The North Wind

Because Farmstead Creamery is closed on Mondays, it’s our time to peck away at the big chores around the farm—our “barn muckin’, chicken pluckin’, hay balin’ day.” Fortunately, the haying and plucking are finished for the year, but there was certainly barn cleaning on the agenda.

A light skiff of snow was on the ground outside, the skies were a mottled gray with no direct sun peaking through, and the north wind had been wailing about the house all night. I knew that we would be in for a long, cold, and blustery day. Grandpa’s old farm saying came to mind, “No matter which way the north wind blows; it always blows cold.”

Norwegians say that there is no such thing as poor weather—just poor choices in clothing. So it’s time to arm myself against the frosty winds. Long underwear, turtle neck, sweater, and jeans. Then insulated work pants, a thick down jacket, lined winter boots, a neck scarf, head band, and hat. Top that off with insulated leather gloves, and I felt a bit like a brown and green Michelin Man heading into the elements. But it worked—my typical “freezy cat” self (another Grandpa term) stayed warm.

“15 degrees colder than normal,” one of our CSA clients had announced earlier this month. “How do you like that one?” Yet, while November has been pretty chilly, part of me wonders who gets to have the authority to name what “normal” is regarding the weather. What was November like back in the days before the shanty boys cut the great white pines? Native peoples tell of drastic changes after the cutover, with fiercer storms being a new and terrifying occurrence.

We are lucky today to only be struggling against cold temperatures and a north wind. In Illinois, this same weather system formed 80 tornadoes that flattened suburbs and left families without homes just in time for the holidays. At least this is what has been reported so far. It isn’t very often that the damage to farmland by storms makes the news.

In the Philippines, millions are still reeling from the effects of the worst storm on record in the world. As I bend against the 30-mile-an-hour gusts, my mind finds it nearly impossible to imagine the horror of winds with the force of 230. In such an occurrence, the farm and forests would likely resemble the cutover—flat, broken, and dead. With the global rise of severe weather, this is not a pleasant musing.

Of course, the homestead has seen its share of storms over the years. Many pioneering homesteaders built a door in the second story of their homes, allowing them to be able to get outside (and to the barn) when the drifts piled up too high to use the first-floor doorway. Even during one of our first winters on the farm, it was snowing and blowing so badly that the barn wasn’t visible from the house. In an effort not to lose each other by accidentally wandering into the field, the brave chores-doer clutched a rope that was slowly unrolled by the support person standing at the door to the house. At least if the barn could not be located, the string could be followed back to the safety of the home. It’s not too far of a leap from the rope Pa Ingalls would tie between cabin and barn to follow back and forth in the dead of winter.

On the other hand, too much balmy weather this time of year can equally be troublesome. Just a couple of years ago, November was so warm that the deer hunters couldn’t hang their meat for fear of spoilage. The bears had yet to den up, but with no natural food source remaining, their prowlings were epic. The ensuing cold snap shocked plants and livestock, which both prefer a gradual descent into wintry weather rather than a sudden plummet.

But the north wind is still the fiercest part of all. A sunny and cloudless “30-degrees-below” day (and that means below 0, for my friends who didn’t know) is often easier to take than 20 degrees with dampness, overcast skies spitting freezing mist, and a howling wind. Sometimes the gusts shake the house at night and whistle through the cracks in the barn. Eerie, foreboding, ill-intented.

The winds of one late autumn stay in my memory. It was three days after completing our new “lamb barn”—a Clearspan structure of steel ribs and rafters, covered in plastic film. With roll-down sides and ends, it was airy, light, and offered shelter for our expanding flock. The shaved bedding smelled fresh on the floor, and we had just moved in the frisky sheep when the weather report came through. Lake Superior was in for the biggest low pressure system since the sinking of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

All we could do was to button up the new barn as tightly as possible and hope. Right on the edge of the northern pastures, it looked like a big brave marshmallow against the looming gray skies. The winds roared like freight trains, branches were hurled from trees, clouds ran past like frightened animals pursued by relentless predators. But the new barn stood steady and is still there today. Crawling out of the safety of the old farmhouse once the system had dissipated, we picked up the branches, the remnants of the bright orange wind sock, and a few other bits and pieces, feeling grateful to have survived the storming winds to farm another day. The sheep were trembling from all the noise and confusion, but they were otherwise unharmed.

Tomorrow may be sunny and perfectly calm. November, like April, is classically unpredictable in the Northwoods. But you better bundle up if that north wind is blowing. Who knows what it may blow in next. See you down on the farm sometime.