Wild Fibers 5th Anniversary Issue

Fifth Anniversary Issue

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Wild Fibers Magazine

ild Fibers Magazine

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Torie Olson

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Fifth Anniversary Issue

Linda Cortright

Kathie Miller

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Features

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Tying the Knot

Join Torie Olson in Sidi Mokhtar for an intriguing weaving workshop and other ways of “tying the knot” in Morocco.

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The UN’s Wild and Woolly Side

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On The Lam In Paradise

The United Nations officially launched the International Year of Natural Fibers in Rome, Italy. But what does that mean?

In the shadow of New Zealand’s Mt. Hutt, four wayward woollies are captured in a high-speed chase at Winterslow Station.

38 This Old Hippie

Barry Schacht, co-founder of Schacht Spindle Co. looks back at the company’s unusual evolution during the back-to-the-land movement, from living in his van to nursing the baby “Jesus,” and creating drop spindles out of doorknobs.

42 Eviction At Sea

More than eighty years ago a tiny island at the edge of the North Atlantic was evacuated by the Scottish government. What remains today is a rare breed of sheep—the Soay, who roam its deserted shores unaware of their importance in cultural and animal history.

50 Forgotten!

Margaret B. Russell looks at the community effort it required to process wool on Hirta along with the the history of the different breeds of sheep who have traveled there.

Cover: Paul Cornelius helps wrap-up the newly captured sheep before they are taken by helicopter back to the main camp. Photo by Linda Cortright.

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Editorial Pattern Passion Mill Guide

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Animal Guide Farm Guide Wild Tales Fifth Anniversary Issue

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ILD FIBERS w Help Keep

the Fleece!

Join our natural fiber club.

5th Anniversary Issue

Linda N. Cortright Publisher and Editor

Contributing Editors Jared Flood, Torie Olson, Margaret B. Russell Photography Don Moore Ad Design Elizabeth Nelson Advertising Sales Hugh Nesbit Copyeditor and Proofreader Sheila Polson Circulation Suzanne Lacasse Assistant Extraordinaire Penelope Olson

Carolina Homespun 800-450-SPUN (7786) carolinahomespun.com

Spin for Peace and Equality

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Subscription rates are $28/yr. for four issues in the U.S. and its possessions, $40/yr. Canada, $56/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, 2009. 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 6, Volume 1). Periodicals 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.

A Wild Fiber Frolic Iceland Alaska

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Kazakhstan Italy

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New Zealand Falklands

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Five years, twenty-seven countries, and a half-million miles.

Who would ever have imagined?

ast year at this time Wild Fibers was starting its fifth year in business and I (wrongly) assumed that meant we were celebrating our fifth anniversary. Fortunately, before I blew the budget purchasing noisemakers, party hats and cheap champagne, I was informed that the fifth anniversary actually isn’t celebrated until year five is complete— so much for that party dress. But now it is official: Wild Fibers was launched in January 2004 with a press run of 1,500 magazines and 207 subscribers, and five years later we have added a few more.

Because of the celebratory nature of this occasion I suppose I should say something brilliant and inspirational, yet I am feeling neither. In fact the most important thing I need to say is “thank you.” Wild Fibers would have quietly died after that first issue if people like you (yes you!) had not bought a copy from your local yarn shop, ordered a subscription, or really gone out on a limb and placed an ad. It was not all 6

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that long ago, or so it seems, that I was writing a thank-you note to every new subscriber, and believe me when I tell you I meant every word of it.

If I had gone to a fortuneteller five years ago and they had stared into that magical crystal ball, the first thing I can tell you is that it probably would have been the Wicked Witch of the West doing the forecasting. I can hear her now saying, “I see typos—lots and lots of typos. I see lost luggage, a large duffle bag from Rome never to be seen again. And what’s this? I see you being chased by a herd of buffalo.” Not the type of fortune that would make one dash out and start a magazine.

If I had perhaps gone to a fortuneteller of a different kind, however, they might have said, “I see subscribers— thousands and thousands of subscribers from all around the world. I see you traveling to the High Himalayas and the deserts of Kazakhstan. And what’s this? I see you at the United Nations in Rome where they are celebrating natural fibers for an entire year. But wait, I

don’t see your luggage.”

In truth I did not go to a fortuneteller, yet the two imaginary ones would both have been right. The past five years have been so far beyond anything I could ever have begun to imagine that I must curb my unbounded disbelief and just say “thank you.” But I also know that the success of Wild Fibers is by no means a solo performance.

Our “world headquarters” as we affectionately like to refer to our three-room office in Midcoast Maine is staffed by the most wondrous of assistants: Suzanne Lacasse, who I know would find lion taming infinitely easier than trying to manage my less than exemplary work habits, deserves not only great praise, but my profound gratitude as well. I admit I am one of those people who can lose a piece of paper somewhere on my desktop and then pitifully ask her to come into my office and “please find it,” and she hasn’t missed yet. I am equally blessed to have had Penelope Olson dropped into my life. She has not only been the soul of

the UN’s celebration of natural fibers fiber production to farmers around I have started Keep the Fleece, which the world. (Didn’t somebody else think has taken on the somewhat daunting that was a good idea?) I find myself (alchallenge of raising 250K over the next most) speechless that the world is starttwelve months to build the largest “fiing to realize the true importance that ber flock” in the world through Heifer “wild” fibers play in our day-to-day International. It is my goal that Keep lives. Not just to those of us who have a the Fleece can take all of the goodwill passion for the animals themselves, or and interest generated from these pages the variety of fiber arts that we engage and in turn “give back” to those people in, but also to producers throughout who so richly deserve to live a life free the globe, from the nomads in Ladakh to the weavers in Cusco. The world of of poverty and starvation, and what natural fibers should be celebrated and better way than to do it with fiber. they should all be celebrated together.

Which brings me to my final point. We have all heard the saying “What goes around comes around.” It is a saying that is apt for a variety of scenarios both good and bad. So when I tell you that this issue launches a nonprofit organization I have started Faster than a Ferris wheel, more fun than a roller coaster, and definitely for the natural fiber in- better than the lines for Magic Mountain; my great thanks to Blair Chapman at Mt. Hutt Helicopters for the ride of a lifetime. dustry, let me also add, “What goes around comes around.”

Please know there are so many Initially when I started Wild Fiways to get involved with Keep the bers I wanted to create a nonprofit so Fleece, from helping to create the lonas not to become mired with advergest scarf in the world, to participattisers. Trust me when I say that as an ing in Wool Day on April 25. And by editor first, and a publisher second, my all means attend International Day at eye is always on the story line. Before I this year’s New York Sheep and Wool went too far down that path, however, Festival on October 16 for a guaranteed someone informed me that if my desire once in a lifetime experience. You can was truly to help promote all aspects get all the details at www.keepthefleece. of the natural fiber industry, then my org. publication would be a valuable service I guess if I have one bit of inspirato small scale producers. Hmmm … I tion to pass on it is simply this: we exhad never thought of it that way and in ist for you, and because of you, and so fact, they were right. There are many again I say—“thank you.” advertisers on these pages who would otherwise be lone voices in the distance if Wild Fibers didn’t have a special place for those who truly have a passion for Linda Cortright this industry. So in conjunction with Publisher and Editor

Michael O’Neill

dedication (I think she has a sign hidden somewhere that says “will work for cashmere”), but has also provided a level of customer service that keeps our complaint folder empty. And I would be totally remiss if I did not thank Don Moore, who from the beginning when I dragged him on the first wild adventure to the Orkney Islands in Scotland has provided Wild Fibers with what we are truly known best for—our fabulous photographs. Don and I have traveled to many strange and wonderful places together and for those of you who have casually offered to carry my bags over the years I suggest you check in with Don first; the reality is far less inviting.

And so once again, I say “thank you.”

And before I wax ad nauseum about the wonderful people who have helped make Wild Fibers possible, I should get to the task at hand, which is this issue’s editorial. I can promise you that not even the greatest clairvoyant in the world could have predicted that two days before Christmas I would have received an e-mail inviting me down to New Zealand to participate in a rare and wild rescue in the Alps.

Really. And that I would need to leave right after the holiday if I wanted to participate. I somehow justified the last-minute plane ticket as a Christmas present to myself, but what I should really confess is that I never, ever … ever imagined I would be in a helicopter chasing after a band of “lost” sheep halfway around the world and that the opportunity would arise directly as the result of the kindness of a dear friend I made when I visited New Zealand two years ago, David Wightman.

Equally on the list of things to amuse and astound, however, is that this issue kicks off a year-long feature based on the United Nations declaring 2009 the International Year of Natural Fibres, which seeks to promote the importance and sustainability of natural

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Tying the KNOT Spain

Ensconced in the steamy Haouz Plains of Morocco with a group of infidels and coquettish young Muslim women, Torie Olson soon learns her weaving workshop offers much more than just instruction on tying the knot.

Fes Casablanca

Sidi Mokhtar

Essaouira

Marrakech

Haouz Plains

Algeria

Western Sahara

Story and Photos by Torie Olson

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e pull up in front of a long wall made of the same pink rock that heaves out of every inch of Morocco’s Haouz Plains. Mohamed, our guide, honks in front of a metal gate. It is ornamented with a large diamond, symbol of the magic eye and credited with the power to repel evil.

We may be considered repellant by some in Sidi Mokhtar, this dusty town where we have come to study weaving; for we are four strangers from England and the United States. To make matters worse, we are infidels (nonMuslims), female and unveiled.

But the widow Zineb has no problem with that. Salaam Aleikum! “Peace be with you!” she says, kissing us on both cheeks and bidding us to enter the closed world of Bou Sbaa women.

Ait Bou Sbaa or “People of the Seven Brothers” were originally Arab nomads from the Sahara who migrated north several centuries ago. The seven siblings settled in seven different locales and the brother named Sidi Mokhtar stopped here, halfway between Marrakech and the Atlantic Coast, trading a hundred camels for enough land to sustain his family and animals. Today, his tribal descendants continue to make their living with wool. Zineb is a celebrated area weaver, and her three protégées, including her adopt-

ed daughter, Khadija, and her neighbors’ daughters, Rabha and Hasna, are employed by a rug making workshop from which they have taken leave to teach us their craft.

Our twenty-something tutors are in hijab. Here, that means that all but their faces and hands are covered. I had thought they would all be wearing traditional Saharan robes, but the younger women are wearing headscarves and bathrobes. Evidently, this is the new streetwear in Sidi Mokhtar.

Left: Zineb wearing a traditional black head scarf. Above: Kasna in a dazzling haik. Khadija momentarily unveiled while men are safely out of sight. Rabha in a traditional head scarf and caftan.

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Behind the pink wall, we find a simple, one-story house, white washed and wreathed in fuchsia bougainvillea. Bordering two sunlit courtyards are a kitchen with gas stove and refrigerator, an immaculate bathroom featuring a hole and two footprints, and several salons lined with divans. As we await tea, the Bou Sbaa smile at us.

With no common language, we smile back.

Having little schooling, they speak no French or English. “Most girls learn the skills they need at home,” Mohamed explains. “A father wants his daughters next to him, before his eyes, safe.”

In much of village Morocco, the study of weaving is the gist of a girl’s education. Unable to attend school for social or economic reasons, she learns the fundamentals through fibers. When female elders teach her to spin, she understands something about physics. They teach her to dye and she gets a bit of chemistry. They show her how to count threads and create geometric patterns and she picks up some math. They divulge the meaning of tribal symbols, and she masters a second language.

Often, her hands-on training ends with the making of a wedding cloak. After weaving, she will decorate it with a thousand and one sequins to ward off the djinn or evil

spirits, for they are especially jealous of brides. And one day soon after, she will wrap herself up in her shimmering shawl and ride a white horse to the home of her groom.

Sound like a fairy tale?

Our translator leaves to take a call. We refer to a supplied list of Arabic pleasantries and mispronounce them all. Our hostesses hoot with laughter. We hoot back. I suspect these contagious giggles will become our common language.

Khadija unwraps a large cone of beet sugar, breaks off a big hunk, and crams it into a teapot along with a small amount of black leaves, several sprigs of mint and boiling water. After steeping, she lifts the silver pot above her head, pouring the amber liquid into a tiny glass on a low table.

Without spilling a drop, the tea goes back and forth between glass and pot until it is well-aerated and its color is satisfactory. Only then does Khadija serve the first of three obligatory rounds.

With alcohol forbidden, sugar is Morocco’s main stimulant and tea is an excuse for consuming huge quantities of it. Referred to as Berber whisky, it is served several times a day. After my first sip, I realize that six weeks in Morocco could empty my mouth of teeth. To exacerbate the situation, one of the other weaving students passes out candies wrapped in fortune papers. Hasna’s fortune reads, “You will be swept away by love.” We prevail upon Mohamed to translate this good news, but he refuses; it is improper to say such a thing to an unmarried woman.

We return to the car, fueled by a small mountain of sugar. Mohamed cruises through town, past hundreds Above left: En route to Sidi Mokhtar the local goats enjoy their morning snack from the branches of an argan tree while the sheep prefer to do their grazing roadside. Left: A fishmonger patiently sits in Essaouira Harbor. Opposite: Tall ramparts surround the town of Essaouira.

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of men (also covered by robes called djellabas) loitering, gossiping and drinking tea under the pink arcades.

“The only work here is weaving.

Men’s work is thinking and watching the women work,” Mohamed jokes.

We continue on to Essaouira, the coastal town where we are to sleep, quizzing him on many Moroccan subjects. The etiquette of women’s dress is particularly confusing. Apparently, there’s a sliding scale of modesty, based on one’s interpretation of the Quran. “All it actually says is that a woman should not call attention to herself,” Mohamed explains. “Now Torie’s red shirt—some people might consider that forbidden.” Time to buy a bathrobe, I think.

Essaouira’s industry is fishing, not fiber, and the harbor, the cobbled streets, and the quaint cafes are full of stray cats. I’m extra sweet so fleas leap from cats to me. I cake myself with calamine and crawl under a saffron-colored bedspread embellished with sequins. I am told it was once a wedding cloak.

Warping In the lemon-colored light of morning, we commute back to Sidi Mokhtar—a seventy-five mile stretch of argan orchards. Some of these native trees embrace small white goats in their gnarly branches. They’re after the tasty argan nuts, which also make a delicious salad oil and an expensive anti-wrinkle cream. Attending the herds are men

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who look like wizards with the pointy hoods of their robes pulled up to protect against the chill of the early hour.

We stop at the carpenter’s shop to pick up looms that have been made especially for us. They are 2-by-3-foot rectangular frames, constructed of rough pine and studded with nails. They are a smaller, portable version of the traditional upright loom used by the women here. In tribal Morocco, the loom defines a woman’s world. The top horizontal bar represents the sky, the bottom bar symbolizes

By Moroccan standards, I am a workaholic. When I voice my desire to finish soon, the response is Insha’Allah or God willing. But apparently, God isn’t willing. He wants me in the kitchen.

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the land and the two vertical pieces are added to create equilibrium. “If the sides are not equal, the carpet edges will not be straight,” the carpenter explains. “Life is the same. Our view is that one must find balance in life.”

With our new looms in hand, we step through the diamond door into Zineb’s garden, a lush sprawl of citrus trees, spice plants and enough mint for tea until the end of time. It’s obvious that Mohamed has voiced my disappointment over the “Saharan” robes because today, the women are decked out in satin caftans embroidered at the seams and closed with tiny covered buttons. Khadija is wearing gold brocade and more pearls than Barbara Bush. Rabha is in pink, with a spangled scarf so skintight her cheeks puff out like a chipmunk’s. Zineb’s lacy, black headgear resembles recycled lingerie. Hasna is in sky blue and there is something glittering on her finger. Already swept away by love! I marvel. She giggles shyly and tells us she’s engaged.

Although impatient to get to work, we are required to eat a second breakfast, which consists of angel-light pancakes spread with marmalade, hard-boiled eggs dipped in cumin and salt, figs and almonds, olives in three colors, and of course, three rounds of Berber whisky. Thus sugared up, I rocket off the divan and make my way to the garden where my loom rests against the shrubbery. Rabha motions for me to sit on a sheepskin while she demonstrates the way to warp. Most of what she does is lightning fast and hidden behind her hands. I cannot ask her questions because our translator is on the phone again. I look up the Arabic word for please, say it repeatedly, and get no

results. Oblivious, Rabha warps on and I learn zero.

This is not a teaching style that works for me. I am frustrated enough to forget about cultural sensitivity. I wrestle my loom back and Rabha stalks off to shanghai someone else’s. I examine her work and attempt to continue in-kind.

The wood is unfinished, the nails are crooked, the thread is coarse. Laboriously, I wind and wind. For some reason, it’s easier to do this lying down, and Mohamed comments, “That’s the pasha way.”

By Moroccan standards, I am a workaholic. When I voice my desire to finish soon, the response is Insha’Allah or God willing. But apparently, God isn’t willing. He wants me in the kitchen. Knowing my interest in cooking, I am summoned to watch Zineb prepare the Friday couscous.

To make it light and fluffy, she rubs the cooked wheat between her fingers. Next, she decorates pyramids of grain with seven prescribed vegetables, succulent chunks of lamb and a few ladles of saffron-scented broth. In the salon, she heaps my plate, and then picks out a few more of her favorite fava beans to place on top like crown jewels.

Tipped off that this is only the third meal in a five feast day, I refuse seconds. Zineb wags a finger at me; in a country riddled with poverty, voluntarily limiting one’s consumption is just not done.

Full to the point of bursting, I return to my loom. I admire the greening fields that spread to the horizon through the warp strings. Zineb picks some bamboo from her garden and snaps it over her knee to make two rods for a shed. She shows me how to run the sticks in and out of the Above: Khadija cleans raw wool, although most of what weavers use has already been spun but not dyed. Hasna helps author (Torie Olson) work at her loom. Hasna spins with a support spindle. Rabha spreads out an assortment of locally dyed yarn. Right: Rabha demonstrates how to warp a loom.

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warp and lace them to the frame. In anticipation of the next interruption, I work like a demon, although all around me, the Bou Sbaa women clown, sing nonsense songs and giggle. Politely, I giggle back, but I feel the pressure of time and all too soon, we are again adjourning for tea.

In the cool of the house, Zineb lines our eyes with kohl making us look like Cleopatras. This thick mineral substance is used to protect one’s eyes from the sun and to deter flies. It is also intended to remind one of the holy black stone in Mecca, and provide further protection from evil spirits. Thus made up, the djinn stop messing with me and I finish my warp in no time. The Bou Sbaa women mark this accomplishment with a chorus of Hamduli’llah!

Thanks be to God! During our evening commute, I realize that most of what I learned today has less to do with weaving and more to do with mindset. How different I am from my Moroccan teachers! Not only do I have an alternate learning style, work habit and sense of time, I also have a contrary under-

standing of the creative process. For me, it’s been a solitary, focused act. Here, it’s raucous, communal and often interrupted. I give myself a choice: go crazy or go with it.

Before heading back to fishing boats and fleas, we make a stop at a weaving workshop. Hundreds of salonsized rugs are folded and stacked. Some are hung from the ceiling, showcasing the three weaving techniques we are to learn. The most prevalent are knotted rugs. There are also flat or kilim weaves, most decorated with Berber symbols using another technique called broderie. (This may translate as embroidery, but there is no needle involved; instead, the symbols are woven in as the flat weave progresses.)

I am flagging, but I make myself copy the Berbers’ geometric signs into a notebook, hoping to incorporate them into a carpet. Of course, my planning is interrupted. The proprietor, Kasim, spreads a spectacular knotted rug upon the dusty ground. It’s the size of a swimming pool and the color of red poppies. He pats a corner and invites us to sit and join him for more sugary tea. Inwardly, I groan, but sitting on his rug turns out to be a pleasure.

I comb the fiery, three-inch pile with my fingers and find myself surprisingly energized.

