Chores in the Deep Snow

Well, you can’t expect to make it through a northern Wisconsin winter without a bit of snow. And we certainly aren’t worried about having enough of the magical white stuff for the Birkie ski race, but just as we made it through the deep cold of late January, in came the serious snows, dumping three feet onto the farm within the week.
Just after the bitter cold snap, Kara called out one morning to have us look at the high tunnel, which is an unheated greenhouse at the north end of the garden. I peered out the glass doors and saw that the aging plastic film covering the steel pipe structure had simply shredded into ribbons across the south-facing side of the arched roof—the plastic flapping in the breeze. Well, looks like that would need replacing come spring.
But then there was the quarter inch of ice that rained down, followed by snow, and then more snow, and then more snow. We barely made it home from the farmer market on Thursday. The remaining pieces of the high tunnel with roof in tact were stretched to the breaking point, the film sagging and threatening to collapse the pipe structure. Replacing the torn plastic film would be one thing, but I didn’t need to replace the entire 50-foot high tunnel come spring!
So after digging out the deck and scooping out the trails to the chicken coops (steering clear of Kara on the skid steer as she cleared the main pathways), I trounced through the deep snow to the high tunnel to see what could be done. There was no way I was going to make it into the front door, but because the snow was so high all around it, I could walk up to the torn section of the roof and hop inside. It was a precarious situation, since the plastic film was already seriously compromised. I whipped out a serrated knife and started to carefully cut away the remaining plastic in segments, letting them fall into the middle. Normally, if the plastic had been sound, I’d have tried to knock off the snow from the inside, but since it was already broken, it might as well start coming down now.
Slit, slit, then a rush and I’d have to dart out of the way as a 6×8 foot chunk would fall onto the beds below, crumpling the skeletal remains of last year’s tomatoes. We had planned to remove the tomatoes in the late fall and plant overwintering spinach. Good thing we hadn’t managed that—between the deep cold and the broken top, that crop would have been toast.
More slits, then another rush as I work my way carefully from one end to another. The weight of the ice and accumulated snow made clear its crushing power. The next day I learned that a grower farther north lost his 116-foot high tunnel to the snow load. So even though I was thoroughly coated with snow and quite worn out, I felt satisfied that this job was completed exactly when it needed to be.
Fast forward just a couple days more, and now the winds are drifting the snow about. Of course, that means more shoveling and plowing, keeping paths open. All the animals seem taller once they’ve trounced down the snow in their yards. The cows can look over the top of their fences, the turkeys eyeing nearby rooftops.
But with the underlayer of ice still unmelted, the drifting also happened on the rooflines. Just when I thought I was finished with chores for the evening, Kara calls out for help. She’s over at the lamb barn, a structure similar to the aquaponics greenhouse in height and Gothic arch-style framing. But the greenhouse is heated and therefore sheds the snow and ice. The lamb barn is not, and now there was a three-foot drift on top. The heavier grade woven plastic covering was sagging, straining with the weight. We certainly didn’t need to lose this structure!
But plastic covering will not tolerate a roof rake, so we had to be creative with our snow removal process. Utilizing the long-handled crank shafts that are part of raising the lowering the side walls on the lamb barn, we began swiping, poking and scraping away at the ice-bottomed snow pile. As it began to fall and crumble, so much was accumulating by the side walls that we couldn’t reach anymore.
“I know,” Kara called out. “Get my snowshoes!”
We each took a snowshoe and, tamping down piles of the fallen snow, climbed on top like it was a surfboard. We’d whack away at the snow until it buried our legs again, climbed down (well, more like fell down into the waist or chest-high snow bank), pulled out the snowshoe, tamped down the newly fallen snow into the pack, then climbed back on again. I had to plant my crank shaft pole into the pile and use it to heave myself up onto the snowshoe like a slow-motion pole vaulter (though I’m sure in all my winter gear it was much less graceful).
Higher and higher we climbed as more of the snow came down, until our feet were level with the top of the sidewall. At the peak, the drift would sometimes come down in big chunks, and we’d have to try to get out of the way. Other times, Kara would need help hoisting up onto her snowshoe platform, and I’d offer her my stick to pull on. One time it slipped in her hand and over I went, into the bank. For a while I didn’t think I’d be able to get my feet back under me!
Several hours later, we had the lamb barn roof cleared, and I couldn’t feel my hands or raise my arms above my head anymore. Be safe out there in the deep snow, and I hope that all your roofs hold up well! I’m keeping the shovel handy at the back door, just in case. See you down on the farm sometime.