more opportunities for rural development as farmers with other sheep breeds bring their clip in for processing. The only other ingredient for establishing a successful wool F industry is plenty of cold weather, and Sweden has more than its fair share of that.

Above: Two women in traditional Swedish clothing at the Christmas festival including a fur coat made from sled dogs.

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Call (800) 767-9638 or go to spinningdaily.com Winter 2011/2012

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LOVE

is in the air

Story and Images by Chris Devaney

T

wo dozen yaks lay drowsy in the meadow, waiting.

They basked in the sweet long days of the summer sun. They lingered gently as afternoon wore into evening. And at night, the moon and the stars enveloped them like a timeless downy comforter. They were tranquil, yet they continued to wait. It was a game, a long and predictable waiting game.

Today, autumn rolled in and with it a whole new bag of anxieties. The wait was over. There was a deep-rooted migration urge (it’s probably primordial) that needed satisfying. Soon, there would be spontaneous stampedes to nowhere, designed to burn off energy, shake up the ground, and herald the arrival of mating season, and guaranteed to worry us all into an early grave.

One fall morning I found myself alone in the meadow with Peanut. I put my arm around him and leisurely we swaggered along together, torsos bumping, falling away, and re-bumping in rhythmic cadence, heading off to somewhere as if we knew where we were going.

“Well, buddy, it’s you and me . . . and what a fine, gorgeous morning it 56

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’tis! Trees ablaze in color, a crisp coolness in the air, coffee’s up, and all of a sudden it’s a sweatshirt morning.

What ’cha say you and I go sit on the porch and swap some tales over a cup of coffee? Doesn’t that sound like fun, Peanut?”

“Ace,” he replied.

“What?”

“Are you deformed? Can’t you smell it? Come on, stretch your neck and lift your lip like this . . .” and he rolled his upper lip in a curl that I thought might just engirdle his forehead. “Roll your eyes back and . . . ahhhh! . . . savor the bouquet.”

It scared me; I thought we had lost his eyes for a moment. His nostrils were foreboding peepholes into his rumen, and his bottom teeth, I observed, could use a brushing.

He definitely looked odd, but obviously Peanut was in heaven so I tried it. About the only thing I experienced was pain in my upper lip when it nearly detached from the thingy that glues it to my upper gum, making my eyes bang straight into my eyebrows.

“I don’t smell anything other than agriculturally potent yak whiz, possibly more hazardous than nuclear waste,

Peanut.”

“Maybe you need to move your nose closer to the fluid,” said Peanut.

“Not a chance, Peanut!”

“Ace.” “Huh?” I asked.

“There’s love in the air, lil’ buddy, and although you possess a great deal of nose, and now, an infinitely more flexible mouth . . . LOVE is all around us, whether you can smell it or not.

Therefore, I am to be called ‘ACE’ during this glorious time. How can you possibly expect me to be the magnificent love machine that I am when you insist on calling me ‘Peanut’ in front of the girls? Makes me sound like I am some sort of silly circus performer balancing a beach ball. Besides, the girls just melt when I tell them their worries are over; ‘ACE’ is here to take care of them.”

Barely stifling a snot-filled burst of laughter, I only wished I had on my reading glasses so I could peer over to the top with a condescending stare.

The one where I tilt my head slightly forward, raise one eyebrow, and assume that unassailably superior attitude reserved for teachers, nuns, or overly spoiled cats.

Every fall the precious tranquility of the Yak Outback vanishes. Mating season arrives and Peanut is ablaze with his own brand of bovine seduction.

“Let ’em melt, Aaahhhcccccce,” I said slowly, drawing out the “a” so that it no longer rhymed with “face” but was more like “lass.”

WHOMP! “Gaaaad, Peanut . . . I mean Ace. Knock it off ! It was only this morning that both my eyes were able to point in the same direction again!”

“Ace!” he repeated.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah . . . whatever you say, Ace, whatever you say.”

Yes indeed, the mating season has its own features, a time peculiar unto itself and troublesome as all get out.

Just then, Ace got a bead on Mossy down by the fence; she had five juvenile males tending her.

“Look at her,” he whispered. “She can’t take her eyes off of me. She needs me like lungs need air. I think I’ll go over and ease her burden. That sweet peach Mossy . . . I think I’ll just allemande her into the middle of next week.”

“You don’t want to do that, Ace,” said I, as if I had experience in the matter. Not with Moss-a-lini. “She’ll cut you to ribbons . . . don’t do it, Ace. Besides, there are five not too small wannabe yak bulls out there who just

might kick the crap out of you.”