Kasim nods knowingly. “We work hard all day and come home tired, but when we sit on a carpet like this, we are restored,” he says.

“That’s because it’s made from the wool of living animals. Our carpets are alive!” I have Above: Dyers’ souk in Sidi Mokhtar where red is invariably a color in great demand. Below: Large skeins are tied together with colored rafia before being placed in the dyepot. As a fresh batch of yarn sits drying in the sun, a new load of yarn arrives by donkey cart. Opposite: Inside the dyer’s souk, steam hangs in the air that is already uncomfortably warm.

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I wonder aloud what my weaving should say. The resto agree. I may be high on rug, but I still have enough sense taurateur wags a finger. “When a weaver begins, she never to realize it’s an orange shag rug and manage to leave withhas a plan. Her design grows from intuition and imaginaout making a purchase. Yet again high on sugar, I want to tion. A carpet is a woman’s sacred garden.” run all the way back to the sea.

At dinner, the choice is meat served with more sweet: beef with dates, lamb with Choosing Colors “We work hard all day and come prunes, rabbit with figs or I return to Zineb’s house the chicken with apricots. Again, next day with a new attitude. I home tired, but when we sit on a it’s clear why the itinerant teeth am not annoyed that I have to carpet like this, we are restored,” he choose colors without a depullers do so well in Morocco. I says. “That’s because it’s made from sign. I make nice to Rabha who admire Berber weavings on the restaurant walls and the owner dumps a huge feed sack loaded the wool of living animals. turns out to be a font of textile with yarn onto the ground. We Our carpets are alive!” wisdom. scramble around on our hands “In our culture,” he begins, and knees, untangling strands “it wasn’t traditional for women to read and write, so they in a hundred different hues. Intuitively, I choose an orange communicated through weaving. That’s why we call them for the citrus bower that surrounds me. I hunt for a green ‘carpet scribes.’ Their rugs contain magic charms, inventhat matches the mint in my tea. I choose the deep purple tory their lives, and trace their many migrations. Triangles of the Atlas Mountains. I want a pink, too, but don’t see the show how many camels or tents they had. Zigzag borders right shade, so I pick a rock off the ground and send that describe the road, for nomads never know whether life will to the dyers’ souk to have the color matched. take them left or right.... If you can read the signs, our carAmid this riot of color, Hasna is striking in a black and pets can tell you stories.” white caftan. Even in an outfit that’s little more than a big

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bag and a do-rag, she manages to look coquettish. With a shy smile, she draws a small photo from her sleeve. I am relieved to see her fiancé is not an old man. But his ears do stick out and his expression is quite severe. I make an effort not to project my preconceptions, but I begin to worry for this sweet, young girl.

When Zineb is not around, Khadija does us the honor of unveiling. With hair, she is stunning. Rabha is also cajoled into taking off her scarf, but almost immediately her lustrous, long tresses go back under cover, and I wonder if what I think I saw was really just a (hair) mirage. As impervious as a diver’s mask, Hasna’s head scarf is never removed. Whether out in the garden or in the house, among men or alone with women, she reveals nothing more than her big dark eyes, Frida Kahlo brows and sweet smile. It is hard to fathom how one wisp of hair can drive a man to distraction, but we are foreigners and infidels, and the gulf is wide.

Before prayer call, we travel to the dyers’ souk to pick up our wool. The shop is owned by two brothers who are only in Sidi Mokhtar on Wednesdays and Saturdays. The rest of the week, these itinerant tradesmen toil in other villages. Customers arrive by donkey with full panniers or loaded carts. They set their skeins on brass scales and pay by the kilo.

Traditionally, pomegranates and dried figs are used to make black. Seashells are gathered for purple. Tea, poppies, cinnamon, eucalyptus and henna make reds and browns.

Yellows and oranges are derived from saffron and almond leaves. The indigo plant colors the robes of Morocco’s Blue Men, so-called because the dye stains their skin.

Although the brothers’ atmospheric shop appears medieval, 5:19 the chemical out-gassing makes my eyes sting. Sadly, 1/5/09 PM Page 1 synthetic dyes are now cheaper than plants and minerals.

Steam and smoke further occlude my vision. Through the vapors, I make out log fires raging under large stone vats and dye bubbling up from basins like eruptions of lava. Red is the color of the hour. Workers wear no protective suits, no goggles, no gloves. Their hands are bright with color.

One man wields a long sapling with which he submerges and removes the wool. Another loads the fresh-dyed skeins into a wheelbarrow and then hangs them on hooks to cool before trundling them outside. Through the back door, I see a river of red wool already drying in the sun.

Flat or Kilim Weave The weaving begins. Again, we choose to work al fresco, enchanted by the perfume of Zineb’s blossoming trees

and the melodious bird and prayer calls. My upright loom frames the hazy sky, the violet mountains, and the grain fields that begin at my feet and run all the way to the horizon.

It is through this window that I see Morocco and I imagine recreating the view in wool.

I start with a plain flat weave as is the tradition among the weavers of the Haouz Plains. This is the weave found in kilims all over the Arab world. As I have been taught, I insert a weft thread and pull it across the loom. This gives me a horizon line between sky and land. With my index finger, I push the weft down to the previous row at five separate points. Now the line is curvy, following the contours of the purple mountains. With The itinerant tooth-puller/denture seller does a brisk business in a land where sugar is ingested a heavy iron comb, I beat the peaks back to at nearly a higher rate than most people breathe air. flatland, packing the most recent weft against pink, the color of the stony fields, shepherds’ huts, sheep the last. I pull the end back the other way, corrals and the garden walls that enclose us. I fly along make four hills between heaven and earth, and pick up the with my flat weave, stopping occasionally to admire my old beater again. And so it goes, accompanied by bursts work. I am proud of my edges; they are straight and even. of laughter, cooing doves and distant calls of Allah Akbar!

Zineb “oohs “and “aahs” over my colors. Then she takes God is great! Coming from the mosque. I lay down a half a closer look, exclaiming, “La! La! La! La!!” She is not singinch of mint, then a stripe of clementine, then a band of ing. She is saying, “No! No! No! No!” She confiscates my

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huge quantities of it. Referred to as Berber whisky, it is served several times a day. After my first sip, I realize that six weeks in Morocco could empty my mouth of teeth. loom and attacks my beautiful three inches. She picks out all I have done. I glare and she lets out a loud, long laugh as rude as a fart.

It seems I’ve forgotten all about the shed. I did not change it once. Zineb pats my shoulder and demonstrates again how to use the two wavy sticks to shift the warp threads after each row. “Hakak, hakak,” she clucks like a mother hen. “Like this.”

She goes back to her kitchen and Rabha returns to my side to watch me like a hawk. Pointing in the direction I want my weft to go, I push my left palm against the warp Fifth Anniversary Issue 17

and pull the weft through with my right hand. I change the shed and slip my right hand between the front and back strings, pulling the weft through with my left hand. Turns out you need a sense of direction for weaving.

Born without the navigational gene, I get turned around often. If I am alone in a foreign city, I can walk in circles for hours, but my mistakes are immediately apparent on the loom. I mutter unholy things in a language the Bou Sbaa can’t understand. Again and again, I undo and redo.

Fit to be tied, I let go of my loom and Rabha pounces.

She discovers the reason I’m having so much trouble: some of my warp strings are twisted. I want to rewarp, but she shakes her head and insists on solving the problem by tying two strings together, here and there. I stifle my perfectionism. She weaves too many trial rows, all sloppy. I growl. I want neat rows; I want to weave them myself. A tug of war ensues, and again, I triumph. Slowly and methodically, I make my own orderly rows. The rudimentary shed works poorly, no matter how hard I push down or pull up to separate the strings. My cuticles tear, nails break, fingers bleed.

My loom is propped against a bush and topples often. I’m about ready to break it up for kindling and throw it on the fire.

I stifle my perfectionism. She weaves too many trial rows, all sloppy. I growl. I want neat rows; I want to weave them myself. A tug of war ensues, and again, I triumph.

In an attempt to cheer me up, Khadija begins juggling cauliflowers. Then Hasna arrives, smiling sweetly. I have no desire for another minder, but she sits next to me anyway, the toes of one foot demurely covering the toes of the other. Her lovely presence has a calming effect and she has a teaching style that does work for me.

When I make a mistake, she makes a little negative noise, wags a finger and waits for me to fix it. If I screw up again, she points to my eye and then to the loom, directing me to watch her do it the right way. Then she undoes it, and I try Inspired by a combination of the local dyes again. Khadija mimand the splash of colors in the waterseller’s ics my intense expres- hat, Torie finds plenty of inspiration for her sion and Hasna laughs Moroccan weaving adventure. behind her hand. I begin to relax and soon, I am chuckling, too.

Later, we get a fashion show. Hiding everything but her expressive eyes, Hasna shows us how to bundle up in a haik, the large sheet of gaudily printed “Saharan” cloth worn over caftan and headscarf in public. It’s not my taste, but I can see its advantages. Under all that lurid yardage I could still be in my pajamas and no one would know.

As for the headscarf—what could be better on a bad hair day? Khadija ties hers in back like a gypsy. With a twinkle, Zineb demonstrates the balaclava, bank robber style. Hasna shows us the most pious way to tie one on, then stuffs the ends down the front of her caftan and voila! She’s got a great pair of falsies. Obviously, Mohamed is nowhere in sight.

To be continued....

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Wild Fibers Magazine

Fifth Anniversary Issue 19

Celebrate IYNF FAO Photo Library

The International Year of Natural Fibres

The United Nations Goes “Wild and Woolly” in 2009 with the launch of the IYNF

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n December 20, 2006, the United Nations General Assembly officially declared 2009 the International Year of Natural Fibres (IYNF). It was to be a yearlong celebration dedicated to creating awareness and increasing demand for natural fibers throughout the world. The long-term goal of this initiative, however, has more to do with food than fiber.

According to Brian Moir, senior trade economist at the Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO) in Rome and the head of the IYNF, “Our objective is to improve the food income of the poor farmers in the world. We want to see an increase in demand for natural fibers that will result in increased income for the millions of farmers who are involved in the natural fiber industry. It is why this project is under the umbrella of the FAO—helping people to feed themselves is what we do.”

For those who are more likely to equate natural fibers with sweet 20

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fuzzy animals and big balls of yarn, the term “natural fibers” for the purposes of the IYNF also includes plant fibers such as cotton, jute, hemp and sisal. Yet regardless of where your specific interest lies, the truth is that synthetics continue to cannibalize the demand for natural fibers throughout the world ever since they were first introduced into the apparel and automotive industries in the early 1960s.

From his top floor office at the FAO in Rome, which also features a grand view of the Circus Maximus and is in close proximity to the Coliseum, Brian confesses that the founding of the IYNF was somewhat unintentional. “The idea came up at an inter-governmental meeting and I think it was perhaps initially meant as more of a throwaway line. We have had the International Year of the Potato, the International

Year of Rice and the International Year of the Mountains and someone suggested a Year of Natural Fibers. I somewhat picked up on the line and

Discover natural fibres 2 0 0 9

Above: Brian Moir, head of the International Year of Natural Fibres (IYNF), in his office at the FAO, Rome, Italy. Opposite page: Launch of the IYNF at FAO headquarters(l.to r.). Sudripta Roy, Secretary General, International Jute Study Group; Salum Shamte, Managing Director, Katani Ltd.; Nicholas Parsons, Director, FAO Communications Division, Hafex Ghanem, FAO Assistant Director General for Social and Economic Development; Henrik Kuffner, Director General, International Wool Textile Organization.

volume comes from those fibers that do not exceed a few hundred thousand tons, including silk, flax, and sisal along with luxury fibers such as cashmere, alpaca, mohair, silk and yak.

Natural fibers of some description are produced in practically every country in the world. Wool is grown in Australia, New Zealand, Argentina, Bolivia, Turkey, China, Russia and many of the former Soviet Republics to name but a few. The history of wool dates back 8,000 years and is primary in clothing, interior textiles, carpets, curtains, children’s wear, sportswear and handknitting.

Wool is also used for thermal and sound insulation and has the added benefit of being both renewable and eco-friendly.

According to Henrik Kuffner, director of the International Wool Trade Organization (IWTO), wool is grown on more than a half-million farms of all sizes and employs millions of people in a safe and healthy environment.

Although the importance of wool is undeniable, the economic significance of cotton is unparalleled. The International Cotton Advisory Committee (ICAC) reports that cotton is produced in more than 80 countries, and in some such as Benin, Burkina Faso, Chad, Mali and Togo, about half the exports come from cotton. In Central and Western Africa more than 10 million people depend directly on the production and trade of cotton.

In recent years, the cotton trade has undergone a maelstrom of criticism with the U.S. subsidization of the cotton industry and to a lesser extent in the EU where it is grown in Greece and Spain. Cotton has also come under considerable scrutiny because of the damaging effects to the environment caused by pesticides and the increasing use of genetically modified seeds.

Considering the level of its economic omnipotence, cotton is not without its controversies.

Other leading hard fibers include jute and sisal. About eighty-five percent of world jute production comes from the delta of the River Ganges in both India and Bangladesh. Jute is also produced in Myanmar and Nepal but on a much smaller scale. Jute is a long, soft shiny vegetable fiber and one of the strongest natural fibers that can be spun into coarse threads. The usable

fiber comes from the stem and ribbon (outer skin) of the jute plant. It is most often used for making ropes and cordage, although increasingly it is finding new uses including matting used to prevent flood erosion.

Sisal is an agave, a succulent plant with a rosette and fleshy leaves.

It yields a stiff fiber traditionally used in making twine and rope and is the most common natural source of baler twine because of its strength, ability to stretch, and resistance to deterioration in saltwater. The use of polypropylene in hay baling, however, has resulted in diminished demand. The global production of sisal is 240,000 tons. Brazil produces nearly half with 113,000 followed

by Tanzania at 37,000 tons. Sisal is perhaps most popularly known for its durability in carpeting and is occasionally blended with wool for a softer hand. More recently, the waste material from sisal production is being used for biogas, stock feed and fertilizer.

On January 22, 2009, the IYNF was officially launched in Rome by Hafez Ghanem, FAO assistant direc-

FAO Photo Library

FAO Photo Library

moved it along. I really had no idea the whole thing was going to fall into my lap.�

The annual world production of natural fibers is thirty million tons, two thirds of which is cotton. Wool represents less than ten percent with two million tons a year and jute another three million. The remaining

tor-general for social and economic development, who reported that animal and vegetable fibers are a major agriculture sector worth $40 billion annually to the world’s farmers. Unquestionably $40 billion is a huge Fifth Anniversary Issue

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Keep the Fleece Be Part of our Global Flock As part of the IYNF (International Year of Natural Fibres) celebration, fiber enthusiasts of every description from around the world are invited to participate in a number of events to help promote awareness about the importance of the natural fiber industry.

Keep the Fleece, a not-forprofit organization is launching a 250K campaign in partnership with Heifer International to build the

r The perfect gift fo l someone specia

largest “fiber flock” by creating the world’s longest scarf. Scarf sections will be made by hundreds (thousands?) of different teams using only natural fibers and either contributing one-dollar for every row that is knitted, or ten dollars per inch if it is woven, felted or crocheted. All the scarf sections will be sent to New York in October and assembled at the New York Sheep and Wool Festival.

The scarf will ultimately be wrapped around a place of great significance— perhaps even The White House and then dismantled and donated to various charities.

Keep the Fleece is also sponsoring an all natural fiber contest featuring a variety of unusual categories (plant fibers included) to help promote the use of natural fibers. And be sure to get involved on the first official Wool Day on April 25th. More details at www.keepthefleece.org

sum, but how those dollars actually impact individual farmers was best explained by Salum Shamte, managing director, Katani Ltd., Tanzania who translated a letter to the UN written by Habiba—a sisal farmer in Tanzania.

“I now feel more relaxed than many of my neighbors,” Habiba wrote. “There is enough food in my house. Two of my children are in school and I can now take care of my mother.” Six years ago Habiba stopped growing maize, which is highly susceptible to drought, and began raising sisal. She is now part of a 2,100 member sisal cooperative in partnership with Katani, Ltd. and her income has grown from $38 per month to $320 per month. Habiba believes that the IYNF can help the livelihoods of millions of people like herself throughout the world, a world that is often not well understood by many of those living in Western cultures.

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For more information about the IYNF 2009, visit www.naturalfibres2009.org.

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Wild Fibers Magazine

Fifth Anniversary Issue

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On the Lam in Paradise Story and Photos (unless otherwise noted)

by Linda Cortright

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Deep in the mid-Canterbury mountains of New Zealand, a band of wayward woollies has been on the run for years at Winterslow, one of the oldest high country sheep stations still in operation. The only way to catch and save them is to take to the air.

avid Wightman is part of a dying breed. At a hail and hearty 63, he is witnessing the inevitable dissolution of a lifestyle that has defined the essence of New Zealand sheep farming for centuries—the life of a high country farmer. David’s family has owned Winterslow, one of the oldest high country sheep stations still in operation, since 1946. It encompasses 29,000 acres at the edge of the Canterbury Plains and in the shadow of Mt. Hutt. It is seemingly one of those few places in the world I have visited where the word “paradise” does not seem like hyperbole.

Part of what drives David’s passion for Winterslow is the annual muster, the New Zealand version of an unimaginably massive sheep roundup. For many years the muster at Winterslow involved a sixteen-

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day journey on foot, scaling 5,000foot peaks in the rain and snow, and herding thousands of sheep that were completely keen on running in the opposite direction. Men talk about mustering in much the same way that fishermen puff up their chests about the one that got away, or car buffs shine up their fenders and brag about horsepower. The camaraderie between musterers is founded not only in physical endurance but also in gentlemanly respect.

As I make the thirty-minute drive down the long dirt road into David’s home away from home, I understand with each bend in the road why this magical kingdom is such an inseparable part of David’s soul. What I do not realize is that in just a few short days it will also take root in mine.

High country sheep stations are often not well understood outside

of New Zealand. Much of the South Island’s landscape is dominated by spectacular mountain ranges that rival the European Alps minus the tourist-trodden footprint. They are scarcely populated by humans, although well traversed by the millions of sheep who wander their slopes paying little mind to their wondrous surroundings. Yet as magnificent as they are in the summer, most high country stations are notoriously treacherous in the winter.

I first met David several years ago when he took me to a Merino farm in Lake Tekapo owned by his friend John Simpson. Not only was it my first introduction to New Zealand farming, it was also where I first learned that Above: David Wightman, owner of Winterslow Station on New Zealand’s South Island. Opposite: Two rescued sheep from deep in the mountains of Winterslow Station.

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the word “muster” wasn’t always used in relation to soldiers. When David began talking about his annual musters and crews of five to seven men going up into the mountains for weeks at a time equipped with a handful of pack horses, 30 to 40 dogs, and thousands of sheep, I half thought to myself: There has to be a better way. Yet surely there is great appeal for some to spend time with their dogs in the wilderness, sleeping in huts, playing cards, and drinking a bit of whiskey when the day is done.

Do I need to mention that mustering is not a women’s sport?

Thus, it is for so many unlikely reasons (distance not being the least of them) that I find myself traveling down this bumpy road with David’s wife, Anita, shifting the car into fourwheel drive so we can plow through streams that some might call rivers, and stay snug against the hillside on a road barely wide enough for a grocery cart. I feel nothing short of blessed to be invited on a very special muster—but not the kind that history 26

Wild Fibers Magazine

in moist pastures and can be quite books have long since told. This muscommon in the Plains. But up in the ter is about as modern as it gets. If the mountains, the steady breeze and the weather cooperates we will set off on rocky soil help keep their feet free a method of herding that is without of infection and ready to roam. The benefit of dogs, horses or so much as “hermit” sheep we are after, so called a whistle. We are after a small band of because they have eluded being musMerino sheep that have been “lost” in tered, are most likely escapees from the mountains for the past few years.

