Last Hen Standing

Our homestead resides in the mountains of Southern Humboldt, and the mountain we live on is Reed Mt. It’s TPZ land meaning it’s designated for timber production. This is interesting for a few reasons; 1) growing weed in Southern Humboldt pre-legalization was initially done under the canopy of the forest to hide from law enforcement and 2), living in a forest means your immediate neighbors are foxes, bobcats, deer, coyotes, bears, and mountain lions. Having moved through cannabis compliance all those years ago, our homestead zoning is currently ag exclusive, and living with our forest friends have proved amicable until recently. We learned early on that one never has a bear problem, but a garbage problem, and hens in the hen house will last years with a secure coop and a big dog. But with big dog (Tahoe) gone and just our coydog (Taki) left, it didn’t take long for life to creep in and do what it does best. Survive.

We were fortunate enough to not have lost any of our beloved chickens to any of our wildlife neighbors for all these years. We were welcomed with curiosity and their presence taught us the ways of the mountains; tall fences make for good neighbors, respect boundaries with kindness, and share your abundance. It took one night of the bear almost destroying the old apple tree for me to trust my intuition; all ground fruit will be gathered and placed past our curtilage gate at the main gate for anyone or anything in need. Imagine moving through the hot summer and arriving in the even hotter fall with little fresh water and food so scarce you’re willing to risk your life to get it. And beyond a strange structure that you can’t seem to get over or under you smell and see fruit trees, blackberries, blueberries, huckleberries and gardens bursting with squash and pumpkins. And a pond. I never had a wildlife issue again, though my wildlife cameras capture their evasive, yet consistent presence.

Tahoe’s absence though has created a visible void on our homestead. Our hens and beautiful rooster free ranged the enclosed curtilage in its entirety (approximately 3 acres) for years and years. We lost a few hens over time to natural causes, but after Tahoe’s death, nature came calling. I was awestruck at how quickly the bear, fox, and coyote came knocking and it feels like it was only a moment my flock and my beloved Kung Poa were here then gone. It’s cartoonish to see a fox on my camera with a hen in its mouth, and devastating to see my proud and dignified rooster reduced to feathers (the duration of the fight could clearly be seen throughout the property space and was absolutely heartbreaking). I’ve heard tall tales throughout the years from friends and community members of when the bear or mountain lion decimated their flock in the middle of the night; you wake up to the worst ruckus and you need to see who’s still alive and what needs to be shot. All of us homesteaders have had to put down a living being under the stars and moon or before sunrise in the fog and its a strange surreal feeling that encompasses both deep regret and deep connection to the cycle of life. Something you are an intrinsical part of and perhaps will be cognizant of when it too is your time. Either way, the hard part of life includes the ending of, and when you witness it with a life or lives you love on your little farm in a big forest that sits upon a mountain you can feel very vulnerable. She don’t care; this forest or mountain. The crows cock their head and their caws cry out to the fox and coyote and I see their plan devised. I know this mountain and her beings would happily consume me too, so I sit under the bare apple tree and feel as crooked and gnarled as she, watching life unashamedly do whatever it takes to keep going.

I ponder these thoughts of life and loss more and more these days. Craig and I are getting older, the children have left the nest, the decades old trucks are needing the necessary repairs and tune-ups, and our animals are aging out. Losing Tahoe a few months ago was huge yes, but truth be told, we are simply getting to the point in our lives where because we have chosen to surround ourselves with so much life it’s impossible to not feel the loss when things around you start leaving. That’s what brings so much joy and tenderness to life; not only knowing you can lose things you love, but also witnessing and experiencing the loss. People, places, pets, and plants require work while in your life, but the work that comes after they have left (for whatever reason/s) is something we often ignore because it’s painful to think about before hand and talking about it after is so sad. Well, it’s so many things really, but sad is one of them and loss, though universal, is unique to all of us.

Living off the grid comes with these challenges, and more. It’s not the actual work required for this way of life that’s difficult per se, but more so the trying to keep what is living alive, gracefully surrendering to the grief that comes with letting go, and the continuing to move forward with joy and purpose. This includes more than the mourning of homestead animals or an actual death. It is all the seasons of our lives; all the chapters of who we were, who we are, and who we hope to be. Nature too has her dreams I’m sure, the remembrance of what was and the potential of what could be. She knows life and loss more than any of us and she lives and breathes it in all ways. Living and witnessing this has brought me a deep respect for energy, the ability for a living/nonliving system to work and for that energy to move between either kinetic or potential. We, like nature, have to contend with how we exude and capture our energy, and how best to efficiently use and store it. To be on the land all these years and to have seen small and large systems be born and die again and again, to watch these cyclical rhythms of life last moments, months, or years has been a trip. This is because I too am part of the rhythm and there will be a time when I will return to the earth and where does the energy the makes me me, go?

Though there are chapters in my life that are closing, I know there are new chapters waiting. We have one beloved hen left and though the hen house is quiet, it’s still cozy and clean. Her relationship with our cat Mookey, Taki and us is a bit more precious and in all fairness, it should be. It must be hard to be the last hen standing but she knows better than anyone that life goes by fast, and if you’re lucky you get to live it. And hopefully it will look a bit like hers; surrounded with love, and wild and free with the mountains and the trees.