Without further discussion, Ace swaggered off toward Mossy and I was instantly reminded of a former coworker, Poor Choosin’ Chas. By all accounts he was the most miserable guy and I had the unfortunate experience of sharing both a cubicle and lab space with him. Poor Choosin’ Chas (his real name was Charley or Chucky, but it showed up in the phone book as Chas) had the tragic ability to always, and I mean always, make the wrong decision, take the wrong path, open the wrong door. Here was a guy who had a 4-foot autographed poster of Miss Penitentiary hung on the wall of our shared cubicle that was inscribed with “See you in ’02 when I get out.”

Without a doubt, it dwarfed the 5-by-7 photos of my heartthrob, Crazy Frances. Maybe Frances was a little crazy but at least I didn’t have to wait for her to be paroled so we could be together.

Poor Choosin’ Chas was destined to a life wrought with bad decisions and I was afraid that Peanut . . . er, Ace . . . was headed in the same direction.

From a modest distance I watched

I put my arm around him and leisurely we swaggered along together, torsos bumping, falling away, and re-bumping, heading off to somewhere as if we knew where we were going.

Above: A few of the yaks are gently lingering in the last few rays of summer. In the background is the new yak addition, which adjoins directly to the house.

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Ace parade toward Mossy. His gait was arrogant, with his activates the vomeronasal organ. This is a highly sensitive head bobbing from side to side in sync with his flopping piece of bovine equipment that allows for an ultrafine disbelly hair dancing east and west as if he were sweeping the tinction among smells, especially pheromones, those hot trail. Halfway out he stopped and slammed his head down to little molecules that signify something interesting is up. It the ground, jamming his horns into what looked like dried is a well-developed chemical communication between the mud, but in all likelihood it was a vile smelling alternative animals that is privy, alas, only to them. Although there that just so happened to share the same color. He lifted up is some data to indicate humans have a relic, albeit poorclods of the “stuff ’ and ly developed, chemical He propped his massive head over her back and tossed it up and over communication ability his back while making then licked her neck in various places, spending so as well. I saw Ace deliver deep-chested coughing one more quick lick on much time on it I thought he might run out of spit. sounds that normally the neck before he and would have brought me Mossy disappeared berunning with a large vile of penicillin. Then he lay down, hind the knoll for reasons I didn’t want to know. rolled halfway over in the ooze and muck, and then rolled “She’s not ready yet,” said Ace when he and I met up back. And then he rolled halfway over again . . . and then again later in the day, “but it’ll be tonight for sure. I’m letrolled back, creating a cloud of lung-menacing particulate ting the foreplay crew (the multitude of juvenile males) get above his magnificence. When his expansive girth finally her ready. Make sure you have the door to the new addition came to rest I could see great clots of earthy bric-a-brac open for us. OK? We don’t want to be disturbed. And puhhstuck to his body and face. He got up, turned his now-dis- lleeeease, none of your crazy music, if you don’t mind!” gustingly filthy head back to me, and raised his eyebrow as “Yes, of course Ace,” said I feeling slightly affronted by if to say, “Cologne. Drives ’em insane!” I noted that it had a his reference to my taste in music and subsequently recallsimilar effect on me. And then he said, “Watch this . . .” ing last year’s tumultuous moon howl at 2 a.m. The vibratGawd, I shudder when he says that. Weren’t they Evel ing walls, the infernal buzzing sounds, the bedlam of snorts, Knievel’s last words? moans, and groans extending non-uniformly throughout In a matter of seconds he cleared out Mossy’s attentive the dark hours until the sun came up . . . I think it is the swains and then came abreast of her. He propped his mas- non-uniformity of it all that actually drives a person insane. sive head over her back and then licked her neck in vari- All of my framed pictures that once adorned the wall were ous places, spending so much time on it I thought he might either downed or rendered seriously askew; the pantry lost run out of spit. He then appeared to whisper something in its contents like a sick puppy, spewing out cans and jars that her ear, although it could have just been an erotic tongue careened across the floor and ricocheted off woodstoves, waggle. Then he rendered a few dance steps reminiscent of walls, and dogs. Understandably, the dogs were so riddled a child throwing a tantrum, made a buzzing sound or two, with angst they didn’t know if they should attack or bolt and finally he and Mossy sauntered off together toward the through the window. far fence for some time alone.

No sirree, I wasn’t looking forward to this; I pitied the I saw him do the upper lip thing again, which actually night. There would be hell to pay for building the yak addition onto the house. But I pitied my sweetpeached Mossy, too.