If they are “I guess I’ve got mustering in my blood,” not rescued now it is he admits. “As soon as you get all the sheep likely they rounded up you just want to let them go will not and do it all over again.” survive the winter. The David’s old flock of Merinos that only way to get them out is with a hehe sold a few years back. “I imagine licopter. Unfortunately, my inaugural they’ve been out there for quite some mustering adventure is completely time,” David says in a thoughtful dependent on the weather, and I have tone. “It was a helicopter pilot who just two days left before I must get originally spotted them and then back on the plane and head home came and told me.”

—muster or not.

When Anita and I are about halfMerino sheep thrive in the high way down the road, we meet David at country for many reasons. Their the large metal gates that are posted fleece is so magnificently dense they with a variety of warning signs to can withstand the inevitable cold. deter trespassers. “Warning: Poison They are susceptible to foot rot, a used for possum control,” “Danger: condition that arises from standing

Explosives in Use,” and a host of “Keep Out” signs. I half expect to see “Dorothy Go Home” trailing off in the sky.

There are four mustering huts on Winterslow but we are staying at the one in the valley called the Cookshop. It is where the typical muster ends once all the sheep have been successfully collected. For many years the sheep were shorn at this spot as well. Teams of shearers would arrive, clipping thousands and thousands of sheep with their hand shears (they still don’t have electricity), and then the fleeces were put into a miniature wool press that would make eighty to one hundred pound blocks of wool that were in turn loaded onto pack horses and carried out to the road. The horses would then go back loaded with supplies and food for the shearers. Having just traversed the “modern” road by car, I can barely imagine what was involved in doing the whole thing using true horsepower. No wonder it took more than a month before the shearing alone was complete.

According to David, by 1944, the river that runs within less than a hundred yards of the Cookshop had flooded so many times it had actually changed course and damaged both the shearing shed and the muster-

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ing hut. By that point, all the shearers belonged to a union that specified certain conditions must be met in their lodging conditions. The damaged buildings at Winterslow were condemned and the owners had no choice but to rebuild. “It was going to cost a lot of money to bring in all the necessary supplies,” says David. “It was my grandfather who thought Winterslow would be a good place for my father to learn the sheep business and so he bought it.”

David’s family does not actually own Winterslow in the conventional sense. The land is owned by the Crown as part of a pastoral lease program that lasts 33 years.

Every 11 years the lease is reviewed to make sure the land is being properly managed. “If there are serious infractions you can lose your lease,” David tells me. Infractions can include severe overstocking, deliberately making roads without consent, burning without a permit, or allowing noxious weeds to grow rampant, along with other environmental abuses. As the demand for wool has

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continued to decline, however, more farmers have voluntarily surrendered their leases to the national park, for which they receive handsome compensation.

At present, David has no intention of giving up Winterslow even though he no longer keeps any sheep on the property. He leases out the grazing rights to one of the neighboring farms and still helps to muster its flock. “I guess I’ve got mustering in my blood,” he admits. “As soon as you get all the sheep rounded up you just want to let them go and do it all over again.”

By the time Anita and I arrive at the Cookshop we are greeted by a welcoming chorus from David’s dogs, each one bounding up and down at the end of its chain. They sleep underneath large oilcans that have been

Opposite: Aerial view of Winterslow Station in between Mt. Hutt and Mt. Nelson, New Zealand.

Above: David Wightman keeps the fires burning in the Cookshop even in the middle of winter.

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Fifth Anniversary Issue

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sawed in half and turned on their sides. At one level these utilitarian abodes seem a bit too sparse even for these primitive surroundings. But once the dogs determine that I am

of the Cookshop and I confess that I pause for a moment when I realize there are no doors on any of them. I remind myself again of the “no frills” mantra. Yet once inside the Cook-

The Cookshop is a long metal building—something of a cross between an army barrack and a doublewide trailer. From the outside it does not feel terribly inviting— even before I see yet another “Keep Out” sign posted on the door. friend and not foe, I notice they tuck themselves back inside their rusty tin huts and seem just as content as the most pampered pooch dozing on a monogrammed feather bed.

The Cookshop is a long metal building—something of a cross between an army barrack and a doublewide trailer. From the outside it does not feel terribly inviting—even before I see yet another “Keep Out” sign posted on the door. But just like the modified doghouses out front, life at Winterslow is without frills. There are three long drops (outhouses) set in a row about fifty yards to the right

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shop, my whole vision of Winterslow changes.

David has left a fire burning in the massive stove and though it may be summertime, there is still a chill in the early evening air. As Anita puts the kettle on she announces, “Everything tastes better cooked out here, even the tea.”

We have brought provisions for several days, but judging by the assortment of goodies amassed on the counter no one will be going hungry.

There are boxes of organic cereal, a package of scones only marginally past the due date, two mince pies

and the omnipresent jar of vegemite.

I don’t care how good Anita claims the food at Winterslow tastes; it’s not going to do a thing for the taste of vegemite.

At the opposite end from the kitchen there are four wooden bunk beds that have been built so high off the floor that I instantly throttle back to my childhood and wish I could hang upside down off the side and let the blood rush to my head.

Fortunately, some fleeting moment of professionalism intervenes and I manage to keep both feet planted on the floor.

The walls are decorated with a variety of memorabilia including a pair of what I think must be the most enormous packsaddles ever made— just looking at them makes my back ache. There are old newspaper articles taped to the wall about David and the epic musters at Winterslow, and a pair of custom made hiking boots with steel cleats that look like they came from the spine of a Stegosaurus resting in the corner. David picks one up and I sense he might be getting ready to tell me a story, but

instead he just quietly passes it in my direction, urging me to “hold this.”

I grab the boot with both hands as he says rather wryly that it weighs three and a half pounds. I have only gone for a casual walk around Winterslow, but even in that short time of attempting to navigate the slopes of tall tussock and buried rocks I can see why these boots are essential.

There are three small rooms off the main room; one of them is so crammed with food and supplies I think it must be fortified like an airraid shelter. Another room is David’s domain with a simple mattress, a huge pile of books, several flashlights, and the odd sock or two on the floor. And at the very end there is a door with the words “Bridal Suite” painted in white. “You’ll be staying in there,” David tells me as he gestures toward the door. I’m not sure how I wound up in the bridal suite in the middle of nowhere, but the gesture (and double bed) is greatly appreciated. On the other hand, perhaps David senses my 10-year-old desires and is afraid I am too old to be hanging off the side of a bunk bed.

It turns out the bridal suite was the former saddle room. Then, after the road was put in and the packhorses became obsolete, it was turned into the wood shed. Nowadays, David usually hosts several groups of adventurous riders every summer who take to the old trails of Winterslow and camp out at the Cookshop—apparently both couples and editors are granted use of the bridal suite.

Right around dusk David goes out to feed the dogs. I know very little about the herding dogs of New Zealand other than they must be able to maneuver the sheep in the high country through perilous terrain and obey their master’s word in an instant. At one time David owned

15 dogs and he figures he’s owned more than 100 in his lifetime. As I watch him walk over to each dog in the fading light with its supper bowl in hand, I notice that two of the dogs have bloody paws. I panic for a moment until I realize that the dogs do not have wounds but have already had a meal of something tasty from the wild.

Certainly nothing one would find in a bag of kibble.

Across the river (the very one that has inconveniently changed its course over time) there are several paddocks Above: One of David’s sheep dogs waits attentively for dinner to be served. The Cookshop fills all the basic needs and more for a wilderness where David keeps his shelter. two horses. If sheep are in David’s blood it is fair to say that horses are under his skin. Even though they are not actively needed anymore for working The following morning purposes, they are an ideal mode of transport for seeing the land. Unless I wake up in the bridal of course one has the privilege of seesuite alone. Hmmm. ing it from above, and if the weather The skies look clear, and cooperates in the morning I shall be able to do just that. there is every reason to At dinner that night Anita’s believe that the promise holds true—the food does helicopter should be indeed taste better in this natural environment. But even more than the able to safely navigate satisfaction of a wholesome repast, I the peaks for our rescue. find there is nothing quite as comforting as seeing only the twinkling of the stars and the flames from the fire to light up the night. Bedtime came early for the musterers at Winterslow and so it does for the three Fifth Anniversary Issue

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Images by Michael O’Neill

of us.

The following morning I wake up in the bridal suite alone. Hmmm.

The skies look clear, and there is every reason to believe that the helicopter should be able to safely navigate the peaks for our rescue. But without a phone all we can do is wait and see if it arrives at the appointed hour. I don’t exactly leap from my sleeping bag to start the day because the temperature has dipped into the low forties overnight, so I selfishly stay snuggled in while I hear David shuffling about the main room getting the fire started. Eventually that inevitable moment arrives and I must vault from my den and brace myself for the sobering trip to the long drop; somehow the lack of doors seems entirely inconsequential by now.

I am able to spend all too little time in the morning exploring Winterslow by foot. There is a swing bridge over the river that reminds me of those I have navigated in India.

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They don’t call them swing bridges for nothing, but this one is blessedly not suspended at a 100 foot drop nor is the swing factor particularly rollicking. As I step in line behind David to walk across, he takes several steps before turning around and sizing me up from head to toe. “What?” I ask him with a note of exasperation.

“Just wanted to make sure it could support the two of us,” he replies rather cheekily and continues on.

I look down at the pair of twoinch-thick steel cables that are amply supporting the bridge, and then back up at David, who is clearly stifling a chuckle, and think to myself, ha— mustering humor.

Blair Chapman, who owns Mt. Hutt helicopters and is the one who originally spotted the hermit sheep, had arranged with David to pick me up at one o’clock when I would join up with a television crew and the “bulldoggers”—the men who would actually be jumping from the heli-

copter to capture the sheep. Not long after the appointed hour the gentle sound of the afternoon breeze is broken by the staccato beat of a “whoopwhoop-whoop” growing louder in the air before I see this flying “bug” suddenly drop down in front of us.

It is quickly decided that we should take off the doors so I can get better pictures from up above, and in truth, I think the ride will be much more fun without the added protection, so off they come and on I go.

It is hard to separate the thrill of racing through the sky with a chilling wind buffeting my side and lookAbove left to right: Without the orange vest of musterer Donald Greig for identification the sheep would be virtually undiscernable on the mountainside. Donald having successfully rounded up one of the sheep has hog tied its legs waiting for the helicopter to get close enough so he can hook the captured wooly below. The first sheep travels to a nearby plateau suspended upside down and surprisingly relaxed when she arrives. Opposite: Musterer Donald Greig.

ing down at the mountaintops that seem impossibly close, while simultaneously trying to hold my camera steady and reminding myself that I am working. In only a few short minutes we suddenly plunge into a valley and Blair points to the side of the mountain, exclaiming, “There they are!” I try everything imaginable to discern exactly “where” in the thickets of brush and noxious weeds they are, but I see nothing, until suddenly I spot four of the tiniest specks of white that look like little grains of scattered rice off in the distance.

Blair takes the helicopter closer and I can now peer directly down on them.

These sheep are gigantic and beyond anything I had even imagined.

Several years back a similar rescue took place in New Zealand involving a captured Merino that had eluded the blades for six years. When he finally succumbed his fleece weighed 59 pounds—an average Meri-no fleece weighs around 10 pounds. The wayward wooly was named Shrek after the fictional movie character and small sections of his fleece were auctioned off for charity. David hopes that something similar will be done with the fleeces from these

sheep to help benefit the Methven Heritage Project, a nearby concern in the Canterbury Plains that is among other things developing an exhibit on the agricultural history of the region.

Although this rescue is not a typical part of high country farming, hermit sheep have always existed and it has only been through the relatively recent use of helicopters for other missions, from alpine skiing to capturing wild deer and firefighting, that the rescue of these animals has even been feasible.

Suddenly Blair spins the helicopter in the opposite direction and once again gestures toward a nearby peak.

“I’m going to drop you off there with the television crew,” he says. Though I have an easier time spotting a handful of humans standing alone on the horizon, I wonder where he is possibly going to land this machine.

Perhaps I have spent too many miles seated in row 26A where the doors are firmly closed and the only thing I hear from the pilot is “it is now safe to use your portable electronic devices.” But the helicopter’s ability to go up, down, and sideways, as well as

land in a spot no bigger than a onecar garage, still seems rather mystifying to me. Within moments we are on the ground and the last thing Blair says to me through the headset as I prepare to step out is, “Don’t walk around the back!”

How do you catch a sheep with a helicopter is the question I have asked myself countless times since I first learned about this mission less than three weeks ago. What David has explained is that the animals are so encumbered by their enormous fleeces that they simply can’t run very fast and so the heli-musterers are able to jump down and wrestle them on their sides with relatively little chase.

Once they’ve been caught their feet are hog tied and the helicopter lowers a long rope with a hook and away they go.

Somehow I just know it isn’t going to be quite so simple.

With me out of the helicopter, the two musterers, Paul Cornelius and Donald Greig, get in along with

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Photo by Peter Meecham Fairfax Media

a photographer whose array of lenses makes me think he’s stalking celebrities, not sheep, and I take my front row seat on the top of paradise to watch the chase.

As Blair lifts off from the peak his challenge is to use the “threat” of the helicopter to maneuver the sheep into a place where the men have a safe spot for a clean jump and the sheep won’t be inadvertently tempted to run off a ledge. All the while he must make sure he keeps the helicopter blades free of the rising slopes, for even something as seemingly simple as a 200-pound man leaping out can throw the helicopter perilously off balance.

Fortunately the musterers are dressed in orange safety vests and it is much easier to track them in the distance leaping out of the helicopter than it is to follow little specks of rice with fast moving feet running about.

I see the first one jump, although I have no idea which one it is, and then I watch the helicopter zigzag about as if the pilot is on the verge of being arrested for DUI. Then another orange flash appears and drops to the ground, and the helicopter maneuvers back up the slope, but this time it just hovers while the first musterer climbs back in. Apparently it was a jump and a miss, so now the process begins again of trying to get everyone into a good location where man and animal can safely connect.

More zigzagging takes place and when the wind blows in the right direction I can hear the helicopter blades echoing off the mountains.

I find it difficult yet again to focus on this amazing rescue without being intermittently distracted by the unspeakable beauty of the landscape around me. I have been to the High Himalayas and the mountains of the

Altiplano, I have been to the Rockies and the peaks of the Swiss Alps, but nothing seems to compare with this “new” world that is magically at my fingertips. I glance back at the sheep, which still seem to be scattering six different ways from Sunday, and think, run! Who are we to take them from their peaceful solitude?

Yet I know that without us, they will surely die.

Finally, the first one is caught and the helicopter comes racing back to our post with the hairiest ball of wool I have ever seen, much less one suspended from the bottom of a helicopter. We all instinctively crouch down as the helicopter hovers above us and the sheep is gently, and I truly mean gently, lowered to the ground.

Opposite: Musterer Donald Greig takes a wild leap from the helicopter skid to capture one of the wayward woollies.

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Immediately one of the musterers jumps out, manages to get his arm around this colossal beast and rights him (her!) so she is resting on her feet, even though they are still tied together. Then he dashes back into the helicopter to get the others while the rest of us look at one another somewhat startled by the sequence of events and then stare at this wooly alien that has been suddenly dropped in our midst. Of course if we think this rapid-fire scenario seems rather extraordinary, I cannot help but wonder what this poor sheep must be thinking: What the hell just happened to me?

The ewe is breathing hard but otherwise doesn’t seem alarmingly distressed, considering she has just been tackled by a complete stranger and gone for her first helicopter ride 34

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upside down with her feet tied together. But she must be resilient by nature or she would never have survived the winter, much less several of them hiding out in caves with twenty-foot snowdrifts all around.

With the helicopter safely gone I slowly move toward the new arrival and try to comfort her with a soothing voice. I certainly don’t want my presence to compound her confusion, yet to sit back and merely stare seems far too detached. Gently I put my hand on her side and instantly cannot believe the amount of fleece at my fingertips. It is both thick and seemingly endless, and I might also add that it is filthy. Of course, she has been totally in the wild for who knows how long so perhaps I should be amazed she isn’t filthier.

One by one, Blair returns with

the other three sheep, again setting them gently down on the ground while one of the musterers jumps out and rights them. They do seem calmer once they are in the company of their friends, considering they have banded together as a group for who knows how long, I’m sure that separation from each other at this point would inevitably make matters worse.

Hannah Ockelford, a reporter from New Zealand’s top television station, ONE NEWS, positions herAbove (clockwise): both Musterers help place the sheep in a large net to return them to Winterslow Station where they will be shorn and returned to the rest of the flock. The new captives are awaitng the last leg of their journey (by land!) to the farm. A quizzical look from one of the ewes who must be wondering “What just happened?”

self in centerfold fashion between two of the sheep and talks about the size of these animals relative to her own while the camera is rolling. She has flown down from Auckland for the rescue and is meeting with a satellite truck shortly in order to have the story air on the six o’clock news.

Fortunately, my deadline is still a week away.

With the sheep now safe and sound, and the television interview complete, it is time to get the animals back to the Cookshop where no doubt David is anxiously awaiting the return of his lost sheep. Donald and Paul once again maneuver the sheep onto a large net while being careful to place them with their heads and feet all pointed in the right direction.

I take the first trip back to the hut so I can photograph their arrival while the others stay behind to capture the liftoff. The whole thing is amazingly choreographed, considering we are ten strangers and four very strange sheep.

Back at the Cookshop, David has placed a trailer in an opening that will make it easy for Blair to drop the sheep off and ultimately transport them to their final destination. It is only a few minutes ride back to the camp, but I temporarily suspend my writer’s brain so I can absorb every inch of enchantment that is around me. What must it have been like to have grown up amid these quixotic peaks, alternating from contemplative silence to raging storm? What must it have been like to have spent weeks at a time climbing these slopes with a pack of dogs and a handful of men in search of thousands of sheep that might otherwise not find their way home? And perhaps most of all, what is it like to fly above 29,000 acres and silently think, this land is mine?

Perhaps it is best that I am not able to wax too philosophic before landing back on the ground and quickly recounting the capture to David, who is more than a bit curious as to what has taken so long.

He had supposed the whole rescue might take 10, 20 minutes or so, and we have been gone more than an hour.

But I am barely halfway through telling David the story about the zigzagging bug and the flying wool balls when Blair appears through a divide in the mountains carrying the largest bundle of “live” wool imaginable.

Now it is my turn to have the pounding heart and the rapid breaths as he comes in for the final drop-off. Once again, he sets the animals down with surgical precision, cuts the line and then takes off for the rest of the crew.

David runs over to help get the sheep out of the net and righted on their feet, and as he crawls over the sides of the trailer and looks down at the tangled mess he lets out an enormous bellow of laughter.

“They’re not my sheep!” he says in amazement.

“I can’t believe it,” he keeps repeating. “They’re not my sheep.”

And in fact the rescued creatures are not Merinos; they are Perendales.

How this particular foursome managed to find their way deep into the mountains of Winterslow is actually not that absurd since David does lease part of his land to his neighbor.

But knowing that they have strayed so far from the others, and over so many years, makes their survival seem that much more improbable.

Clearly David has gone to no small expense to have these animals rescued, and had they in fact been Merinos, their fleeces would have been much heavier and they would not have been able to run away from the musterers so easily. Yet from my perspective, finding out that they are Perendales and not Merinos is merely a footnote to the adventure. It does not change that for a fleeting instant I got to step into a world of the high country farmer that is slowly fading into history. Nor does it change that these four sheep have been saved from a fate of certain death. And it certainly doesn’t change my gratitude to David who so kindly extended me an invitation to participate in a once in a lifetime adventure.

It is true that David Wightman may be part of a dying breed, but his love of sheep and the high country lifestyle are still at the root of his soul—even if it is tainted with Perendales.

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Tune Into Kiwi TV! Hannah Ockelford from New Zealand’s ONE News interviews editor Linda Cortright on a peak in Winterslow Station shortly after the rescue.

Watch the helicopter chase online at: http://tvnz.co.nz/national-news/ back-pen-sheep-escapees-2438888/ video and the shearing at: http:// tvnz.co.nz/national-news/back-pensheep-escapees-2438888/video.

To donate to the Methven Heritage visit: methvenheritagecentre.co.nz

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This Old Hippie

Story and Photos by Linda Cortright

Not everyone remembers the sixties. Others may prefer not to, but Barry Schacht traveled most of the world before the backto-the-land movement helped facilitate the way to his future.

B

arry Schacht is nothing short of outrageous. At any moment he might have the persona of a Catskill comedian or an impassioned environmentalist. He has traveled through Europe and parts of North Africa, spent time in Thailand, and a year teaching English in Japan. He has also spent more time than he would probably care to remember living in the back of his van. In addition to being a tireless globetrotter he is also president and cofounder of Schacht Spindle Company, one of the leading manufacturers of handweaving looms and spinning wheels, with more than 450 distributors throughout the world. If you ask Barry how he got to where he is today he will probably tell you it has something to do with “Jesus”—an orphaned ram lamb that unwittingly came under his care one Christmas holiday way back when. If the vision of a Jewish kid from upstate New York bottle feeding the baby “Jesus” nestled in the Colorado Rockies seems a bit incongruous, don’t be alarmed. Barry has never been in lock step with the norm.

To anyone who has had even a passing encounter with the fiber industry, Schacht products are ubiquitous. Whether you have lusted after the company’s double-treadle Matchless spinning wheel or are fortunate enough to own a Baby Wolf loom, the Schacht name has been on the tip of everyone’s tongue at one time or another.

And though Barry is happy to discuss the evolution of the company, or the design aspects of its more than 150 products, those conversations have a bit more meaning when put in the context of the bigger picture.

When Barry was a child his family owned a clothing business that successfully ignited his appreciation of textiles plus his design and salesman skills, so when it came time to redesign the shop’s showroom area, he discovered he had an innate talent for designing and building Above (left to right): Barry Schact with Filip Sokol. Adan MoralesTrigeros working on a spinning wheel part. A weaving shaft getting a final pass over the belt sander. Loom parts being shellacked.

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things and consequently decided to enroll in the school of architecture at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute (RPI). But it was a move doomed from the start, for Barry had spent most of his teenage years relentlessly writing to ocean shipping companies with the hope of one day landing a job that would enable him to see the world.

In truth, Barry has the brain of an engineer trapped inside the body of a Renaissance man.

It wasn’t long before Barry fled the halls of RPI for Goddard College, a liberal—make that very liberal—arts college in Vermont that ultimately didn’t suit his style either. When Barry decided to change gears yet again, he fled to Europe with only a backpack and an abundance of youthful romanticism.

It was the 1960s and a time hallmarked by the sexual revolution, flower power and a world of young upstarts proclaiming their rights to do their own thing. While the Beatles were climbing to the top of the billboards, Barry was living in a kibbutz. And then one morning he awoke with the realization that he was neither a Zionist nor a Communist, and he decided it was time to go.

Eventually Barry returned to the Northwest United States having temporarily satisfied his wanderlust. But by the age of 25 he was more than just sleepless in Seattle; he was penniless. So, he decided to head for Boulder, Colorado to “pay a visit” to his brother, Dan. (Dan and Barry were partners in Schacht Spindle Company for the first 30 years. The early success of the company was due in large measure to Dan’s skill at organizing the manufacturing operations. Dan has since opened his own highly successful millwork business.)

More than 40 years later, Barry now sits in his corner office wearing a pair of de rigueur blue jeans and a

tailored black shirt. His once voluminous black beard has been downsized to a closely cropped patch of gray, and his 1960s hairdo has nearly vanished all together. Surrounded by books, photos and knick-knacks from disparate corners of the planet, Barry could almost pass as a foreign dignitary from some Middle Eastern country; that is until he starts telling one of his stories and you quickly realize he is still a hippie at heart.

“When I moved to Boulder I got a job at the University of Colorado,” he says. “I was working in the grounds department and living in my van. One afternoon I decided to mow a large peace sign on the campus lawn—well, that was the end of that job.”

Barry’s employment career at the time might be considered less than exemplary. Indeed, he would not have been living in his van had it been otherwise. But as is often the case with most entrepreneurs, they truly don’t thrive until they are captaining their own ship and Barry just needed the right one to come along.

Shortly after the mowing incident, a friend

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of the brothers' expressed an interest in learning how to spin, so they loaded up the van with an assortment of dogs and friends and headed for Greentree Ranch in Loveland, Colorado, where the owners not only raised sheep, but also where Louise Green gave spinning lessons. (She is also the mother of the baby lamb “Jesus.”) The one-time lesson in the art of the drop spindle quickly tapped into Barry’s make it and sell it skills and by the time they left the ranch Barry had an order to make 200 of them from a doorknob for Louise.

With no one watching over his shoulder telling him what he could and couldn’t do, Barry phoned the company in Chicago that manufactured the doorknobs and promptly ordered 200. “They asked me the name of the business that I was making the purchase for and I paused for just an instant before saying, ‘Schacht Spindle Company!’”

Indeed, there is something so sweetly wondrous in how the seed for a whole new career can be launched in a single breath.

The Greens were delighted when Barry delivered the order and the additional touch of a little hand painted green tree on every spindle succeeded in thrilling them that much more. It just so happened that at that time Louise was also learning to weave, and having been appropriately impressed by Barry’s sense of design, she thought he would be the perfect one to design a simple loom for her.

When she finally posed the question of making her one, however, Barry responded with “What’s a loom?”

Success invariably involves some magical blend of skill, tenacity and timing and it just so happened that Barry was blessed with all three. The portable tapestry loom he designed is still in production today with only a few modifications. But that loom also became Barry’s entrée into the Boulder and Denver free schools, where he began organizing weaving classes.

One minute Barry was living in his van and the next he and his brother were opening a retail store in Boulder called The Weaving Shop to help serve their students. It didn’t take long for The Weaving Shop to become a hit, and looking back it was one of the early progenitors of the “drop-in” fiber culture that is nearly endemic today. At that time the trend for all things natural to emerge from the “back-to-the-land” movement didn’t have the cache or political correctness it now carries. Sadly, it was still largely blurred in a cloud of benign potheads who were rarely taken seriously in their wardrobes of tie-dyes and Birkenstocks. Yet few places were more perfectly suited for the inveterate peacekeepers and wannabe weav-

ers than Boulder. As Barry says unabashedly about The Weaving Shop, “It was a great place to meet women.”

Barry’s wife, Jane Patrick, moved from Nebraska to live in a commune in Boulder.

“There were ten of us in this small house and only two men,” she remembers. “It was an interesting experience at many levels.” Barry remembers meeting Jane at The Weaving Shop and being instantly besotted. Jane, on the other hand, took a bit more convincing. “I had just ended a relationship with a short, curly haired Jewish guy when Barry came along and I thought, Oh no—not again!” But a tenacious attitude helps in more than just business, and after an extended “date” bicycling from London to Stockholm, Barry had Jane appropriately convinced.

For the first 12 years of their marriage Jane worked at Interweave Press in Loveland, Colorado. She remembers the days when no more than a handful of employees would be getting the next issue out the door. Jane went on to become editor of Handwoven magazine until eleven years ago when she came to work full time at Schacht, where she is the creative director in charge of sales and marketing along

Joe Early working on a spinning wheel part.

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Amy Zarzicki getting the right fit on a batch of loom parts.

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with keeping tabs on quality control. “Every spinning wheel we ship out is taken for a test drive,” says Jane. “I usually get to spend part of my day sitting at a wheel.”

Says Barry, “This business would be prehistoric without Jane’s contributions.”

The early success of The Weaving Shop translated into an increase in the variety of products and improvements in production, and despite Barry’s previous landscaping debacle, he still managed to “borrow” the use of one of the university’s woodworking shops as a design and early manufacturing facility. As the demand continued to grow, the company subcontracted out most of the production work. “For a while we worked with the Emissaries of Divine Light in Loveland, Colorado, but after a year they needed to focus more on their own needs, so we started using another woodworker in Loveland to make our looms,” Barry says. “He was great at what he did but he was a Jehovah’s Witness and one day he decided his real calling was building church pews.”

For the next fifteen years Schacht Spindle Company was housed in a variety of places, beginning with Barry’s garage and eventually moving on to a “real” factory where the promise of “real” power tools was no small reward for the years of make-shift equipment.

In 1985 the brothers bought the property where the company is presently located. It sits in the middle of three acres of a small industrial park. But Barry’s ongoing march against the mainstream is very much reflected in this workplace. There is a lot of lawn and trees around the factory. A large gazebo by the entrance that is engulfed in flowers when not buried in snow serves as one of the many employee lunchrooms when the weather is just

right. Barry has also parceled off a section of land where employees can have their own gardens. Not only does Barry feel it’s important to provide a place where people can grow their own food, but he also pays for the soil amending and watering that costs hundreds of dollars a month during the growing season. There are beehives in the coner of the property and Barry also plans to start keeping chickens in the near future. It was disappointing to learn, however, that there are no sheep on the horizon.

Most of the 35,000-foot factory space is devoted to manufacturing the beautiful handweaving looms, spinning wheels and accessories that Schacht is known for. There are long boards of kiln-dried lumber stacked in one area of the plant, while a variety of drill presses, routers and saws keep the noise level at a low roar in others. The last ten years have seen the addition of four CNC (computer) machining centers. There are 27 employees, ranging from passionate fiber enthusiasts to seasoned craftspeople, college students and a variety of immigrants. “When we began to expand in the 1980s no one in Boulder was looking for factory work, this was a major high-tech, well-educated market,” says Barry.

“We find having a mixture of cultures working here is a real benefit. We celebrate a lot of national holidays.” Half of the company’s production workers and managers are women. “Our assembly manager is a Hmong woman from Laos and has been with us for 25 years; she was

part of the huge immigration to the States after the Vietnam War,” says Barry. “Our production manager is also a woman. We have some great guys here too.”

Practically all of the wood parts and some of the metal components are manufactured onsite. Many of their metal, plastic, and rubber parts are made by outside vendors, some of whom have been supplying Schacht for more than thirty-eight years. Barry is nothing if not fanatical about making sure all the material is sourced with the utmost regard to good business practicies.

What costs a little more up front is clearly an investment for the greater good in the long run.

Barry still shakes his head with both humor and mild disbelief when he thinks of all the hurdles the company has overcome to get to this point.

Over the years Barry has watched the fiber community transition from a small minority of devotees such as Louise Green and the faithful followers at The Weaving Shop, to a legitimate place in the craft culture of mainstream America. It is because of this involvement in the evolution of the craft, along with a long, hard road to success, that Barry takes extra pride in celebrating the company’s fortieth anniversary in 2009. Perhaps for the sake of old times he’ll get out the lawnmower and throw a party on the front lawn of the university—after all, he may be the president of an extraordinarily successful business, but he’s still an old hippie at heart.

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Above: Jane and Barry still go on bicycle dates. Every other year they take a major pedal through Europe and sometimes they take a ride to a nearby wedding.

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EViction at Sea Why the st. Kildans vanished Story by Linda Cortright Photos by Kathie Miller

50 miles into the blustering seas of the North Atlantic, a tiny island no more than half a mile wide sustained an industrious but isolated population for centuries. Now, all that is left is an abandoned village and a flock of critically endangered sheep.

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n August 27, 1930, a small group of men, women and children began ferrying a few precious belongings down to the island’s jetty. They carried sentimental items, a family photo perhaps, a hand-stitched pillowcase, a favorite teapot, and they took practical things such as spinning wheels and big bales of wool. They rounded up the island’s 500 remaining sheep and put them in rowboats a dozen at a time, and then lured the small herd of cattle down the rocky pier using handfuls of soda scone for enticement. Young calves were loaded into the rowboat one by one while the rest of the herd was tied off the stern and forced to swim to the ship that lay anchored in the harbor.

Soon after sunrise on the morning of August 29, the last resident of St. Kilda boarded the Harebell. In less than 48 hours, a civilization that had begun more than 2,000 years ago had virtually vanished. No more sheep, no more cattle, no more people—even the dogs that had faithfully tended the island’s flock were drowned in the harbor. There would be no one left to care for them. George Henderson, a member of Scotland’s Department of Health, waited until the Harebell was under way before going below deck to send a telegram to his office: “Evacuation successfully carried out this morning—left St. Kilda at 8 a.m.”

Most people have never heard of St. Kilda, a remote archipelago off the western coast of Scotland that erupted 60 million years ago when unceasing volcanic activity splintered land masses around the world, creating new continents and stomping out old ones. The four small islands of St. Kilda (Hirta, Soay, Boreray and Dun), along with several towering sea stacks (vertical pillars of rock) scattered in their shadows, are a mere suggestion of the once bellowing crater that lies silently buried in the sea below.

Though the archipelago has been uninhabited now for nearly 80 years, the importance of St. Kilda’s history is as critical as ever. With a frightening number of cultures disappearing from the incessant march of modernization, the history of St. Kilda provides a valuable look at a land where time all but stood still. It is where a community managed to survive in the most inhospitable of settings because the people were without ego; they were without visions of grandeur and getting ahead. They survived because they knew that working for the common good was what ultimately would save them all. Except in the end— when it didn’t.

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St. Kilda is so small it is barely a speck on most world maps. It is plunked 50 miles off the coast of Scotland. It is the most remote place in the British Isles, with wind speeds reaching 200 mph and full-force gales blowing 75 days of the year. It has the largest colony of gannets in the world, and the tallest cliffs in Britain. It also happens to be home to the largest flock of Soay—the oldest breed of domesticated sheep dating back to the Bronze Age. To understand life on St. Kilda is to understand the relationship between all of these elements; without any one of them life would not have been possible.

Hirta, the largest of the island chain, is only one and a half miles long and no more than three quarters of a mile wide. Its landscape is as beautiful as it is haunting. Smoke colored cliffs shoot up from the sea like skyscrapers stuffed along an urban horizon. Fields of tussock and ancient stone spread across the island’s five main hills as flocks of dark and tan shaggy sheep drift from side to side. Of the four islands, Hirta is the only one that has a marginally protected harbor, enabling boats to drop anchor within close proximity to the shore. A few hundred yards away sits the town of Village Bay, a single “street” with a single row of identical stone houses. It is where the now deserted community of St. Kildans used to live and where centuries of them have been quietly buried.

Very little is known about the early inhabitants of St. Kilda. One can still see the remains of beehive-shaped stone and turf structures from prehistoric times suggesting that they were possibly pastoralists. But who knows why they ultimately left; perhaps they were wiped out by disease.

When the Norsemen invaded Scotland in the eighth century, St. Kilda was undoubtedly part of their conquest, but for the better part of the past four centuries the island has been under the ownership of MacLeod of MacLeod who required that the St. Kildans pay him an annual rent based on their harvest of seafowl and handwoven wool.

Unlike much of Scotland that had long since transitioned to a cash-based economy, the St. Kildans were still earning their keep from the sweat off their brow—to say nothing of the edge of the cliffs.

The men of St. Kilda were bird people. Boys were taught how to climb cliffs, capture eggs and strangle birds, often by the age of 10. Fathers and sons would descend over 100-foot ledges tethered to each other by a single rope in order to teach the young boys how to navigate the lethal bluffs. With vast colonies of fulmars, gannets and puffins nesting in nearly every available inch, the birds were as important to the St. Kildans as the reindeer were to the Laplanders.

Records indicate that during certain times of the year, the community of 180 St. Kildans consumed about 16,000 eggs per week. “They just eat as the peasantry eats potatoes,” said one visitor to the island.

Because of the poor quality of soil, the islanders were limited in what they could grow and even further restricted by having to cultivate the land entirely by hand. There was not so much as a wheelbarrow to be found to help harvest the meager crops of barley, oats and potatoes, and the manure that came from the cattle the islanders shared their homes with was judiciously gathered and spread about for fertilizer.

Nearly all the food on the island was boiled or stewed.

There was only one oven and that belonged to the minister living at the manse owned by the proprietor. The St. Kildans

preferred the taste of bird meat to fish and ate meat or mutton only as a last resort. A typ– ical breakfast consisted of porridge and milk with a puffin boiled in a pot of oats to give it some flavor.

When John Macculloch visited St. Kilda in 1819 the cloud of feathers that cloaked the island overwhelmed him. “The air is full of feathered animals,” he said. “The sea is covered with them; the houses are ornamented by them, the ground is speckled with them like a flowery meadow in May. The town is paved with feathers … The inhabitants look as if they had all been tarred and feathered, for their hair is full of feathers and their clothes are covered with feathers …

Everything smells like feathers.”

But despite both the abundance and the importance of sea birds, the island sheep served a valuable role as well. And if trying to survive on an island plagued with ferocious seas, deafening winds and impoverished soil proved daunting for humans, the sheep on St. Kilda didn’t fare much better.

By the end of the 17th century an estimated 2,000 sheep were spread out between St. Kilda’s four islands (see “Rare Thoughts” on page 56). With the exception of the flock of Soay (living on the island of Soay) owned by the proprietor, the domesticated sheep, which were not Soay sheep, were owned by individual families in flocks ranging Opening pages: Village Bay on Hirta, St. Kilda.

Far left: Man on a rope scaling down a cliff on Hirta. Men carrying their seabird catch on the island of Boreray, St. Kilda. Wool preparation on Hirta. (Archival images courtesy of The National Trust of Scotland.)

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The “town” of Village Bay consisted of a single row of houses that provided shelter for man and beast. There were times when the winds blew so fiercely some of the islanders were left deaf for days.

from as few as eleven to more than a hundred.

It was only after the crops had been properly planted, and the seafowl harvest temporarily put to rest, that the month of June ushered in long summer days and the commencement of the annual sheep roundup when virtually everyone got in on the act. With no fencing to use for containment or crowd control, and the menacing nature of the terrain, it took nearly the entire month to gather all the animals.

Invariably there were casualties.

Because of their primitive nature, Soay are not flocking sheep; when threatened, their response is to scatter.

Occasionally the islanders and their mongrel dogs would come too close upon the heels of the sheep and drive them to the cliff ’s edge. Between the heat of the moment and the length of the precipice, some of them kept right on

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running. Ideally, the animals were herded into one of the many stone enclosures built just for this purpose, and the dogs would be far enough behind to prevent anyone from making a panic-driven leap—but it didn’t always work out that way.

To compensate for their losses the St. Kildans developed a type of insurance system. Anyone who lost an animal was compensated by the other islanders either through direct replacement with another animal or by direct payment.

And though the sheep were not communally held, everyone always helped with the roundup. Once the flock had been captured and contained it was time for shearing, or rooing as it is properly called.

If many of the St. Kildans’ daily activities seemed unconventional given the extreme nature of their surroundings. The method they employed for shearing was no different. Rather than use a sturdy pair of hand shears, the islanders preferred to remove the fleece with a penknife. They did so by laboriously combing through the fiber with their hands while gently cutting the wool as they went. Fortunately, shearing the Soays proved much easier, as they naturally shed their fleece every year. If it is not manually gathered in time, long snagged knots of wool begin trailing along the ground behind them.

There was one year when George Murray, the schoolmaster, apparently attempted to teach the St. Kildans how to shear the domestic sheep using regular sheep shears that had been given to one of the islanders as a gift. As the long sharp blades were offered forth for inspection a crowd soon assembled proclaiming them an object of wonder—a “great invention” they all hailed. As the schoolmaster brought the shears closer to the “demo-ewe,”

suddenly there were cries from the onlookers of “Love, don’t cut the throat,” “Don’t take out the liver.” And after he had masterfully concluded the demonstration, the St. Kildans unanimously agreed to continue as they always had with penknife in hand.

The St. Kildans processed all of the wool themselves.