That evening, I helped Ace remove the foreplay crew from the addition so he and his partner could be alone. Standing outside, I manned the sliding door while Ace “cleaned out the bar.” I’d heard the ruckus inside and timed the opening of the sliding door to allow the booted out juvenile to either walk out on his own, thus preserving some sense of dignity, or be evicted airborne. After each one hit the ground, I’d close the door and wait for the next ejectee, timing the door re-opening so there would be no additional headaches or cracked boards. Twelve minutes! My goodness; a Left: Peanut frequently borrows Chris’ hat, which was made by a friend out of felted yak hair. Peanut thinks the custom chapeau makes him the most dapper yak in the pack.

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new record for the eager guy.

That night, it was relatively quiet at first with a few muted grunts, soft stomping, and Ace’s whispered promises that I knew were filled with the substance of a doughnut hole even if Mossy didn’t. But the fervor soon quickened and sometime well past the world’s bedtime, Ace’s well-honed poisoned dart of flattery penetrated the heart of Mossy and the walls began to worry. The mutual ensanguine was on. Ace was bigger this year; the walls and floors knew it. Good thing I never righted the pictures from last year; they just might right themselves.

But they didn’t. And half past sometime with the sun not quite ready to curl through a tree-lined horizon, the ruckus stopped. Peace arrived like the hushed wings of angels over an insane asylum, and the dogs, the loveable Sisters of No Mercy, once again fell boneless in the exact center of my bed after a frightfully long night.

That morning, Ace left the barn with happy eyes.

He looked like he had pulled another one of those allnighters with his Army buddies out at the Busted Zipper Saloon. And then Mossy emerged and looked into my eyes with her half understanding/half challenging trance of womanhood that said: “Don’t even ask.” And so I didn’t.

A few days later, with the deed done and forgotten, Ace and I shared the early morning sun reposing on the yak porch, I with my coffee, and Ace with a mouthful of already chewed hay. I found myself trying to come to grips with why I felt troubled when a recent visitor to the ranch called it “a delightful little hobby farm.”

“Why so solemn and glum, lil’ buddy? Wanna chat?” said Ace’s big, warm, happy eyes. “Come on, get it off your chest, unbosom yourself . . . that’s what I’m here for.”

Partly to shift the subject to a lighter topic, I figured we should just reminisce about some old times spent together instead of unbosoming my woes on him. It would be easier for all. Peanut’s philosophy is most unfathomable before at least a double-shot of coffee.

So, while watching Ace’s jaw move up and down and then side-to-side in a rhythmic grinding pattern that only a contented bull could have, I said, “Heh, heh, heh. Remember that time I tied you to a tree out beyond the pass to keep you from following the girls on one of their daytime romps to the neighbor’s yard?”

“Indeed, I do,” he replied. “I most vividly recall your ashen face when you had roped up the girls and were muscling them home only to pass me dragging the very same tree, now uprooted, heading the opposite way across the street to visit neighbors too. I must

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admit, you displayed a tenacity way beyond expectancy from a double-legger. You actually came back after me once the girls were nestled away. You even released the tree and dragged it home with that infernal tractor.”

I rolled the word “tenacity” around in my mind for a spell. It had an undefined bearing on my life; I could just feel it. I leaned back and rested my head in the warm, blanket-smelling soft spot that exists between Peanut’s massive head and hump, then took another gulp of coffee. “Remember when I stretched a bungee cord across your horns and hung my underwear and socks on it with clothespins so you could do a spin dry?”

Ace burped up another breakfast sandwich and began chewing again, which in turn manipulated my head up and down, all the while severely challenging the coffee to remain in the cup. His thoughts entered mine and I was reminded that he sought out and then uprooted some burdock and thistle plants, and although the laundry remained affixed between his horns, my underpinnings to this very day are a cautious thrill to wear. You just never know when or where the Canadian thistle tingle will materialize.

“Why, I recall that time I stranded you on the roof by knocking over the ladder,” said Ace. “I was delighted at your remarkable control in rescuing yourself, notwithstanding, of course, that the air was filled with hellish oaths for an hour or so. I’m convinced that given your ability to adapt and with a little tutoring, we could make a good yak out of you yet. Of course, you are living your life your way.” And with that said, he abruptly stood up, knocking my coffee from here to Java.

At that very moment, young Powder Keg, the youngest yak of all, bounced over to us wide eyed, tail erect, and fully armed for fun. He stopped and looked up at me as if I had something to say. So, not to disappoint him, I thought about what I should say. And like a bolt of lightning originating from a higher source, the tenacity, the spontaneity, the unconventional problem solving . . . it all hit me between the ears what Ace was trying to tell me.