The wool they gathered from the Soay was brought back to Hirta by boat where the women did the carding and the spinning and the men did the weaving. They had their own tweed and much of the cloth they made was given to the proprietor as part of their annual rent. A generous amount of handspun, however, was always kept in reserve for knitting sweaters and socks. The St. Kildans were known for having their knitting in hand virtually everywhere they went.

But even without a modern eye trained toward comfort and convenience, life on St. Kilda was an endless challenge. Yet years—in fact centuries—of practice had successfully taught its people the necessary lessons of the land and the sea. So why in the end did it ultimately fail? What precipitated the downfall of this remote community that had managed to survive on feathers and wool seemingly since the beginning of time? Why on that foggy morning in late August long after the Harebell had left the newly deserted shores did Finlay McQueen, one of the elder residents, mutter “May God forgive those who have taken us away from St. Kilda.”

Finlay McQueen’s call to God may in fact have held an eerie note of irony as some believe that the stern dictates of the Free Church, which emerged after the Disruption in 1843 within the Church of Scotland, actually signaled the beginning of the end. Christianity most likely came to St. Kilda in the sixth century with the arrival of the monks who migrated from Ireland to Iceland, and for years the St. Kildans were reputed to be a “gay people, fond of song and poetry and playing games on the summer sands in Village Bay.” But all that changed as the new breed of missionaries brought with them the threat of the Seven Deadly Sins and a religious orthodoxy that altered their daily routine. Church services were conducted every day except Monday and Saturday and deemed compulsory for every islander over the age of two. At one time there were even three services held on Sunday and in view of their complete reliance upon the elements, the islanders soon discovered that the lengthy hours spent in church impeded their level of daily production. In 1866 after the Reverend John Mackay arrived at St. Kilda, the tenor of the island seemed to lose the last vestiges of happiness and the St. Kildans were described as a “troop of the Fifth Anniversary Issue 49

damned whom Satan is driving into a bottomless pit.�

Given the amount of work involved in gathering the seabirds, planting the crops and tending the sheep, St. Kilda required a population of at least 100 to be self-sustaining. A certain number of men were needed to scramble about the cliffs while women were busy tending to the croft and the next generation. As disease began to rob more souls from the masses, the workload grew commensurately for those who were left, making everyday life just that much more difficult.

Another factor, however, levied an even heavier toll on the St. Kildans beyond the damage already wrought by religious dogma and disease. It was something so seemingly benign, particularly given the culture of the 1800s, it was not surprising that few if any envisioned the deleterious consequences it would ultimately bring— and perhaps in the end it truly was the lethal blow.

In June of 1877 the first steamship set sail for St. Kilda with a full complement of Victorians on board with the promise of a voyage

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to “the Romantic Western Isles and the lone St. Kilda.”

As Dunara Castle came into view of the harbor with its billowing stack, many of the islanders were taken aback at the approaching ship “on fire.”

The tourists came in droves and were not only enchanted by the island’s geographical isolation, but also viewed the St. Kildans as something of a cultural anomaly: they spoke differently and dressed differently, few could read and write, their ideas of sanitation were defined by the space they shared with their livestock, and their day was planned according to the rising of the sun and the turning of the tides. They hung over cliffs, cooked on an open flame, and managed to survive through hard work and determination.

But it was not the tourists’ intrigue that eroded their soul; it was the power of money the visitors brought that ignited the flame.

With no jetty on the island for docking, visitors needed to be ferried to and from the ship across waters that were invariably choppy and complicated by rocks. As a result, the St. Kildan men were all too happy to hop in their rowboats and bring their new guests safely ashore—for a price. They charged one shilling per person, but those shillings soon added up and became the ticket to a different way of life.

Similarly, women would line up at the dock shaking hands with everyone who came ashore and soon began selling the visitors stockings and gloves they had carefully knit during the long winter months. Boys greeted the tourists A lone Soay near the water’s edge. The red ear tag signifies that he is part of the ongoing research program on Hirta. The cliffs of St. Kilda provide the ideal nesting spot for a variety of sea fowl although they were not so inviting to the islanders.

with eggs gathered from fulmar and puffin nests, selling them for a penny apiece, and almost overnight an island that had managed so well without so much as a dime lost its innocence.

Granted, the available spending sprees were initially limited to what few items could be purchased from the steamer as it rode at anchor—a few biscuits, some sweets, even a little tobacco was all it took to whet their appetite for something more. But with the availability of regularly scheduled passage to the mainland during the summer months, the St. Kildans soon began making more purchases and before long they were making the journey themselves.

If the Victorians found St. Kilda fascinating, the mainland was also a panoply of novelties for the islanders who were seeing trees, squirrels, bicycles and toilets for the first time. There was no end to the sights and sounds that bemused them. Gradually, more and more men realized that employment on the mainland meant new economic opportunities, and an insidious migration off island began to take place. Although saddened to leave their homes and the unshakable interdependence endemic to an isolated community, the St. Kildans had lost the heart for the struggle to survive. By 1930 only 36 islanders were left, mostly women and children and a handful of the elderly.

Certainly too few to have any hope of surviving in the traditional manner. At the urging of the village nurse during an intense and difficult meeting one night, the community agreed to petition the Scottish government to be evacuated knowing that if they did not leave willingly they would surely perish.

Fifth Anniversary Issue 51

Remembering When “For the few men left on Hirta life was hard.

Lachlan Macdonald stayed to look after his mother.

His father had died in a drowning accident whenLachlan was young and his mother had been let to bring up the family. By the 1920s only Lachlan was prepared to carry on living on St. Kilda. ‘My brother went away to Glasgow and my mother was bad with rheumatics,’ he recalls. ‘She was all crippled up and she was on sticks at the end. So I was doing most of the work myself and I was only young, I used to do the spinning, do everything just to help my mother.’

Not yet 20 years old, Lachlan was also having to manage the croft, go with the men to hunt sea birds, and in the winter, of course, weave the cloth that would pay the rent. ‘When the winter came,’ he says, ‘you think you are going to have a rest, but it was as hard in the day in winter as it was in the summer. You were out through the day looking after your sheep and cattle, then when it come night you were sitting there in the house and you had a pair of cards to comb up the wool and then spinning it and weaving it and so forth. It was maybe two or three o’clock in the morning before you would get to your bed.

Then you were up again in the morning, away back to work again. There was nothing, just work, work, all the time.”

The Life and Death of St. Kilda, by Tom Steel

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With the last departure of the Harebell from Village Bay in 1930 a long chapter in St. Kildan history came to a close. To everyone’s great surprise, however, it was the preservation of the sheep that would ensure the final chapter had not been written.

Two years after the last human departed, a flock of 107 Soay sheep were transferred from the island of Soay to Hirta. Because of the ancient nature of the breed, there was growing concern that an isolated flock might fall prey to disease or some type of cataclysmic event that could wipe out the entire population and its unique genetic code forever. It is because of the interest in this once small flock whose numbers now hover around 1,000 that the story of St. Kilda continues to be told time and again.

Not until 1954 did a group of scientists formally begin to study the Soays. The sheep have always lived as an unmanaged flock, allowed to breed at will, forage as they can, and ultimately survive or not. Most animals are captured and tagged, and monitored according to weight, fecundity and longevity. Some possess two horns and some have none at all. They have divided themselves into separate flocks on the island; four flocks live near Village Bay, but there are other flocks on the rest of the island that are not tagged or monitored and maintain distinctly separate grazing areas. Studies show that they not only possess critical information about their past, but also provide important genetic material for studying other herbivores in an uncontrolled environment.

In 1963, the first official flock of Soays was removed from Hirta by Prof. Peter Jewel and some of the sheep were taken to Holloway College, Egham, London, where further studies were conducted. Eventually a passionate interest in the Soay also began to develop among disparate folks who understood the importance of this unusual historic breed. Most people who see a Soay lamb for the first time can’t help but remark on its similarity to a tiny fawn. With absolutely no resemblance to the stereotypical fleecy white lamb cavorting through pastures with undocked tails, the Soay’s delicate face and fine-boned features appear decidedly un-sheepy.

Nearly 70 years to the day after the Harebell left Village Bay, severing relations that had existed for as long as anyone could remember, and silently ringing the death knell on a community that would inevitably be forgotten, a small but hardy boat called the Cuma dropped anchor by its shores. On board, a group of dedicated Soay enthusiasts from around the world had joined together for the first time for a visit to the “motherland.” Like

any group connected by a common passion, whether it is collecting antique dolls or navigating the globe in search of rare birds, this group of dedicated keepers instantly recognized each other as next of kin.

It was also on that visit from the Cuma that two women found a common interest that has ultimately led not only to some of the most important advancements in preserving this ancient and beguiling breed, but also to the forming of a very special bond between them. Kathie Miller, a tireless farmer in Southern Oregon, who quickly admits her passion for Soay doesn’t just border on obsessive—it is—struck up a friendship with Christine Williams, a Londoner and retired teacher who moved to Wales to pursue her passion for Soay. Her farm, Gaelwyd, has grown far beyond its original hobby proportions and she now has one of the leading flocks of registered Soay in the UK. It was not long after the women met that the two began plotting.

Sometime after Prof. Jewel left Holloway, the college decided to sell the sheep and by great fortune, Christine knew the person who had been taking care of them and decided to buy the flock. Her animals have never been crossbred and possess valuable true Soay genetics. When Kathie and Christine put their heads together they immediately

Soay sheep naturally lose their fleece and therefore don’t require shearing.

However, it takes time for the whole fleece to shed and some stages are more unsightly than others.

knew the next step was to try to establish the first successful AI (artificial insemination) program between their two flocks and their two countries. The obstacles they have had to overcome make the success of Dolly the sheep seem like a footnote. Although AI is the norm throughout much of the livestock world, it is important to remember that

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Fifth Anniversary Issue 53

the wily Soay bears very little resemblance to the docile and domesticated modern day sheep. As a result, the Soay is much more apt to reject a procedure that is assuredly not how nature intended; the rams are simply reluctant to produce sperm in an artificial environment.

Reproductive challenges aside, the whole program was nearly extinguished during the foot and mouth epidemic in 2003. It was a time when few people who did not witness it Christine Williams (left) with boat captain firsthand could even Angus Campbell and Kathie Miller returnimagine the daily ing from their trip to St. Kilda in August 2008. horror of seeing entire herds set on fire, when “officials” could come onto a property and destroy both lives and livelihoods with little more than a passing nod. It was a time of great uncertainty for Christine (who also owns a large flock of Boreray sheep) who didn’t know from

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one day to the next if her entire flock would be decimated by the strike of a match. Once the danger had finally passed, the episode served to deepen Kathie and Christine’s commitment to establishing an AI program.

The last eight years have also been witness to Kathie’s own struggle with leukemia, the death of her husband, a second diagnosis of cancer, and subsequent surgery that has left one side of her face partially paralyzed. It is no secret among her friends and doctors that the promise of a final trip with Christine to St. Kilda’s last August surely helped keep her alive.

On March 27, 2008, the first AI lamb was born on Kathie’s farm in Oregon. And yes, it was cause for great celebration, giving Kathie and Christine the peace of mind that the legacy of St. Kilda will not perish. For a community that had virtually vanished in a day, when a lone boat pulled out of its harbor, the undaunted spirit of this remote island is slowly reaching out around the world because of a dedicated group of farmers, and an ancient but not forgotten breed of very rare sheep.

F

w

For more information on St. Kilda visit www.kilda.org.uk

Fifth Anniversary Issue 55

Rare Thoughts

By Margaret B. Russell

FORGOT National Trust for Scotland photo library

T

he potent allure of a faraway place … of people … of creatures … untouched by the passage of time for thousands of years is fodder for fiction. But the saga of both man and animal that dwelled in St. Kilda, Scotland is no mere fanciful tale. This was an epic journey of endurance, despite the inordinate probability of defeat.

St. Kilda is an isolated, rocky archipelago towering out of the Atlantic, approximately 40 miles/65 kilometers west of the Outer Hebrides.

Consisting of the westernmost islands of Scotland, St. Kilda lies at the eruption center of a volcano believed to have been active 60 million years ago. The incessant struggle of the St. Kildans to exist amid this backdrop was a communal effort that imposed a crucial dependency on the output of every member of the society. The 56

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provision of food and clothing commanded mental and physical attention for young and old alike. The islanders were almost entirely self-sufficient and what few wares they did need from the outside were subject to the erratic delivery of ships piloting the heavy seas in the most precarious weather. Surviving on a diet of various seabirds, and wearing simple attire fashioned from the islands’ sheep, the St. Kildans eked out their survival in sea-swept seclusion.

Animals were vital to the welfare of the St. Kildans. In addition to the seafowl, sheep were the next most important to the community’s survival, supplying such essentials as meat, milk and wool. There were numerous sheep of varying colors and ancestry inhabiting the four islands of St. Kilda: Hirta, Soay, Boreray and Dun. Hirta, the largest of the islands,

offered the human inhabitants a flat livable area amid its rearing crags.

Hirta is the only island of the four with a human population and it is also where the greatest of the domestic sheep lived.

Boreray, an island completely circumscribed by cliffs, held a reserve flock. Separated from Hirta by a narrow channel, Dun is a much smaller island that served as a breakwater from the overly assertive sea and was used to winter over lambs on its lush grassy “meadows.”

It is believed that the white sheep brought over by the Romans to Scotland were crossed with the native breeds and produced the sheep initially owned by the St. Kildans, the now extinct Old Scottish Shortwool, also called the Scottish Tan Face or Dunface. This creamy white domestic breed continued to evolve as it was

integrated with a subgroup of the Scottish Blackface, a favored white woolen breed introduced to Scotland from England in the early 19th century.

When the Blackface bred with the hardy local sheep on the Hebrides, a smaller framed sheep developed. In the late 19th century, the St. Kildans wisely chose to cross some sheep from this subgroup, known as the Hebridean Blackface, with the Old Scottish Shortwool to improve their domestic breed. Though they continued to be referred to as the Hebridean Blackface or Boreray Blackface, the sheep were in fact not pure Blackface. As recently as the latter part of the 20th century, a sepaFive men shearing Blackface sheep outside Store in the Village on the island of Hirta, St. Kilda. A man loaded down with a sack of wool on the island of Hirta.

National Trust for Scotland photo library

T EN?

Fifth Anniversary Issue 57

Once the weather began to ease, the first order of business in the new year was an accounting of the sheep that had endured the winds fierce enough to blow them over the cliffs.

rate breed was acknowledged and became registered with the Rare Breeds Survival Trust, UK, as the Boreray sheep. This extraordinary lineage offers a quick glimpse into the complex evolution of the St. Kildan flocks.

The island of Soay, the second largest of the St. Kilda islands, is separated from Hirta by a sea-filled passageway and is entirely walled by sheer turrets of rock. On Soay, meaning “island of sheep” in Old Norse, there was a different breed of sheep of the same name. Uncertain in origin, the Soay are believed by some to have been brought to St. Kilda by

Soay Characteristics Wool: Fleece color is predominantly brown, tan or chocolate with light markings on the underbelly and rump, over the eyes, and under the jaw. Self-colored animals (solid with no markings) occur in tans and browns with occasional blacks. No wool on face or legs. Faces may be light or dark in color.

Sheds fleece naturally if not shorn.

Fleece weight averages 1-2 lbs/less than 1 kg.

Double coated, wool texture varies from a soft, fine, inner coat to a coarse, hairy, kempy outer coat.

Micron count: may range from 12 to 100 (includes kemp).

Staple length: 2-4 inches/5-10 cm.

Animal: Small sized primitive breed.

Intelligent, hardy and agile.

Low maintenance, thrive on marginal pasture.

Rams: average weight 80 lbs/36 kg.

Ewes: average weight 45-50 lbs/20-23 kg.

Rams are horned with various configurations. Ewes may be horned or polled.

Both sexes may be scurred (exhibiting small, undeveloped horns).

Short tail.

Excellent mothers with ease of lambing. Lambs mature quickly.

Rare Breeds Survival Trust, UK, 2008 Watchlist, Category 4, At Risk, less than 1,500 registered breeding ewes. In addition to the registered flocks of Soay sheep, a feral population exists in the western isles of Scotland.

British Soay and North American Soay Sheep – British Soay is a Soay sheep in North America that is registered (or birth notified) with the Combined Flock Book of the Rare Breeds Survival Trust, UK. They are the descendants of a flock exported from England to Canada in 1990 and then brought to Oregon during 1998-2000. They are considered equivalent to the Soay in the UK due to extensive documentation of their lineage and would be recognized as such if they were to return. There are just over 200 British Soay breeding ewes in the United States. North American Soay sheep are registered in the United States. They are the descendants of a flock exported from Scotland to Canada in 1974. Some remained in Canada while others were dispersed to the United States. Documentation is not continuous. The Open Flockbook Project database registers 1,900 North American Soay sheep.

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Neolithic settlers, while others feel they may originally have accompanied the Vikings on their voyages.

The Soay is a probable descendant of the wild Mouflon—a robust but sleek sheep originating in Southwest Asia with imposing horns seemingly built for conflict.

The Soay is a small, unmanaged breed with colors commonly ranging from dark brown to light tan; its wool was softer than that of the domestic breed living on Hirta and was greatly desired by the islanders. The Soay did not belong to the St. Kildans, however; the sheep were considered the property of the islands’ holder. As such they were rarely used for meat, as that would have required payment to the proprietor. Owing to the islands’ all but impenetrable domain, the Soay has evolved in total isolation, managing to retain its genetic variance as its evolution has been shepherded only by nature.

The gathering and processing of wool from both breeds of sheep on St. Kilda was a yearlong endeavor that involved the entire community.

Once the weather began to ease, the first order of business in the new year was an accounting of the sheep that had endured the winds fierce enough to blow them over the cliffs. When the warmer months arrived, men, women, children and dogs would engage in a ruagadh, a grueling though somewhat social activity of catching sheep. These animals were extraordinarily agile creatures, astonishingly swift and nimble along the rugged precipices. Rather than flocking when chased, they scattered in a multitude of directions. The mongrel dogs, whose teeth were regularly filed down or broken, were trained to seize and safely hold the sheep by the throat until relieved of them. The purpose

of the ruagadh was to restrain the sheep long enough to harvest the fleece. Though introduced to hand shears at one time, the St. Kildans preferred the traditional method of removing fleece by rooing. As each new season’s wool growth began, a break or weakened area developed between the new and old wool, thus causing the fleece to naturally shed or be gently pulled away. Since this did not occur consistently over the body, however, the St. Kildans would use a knife to ease away the fleece from the unreleased areas. The collected wool would then be washed and dried, and stored in the cottage lofts by each family, until such time as the weather changed and they were forced to do inside work.

The mood of the community always turned festive during wool season as everyone traveled from home to home to ready the wool reserve for

spinning and weaving. Resounding laughter, shared stories and grand feasts accompanied the productive wool workers into the wee hours of the morning. The men, boys and girls would tease and pick through the mountains of wool, removing anything undesirable left after the washing.

Cardadh mor, the big carding of the wool, was the process of using flat, wooden wire-toothed brush-es for combing out the wool to ready it for spinning. During the carding process different shades of wool could be blended to vary the color palette while oil from the seafowl was added to ease the handling of the fibers during spinning. The women were the handspinners, using a wheel or drop spindle. Some of the spun wool would be saved for knitting gloves, scarves and socks

Fifth Anniversary Issue 59

for use by the St. Kildans or to sell to tourists. The lighter colored wool from the domestic breed was frequently dyed a traditional shade of blue with imported indigo, while a reddish-brown color was created by using crotal (lichen) that was harvested from the island.

The men of St. Kilda were the weavers, and once enough yarn had been spun it was time to remove and reassemble the simple floor looms stored in the cottage’s loft. For the next few months the looms never fell silent as the hours elapsed into a new day and the coarsely woven cloth grew. Many times family members would find the weavers asleep at their looms in the morning, having worked through the night. When they were finished with weaving, the long strips of cloth were removed from the loom and returned to the

women for waulking or Shiord Thu, meaning “over to you.” It was a joyful time when a group would sit around a table, singing and chanting, while rhythmically pounding and pulling the wet cloth.

As it passed from hand to hand, the cloth softened and fulled or thickened.

The men were responsible for the final washing and drying before the massive bolts were placed in storage. The men were also the tailors and used some of the cloth to make the simple, functional clothing worn by the St. Kildans. Most of the wool, however, was reserved for weaving blankets and bolts of St. Kildan tweed, which was used as rent payment to the islands’ laird who in turn sold the unique fabric to awaiting customers on the mainland.

In 1930, the islands’ looms were put to rest for the last time as the re-

maining 36 St. Kildans were evacuated to the mainland. This selfsustained community living in a faraway land finally succumbed to the impact of the advancing world and the future of the St. Kildans was irreparably shattered. In hindsight, their 2,000-year history represents only a mere moment of undaunted spirit and ingenuity in woolen enterprise.

Their triumphs and defeats were vast, with some continuing through the preservation of the written word, and others left silently clinging to the rocks on the abandoned shores of a land that may soon be forgotten.

wF

Boreray Characteristics Wool:

Rare Breeds Survival Trust, UK, 2008

Fleece color is mainly pale gray, tan or creamy white, often with a dark collar

Watchlist, Category 1, Critical, less

around the neck and dark rump patch. A few dark animals occur. No wool on

than 300 registered breeding ewes.

face or lower legs – coloring is black, tan or gray with frequent black, tan or

In addition to the registered flocks of

speckled markings.

Boreray sheep, a feral population ex-

Sheds fleece naturally if not shorn.

ists in the western isles of Scotland.

Fleece weight averages 2-3 lbs/1.25-1.4 kg.

Coarse in texture with short kemp.

British primitive breeds have naturally

Micron count: 23-32.

short tails, most often have double-

Staple length: 4-6 inches/10-15 cm.

coated colored fleece, and shed or moult their fleece annually. Rams are horned; females may or may not be. They

Animal:

are hardy and generally maintain sufficient wild instinct to survive with little or

Small sized breed displaying primitive characteristics.

no intervention.

Intelligent, hardy and agile.

Thrive on marginal pasture.

The Soay and Boreray sheep are predominantly feral populations and the col-

Rams: average weight 100 lbs/45 kg.

lection of wool and animal characteristics is progressive. Staple length, average

Ewes: average weight 55-66 lbs/25-30 kg.

fleece weight, micron count, and average body weights presently offer intro-

Both sexes horned; rams have large, spiraled horns.

ductory numbers, accessed from researchers and breeders directly involved

Short tail.

with both of these breeds. These figures may be revised as further information

Excellent mothers, active lambs.

is acquired and documented.

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Fifth Anniversary Issue 61

ALBERTA Designed by Jared Flood

This is the perfect design for using either handspun or a sturdy yarn from The Shetlands, perhaps even some yarn from a rare breed of British Sheep if you are fortunate enough to find some.

Sizes: S (M, L, XL, XXL) Finished Dimensions: 37” (41”, 45”, 49”, 53”) Materials: Approx 150 (150, 150, 200, 200) g of worsted weight wool in each MC (Main Color) and CC (Contrast Color); 100g of TC (Trim Color) [Pattern shown uses solid color for MC, self-striping handspun for CC, and contrasting solid for TC] Gauge: 4.5sts and 6 rows per inch Needles: One 16” and one 32” circular needle in size US 8 (or size needed to obtain gauge) Notions: Stitch Markers (m), a few scraps of waste yarn, crochet hook or sewing machine for securing steeks, small sharp scissors for cutting Notes: This vest is worked completely in the round from bottom-up and shaped using steeks. Armholes and neck steeks are cut and each opening is picked up and trimmed in 1x1 ribbing using Trim Color.

Pattern: With larger circular needle and TC, CO 150 (166, 182, 198, 214) sts (Tubular Cast On recommended).

Place marker (m) and join into round.

Round 1: *k1, p1; repeat from * around Repeat Round 1, establishing 1x1 ribbing, until work measures 2” from CO edge.

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Switch to MC and knit one round plain Work Increase Round as follows: knit next round with MC, increasing 16 (20, 20, 24, 24) sts evenly spaced around. [166 (186, 202, 222, 238) sts on needle] Begin working stripes Rounds 1 & 2: With CC, knit all sts Rounds 3 & 4: With MC, knit all sts Repeat last two rounds, establishing 2-row stripe motif until work measures 14 (14, 14.5, 15, 15)” from CO. Carry unused yarn up inside of work along seam line and do not break yarn as you work.

Maintain striping sequence throughout remainder of garment as you shape yoke.

Establish Armhole steeks: Next Round: remove m, slip first 6 (7, 8, 9, 9) sts to waste yarn, replace marker (this indicates new beg of round) knit 71 (79, 85, 93, 101) sts, slip next 12 (14, 16, 18, 18) sts to waste yarn, place steek marker (sm), CO 5 sts using firm backward loops, place sm, knit until 6 (7, 8, 9, 9) sts rem in round, slip these sts onto waste yarn (same waste yarn as beg of round), place sm, CO 5 sts using firm backward loops. Join work to beg of round You have now placed your live underarm sts onto waste yarn and casted on 5-stitch steeks in their place, which have been “fenced” in by stitch mark-

ers so that you will be able to recognize where your steeks are and where your decreases need to be placed. It is recommended to use a Stitch marker of an alternate color to indicate the beginning of round.

Shape Armholes: Round 1: *k1, k2tog, knit until 3 sts rem before next sm, ssk, k1, slip marker, k5, slip marker; repeat once more from * Repeat last round, shaping set-in armhole until 59 (59, 61, 65, 65) sts remain between steeks on both front and back. [128 (128, 132, 140, 140) sts on needle, including steek sts] Next Round: knit all sts Repeat last round until yoke measures # (4, #, #, #)” from underarm sts.

Setup Neckhole Steek: Next Round: knit 28 (28, 29, 31, 31) sts, place next 3 sts onto waste yarn to be held for later. Place steek marker (sm), using firm backward loops CO 5 sts, place sm, knit to end of round.

You have now set aside 3 sts at center front and established a 5-stitch steek for neckhole opening. You will now begin shaping V-neck opening around these steek sts. [There are now a total of 6 markers being used to indicate steek placement, one of which indicates beg of round] Shape V-Neck: Round 1: k all sts Round 2: k until 3 sts rem before 1st m (neck steek), ssk, k1, slip

Jared Flood

Fifth Anniversary Issue 63

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Jared Flood

marker, k5, slip marker, k1, k2tog, k to end of round [2 sts decreased] Repeat last 2 rounds until 13 (12, 12, 13, 13) sts rem between beg of round and neck steek (beg of round and 1st st marker) Continue knitting all rounds until yoke measures 10 (10.5, 10.5, 10.5, 11)” from underarm sts.

Shape shoulders: Cease working striping motif – work shoulder short rows with ONE COLOR.

Row 1 (RS): k until 2 sts rem before 1st armhole steek, wrap st and turn work Row 2 (WS): p until 2 sts rem before beg of round, wrap st and turn Row 3 (RS): k until 3 sts rem before prev wrap. Wrap and turn Row 4 (WS): p until 3 sts rem before prev wrap. Wrap and turn.

Repeat Rows 3 & 4 once more.

Next Round: knit to first armhole steek, slip marker, k5, slip marker. Stop.

Work Short Rows for shoulder

backs as for fronts (above).

Knit from current location to beg of round Next Round: knit to neckhole steek, remove marker, BO 5 steek sts, remove marker, k to first armhole steek, remove marker, BO 5, armhole steek sts, remove marker, k 13 (12, 12, 13, 13), bind off 33 (35, 37, 39, 39) sts for back neck, knit to last armhole steek, remove marker, BO 5 armhole steek stitches, With RS facing, using kitchenter stitch, graft 13 (12, 12, 13, 13) sts of R shoulder front to mirroring sts of R shoulder back. Repeat for Left Shoulder.

Secure steeks using crochet method or machine sewn method.

Cut steeks down center stitch, creating armhole and v-neck openings.

Work Armhole Bands: Right Armhole: Slip underarm sts from waste yarn onto 16” circular needle. Starting at bottom L of armhole (to the left of underarm sts) and using TC, begin picking up 2 stitches for every 3 rows around armhole until you reach underarm again, making sure to pick up an even number of sts.

Place marker and join into round.

Round 1: *k1, p1; repeat from * around Repeat last round, establishing 1x1 rib until armhole band measures 1”.

Bind off all sts (Tubular Bind off recommended.)

Repeat for Left Armhole.

Work Neck Band: Slip 3 center neck sts from waste yarn onto 16” circular needle.

Starting at bottom L of neck opening (just to the left of held sts) and using TC, begin picking up 2 sts for every

3 rows up side neck until you reach shoulder seam. Pick up 29 (31, 33, 34, 35) sts across back neck, continue picking up 2 sts for every 3 rows down remaining side neck sts. Place marker and join into round, making sure you have an odd number of sts on needle.

Next Round: Sl1, k2tog, pass slipped st over [you have just worked a centered double decrease], *k1, p1; repeat from * around establishing ribbing Next Round: work in 1x1 ribbing as established by the prev round Repeat the last two rounds, working a centered double decrease at bottom-center of v-neck opening every other round, until Neck Band measures 1”.

Bind off all sts (Tubular Bind Off recommended).

Weave in all ends. Block to measurements.

Jared Flood is a New York City based photographer and knitwear designer. His designs have been featured in Interweave Knits, Vogue Knitting, Knit.1 and various book publications. He is the creator of Brooklyn Tweed, www.brooklyntweed.net.

Fifth Anniversary Issue 65

Mill Guide Bedfellows Blankets 7 Martin Rd. Shelburne Falls, MA 01370 413-625-2730 blanketweave.com

Flaggy Meadow Fiberworks 2110 Mackville Rd. Springfield, KY 40069 859-336-7289 flaggymeadowfiberworks.com

Morning Star Fiber 8522 Dover Rd. Apple Creek, OH 44606 330-439-4301 morningstarfiber.com

Superior Fibers 13344 Marlatt Rd. So.Jefferson, OR 97352 503-999-6318 superior-fibers.com

Carothers Country Mill 23798 Whitman Deering Dr. Minnesota City, MN 55959 507-689-2677 carotherscountryfarm.com

From Barn to Yarn PO Box 1161 Boring, OR 97709 503-312-0994 frombarntoyarn.com

Morning Sun Fiber 15514 46th St. Wapello, IA 52653 319-868-3099 morningsunfiberbarn.com

Texas Fiber Mill 1155 CR 307 McDade, TX 78650 512-273-2540 texasfibermill.com

The Drafting Zone 16513 Sylvan Dr. Bowie, MD 20715 301-464-5738 lohra@aol.com

Glade Park Fiber Mill 16921 Elk Dr. Glade Park, CO 81573 970-245-6306 MTBox@aol.com

NEW AIM Fiber Mill 13 Robinson Rd. Waldoboro, ME 04572 207-837-1059 newaimfibermill.com

DVA Fiber Processing 1281 S. Cleveland Ave. Loveland, CO 80537 888-669-4131 dvafiberprocess@frii.com

Green Mountain Spinnery PO Box 568 Putney, VT 05346 800-321-9665 spinnery.com

New Era Fiber 7738-A Highway 109 Lebanon, TN 37087 615-444-4765 newerafiber.com

Trinity Leather & Natural Fibers 31024 Township Rd. 11 Fresno, OH 43824 330-897-4320 trinityleather@wildblue.net

Duckflats Farms PO Box 318 Plainville, NY 13137 315-689-7848 duckflatsfarm.com

Good Karma Spinning 51 West Kingfield Rd. Kingfield, ME 04947 207-265-5276 www.karmayarn.com

Still River Mill PO Box 397 Eastford, CT 06242 860-974-9918 StillRiverMill.com

Fantasy Fibers 9190 S. Centennial Ln. Canby, OR 97013 503-263-4902 fantasyfibers.com

Haneke Fiber Mill 4600 W. Quarterhorse Ln. Meidian, ID 83642 1-800-523-WOOL kathyhaneke@msn.com

Stonehedge Fiber Mill 2246 Pesek Rd. East Jordan, MI 49727 866-536-2779 stonehedgefibermill.com

Tunbridge Woolworks 37 Ordway Rd. Tunbridge, VT 05077 802-889-3417 tunbridgewoolworks.com Yolo Wool Mill 41501 County Rd. 27 Woodland, CA 95776 530-666-1473 yolowoolmill.com Zeilinger Wool Co. 1130 Weiss St. Frankenmuth, MI 48734 877-767-2920 zwool.com INTERNATIONAL Legacy Lane Fiber Mill 38 Scott Rd. Markhamville, NB Canada 506-433-5604 legacylanefibermill.ca Qori Exports SRL (Part of the Qiviuk Group) Avenida Ejercito 101 Yanahuara, Arequipa Peru (054) 254575 qoriexports@terra.com.pe

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Wild Fibers Magazine

Breeder Associations Breeder associations are an important reference for understanding breed standards and import restrictions when applicable. It is not unusual to have more than one association connected with a specific fiber animal.

American Livestock Breeds Conservancy PO Box 477 Pittsboro, NC 27312 919-542-5704 www.albc-usa.org

Cormo Sheep Conservation Registry, Inc. PO Box 216 Wrightstown, NJ 08562 609-752-0596 www.cormosheep.org

American Rabbit Breeders Association PO Box 5667 Bloomington, IL 61702 309- 664-7500 www.arba.net

Eastern Cashmere Assoc.

Beth Creamer 9806 Croom Road Upper Marlboro, MD 20772-7808 easterncashmereassociation.org

American Rambouillet Breeders Burk Lattimore 1610 S SR 3261 Levelland, TX 79831-0807 806-894-3081 rambouilletsheep.org

GALA The GreaterAppalachian Llama and Alpaca Assoc.

6059-952 Allentown Blvd.

Harrisburd, PA 17112 www.galaonline.org

Amer. Romney Breeders Assoc.

744 Riverbanks Rd. Grants Pass, OR 97527 www.americanromney.org

Icelandic Sheep Breeders of North America 7783 Concession 2 Rd. RR3 Wellandpart, ON L0R 2J0 Canada 905.957.6266 willowfarm@talkwireless.ca www.isbona.com

Jacob Sheep Breeders Assoc.

83136 Rattlesnake Rd. Dexter, OR 97431 541-747-6149 www.jsba.org Leicester Longwool Sheep Joan Henry RR 1, Box 172 B Albright, WV 26519 304-379-9100

North American Shetland Sheepbreeders Assoc.

Shannon Fletcher 431454 E 350 Rd Big Cabin, OK 74332-8264 918-783-5441 www.shetland-sheep.org

Northwest Cashmere Assoc.

Diana Mullins P.O. Box 1265 Twisp, WA 98856 509-997-2204 National Tunis Sheep Registry dmullins@methow.com Judy Harris Pygora Breeders Assoc.

819 Lyons St. 538 Lamson Rd. Ludlow, MA 01056 Lysander, NY 13027 413-589-9653 315-678-2812 tunissheep.org www.pba-pygora.com North American Babydoll Soay of America Southdown Sheep Assn Diana Frieling PO Box 551 785 Tucker Rd, Ste G-109 Gig Harbor, WA 98335 Tehachapi, CA 93518 www.soaysofamerica.com 210-626-1592 babydollsheep.org

Fifth Anniversary Issue 67

ALPACAS

Abenaki Acres Farm, LLC, NJ Almosta Ranch Alpacas, PA Alpacas of Lavender Lane, WA Alpacas at Willowbrook Farm, KS Apple Orchard Alpacas, WI Ashwood Alpacas, NC Astral-Light Alpacas LLC, CA Bayou Creek Alpacas, CO Black Acre Alpacas, OR Black Diamond Alpacas, CA Blueberry Farm Alpacas, LLC, ME Brier Run Alpacas, Canada Calico Moon Alpacas, MD Canadian Comfort Alpacas, ON Cedar Grove Alpacas LLC, WA Chase Tavern Farm Alpacas, ME Circle R Ranch, MI Close-Knnit Alpacas, NY Copper Ridge Alpacas, IN Crossroads Alpaca Farm, IN Cross Wind Farm, LLC, MI Cynjim Alpacas, NH Double Diamond Alpacas, CA Dynasty Alpacas, OH Enchanted Meadows Farm, WI Erben’s Wacky Alpackys, OR Eye Dazzler Alpacas, CO Exotic Flora & Fauna LTD., NY Fiber Field Alpaca Farm, ME From the Heart Ranch, ID Glimmer Glass Alpacas, NY Great Northern Ranch, MT Harmony Grove Alpacas, NH Hickory Bluff Farms, TN High Spice Alpacas of Walking Lightly Farm, CO Indian Hills Llamas and Alpacas. CO Jefferson Farm Alpacas & Llamas, CO Las Rosas Alpacas, NM Maple View Farm Alpacas, VT Maplewood Farm, MI Meadows Farm Alpacas, NY Menagerie Farm Alpacas LLC, PA Mill View Mountain Alpacas, PA Misty Meadow Farm, DE Moonshadow Alpaca Ranch. WA Old Stage Alpacas, WI Purgatory Falls Alpacas, NH Rock River Ranch, CA Royal Fibers, CA Royal River Alpaca Farm, ME Snowshoe Farm, LLC, VT Someday Farm, NH Spruce Ridge Farm, NY Staghorn Valley Alpacas, NY Sunshine Alpacas of Kentucky, KY Switzer-Land Alpaca Farm, CO Turkey Creek Alpacas LLC, IN Venezia Dream Farm, NC Wake Robin Alpacas, GA Whirlwind Ranch, MO 68

Wild Fibers Magazine

Woodland Trail Farm, VA Woolly Critters Ranch, MT Y Knot Alpacas, PA

ANGORA GOATS

Enchanted Meadows Farm, WI Cerulean Angoras, OK Fellion Fiber Farm, CO Gray Haven Hills, WI Kai Mohair, TX Moonshine Design at Keldaby, MA Mountain Pride Farm, PA Nepenthe Farm, ME Rooster’s Run Farm, IN

ANGORA RABBITS

Almosta Ranch Alpacas, PA Laurel Ledge Farm, MA Rock River Ranch, CA

BLUE FACED LEICESTER

Cross Wind Farm, LLC, MI Promised Land & Livestock Co., OH

BORDER LEICESTER SHEEP

Wild Rose Farm, WA

CASHMERE GOATS

Black Locust Farm, ME Canvas Ranch, CA Caprette Cashmere, CA Carmelo Ranch Cashmere, CA Cashmere Cabin, ME CudRow Cashmere, TN Conor’s Run Farm, CA Dakota Land & Cattle Co. Inc., CO Del Cielo Cashmere, CO Denwally Farm, OR Double Bar J Cashmere, NV Exotic Flora & Fauna LTD., NY Fellion Fiber Farm, CO Foggy Bottom Farm, VA Hermit Pond Farm, NY Marshall’s Organic Acres, CO Spring Gate Farm, VA Springtide Farm, ME Stoneycrest Farm, VA Sweet Goats, CO The Leap, VA Western View Farm, VA Woolly Critters Ranch, MT Wyoming Cashmere, WY

MULTI-COLORED ANGORA GOATS

EweKids Farm, ON Goat Mountain View Farm, OR Inglenook Farms, TX Ronan Country Fibers, OR South Crow Farm, IA Winterwind Farm, MN

COTSWOLD SHEEP

Palmer Family Farm, CT

CVM/ROMELDALE SHEEP

Beau Chemin Farm, ME Lookingglass Fine Wools, OR Palmer Family Farm, CT Royal Fibers, CA Winterwind Farm, MN Wyoming Cashmere, WY Yellow Creek Cottage, OH