This really isn’t a hobby farm at all . . . it’s a way of life. And once again, I was answered. I could move on and await the next crises comfortably.

Said I to Powder Keg, “Lil’ buddy,” I said, mimicking Ace. “Years from now, when you acquire the body angle of age like I have, I hope that you have at least one wise old friend like Peanut.” I smiled toward Peanut and gave him our special nod.

“ACE!” said Peanut.

“Excuse me . . . one old friend like Aaaaa-sssss.”

WHOMP! And once again I could view the entire yard with its breathtaking foliage without having to bother to turn my head.

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315 St. Clair, Frankfort KY 40601

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Winter 2011/2012

63

Rise and Shine

By Linda N. Cortright

I

Colca Canyon, Peru

have never made a secret of the fact that I am not an early riser. Those wonderful golden hues that warm the early dawn hours are best appreciated from the comfort of my bed with eyes closed. Indeed, there are occasions, quite a few in fact, when I am forced to greet merry sunshine long before my feet would otherwise hit the floor; for example, when I have to catch a plane at 6 a.m.

During my visit to Peru I had the opportunity to spend one night in Colca Canyon. There was no wild fiber agenda; it was purely a brief rubber necking adventure through more ridiculously beautiful landscape. Therefore, when my dinner companions mentioned that we should get up “early” the next morning and go see the condors, I leaned in a little closer to the table and asked, “What’s early?”

“Well, it takes about an hour to drive to the lookout, so we should probably be in the car no later than 6 a.m.,” one of them replied.

To be fair, I have been blessed with going on several African safaris, which command a wakeup call at 5 a.m. Typically, the guide comes and knocks on your tent, although I think “knocking” is not exactly what you do on a tent. But if he is a very good guide, who wants a very good tip, he will bring you your coffee when he comes calling.

I looked around the table and sensed no one was going to be providing me room service in the morning.

“Do you really think we’ll see one?” I asked, which was code for saying, “If you can’t guarantee me the bird, I’m sleeping 64

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in.” Of course the answer was the same as it is everywhere there is wildlife: “Well, we should – but you never know.”

At 6 a.m. I was sitting in the car and the best way for me to be cheerful was to simply keep quiet. It had been raining hard all night but the fog was beginning to lift and certainly by the time we got to the lookout everything would be clear.

I confess that because I am a fiber person, and not a bird person, there are lots of things about birds I don’t know. For example, the great early morning rush to see the condors was driven by the fact that the birds come flying out of the canyon during a very specific timeframe after sunrise.

You can’t set your clock to it, and they don’t always do it, but there is definitely a small window of maximum viewing opportunity and then it’s gone.

Not 10 minutes into our trip we encountered a mini landslide, no doubt the result of the previous night’s rainfall.

These were not rocks in the road; these were boulders, and there was simply no way to drive around them. The men got out of the car to survey the situation as only men can do in these scenarios and I was nothing short of shocked when three of them hunkered down and leaned right into the boulder to push it out of the way.

They were back in the car and we were on our way again, having lost less than 10 minutes of travel time. Had I been the one behind the wheel I think a U-turn and a trip back to bed would have been my vote.

But I had agreed to be “cheerful” and thus said nothing from the backseat.

I don’t know what I expected from the condor lookout, but it was definitely a big

deal! More than a hundred people had also gotten up early to see this fabled bird and just watching everyone jockey into position on the few inches of available cliff space was good entertainment.

Frankly, I was relieved that condors hadn’t already come and gone, but after 20 minutes I began to wonder if they would even show. Finally, there was this great whoop-whoop from a cluster of people perched far away who had spotted one of the condors swooping its way up through the canyon. Everyone began madly pointing in the direction of the bird but I suspected that what I saw was just a large candy wrapper floating in the wind.

Eventually the wrapper did evolve into a bird and I caught a fleeting glimpse, just long enough to be able to say, “Oh yes, I’ve seen a condor,” and leave it at that.

Some of the onlookers were enthralled, while others, including me, were feeling it was a bit anticlimactic. The crowd soon dispersed and the men went to get the car while I snapped a few pictures of the women selling alpaca souvenirs and colorful trinkets.

Admittedly, I was awake at this point and glad I had made the decision to come, but it was not as exciting as seeing my first elephant from only 30 feet away. Then, as if my very thoughts were plucked up by the heavens, a giant condor emerged from nowhere and flew right above my head – and then back again. Its wingspan was so massive it might as well have been an elephant in the sky and I have vowed that I will never, ever again grumble about getting up early – that is until the next time.

wF