GOTLAND SHEEP

Ronan Country Fibers, OR

GUANACO Del Cielo Cashmere, CO Old Stage Alpacas, WI

Royal Fibers, CA

HUACAYA ALPACAS

Alpaca Meadows, OH Colonial Hill Alpaca Farm, MA Deerwood Alpacas, PA Dream Weaver Alpacas, WA Foss Mtn Farm Alpacas, NH Harmony Wools Alpacas, TN Kensington Prairie Farm, BC North Star Stable Alpacas, MI Tres Aguas Alpacas, WA Windy Farm Alpacas, NJ Wisdom of the Fox Alpacas, IL

ICELANDIC SHEEP

Maple View Icelandics, VT Reedbird Farm, MN Three Bags Wool Farm, VA Woolly Critters Ranch, MT

JACOB SHEEP

Almosta Ranch Alpacas, PA Black Sheep & Zucchini, VT Meridian Jacobs, CA

KARAKUL SHEEP

Flying Colors Ranch, CA Pine Lane Farm, MI

LEICESTER LONGWOOL SHEEP

Beau Chemin Farm, ME

Promised Land & Livestock Co. OH

LINCOLN SHEEP

Promised Land & Livestock Co. OH

LLAMAS

Calypso Farm, IL Exotic Flora & Fauna LTD., NY Graustark Farm LLC, VA Great Northern Ranch, MT Laurel Ledge Farm, MA

Maclamad Alpaca & Llama Farm, PA

PACO-VICUNAS

Jefferson Farm Alpacas & Llamas, CO

Pheasant Hill Farm Llamas, CO Prairie Point Alpacas, MO Rooster’s Run Farm, IN West Mountain Farm, VT Yellow Wood Llamas, Inc., IN

Bryn Hollow Farm, OR

MERINO SHEEP

Dos Pondos Dos Llamos, MN

Applebright Farm Pygoras, OR Bryn Hollow Farm, OR Hollyhock Hollow Pygoras, CA High Spice Alpacas of Walking Lightly Farm, CO Peppermint Pastures Pygoras, OR

MUSK OX

RAMBOULLET SHEEP

Northern Vermont Llama Co., VT

Black Ram Farm, VT Rock River Ranch, CA

MINIATURE LLAMAS

Continental Musk Ox, AB

Switzer-Land Alpaca Farm, CO

PYCAZZ GOAT PYGMY GOAT

Mountain Pride Farm, PA

PYGORA GOATS

SHETLAND SHEEP

Beau Chemin Farm, ME Pike Hill Farm, NH RenCon Ranch, CA Ronan Country Fibers, OR Rooster’s Run Farm, IN Stonehaven Farm, OR Swiftriver Farm, MA Willow Farm, WI

SOAY SHEEP

Beau Chemin Farm, ME Bramble Ridge Farm, OR Heirloom Heritage Farms, WA Southern Oregon Soay Sheep Farms, OR

SOUTHDOWN BABYDOLL SHEEP

Autumn Hills Woolens, NV GreatWool, MN NATURAL COLORED FINE Rambler’s Way Farm, ME

Browns Valley Alpacas, CA Canvas Ranch, CA

Flying Colors Ranch, CA

Alpaca Meadows, OH Carodel Suri Alpacas, GA Colonial Hill Alpaca Farm, MA FiberGenix Suri Alpacas, VA J4 Alpacas, IL Lake Erie Alpacas, OH

WOOL SHEEP

NAVAJO CHURRO SHEEP Feral Fibre Farm, OR Land & Lamb Co., Inc., VT Nepenthe Farm, ME

ROMELDALE SHEEP

Lookingglass Fine Wools, OR

ROMNEY SHEEP

Autumn Hills Woolens, NV Flying Colors Ranch, CA

Morning Mist Suri Farm LLC, OH Tres Aguas Alpacas, WA Wellspring Suri Alpacas, LLC, TX

SURI LLAMAS

Gray Haven Hills, WI

WENSLEYDALE SHEEP

Gray Haven Hills, WI Wild Rose Farm, WA

WHITE ANGORA GOATS

Ronan Country Fibers, OR Wynham Farms, CO

YAK

Canadian Yak Products, AB Spring Brook Ranch, MT

SURI ALPACAS

Fifth Anniversary Issue 69

Animal Guide

Maplewood Farm, MI Mill View Mountain Alpacas, PA Mountain Pride Farm, PA

CALIFORNIA Astral-Light Alpacas LLC Naomi Flam 5132 N. Palm Ave., PMB 113 Fresno, CA 93704 559-269-7685 astrallightalpacas.com Alpacas Black Diamond Alpacas Mike & Donna Dachuk 1450 Quail Trail Brentwood, CA 94513 925-240-1540 BDAlpacas.com Alpacas Canvas Ranch Deborah Walton 755 Tomales Rd. Petaluma, CA 94952 707-766-7171 canvasranch.com Cashmere Goats, Olde English Babydoll Southdown Sheep Caprette Cashmere Barbara Fiorica 13059 Cherry Rd. Wilton, CA 95693 916-687-6406 rbfiorica@frontiernet.net Cashmere Goats Conor’s Run Farm Pete and Charlotte Rhoades 6300 Lofty View Road Placerville, CA 95667 530.642.9931 prhoads@mindspring.com Cashmere Goats Double Diamond Alpacas Diane Hoschler PO Box 277 Clarksburg, CA 95612 916-665-9235 ddalpacas.com Alpacas Flying Colors Ranch Robin Snyder 13864 W. Oak Glen Rd. Valley Center, CA 92082 760-749-8085 sheeples@att.net Romney, Karakul, Natural Colored Fine Wool Sheep Hollyhock Hollow Pygoras Jill & Jim Gallagher PO Box 20 Santa Margarita, CA 93453 805-438-3101 70

Wild Fibers Magazine

hhollow.com Pygora Goats Indian Hills Llamas and Alpacas Kathy Bright 12600 Coyote Valley Rd. Salida, CO 81201 719-539-5281 Llamas, Alpacas Meridian Jacobs Robin Lynde 7811 N. Meridian Rd. Vacaville, CA 95688 707-678-5750 rlynde@onramp113.org www.meridianjacobs.com Jacob Sheep RenCon Ranch Renee Tully PO Box 1985 Diamond Springs, CA 95619 530-626-1315 RenConRancg@hughes.net RenCon-Ranch.Com Shetland Sheep Rock River Ranch Cathy Phelan 8990 Limonite Ave. Riverside, CA 92509 951-347-6543 escrowdivision@aol.com Alpacas, Angora Rabbits, Merino Sheep Royal Fibers Dana Foss 6146 Reddick Ln. Dixon, CA 95620 707-249-3276 royalfibers.com Alpacas, Guanacos, CVM Merino Sheep

COLORADO Bayou Creek Alpacas Carl McGill 2831 Ponderosa Rd. Franktown, CO 80116 303-840-8261 bayoucreek.com Alpacas Dakota Land & Cattle Co. Mary Ellen Millington 10007 S McKinney Rd. Littleton, CO 80127 dakotaland@msn.com Cashmere Goats

Del Cielo Cashmere Lisa & Kelsey Bechrich 5673 Country Rd. 82 Elbert, CO 80106 303-648-3374 lisa.delcielo@gmail.com Cashmere Goats, Guanaco Eye Dazzler Alpacas & Fiber Arts School Allie Neas PO Box 1152 Westcliffe, CO 81252 719.371.4519 allie@eyedazzleralpacas.com EyeDazzlerAlpacas.com Alpacas Fellion Fiber Farm Mary Kay Fellion 13350 Herring Road Colorado Springs, CO 80908 719-495-0760 freewebs.com/fellion Cashmere & Angora Goats High Spice Alpacas of Walking Lightly Farm Suzanne Core 1303 CR 61 (PO Box 1154) Cripple Creek, CO 80813 719 689 2092 www.highspice.com Huacaya alpacas/pygora goats Jefferson Farm Alpacas & Llamas Jane Levene 8950 W Jefferson Ave. Denver, CO 80235 303-988-3080 jeffersonfarms.net Alpacas, Paco-Vicunas Marshall’s Organic Acres Bob Marshall 9217 N County Rd. 7 Wellington, CO 80549 970-568-7941 marshallsorganicacres.com Cashmere Goats Pheasant Hill Farm Llamas John & Sharon Beacham 15760 Country Rd. 220 Salida, CO 81201 719-539-7185 Grandmamallama@hughes.net

Llamas

Rolig Goat Ranch Ellen & Steve Rolig 8435 CR600 Pagosa Springs, CO 81147 970-731-9083

Sweet Goats Lori & Brenna Harfert 16730 Sweet Rd. Peyton, CO 80831 719-749-0195 freewebs.com/sweetgoats Cashmere Goats Switzer-Land Alpaca Farm Chris & Phil Switzer PO Box 3800 Estes Park, CO 80517 970-586-4624 alpacaland.com Alpacas, Paco-Vicuñas Wynham Farms Kathy & Kelley Martin 17544 Clara Lee St. Brighton, CO 80603 303-857-4095 gotmygoat.com White Angora Goats

CONNECTICUT Palmer Family Farm Peg Sorensen 584 Sugar Hill Rd.

Tolland, CT 06084 860-872-3179 palmerff@sbcglobal.net CVM/Romeldale & Cotswold Misty Meadow Farm Loris Blandford 35096 Alpaca Lane Frankford, DE 19945 302-381-6062 Alpacas

GEORGIA Carodel Suri Alpacas Caroline Mixon 5166 Union Church Rd. Flowery Branch, GA 30542 770-967-4041 carodel-alpacas.com Wake Robin Alpacas Karen & Bruce Cross 1968 Old Bush Mill Rd. Bremen, GA 30110 770-841-3992 wakerobinalpacas.com Alpacas

IDAHO

From the Heart Ranch Robyn Kuhl 1635 Rapid Lightning Rd. Sandpoint, ID 83864 208-265-2788 fromtheheartranch.com Alpacas

ILLINOIS Calypso Farm Kim Peters 17875 S. Gougar Rd. Lockport, IL 60441 815-722-6255 calypsollamas.com Alpacas, Llamas J4 Alpacas Jean & Jim Morgan 7711 N. Valley Hill Rd. Woodstock, IL 60098 815-759-0247 j4alpacas.com Suri Alpacas Wisdom of the Fox Alpacas Eric & Nina Morti 5957 West Pleasant Hill Carbondale, IL 62903 618-521-2270

morti@globaleyes.net Suri & Huacaya Alpacas Wolfpaca Ranch Suri Alpacas Caryn Wolf 2841 Orange Brace Rd. Riverwoods, IL 60015 847-924-9112 alpacanation.com/wolfpacaranch Suri Alpacas

INDIANA Copper Ridge Alpacas Jennifer Orr 4272 Evans Jacobi Rd. Georgetown, IN 47122 812-951-1803 alpacawithatwist.com Alpacas Crossroads Alpaca Farm Connie Alexander 5435 W. Mount Carmel Rd. Fredericksburg, IN 47120 812-472-3545 alexander@alpacasforever.com Alpacas Rooster’s Run Farm David & Pam Hoover

Fifth Anniversary Issue 71

Farm Guide

roligranch@centurytel.net Cashmere Goats

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Turkey Creek Alpacas, LLC Liz & Lee Clark 12990 N. 200 W. Milford, IN 46542 turkeycreekalpacas.com Alpacas Yellow Wood Llamas, Inc Laura Hintz 1095 Observatory Rd. Martinsville, IN 46151 317-834-9097 ywl.com Llamas

IOWA South Crow Farm Steve South 10250 160th Street Davenport, IA 52804 563-381-4448 Colored Angora Goats

Chase Tavern Farm Alpacas Cindy Lavan 267 Academy Rd. Bowdoin, ME 04287 207-268-3143 chasetavernfarm.com Alpacas Columbine Hill Alpacas William J. Schneider 50 Rough Rider Rd. Durhah, ME 04222 columbinehill@securespeed.net Alpacas Fiber Field Alpaca Farm Dawn Brooker 885 Turner Ridge Rd. Palermo, ME 04354 207-993-6262 fiberfields.com Alpacas

KANSAS

Nepenthe Farm Jodi Smith 47 Garwood Ln. Brownfield, ME 04010 207-935-3878 users.frii.com/sos/ Angora Goats, Navajo Churro Sheep

Alpacas at Willowbrook Farm Jeanette Campbell 24365 Pflumm Rd. Louisburg, KS 66053 913-879-2066 AlpacasatWillowbrook.com Alpacas

Rambler’s Way Farm Tom Chappell 119 Main St. Kennebunk, ME 04043 David@ramblerswayfarm.com 207-205-2123 rambouillet

MAINE

Royal River Alpaca Farm Claudia Raessler 20 Windward Passage North Yarmouth, ME 04097 207-846-4984 royalriveralpaca.com Alpacas

Beau Chemin Farm Wayne & Jo Myers 1749 Finntown Rd. Waldoboro, ME 04572 207-832-5789 beaucheminfarm.com CVM, Leicester Longwool, Shetland, & Soay Sheep Black Locust Farm Yvonne Taylor PO Box 378 Washington, ME 04574 207-845-2722 blacklocust.com Cashmere Goats Blueberry Farm Alpacas, LLC John & Abigail Fitzgerald 170 Melvin Heights Rd. Camden, ME 04843 207-263-3603 bbf@roadrunner.com blueberryfarmalpacas.com Alpacas

Springtide Farm Peter Goth & Wendy Pieh PO Box 203 Bremen, ME 04551 207-529-5747 springtidefarm.com Cashmere Goats Sunshine Alpacas of Maine Lori & Shawn Malloy 187 Flaggy Meadow Rd. Gorham, ME 04038 207-839-3821 sunshinealpacas.com Alpacas WolfSong Farm Susan Mezzanotte 54 Chatham Rd.

Stow, ME 04037 207-697-3398 wolfsongfarm.net Angora Rabbits

MARYLAND Calico Moon Alpacas Chris Armstrong 2121 Wilson Rd. White Hall, MD 21161 443-956-4178 info@calicomoonalpacas.com Alpacas

MASSACHUSETTS Colonial Hill Alpaca Farm Teresa Emmrich 235 N. Main St. Petersham, MA 01366 978-724-0301 colonialhillalpacafarm.com Huacaya Alpacas Laurel Ledge Farm Diane Droescher 485 Sylvester Rd. Florence, MA 01062 413-584-7735 llamafanatics.com Angora Rabbits, Llamas

densmore@crosswindfarm.com www.crosswindfarm.com Bluefaced Leicesters & Alpacas Maplewood Farm Nel Vickers 06399 Boyne City Rd. Charlevoix, MI 49720 231.547.9420 nelwood1@voyager.net maplewoodfarm.org llamas, suri & huacaya alpacas NorthStarStableAlpacas Maple Smith 489 E. Johnson Rd. Ithaca, MI 48847 989-875-2088 northstarstablealpacas@ gmailcom norhstaralpacas@etsy.com Huacaya Alpacas Pine Lane Farm Letty Klein 6881 N. Sprinkle Rd. Kalamazoo, MI 49004 269-381-0980 plfkarakuls.com Karakul Sheep

MINNESOTA

Moonshine Design at Keldaby Cynthia Herbert & Bob Ramirez 12 Heath Rd. Colrain, MA 01340 413-624-3090 keldaby.com Registered Angora Goats Swiftriver Farm Bruce Lockhart 27 Nichewaug Rd. Petersham, MA 01366 978-724-3525 swiftriverfarm.com Shetland Sheep

MICHIGAN Circle R Ranch Rita & Roger Johr 9898 Sunrise Ridge Caledonia, MI 49316 616-891-5701 circleralpacas.com Alpacas Cross Wind Farm, LLC Steve and Carol Densmore 10909 Stow Rd. Webberville, MI 48892 517-468-3881 Fifth Anniversary Issue 73

Farm Guide

5197 SW Washington School Rd. Salem, IN 47167 812-896-1223 Angora Goats, Llamas, Shetland Sheep

Dos Pondos Dos Llamos Julie Chapman 22018 Durham Dr. Spring Grove, MN 55974 612-251-5292 MinnesotaMinis.com Miniature Llamas Reedbird Farm Alethea Kenney 25700 280th St. Shevlin, MN 56676 www.reedbird.com

allie@reedbird.com 218-657-2502 Icelandic Sheep Winterwind Farm Sandy Danielson 37653 190th St. Battle Lake, MN 56515 218-862-5875 winterwindfarm.com Colored Angora Goats, Romeldale and CVM Sheep

Luxurious natural fiber yarns & custom spinning 800.321.9665 · www.spinnery.com

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MISSOURI Prairie Point Alpacas Nancie Gilbreath 28904 E. 245th St. Harrisonville, MO 64701 816-626-3390 prairieptllamas@hotmail.com Alpacas, Llamas

NEVADA Autumn Hills Woolens Jeff Seldomridge 255 Artesia Rd. Wellington, NV 89444 775-465-2926 mysite.verizon.net/res0xuhk Merino, Romney, & Rambouillet Sheep

Whirlwind Ranch Liz & Linda Mitchko 24649 Snowberry Dr. Lebanon, MO 65536 417-533-5280 whirlwindranch.com Alpacas

Double Bar J Cashmere Betsy MacFarlan PO Box 150039 Ely, NV 89315 775-296-2289 goatsnsoap.com Cashmere Goats

MONTANA

NEW HAMPSHIRE

Great Northern Ranch Sue Rolfing 600 Blackmer Ln. Columbia Falls, MT 59912 406-755-9044 gnranch.com Alpacas, Llamas

Ewe & I Farm Cindy Yeager 13 Mill Rd. RR1 Box 83 Sutton Mills, NH 03221 603-927-4518 eweifarm.blogspot.com Romney & Dorset Sheep

Spring Brook Ranch Jim Watson 191 Foys Canyon Rd. Kalispell, MT 59901 406-257-7021 www.springbrooktanch.com Yak

Foss Mountain Farm Alpacas Lana Nickerson PO Box 244 Eaton Center, NH 03832 603-447-6548 fossmtnfarm.com Huacaya Alpacas

Woolly Critters Ranch Susan Max 2368 Petty Creek Rd. Alberton, MT 59820 406-864-3602 woollycritters.com Alpacas, Cashmere Goats, Icelandic Sheep

Harmony Grove Alpacas Eric & Mindy Rosseland PO Box 205 Jefferson, NH 03583 603-586-4399 harmonygrovealpacas.com Alpacas

Purgatory Falls Alpacas Tim and Dana Welch 195 Purgatory Falls Road Lyndeborough, NH 03082 603-654-7690 danaw52@gmail.com Alpacas and Angora Rabbits Someday Farm Barbie Tilton 65 Pickard Rd. Canterbury, NH 03224 603-783-9436 somedayfarm.com Alpacas

NEW JERSEY Abenaki Acres Farm, LLC Bill & Elizabeth Johnson 97 Yard Road Stockton,NJ 08559-1012 908-782-0025 abenakiacres.com Alpacas Windy Farm Alpacas Jackie Armiger 61 White Pine Rd. Chesterfield, NJ 08515 609-324-0080 windyfarmalpacas.com Huacaya Alpacas NEW MEXICO Las Rosas Alpacas Wayne & Sharon Harris PO Box 689 House, NM 88121 505-279-7410

alpacanation.com/lasrosasalpacas.asp

Alpacas

NEW YORK Close-Knit Alpacas Wren Owens Moon Ivy Hill 4526 Olmstead Rd. Woodhull, NY 14898 877-CLS-KNIT CloseKnitAlpacas.com Exotic Flora & Fauna LTD. Stuart Salenger PO Box 3 - Philwold Forestburgh, NY 12777

845-794-7878 ssalenger@hughes.net Alpacas, Cashmere Goats, Llamas Glimmer Glass Alpacas Lynn Deichman 1409 Co. Hwy. 26 Fly Creek, NY 13337 lynn@glimmerglassalpacas.com glimmerglassalpacas.com Alpacas, huacaya, suri Hermit Pond Farm Pamela Haendle 10601 Merrill Rd. West Edmeston, NY 13485 315-899-7792 phaendle@bankofny.com Cashmere Goats Meadows Farm Alpacas Jennifer Clement 15 Meadow Ln. Brookhaven, NY 11719 631-286-1674 jcswamprat@yahoo.com Alpacas

Morning Mist Suri Farm LLC Roseanne Moyer 7028 Tallmadge Rd. Edinburg, OH 44272 330-325-2638 roseannemmoyer@aol.com Suri Alpacas Promised Land & Livestock Co. Ann Brown 31024 Township Road 11 Fresno, OH 43824 330-897-4320 trinityleather@wildblue.net

Julie Petty 185 Bethel Ln. Mansfield, OH 44906 419-529-8152 alpacameadows.com Suri Alpacas Dynasty Alpacas Elizabeth Ake 5750 Powdermill Rd. Kent, OH 44240 330-677-6423 dynastyalpacas.com Alpacas

Wild Prairie Breeders Linda & Alan Donaldson 9206 Haddix Rd. Fairborn, OH 45324 937-878-6116 alpacanation.com/wildprairie.asp Alpacas, Angora Rabbits

Lake Erie Alpacas Amy Lowery 920 Glenview Dr. Huron, OH 44839 419-366-1302 lakeeriealpacas.com Suri Alpacas

Spruce Ridge Farm Steve McCarthy 434 Route 13 Old Chatham, NY 12136 518-794-6294 spruceridgefarm.com Alpacas Staghorn Valley Alpacas Judy Phaff & Jerry Weisgrau 3992 Schoharie Tpk. Delanson, NY 12053 518-895-2415 alpacas@staghornvalley.com staghornvalley.com Alpacas

NORTH CAROLINA Ashwood Alpacas Lisa Willis 22247 NC Hwy 55 Oriental, NC 28571 252-670-7226 Hucaya Alpacas Venezia Dream Farm Starr Cash 276 Jones Cove Rd. Asheville, NC 28805 828-298-9166 veneziadream.com Alpacas

OHIO Alpaca Meadows

Show Eartag; Registration, Breed, Sex, Age, Sample Location, Date of Sampling Select Two-Inch Square Sample Ship in Plastic Bag Costs: 1-25 @7.50 ea

26-50 @7.00 ea

51+ @6.75 ea

540 West Elk Place • Denver, CO 80216-1823 • USA Phone 303-294-0582 • Fax 303-295-6944 E-Mail: ymccoll@ix.netcom.com Web: http://www.ymccoll.com

Fifth Anniversary Issue 75

Farm Guide

Pike Hill Farm Scott and Amey Bailey 111 Old Hebron Rd. Plymouth, NH 03264 603-536-1451 pikehillfarm@hotmail.com Shetland Sheep

Yellow Creek Cottage Chris Spitzer 7433 Guilford Rd. Seville, OH 44273 330-606-3588 yellowcreekcottage.com CVM/Romeldale Sheep

OKLAHOMA Cerulean Angoras Dee Hadorn PO Box 100 Harrah, OK 73045 405.356.2612 angora goats OREGON Applebright Farm Pygoras Ken & Jan Becker 25695 Lone Fir Ln. West Linn, OR 97068 503-638-2489 abf-pygoras.com Pygora Goats Black Acre Alpacas Val Black 21390 SW Farmington Rd. Beaverton, OR 97007

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503-848-2738 blackacrealpacas.com Alpacas Bramble Ridge Farm Barbara Ballas PO Box 731 Toledo, OR 97391 541-336-2184 brambleridgesoay.com Soay Sheep Bryn Hollow Farm Sandie Dass 31284 Veatch Rd. Cottage Grove, OR 97424 541-942-7077 hometothefarm.com Pygora & Pycazz Goats Erben’s Wacky Alpackys Kay & Mike Erben 31889 Beaver Homes Rd. Goble, OR 97048 503-556-2942 Alpacas Feral Fibre Farm Debbie Bennett 1544 Raccoon Dr. Oakland, OR 97462 541-459-7589

feralfibre.com Navajo Churro Sheep Lookingglass Fine Wools Debbie Heinze 8690 Lookingglass Road Roseburg, OR 97470 541.679.4489 debangora@aol.com CVM/Romeldales Peppermint Pastures Pygoras Darlene Chambers 39338 Groshong Rd. NE Albany, OR 97321 541-928-8841 peppermintpastures.com Pygora Goats Ronan Country Fibers Carol Ronan 4001 Deer Creek Rd. Selma, OR 97538 541-597-4600 ronanfibers.com White & Colored Angora Goats, Gotland & Shetland Sheep Southern Oregon Soay Sheep Farms Kathie Miller

PO Box 1382 Merlin, OR 97532 541-955-8171 soayfarms.com Soay Sheep Stonehaven Farm Brook & Lois Moore 47631 Holbrook Creek Rd. Halfway, OR 97834 541-742-5548 stonehavenfarm.com Shetland Sheep

PENNSYLVANIA Almosta Ranch Alpacas Kathy Kenworthy 950 Railroad Rd. Mohrsville, PA 19541 610-926-6120 almostaranchalpacas.com Alpacas, Angora Rabbits, Deerwood Alpacas Rose Sutkins 778 Deerwood Ln. Quakertown, PA 18951 215-536-1777 deerwoodalpacas.com Huacaya Alpacas

Mount Juliet, TN 37122 615-444-4765 hickorybluff.com Alpacas

Menagerie Farm Alpacas LLC Naomi Fenstermacher 2564 Cambridge Rd. Honey Brook, PA 19344 610-273-0220 menageriefarm.com Alpacas

Inglenook Farms Deborah Sharp 1155 CR 307 McDade, TX 78650 512-273-2540 inglenookfarms.com Colored Angora Goats

Mill View Mountain Alpacas Caroline Johnson RR1 Box 1312B, Mill View Mtn Rd. Forksville, PA 18616 570-924-3996 mvmalpacas.com Alpacas, Llamas

Kai Mohair Lisa Shell 1004 PR 3143 Lexington, Texas 78947 Kai1mohair@yahoo.com www.kairanch.com Registered Fine White and Natural Colored Angora Goats

Snowshoe Farm, LLC Terry Miller PO Box 280 Peacham, VT 05862 802-592-3153 snowshoefarm.com Alpacas

Mountain Pride Farm Laura DiDonato 869 Woodbine Ln. Quakertown, PA 18951 215-804-1075 ldidonato@hughes.net mountainpridefarm.com Angora & Pygmy Goats, Llamas

Wellspring Suri Alpacas, LLC Jeannie Wells 48 Ammann Rd. Boerne, TX 78015 wellspringsurialpacas.com Suri Alpacas

West Mountain Farm Lars & Gayle Garrison 240 Maltese Rd. Stamford, VT 05352 802-694-1417 westmountainfarm.com Llamas

VERMONT

VIRGINIA

Black Ram Farm Alexandra Garven 619 Fontaine Hill Rd. Morrisville, VT 05661 802-888-9880 blackramfarm.com Merino Sheep

FiberGenix Suri Alpacas Jovi Larson PO Box 415 Montvale, VA 24122 540-947-5420 fibergenixsuris.com Suri Alpacas

Black Sheep & Zucchini Suzanne Wallis 154 Blood Hill Rd. Norwich, VT 05055 802-649-1789 suzannewallis@valley.net Jacob Sheep

Foggy Bottom Farm Marilee & John Williamson 990 Old Hollow Rd. Buchanan, VA 24066 540-254-1628 mhwabc@juno.com Cashmere Goats

Y Knot Alpacas JoAnne & Carl Givler 6324 Hunters Hill Rd. Germansville, PA 18053 610-767-4202 yknotalpacas.com Alpacas

TENNESSEE CudRow Cashmere Cindy Crisp 1936 Calderwood Hwy. Maryville,TN 37801-0803 865-856-5264 CudRowCashmere@msn.com www.blountweb.com/ cudrowcashmere Harmony Wools Alpacas Jen Bennett 1120 Hwy 307 Sweetwater, TN 37874 423-744-9023 harmonywoolsalpacas.com Huacaya Alpacas Hickory Bluff Farms Bill and Ruth Fuqua 7236 Lebanon Rd.

TEXAS

Land & Lamb Co., Inc. Marian White 37 Ordway Rd. Tunbridge, VT 05077 802-889-3417 landlamb.com Navajo Churro Sheep Maple View Farm Alpacas Deborah Bratton 185 Adams Rd. Brandon,VT 05733-8409 802-247-5412 mapleviewfarmalpacas.com Alpacas

Maple View Icelandics Cheryl Wright 3489 Loop Rd. Westfield, VT 05874 802-744-6208 mapleviewicelandics.com Northern Vermont Llama Co. Geoff & Lindsay Chandler 766 Lapland Rd. Waterville, VT 05492 802-644-2257 northernvermontllamaco.com Llamas

Graustark Farm LLC Linda Brown 19240 Walsh Farm Ln. Bluemont, VA 20135 540-554-8635 graustarkllamas.com Llamas Spring Gate Farm Jane McKinney 6675 Fredericksburg Rd. Barboursville, VA 22923 434.990.9162 springgte@aol.com cashmere goats

Stoneycrest Farm Anne Repaske 570 Paddy’s Cove Ln. Star Tannery, VA 22654 540-436-3546 cashmere@shentel.net Cashmere Goats The Leap Louise Scott 1003 Miller Farm Rd. Staunton, VA 24401 540-887-8139 scott.pasini3@verizon.net Cashmere Goats Three Bags Wool Farm Evelyn Carr PO Box 426 Philomont, VA 20131 540-338-4921 the5carrs@earthlink.net Icelandic Sheep Western View Farm Kathie & Michael O’Connor 637 Berrey Rd. Madison, VA 22727 540-923-4131 westernviewcashmere.com Cashmere Goats Woodland Trail Farm Joe & Kathy D’Andria 11398 Raynor Rd. Smithfield, VA 23430 757-357-1792 woodlandtrailfarm.com Alpacas

WASHINGTON WAlpacas of Lavender Lane Tammy Derrick 19001 NE Allworth Rd. Battle Ground,WA 98604 360-666-8076 alpacasoflavenderlane.com Alpacas Cedar Grove Alpacas LLC Robert & Dawn Turbyfill, Jr. & Maegan Blessing 6703 224th St. East Spanaway, WA 98387 360-271-4690 cedargrovealpacas.com Alpacas Dream Weaver Alpacas Joe & Wanda Blaumer 30414 NE Wylie Rd. Camas, WA 98607 360-834-6213

Fifth Anniversary Issue 77

Farm Guide

Hummingbrook Farm Pam Knepper 11357 Cool Hollow Rd. Greencastle, PA 17225 717-597-9043 Alpacas, Llamas

Farm Guide

alpacainterest.com Huacaya Alpacas Heirloom Heritage Farms Robert & Dawn Turbyfill, Jr. & Maegan, Harley & Chris Blessing 6703 224th St. East Spanaway, WA 98387 360-271-4690 heirloomheritagefarms.com Soay Sheep Moonshadow Alpaca Ranch Nancy Russell 17110 SE 384th Street Auburn, WA 98092 253-804-3457 moonshadowalpacas.com Alpacas Tres Aguas Alpacas Sondra Grumbein 57803 E Badger Rd. Benton City, WA 99320 509-375-2048 sondrag@owt.com Suri & Huacaya Alpacas Wild Rose Farm Nanette Leaman 1462 W. Arnold Rd. Oak Harbor, WA 98277 360-678-0258

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Wild Fibers Magazine

nan@islandnetworks.com Border Leicester & Wensleydale/Lincoln Sheep

WISCONSIN Apple Orchard Alpacas Patty & Dick Kandiko 4908 County Rd. K Oshkosh, WI 54904 920-232-5431 appleorchardalpacas.com Alpacas Enchanted Meadows Farm Dan and Peggy Emmerich 9357 CTY Rd. O Wausau, WI 54401 715-675-0584 enchantedmeadows.com Alpacas, Angora Goats Gray Haven Hills Kay Kratz W379 N8504 Mill St. Oconomowoc, WI 53066 262-569-9701 kkratz@wensleydales.com Angora Goats, Suri Llamas, Wensleydale Sheep Old Stage Alpacas JenniferLaFoe 60 Washington Rd.

Edgerton, WI 53534 608-884-3831 oldstagealpacas@msncom llama, alpaca, guanaco Willow Farm Linda & Tom Peeters W7147 County Rd. JJ Hortonville, WI 54944 920-757-5204 peeters@execpc.com Shetland Sheep

WYOMING Wyoming Cashmere 1947 Sussex Rd. Kaycee, WY 82639 lcunningham@rtconnect.net 307-351-6005 cashmere goats, colored sheep, cvm sheep

CANADA

Brier Run Alpacas/ Edy’s Mills Fine Fibres Heather Blanchard & Norris McAuslan 4336 Edys Mills Line Oil Springs, ON N0N 1P0 Canada 519-692-9430 alpacascanada.com

Canadian Comfort Alpacas Leslie Comfort 3689 15 Rd. RR#1 St. Ann’s, ON L0R 1Y0 905-562-4252 canadiancomfortalpacas.com Alpacas Continental Musk Ox James Meservy PO Box 123 Mountain View, AB T0K 1N0 403-653-2331 jmservy@gmail.com Musk Ox EweKids Farm Ethel Britton 11847A Lakeshore Dr. Morrisburg, ON K0C 1X0 613-543-9062 ewekids.ca Colored Angora Goats Kensington Prairie Farm Catherine Simpson 1736 - 248 St. Langley, BC V4W 2C3 604-626-4395 kpfarm.com Huacaya Alpacas

51 27 53 64 71 1 70 18 23 4 64 47 16 16 43 75 40 54 78 64 74 12 72 66 74 72 33

Halcyon Yarn 41 Helen Haman 48 & 12 Hillcreek Fiber Studio 37 Keep the Fleece 5 Knitting Out Loud 11 Lisa Lloyd Knitting 33 Maine Fiber Frolic 64 Maryland Sheep & Wool 17 Morning Star Fiber 74 Nancy’s Knit Knacks 54 New Era Fiber 67 Nomad Woollen Mill 28 Oomingmak 32 Peace of Yarn 36 Promised Land and Livestock 70 Qiviuk Back cover Rowan Tree Woolery 37 Schacht Spindly Company 31 Sheep City 37 Shenaini 42 Snowshoe Farm 70 Spin Off 76 Spinning Wheel Sleuth 37 Springtide Farm 55 Spirit Trail Fiberworks 37 Stonehedge Custom Mill Equip.

2 Stonehedge Fiber Mill 72

Strauch Fiber Equipment 61 Sunset Fibers 60 Susan’s Fiber Shop Ins. back cover SVF Foundation 69 Table Rock Llamas 53 Textile Trips 18 Texas Fiber Mill 69 The Bag Lady 37 The Weaving Works 43 The Yarn Tree 6 Unicorn Fibre Wash Ins. front cover West Mountain Farm 79 Windy Valley Muskox 41 Winterwind Farm 70 Woodland Woolworks 59 Woolee Winder 78 Wynham Farms 68 Yellow Creek Cottage 73 Yocom-McColl 75 Zealana 4 Zeilinger Wool Co 79 Sign up now be included in our Summer Issue.

Deadline March 15, 2009.

Call 207-594-9455

Fifth Anniversary Issue 79

Advertiser Index

Active Adventure Ashford Spinning Wheels Babe’s Fiber Garden Back To Back Alpaca Belfast Mini-Mills Bijou Basin Ranch Black Locust Farm Black Sheep Newsletter Buffalo Gold Carolina Homespun Circle R Ranch Claudia’s Handpainted Yarns Cotton Clouds Down in the Country Dream a Dream Travels Duck Flats Farm Ellyn Cooper’s Yarn Sonnets Estes Wool Market Fantasy Fibers Fiber Fest Spin In Flaggy Meadow Fibers Foxfire Fiber & Designs Glade Park Fiber Mill Going to the Sun Fiber Mill Green Mountain Spinnery Greener Shades Greensleeves Spindles

By Linda Cortright

F

Extreme Idiocy

or five years I have devoted this page to some of the wildest travel escapades I have experienced in the nearly half a million miles this magazine has taken me. I have slept in a teepee that was raided by wild dogs, been charged by buffaloes, blasted the Lufthansa Club with Bollywood music, and hoisted a Western saddle halfway around the world to Kazakhstan only to narrowly escape the corrupt hands of the customs officials—to na me just a fe w adventures. Therefore it s eems only fitting th at on th e fift h anniversary of Wild Fibers I should confess to the ultimate act of travel idiocy—the day I arrived at the airport without my suitcase.

Several years back I was headed to the Pacific Northwest to do a story, and then over to the Oregon Flock and Fiber Festival where I had a booth. The n ight b efore m y t rip I conducted the well-rehearsed drill of packing all my show supplies. No matter how many times I make a list and check it twice, I always manage to leave behind the duct tape, the stapler, the box of extra twist ties, or something else that seems totally indispensable once I arrive. And to complicate matters further, I was hauling several boxes of magazines with me that I swear weighed more than a ten-gallon jug of moonshine.

I try to keep my clothing to a minimum; long road trips are not the time for a fashion crisis between the long sleeved black jacket with the zipper down the front and the long sleeved black jacket with buttons tucked inside. I simply pack whichever one is clean.

I left my house that morning close to quarter of six for a six-thirty flight, rather than at five-thirty, which I had intended. It is not quite a 25 minute drive to my little airport, which is only a double wide trailer. One of the great benefits of living in rural Maine, however, is that there is no morning rush hour to worry about. In fact, sometimes I think I am the only one who is rushing.

Shortly after six I pulled up to the front door and popped open the trunk of my Honda, and as I reached for my duffel bag full of supplies and magazines, I let out a deafening shriek. “My God I’ve forgotten my suitcase!” I turned to Kim, the ticket agent who had come outside to help me with my luggage, and then hollered over my shoulder, “Hold the plane!” as I jumped back into my car and went speeding off.

Ordinarily I don’t get too tweaked when I travel; it only shortens your life and makes ticket agents anxious. But I

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knew that if I missed the plane I would miss every connection thereafter and consequently miss my interview the following morning. It was not my most law-abiding moment in automotive history.

In record time I was racing up my driveway and then barely putting the car in park before hopping out and running upstairs to the bedroom where my suitcase was most amazingly right where I left it. Back down the stairs and into the car I went and immediately phoned Kim to tell her that I was on my way. (I have my airport on speed dial.) Five minutes later I phoned back thinking that if she could track my progress somehow the plane might not leave without me.

“I’m at the intersection of Routes 90 and 17,” I gasped with my second check-in call. And then five minutes later I phoned back: “I’m right across from Dunkin’ Donuts—want any?” I offered with a weak attempt at levity. All Kim kept saying was, “Be careful, Linda,” but she made no promises that the plane would be waiting when I returned.

At six-forty I pulled back into the airport parking lot and spotted the tail of the US Air Beechcraft 900 still sitting by the doublewide. I grabbed my bag and ran for the door, screaming, “I’m here! I’m here!” I chucked my laptop on the belt of the X-ray machine, ripped off my jacket, jumped out of my shoes and even remembered to remove my hair barrette, which periodically triggers the detector. The whole thing took under a minute and as I barged into the gate area I noticed everyone was still quietly sitting there. Why hadn’t they boarded the plane?

Finally one of the other passengers broke the silence and said in a disgruntled tone, “Some FAA inspector just showed up and it looks as if they’re grounding the plane.”

Right, I thought to myself, I just attempted to break the sound barrier and now I’m thinking I should have stopped for that box of honey glazed donuts after all.

The next morning I arrived at my interview on schedule.

I might also add that I have never left town without my suitcase since.

F

w